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UBHAf? 

NOX 

ro- 

•"^W.      -d 


Presented  to  the 
LIBRARY  of  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 

by 
KHOX  COLLEGE 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


* 


JULY,  1921 

ft 

|  o  1973 

THE  SECRET  DOOR  v  or  i 


BY  SIR  PAUL  DUKES 


LATE  at  night  I  stood  outside  the 
Tauride  Palace  in  Petrograd,  which  had 
become  the  centre  of  the  revolution. 
No  one  was  admitted  through  the  great 
gates  without  a  pass.  I  sought  a  place 
about  midway  between  the  gates,  and, 
when  no  one  was  looking,  scrambled 
up,  dropped  over  the  railings,  and  ran 
through  the  bushes  straight  to  the  main 
porch.  Here  I  soon  met  folk  I  knew  — 
comrades  of  student  days,  revolution- 
ists. What  a  spectacle  within  the  pal- 
ace, lately  so  still  and  dignified !  Tired 
soldiers  lay  sleeping  in  heaps  in  every 
hall  and  corridor.  The  vaulted  lobby, 
whence  the  Duma  members  had  flitted 
silently,  was  packed  almost  to  the  roof 
with  all  manner  of  truck,  baggage, 
arms,  and  ammunition.  All  night  long, 
and  the  next,  I  labored  with  the  revolu- 
tionists to  turn  the  Tauride  Palace  into 
a  revolutionary  arsenal. 

Thus  began  the  revolution.  And 
after?  Everyone  knows  now  how  the 
hopes  of  freedom  were  blighted.  Truly 
had  Russia's  foe,  Germany,  who  dis- 
patched the  'proletarian'  dictator  Len- 
in and  his  satellites  to  Russia,  discov- 
ered the  Achilles'  heel  of  the  Russian 
revolution.  Everyone  now  knows  how 
the  flowers  of  the  revolution  withered 
under  the  blast  of  the  class  war,  and 
how  Russia  was  replunged  into  starv- 
ation and  serfdom.  I  will  not  dwell 


on  these  things.  My  story  relates  to 
the  time  when  they  were  already  cruel 
realities. 


My  reminiscences  of  the  first  year 
of  Bolshevist  administration  are  jum- 
bled into  a  kaleidoscopic  panorama  of 
impressions  gained  while  journeying 
from  city  to  city,  sometimes  crouched 
in  the  corner  of  crowded  box-cars, 
sometimes  traveling  in  comfort,  some- 
times riding  on  the  steps,  and  some- 
times on  the  roofs  or  buffers.  I  was 
nominally  in  the  service  of  the  British 
Foreign  Office;  but  the  Anglo-Russian 
Commission  (of  which  I  was  a  member) 
having  quit  Russia,  I  attached  myself 
to  the  American  Y.M.C.A.,  doing  relief 
work.  A  year  after  the  revolution  I 
found  myself  in  the  Eastern  city  of 
Samara,  training  a  detachment  of  Boy 
Scouts.  As  the  snows  of  winter  melted, 
and  the  spring  sunshine  shed  joy  and 
cheerfulness  around,  I  held  my  parades, 
and  together  with  my  American  col- 
leagues organized  outings  and  sports. 

Then  one  day,  when  in  Moscow,  I 
was  handed  an  unexpected  telegram  — 
'urgent'  —  from  the  British  Foreign 
Office.  'You  are  wanted  at  once  in 
London,'  it  ran.  I  set  out  for  Archangel 
without  delay.  Thence  by  steamer  and 
destroyer  and  tug  to  the  Norwegian 


VOL.  1S8—NO.  1 
A 


L  P 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


frontier;  and  so,  round  the  North  Cape 
to  Bergen,  with,  finally,  a  zig-zag  course 
across  the  North  Sea,  dodging  sub- 
marines, to  Scotland. 

At  Aberdeen  the  Control  Officer  had 
received  orders  to  pass  me  through  by 
the  first  train  to  London.  At  King's 
Cross  a  car  was  waiting;  and  knowing 
neither  my  destination  nor  the  cause 
of  my  recall,  I  was  driven  to  a  building 
in  a  side  street  in  the  vicinity  of  Trafal- 
gar Square.  'This  way,'  said  the  chauf- 
feur, leaving  the  car.  The  chauffeur  had 
a  face  like  a  mask.  We  entered  the  build- 
ing, and  the  elevator  whisked  us  to  the 
top  floor,  above  which  additional  super- 
structures had  been  built  for  war  emer- 
gency offices. 

I  had  always  associated  rabbit-war- 
rens with  subterranean  abodes;  but 
here  in  this  building  I  discovered  a  maze 
of  rabbit-burrow-like  passages,  corri- 
dors, nooks,  and  alcoves,  piled  higgledy- 
piggledy  on  the  roof.  Leaving  the  ele- 
vator, my  guide  led  me  up  one  flight  of 
steps  so  narrow  that  a  corpulent  man 
would  have  stuck  tight,  then  down  a 
similar  flight  on  the  other  side,  under 
wooden  archways  so  low  that  we  had  to 
stoop,  round  unexpected  corners,  and 
again  up  a  flight  of  steps  which  brought 
us  out  on  the  roof.  Crossing  a  short 
iron  bridge,  we  entered  another  maze, 
until,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  feel 
dizzy,  I  was  shown  into  a  tiny  room 
about  ten  feet  square,  where  sat  an  of- 
ficer in  the  uniform  of  a  British  colonel, 
i  The  impassive  chauffeur  announced  me 
and  withdrew. 

'Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Dukes,'  said 
the  colonel,  rising  and  greeting  me  with 
a  warm  hand-shake.  'I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  You  doubtless  wonder  that  no  ex- 
planation has  been  given  you  as  to  why 
you  should  return  to  England.  Well,  I 
have  to  inform  you,  confidentially,  that 
it  has  been  proposed  to  offer  you  a  some- 
what responsible  post  in  the  Secret  In- 
telligence Service.' 


I  gasped .  '  But, '  I  stammered ,  *  I  have 
never  —  May  I  ask  what  it  implies?' 

'Certainly,'  he  replied.  'We  have 
reason  to  believe  that  Russia  will  not 
long  continue  to  be  open  to  foreigners. 
We  wish  someone  to  remain  there,  to 
keep  us  informed  of  the  march  of  events.' 

'But,'  I  put  in,  'my  present  work? 
It  is  important,  and  if  I  drop  it  — 

'We  foresaw  that  objection,'  replied 
the  colonel,  'and  I  must  tell  you  that  un- 
der war  regulations  we  have  the  right 
to  requisition  your  services  if  need  be. 
You  have  been  attached  to  the  Foreign 
Office.  This  office  also  works  in  con- 
junction with  the  Foreign  Office,  which 
has  been  consulted  on  this  question. 
Of  course,'  he  added,  bitingly,  'if  the 
risk  or  danger  alarms  you  —  ' 

I  forget  what  I  said,  but  he  did  not 
continue. 

'Very  well,'  he  proceeded,  'consider 
the  matter  and  return  at  four-thirty  to- 
morrow. If  you  have  no  valid  reasons 
for  not  accepting  this  post,  we  will  con- 
sider you  as  in  our  service  and  I  will 
tell  you  further  details.' 

He  rang  a  bell.  A  young  lady  ap- 
peared and  escorted  me  out,  threading 
her  way  with  what  seemed  to  me  mar- 
velous dexterity  through  the  maze  of 
passages. 

Burning  with  curiosity,  and  fascina- 
ted already  by  the  mystery  of  this  ele- 
vated labyrinth,  I  ventured  a  query  to 
my  young  female  guide.  'What  sort  of 
establishment  is  this?'  I  said. 

I  detected  a  twinkle  in  her  eye.  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and,  without 
replying,  pressed  the  button  for  the  ele- 
vator. 'Good-afternoon,'  was  all  she 
said  as  I  passed  in. 

Next  day  I  found  the  colonel  in  a 
fair-sized  apartment,  with  easy  chairs, 
and  walls  hidden  by  bookcases.  He 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  I  had 
nothing  to  say. 

'I  will  tell  you  briefly  what  we  de- 
sire,' he  said.  *  Then  you  may  make  any 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


3 


comments  you  wish,  and  I  will  take  you 
up  to  interview  —  a  —  the  Chief.  Brief- 
ly, we  want  you  to  return  to  Soviet  Rus- 
sia and  to  send  reports  on  the  situation 
there.  We  wish  to  be  accurately  in- 
formed as  to  the  attitude  of  every  sec- 
tion of  the  community,  the  degree  of 
support  enjoyed  by  the  Bolshevist  gov- 
ernment, the  development  and  mod- 
ification of  its  policy,  what  possibility 
there  may  be  for  an  alteration  of  re- 
gime or  for  a  counter-revolution,  and 
what  part  Germany  is  playing.  As  to 
the  means  whereby  you  gain  access  to 
the  country,  under  what  cover  you  will 
live  there,  and  how  you  will  send  out 
reports,  we  shall  leave  it  to  you,  be- 
ing best  informed  as  to  conditions,  to 
make  suggestions.' 

He  expounded  his  views  on  Russia, 
asking  for  my  corroboration  or  correc- 
tion, and  also  mentioned  the  names  of  a 
few  English  people  I  might  come  into 
contact  with  there.  'I  will  see  if  —  a 
—  the  Chief  is  ready,'  he  said,  finally, 
rising.  '  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment.' 

The  apartment  appeared  to  be  an 
office,  but  there  were  no  papers  on  the 
desk.  I  rose  and  stared  at  the  books  on 
the  bookshelves.  My  attention  was 
arrested  by  an  edition  of  Thackeray's 
works  in  a  decorative  binding  of  what 
looked  like  green  morocco.  I  used  at 
one  time  to  dabble  in  bookbinding,  and 
am  always  interested  in  an  artisti- 
cally bound  book.  I  took  down  Henry 
Esmond  from  the  shelf.  To  my  bewil- 
derment the  cover  did  not  open,  until, 
passing  my  finger  accidentally  along 
what  I  thought  was  the  edge  of  the 
pages,  the  front  cover  suddenly  flew 
open  of  itself,  disclosing  a  box.  In  my 
astonishment  I  almost  dropped  the 
volume,  and  a  sheet  of  paper  slipped 
out  and  fell  to  the  floor.  I  picked  it  up 
hastily  and  glanced  at  it.  It  was  headed 
Kriegsministerium,  Berlin,  had  the  Ger- 
man Imperial  arms  imprinted  on  it,  and 
was  covered  with  minute  handwriting 


in  German.  I  had  barely  slipped  it  back 
into  the  box  and  replaced  the  volume  on 
the  shelf,  when  the  colonel  returned. 

'A  —  the  —  a  —  Chief  is  not  in,'  he 
said,  '  but  you  may  see  him  to-morrow. 
You  are  interested  in  books?'  he  added, 
seeing  me  looking  at  the  shelves.  '  I  col- 
lect them.  That  is  an  interesting  old 
volume  on  Cardinal  Richelieq,  if  you 
care  to  look  at  it.  I  picked  it  up  in 
Charing  Cross  Road  for  a  shilling.' 

The  volume  mentioned  was  immedi- 
ately above  Henry  Esmond.  I  took  it 
down  warily,  expecting  something  un- 
common to  occur;  but  it  was  only  a 
musty  old  volume  in  French,  with  torn 
leaves  and  soiled  pages.  I  pretended  to 
be  interested. 

'There  is  not  much  else  there  worth 
looking  at,  I  think/  said  the  colonel 
casually.  'Well,  good-bye.  Come  in 
to-morrow.' 

I  returned  again  next  day,  after 
thinking  overnight  how  I  should  get 
back  to  Russia  —  and  deciding  on 
nothing.  My  mind  seemed  to  be  a  com- 
plete blank  on  the  subject  in  hand,  and 
I  was  entirely  absorbed  ip  the  mys- 
teries of  the  roof-labyrinth. 

Again  I  was  shown  into  the  colonel's 
sitting-room.  My  eyes  fell  instinctively 
on  the  bookshelf.  The  colonel  was  in  a 
genial  mood.  '  I  see  you  like  my  collec- 
tion,' he  said.  'That,  by  the  way,  is  a 
fine  edition  of  Thackeray.'  I  felt  my 
heart  leap.  'It  is  the  most  luxurious 
binding  I  have  ever  yet  found.  Would 
you  not  like  to  look  at  it?' 

I  looked  at  the  colonel  very  hard,  but 
his  face  was  a  mask.  My  immediate 
conclusion  was  that  he  wished  to  ini- 
tiate me  into  the  secrets  of  the  Depart- 
ment. I  rose  quickly  and  took  down 
Henry  Esmond,  which  was  in  exactly 
the  same  place  as  it  had  been  the  day 
before.  To  my  utter  confusion  it  open- 
ed quite  naturally,  and  I  found  in  my 
hands  nothing  more  than  an  edition  de 
luxe,  printed  on  India  paper  and  pro- 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


fusely  illustrated!  I  stared,  bewildered, 
at  the  shelf.  There  was  no  other  Henry 
Esmond.  Immediately  over  the  vacant 
space  stood  the  life  of  Cardinal  Riche- 
lieu as  it  had  stood  yesterday.  I  re- 
placed the  volume,  and,  trying  not  to 
look  disconcerted,  turned  to  the  colo- 
nel. His  expression  was  quite  impassive, 
even  bored. 

'  It  is  a  beautiful  edition,'  he  repeated 
as  if  wearily.  'Now,  if  you  are  ready, 
we  will  go  and  see  —  a  —  the  Chief.' 

Feeling  very  foolish,  I  stuttered  as- 
sent and  followed.  As  we  proceeded 
through  the  maze  of  stairways  and  un- 
expected passages,  which  seemed  to  me 
like  a  miniature  House  of  Usher,  I 
caught  glimpses  of  tree-tops,  of  the  Em- 
bankment Gardens,  the  Thames,  the 
Tower  Bridge,  and  Westminster.  From 
the  suddenness  with  which  the  angle 
of  view  changed,  I  concluded  that  in 
reality  we  were  simply  gyrating  in 
one  very  limited  space;  and  when  sud- 
denly we  entered  a  spacious  study,  — 
the  sanctum  of  ' —  a  —  the  Chief,'  — 
I  had  an  irresistible  feeling  that  we 
had  moved  only  a  few  yards,  and  that 
this  study  was  immediately  above  the 
colonel's  office. 

It  was  a  low,  dark  chamber  at  the  ex- 
treme top  of  the  building.  The  colonel 
knocked,  entered,  and  stood  at  atten- 
tion. Nervous  and  confused,  I  followed, 
painfully  conscious  that  at  that  mo- 
ment I  could  not  have  expressed  a  sane 
opinion  on  any  subject  under  the  sun. 
From  the  threshold  the  room  seemed 
bathed  in  semi-obscurity.  The  writing- 
desk  was  so  placed,  with  the  window 
behind  it,  that  on  entering  everything 
appeared  only  in  silhouette.  It  was 
some  seconds  before  I  could  clearly  dis- 
tinguish things.  A  row  of  half  a  dozen 
extending  telephones  stood  at  the  left 
of  a  big  desk  littered  with  papers.  On  a 
side  table  were  numerous  maps  and  de- 
signs, with  models  of  aeroplanes,  sub- 
marines, and  mechanical  devices,  while 


a  row  of  bottles  of  various  colors  and  a 
distilling  outfit  with  a  rack  of  test-tubes 
bore  witness  to  chemical  experiments 
and  operations.  These  evidences  of  sci- 
entific investigation  served  only  to  in- 
tensify an  already  overpowering  atmos- 
phere of  strangeness  and  mystery. 

But  it  was  not  these  things  that  en- 
gaged my  attention  as  I  stood  nervously 
waiting.  It  was  not  the  bottles  or  the 
machinery  that  attracted  my  gaze.  My 
eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  figure  at 
the  writing-table.  In  the  capacious 
swing  desk-chair,  his  shoulders  hunched, 
with  his  head  supported  on  one  hand, 
busily  writing,  there  sat  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves — 

Alas,  no!  Pardon  me,  reader,  I  was 
forgetting!  There  are  still  things  I  may 
not  divulge.  There  are  things  that 
must  still  remain  shrouded  in  secrecy. 
And  one  of  them  is  —  who  was  the 
figure  in  the  swing  desk-chair  in  the 
darkened  room  at  the  top  of  the  roof- 
labyrinth  near  Trafalgar  Square  on  this 
August  day  in  1918.  I  may  not  describe 
him,  or  mention  even  one  of  his  twenty- 
odd  names.  Suffice  it  to  say  that,  awe- 
inspired  as  I  was  at  this  first  encounter, 
I  soon  learned  to  regard '  the  Chief  with 
feelings  of  the  deepest  personal  regard 
and  admiration.  He  was  a  British  offi- 
cer and  an  English  gentleman  of  the 
finest  stamp,  absolutely  fearless  and 
gifted  with  unlimited  resources  of  sub- 
tle ingenuity,  and  I  count  it  one  of  the 
greatest  privileges  of  my  life  to  have 
been  brought  within  the  circle  of  his 
acquaintanceship. 

In  silhouette  I  saw  myself  motioned 
to  a  chair.  The  Chief  wrote  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  suddenly  turned,  with  the 
unexpected  remark,  'So  I  understand 
you  want  to  go  back  to  Soviet  Russia, 
do  you?'  —  as  if  it  had  been  my  own 
suggestion. 

The  conversation  was  brief  and  pre- 
cise. The  words  Archangel,  Stockholm, 
Riga,  Helsingfors,  recurred  frequently, 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


and  the  names  were  mentioned  of  Eng- 
lish people  in  those  places  and  in  Pe- 
trograd.  It  was  finally  decided  that  I 
alone  should  determine  how  and  by  what 
route  I  should  regain  access  to  Russia 
and  how  I  should  dispatch  reports. 

'Don't  go  and  get  killed,'  said  the 
Chief  in  conclusion,  smiling.  'You  will 
put  him  through  the  ciphers,'  he  added 
to  the  colonel,  'and  take  him  to  the  lab- 
oratory to  learn  the  inks  and  all  that.' 

We  left  the  Chief  and  arrived  by  a 
single  flight  of  steps  at  the  door  of  the 
colonel's  room.  The  colonel  laughed. 
'You  will  find  your  way  about  in  course 
of  time,'  he  said;  'let  us  go  to  the  labo- 
ratory at  once.' 

And  here  I  draw  a  veil  over  the  roof- 
labyrinth.  Three  weeks  later  I  set  out 
for  Russia,  into  the  unknown. 

n 

I  resolved  to  make  my  first  attempt 
at  entry  from  the  north,  and  traveled 
up  to  Archangel  on  a  troopship  of  Amer- 
ican soldiers,  most  of  whom  hailed  from 
Detroit.  But  I  found  the  difficulties  at 
Archangel  to  be  much  greater  than  I 
had  anticipated.  It  was  600  miles  to 
Petrograd,  and  most  of  this  distance 
would  have  to  be  done  on  foot  through 
unknown  moorland  and  forest.  The 
roads  were  closely  watched,  and  before 
my  plans  were  ready,  autumn  storms 
broke  and  made  the  moors  and  marshes 
impassable.  But  at  Archangel,  realiz- 
ing that  to  return  to  Russia  as  an  Eng- 
lishman was  impossible,  I  let  my  beard 
grow  and  assumed  an  appearance  en- 
tirely Russian. 

Failing  in  Archangel,  I  traveled  down 
to  Helsingfors,  to  try  my  luck  from  the 
direction  of  Finland.  Helsingfors,  the 
capital  of  Finland,  is  a  busy  little  city 
bristling  with  life  and  intrigue.  At  the 
time  of  which  I  am  writing  it  was  a  sort 
of  dumping-ground  for  every  variety  of 
conceivable  and  inconceivable  rumor, 


slander,  and  scandal,  repudiated  else- 
where, but  swallowed  by  the  gullible 
scandal-mongers  —  especially  German 
and  anden-regime  Russian  —  who  found 
in  this  city  a  haven  of  rest.  Helsingfors 
was  one  of  the  unhealthiest  spots  in 
Europe.  Whenever  mischance  brought 
me  there,  I  lay  low,  avoided  society, 
and  made  it  a  rule  to  tell  everybody  the 
direct  contrary  of  my  real  intentions, 
even  in  trivial  matters. 

In  Helsingfors  I  was  introduced,  at 
the  British  consulate,  to  an  agent  of  the 
American  Secret  Service  who  had  re- 
cently escaped  from  Russia.  This  gen- 
tleman gave  me  a  letter  to  a  Russian 
officer  in  Viborg,  by  name  Melnikoff. 
The  little  town  of  Viborg,  being  the 
nearest  place  of  importance  to  the  Rus- 
sian frontier,  was  a  hornet's  nest  of 
Russian  refugees,  counter-revolution- 
ary conspirators,  German  agents,  and 
Bolshevist  spies  —  worse,  if  anything, 
than  Helsingfors. 

Disguised  now  as  a  middle-class  com- 
mercial traveler,  I  journeyed  on  to  Vi- 
borg, took  a  room  at  the  same  hotel  at 
which  I  had  been  told  that  Melnikoff 
stayed,  looked  him  up,  and  presented 
my  note  of  introduction.  I  found  Mel- 
nikoff to  be  a  Russian  naval  officer  of 
the  finest  stamp,  and  intuitively  con- 
ceived an  immediate  liking  for  him. 
His  real  name,  I  discovered,  was  not 
Melnikoff,  but  in  those  parts  many  peo- 
ple had  a  variety  of  names  to  suit  dif- 
ferent occasions.  My  meeting  with  him 
was  providential,  for  it  appeared  that 
he  had  worked  with  Captain  Crombie, 
late  British  Naval  Attache  at  Petro- 
grad. In  September,  1918,  Captain 
Crombie  was  murdered  by  the  Bolshe- 
viki  at  the  British  Embassy,  and  it  was 
the  threads  of  his  shattered  organiza- 
tion that  I  hoped  to  pick  up  upon  arri- 
val in  Petrograd. 

Melnikoff  was  slim,  dark,  short,  and 
muscular,  with  stubbly  hair  and  blue 
eyes.  He  was  deeply  religious,  and  wag 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


imbued  with  an  intense  hatred  of  the 
Bolsheviki  —  not  without  reason,  since 
both  his  father  and  his  mother  had  been 
brutally  shot  by  them,  and  he  himself 
had  escaped  only  by  a  miracle.  'The 
searchers  came  at  night,'  so  he  told  the 
story  to  me.  '  I  had  some  papers  refer- 
ring to  the  insurrection  at  Yaroslavl, 
which  my  mother  kept  for  me.  The 
searchers  demanded  access  to  my 
mother's  room.  My  father  barred  the 
way,  saying  she  was  dressing.  A  sailor 
tried  to  push  past,  and  my  father  angri- 
ly struck  him  aside.  Suddenly  a  shot 
rang  out,  and  my  father  fell  dead  /on 
the  threshold  of  my-mother's  bedroom. 
I  was  in  the  kitchen  when  the  Reds 
came,  and  through  the  kitchen  door  I 
fired  and  killed  two  of  them.  A  volley 
of  shots  was  directed  at  me.  I  was 
wounded  in  the  hand,  and  only  just  es- 
caped by  the  back  stairway.  Two  weeks 
later  my  mother  was  executed  on  ac- 
count of  the  discovery  of  my  papers.' 

Melnikoff  had  but  one  sole  object- 
left  in  life  —  to  avenge  his  parents' 
blood.  This  was  all  he  lived  for.  So  far 
as  Russia  was  concerned,  he  was  frank- 
ly a  monarchist;  'so  I  avoided  talking 
politics  with  him.  But  we  were  friends 
from  the  moment  we  met,  and  I  had 
the  peculiar  feeling  that  somewhere, 
long,  long  ago,  we  had  met  before,  .al- 
though I  knew  this  was  not  so. 

Melnikoff  was  overjoyed  to  learn  of 
my  desire  to  return  to  Soviet  Russia. 
He  undertook  not  only  to  make  the  ar- 
rangements with  the  Finnish  frontier 
patrols  for  me  to  be  put  across  the 
frontier  at  night,  secretly,  but  also  to 
precede  me  to  Petrograd  and  make  ar- 
rangements there  for  me  to  find  shelter. 
Melnikoff  gave  me  two  addresses  in 
Petrograd  where  I  might  find  him  —  one 
of  a  hospital  where  he  had  formerly 
lived,  and  the  other  of  a  small  cafe  that 
still  existed  in  a  private  flat  unknown  to 
the  Bolshevist  authorities. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  pardonable  sin  in 


Melnikoff  that  he  was  a  toper.  We 
spent  three  days  together  in  Viborg 
making  plans  for  Petrograd,  while  Mel- 
nikoff drank  up  all  my  whiskey  except  a 
small  medicine-bottle  full,  which  I  hid 
away.  When  he  had  satisfied  himself 
that  my  stock  was  really  exhausted,  he 
announced  himself  ready  to  start.  It 
was  a  Friday,  and  we  arranged  that  I 
should  follow  two  days  later,  on  Sun- 
day night,  the  twenty-fourth  of  No- 
vember. Melnikoff  wrote  out  a  pass- 
word on  a  slip  of  paper.  '  Give  that  to 
the  Finnish  patrols,'  he  said,  'at  the 
third  house,  the  wooden  one  with  the 
white  porch,  on  the  left  of  the  frontier 
bridge.' 

At  six  o'clock  he  went  into  his  room, 
returning  in  a  few  minutes  so  trans- 
formed that  I  hardly  recognized  him. 
He  wore  a  sort  of  seaman's  cap  that 
came  right  down  over  his  eyes.  He  had 
dirtied  his  face,  and  this,  added  to  the 
three-days-old  hirsute  stubble  on  his 
chin,  gave  him  a  truly  demoniacal  ap- 
pearance. He  wore  a  shabby  coat  and 
trousers  of  a  dark  color,  and  a  muffler 
was  tied  closely  round  his  neck.  He 
looked  a  perfect  apache  as  he  stowed 
away  a  big  Colt  revolver  inside  his 
trousers. 

*  Good-bye,'  he  said  simply,  extending 
his  hand;  then  stopped  and  added,  'let 
us  observe  the  good  old  Russian  custom 
and  sit  down  for  a  minute  together.' 

According  to  a  beautiful  custom  that 
used  to  be  observed  in  Russia  in  the 
olden  days,  friends  sit  down  at  the  mo- 
ment of  parting,  and  maintain  com- 
plete silence  for  a  few  instants,  while 
each  wishes  the  others  a  safe  journey 
and  prosperity.  Melnikoff  and  I  sat 
down  opposite  each  other.  With  what 
fervor  I  wished  him  success  on  the  dan- 
gerous journey  he  was  undertaking  for 
me! 

We  rose.  'Good-bye,' said  Melnikoff 
again.  He  turned,  crossed  himself,  and 
passed  out  of  the  room.  On  the  thresh- 


THE   SECRET  DOOR 


old  he  looked  back.  '  Sunday  evening/ 
he  added,  'without  fail.' 

I  saw  Melnikoff  only  once  more  after 
that,  for  a  brief  moment  in  Petrograd, 
under  dramatic  circumstances.  But  that 
comes  later  in  my  story. 

m 

I  rose  early  next  day,  but  there  was 
not  much  for  me  to  do.  As  it  was  Satur- 
day, the  Jewish  booths  in  the  usually 
busy  little  market-place  were  shut,  and 
only  the  Finnish  ones  were  open.  Most 
articles  of  the  costume  I  had  decided  on 
were  already  procured;  but  I  made  one 
or  two  slight  additions  on  this  day,  and 
on  Sunday  morning,  when  the  Jewish 
booths  opened.  My  outfit  consisted  of 
a  Russian  shirt,  black-leather  breeches, 
black  knee-boots,  a  shabby  tunic,  and 
an  old  leather  cap  with  a  fur  brim  and  a 
little  tassel  on  top,  of  the  style  worn  by 
the  Finns  in  the  district  north  of  Petro- 
grad. With  my  shaggy  black  beard, 
which  by  now  wras  quite  profuse,  and 
long  unkempt  hair  dangling  over  my 
ears,  I  was  a  sight,  indeed,  and  in  Eng- 
land or  America  should  doubtless  have 
been  regarded  as  a  thoroughly  undesir- 
able alien. 

On  Sunday  an  officer  friend  of  Melni- 
koff's  came  to  make  sure  that  I  was 
ready.  I  knew  him  by  the  Christian 
name  and  patronymic  of  Ivan  Sergeie- 
vitch.  He  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  kind 
and  considerate.  Like  many  other  ref- 
ugees from  Russia,  he  had  no  financial 
resources,  and  was  trying  to  make  a  liv- 
ing for  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  child- 
ren by  smuggling  Finnish  money  and 
butter  into  Petrograd,  where  both  were 
sold  at  a  high  premium.  Thus  he  was  on 
good  terms  with  the  Finnish  patrols, 
who  also  practised  this  trade  and  whose 
friendship  he  cultivated. 

'Have  you  any  passport  yet,  Pavel 
Pavlovitch?'  Ivan  Sergeievitch  asked 
me. 


'No,'  I  replied;  'Melnikoff  said  the 
patrols  would  furnish  me  with  one. ' 

'Yes,  that  is  best,'  he  said;  'they  have 
the  Bolshevist  stamps.  But  we  also  col- 
lect the  passports  of  all  refugees  from 
Petrograd,  for  they  often  come  in  handy. 
And  if  anything  happens,  remember  you 
are  a  "speculator."  ' 

All  are  stigmatized  by  the  Bolsheviki 
as  speculators  who  indulge  in  the  pri- 
vate sale  or  purchase  of  foodstuffs  or 
clothing.  They  suffer  severely,  but  it  is 
better  to  be  a  speculator  than  a  spy. 

When  darkness  fell,  Ivan  Sergeie- 
vitch accompanied  me  to  the  station 
and  part  of  the  way  in  the  train,  though 
we  sat  separately,  so  that  it  should  not 
be  seen  that  I  was  traveling  with  one 
who  was  known  to  be  a  Russian  officer. 

'And  remember,  Pavel  Pavlovitch,' 
said  Ivan  Sergeievitch,  'to  go  to  my  flat 
whenever  you  are  in  need.  There  is  an 
old  housekeeper  there,  who  will  admit 
you  if  you  say  I  sent  you.  But  do  not 
let  the  house  porter  see  you,  —  he  is  a 
Bolshevik,  —  and  be  careful  the  house 
committee  do  not  know,  for  they  will 
ask  who  is  visiting  the  house.' 

I  was  grateful  for  this  offer,  which 
turned  out  to  be  very  valuable. 

We  boarded  the  train  at  Viborg  and 
sat  at  opposite  ends  of  the  compart- 
ment, pretending  not  to  know  each 
other.  When  Ivan  Sergeievitch  got  out 
at  his  destination,  he  cast  one  glance  at 
me,  but  we  made  no  sign  of  recognition. 
I  sat  huddled  up  gloomily  in  my  corner, 
obsessed  with  the  inevitable  feeling  that 
everybody  was  watching  me.  The  very 
walls  and  seats  seemed  possessed  of 
eyes.  That  man  over  there,  did  he  not 
look  at  me  —  twice?  And  that  woman, 
spying  constantly  (I  thought)  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye!  They  would  let 
me  get  as  far  as  the  frontier;  then  they 
would  send  word  over  to  the  Reds  that 
I  was  coming.  I  shivered,  and  was 
ready  to  curse  myself  for  my  fool  ad- 
venture. But  there  was  no  turning 


8 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


back!  'Forsan  et  hose  olim  meminisse 
juvabit,'  wrote  Virgil.  (I  used  to  write 
that  on  my  Latin  books  at  school  —  I 
hated  Lathi.)  '  Perhaps  some  day  it  will 
amuse  you  to  remember  these  things.' 
Cold  comfort,  though,  hi  a  scrape,  and 
with  your  neck  in  a  noose.  Yet  these 
escapades  are  amusing  —  afterward. 

At  last  the  train  stopped  at  Rajajoki, 
the  last  station  on  the  Finnish  side  of 
the  frontier.  It  was  a  pitch-dark  night, 
with  no  moon.  It  was  still  half  a  mile 
to  the  frontier.  I  made  my  way  along 
the  rails  in  the  direction  of  Russia,  and 
down  to  the  wooden  bridge  over  the  lit- 
tle frontier  river  Sestro.  Great  hostility 
still  existed  between  Finland  and  Soviet 
Russia.  Skirmishes  frequently  occurred, 
and  the  frontier  was  guarded  jealous- 
ly by  both  sides.  I  looked  curiously 
across  at  the  gloomy  buildings  and  the 
dull  twinkling  lights  on  the  other  bank. 
That  was  my  Promised  Land  over  there, 
but  it  was  flowing,  not  with  milk  and 
honey,  but  with  blood.  The  Finnish 
sentry  stood  at  his  post  at  the  bar  of 
the  frontier  bridge;  and  twenty  paces 
away,  on  the  other  side,  was  the  Red 
sentry.  I  left  the  bridge  on  my  right, 
and  turned  to  look  for  the  house  of  the 
Finnish  patrols  to  whom  I  had  been 
directed. 

Finding  the  little  wooden  villa  with 
the  white  porch,  I  knocked  timidly. 
The  door  opened,  and  I  handed  in  the 
slip  of  paper  on  which  Melnikoff  had 
written  the  password.  The  Finn  who 
opened  the  door  examined  the  paper  by 
the  light  of  a  greasy  oil  lamp,  then  held 
the  lamp  to  my  face,  peered  closely  at 
me,  and  finally  signaled  to  me  to  enter. 

'Come  in,'  he  said?  'We  were  expect- 
ing you.  How  are  you  feeling?' 

I  did  not  tell  him  how  I  was  really 
feeling,  but  replied  cheerily  that  I  was 
feeling  splendid. 

'That's  right,'  he  said.  'You  are 
lucky  in  having  a  dark  night  for  it.  A 
week  ago  one  of  our  fellows  was  shot  as 


we  put  him  over  the  river.  His  body 
fell  into  the  water  and  we  have  not  yet 
fished  it  out.' 

This,  I  suppose,  was  the  Finnish  way 
of  cheering  me  up. 

'Has  anyone  been  over  since?'  I  que- 
ried, affecting  a  tone  of  indifference. 

'Only  Melnikoff.' 

'Safely?' 

The  Finn  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'We  put  him  across  all  right  —  a 
dalshe  ne  znayu  [what  happened  to  him 
after  that,  I  don't  know].' 

The  Finn  was  a  lean,  cadaverous- 
looking  fellow.  He  led  me  into  a  tiny 
eating-room,  where  three  more  Finns 
sat  round  a  smoky  oil  lamp.  The  win- 
dow was  closely  curtained  and  the 
room  was  intolerably  stuffy.  The  table 
was  covered  with  a  filthy  cloth,  on 
which  a  few  broken  lumps  of  black 
bread,  some  fish,  and  a  samovar  were 
placed.  All  four  men  were  shabbily 
dressed  and  very  rough  in  appearance. 
They  spoke  Russian  well,  but  conversed 
in  Finnish  among  themselves.  One  of 
them  said  something  to  the  cadaverous 
man  and  appeared  to  be  remonstrating 
with  him  for  telling  me  of  the  accident 
that  had  happened  to  their  colleague 
a  week  before.  The  cadaverous  Finn 
answered  him  with  some  heat. 

'Melnikoff  is  a  chuckle-headed  scat- 
terbrain,'  persisted  the  cadaverous  man, 
who  appeared  to  be  the  leader  of  the 
party.  'We  told  him  not  to  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  go  into  Petrograd  again. 
The  Redskins  are  searching  for  him 
everywhere  in  Petrograd,  and  every  de- 
tail of  his  appearance  is  known.  But  he 
would  go.  I  suppose  he  loves  to  have 
his  neck  in  a  noose.  With  you,  I  sup- 
pose, it  is  different.  Melnikoff  says  you 
are  somebody  important  —  but  that 's 
none  of  our  business.  But  the  Redskins 
don't  like  the  English.  If  I  were  you, 
I  would  n't  go  for  anything.  But  it 's 
your  affair,  of  course.' 

We  sat  down  to  the  loaves  and  fishes. 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


9 


The  samovar  was  boiling,  and  while  we 
swilled  copious  supplies  of  weak  tea  out 
of  dirty  glasses,  the  Finns  retailed  the 
latest  news  from  Petrograd.  The  cost  of 
bread,  they  said,  had  risen  to  about 
eight  hundred  or  a  thousand  times  its 
former  price.  People  hacked  dead  horses 
to  pieces  in  the  streets.  All  the  warm 
clothing  had  been  taken  and  given  to 
the  Red  Army.  The  Tchrezvichaika 
(the  Extraordinary  Commission)  was 
arresting  and  shooting  workmen  as  well 
as  the  educated  people.  Zinovieff 
threatened  to  exterminate  all  the  bour- 
geoisie if  any  further  attempt  were 
made  to  molest  the  Soviet  government. 
When  the  Jewish  Commissar  Uritzky 
was  murdered,  Zinoviev  shot  over  five 
hundred  of  the  bourgeoisie  at  a  stroke, 
—  nobles,  professors,  officers,  journal- 
ists, teachers,  men  and  women,  —  and 
a  list  was  published  of  another  five 
hundred  who  would  be  shot  at  the  next 
attempt  on  a  commissar's  life. 

I  listened  patiently,  regarding  the 
bulk  of  these  stories  as  the  product  of 
Finnish  imagination.  '  You  will  be  held 
up  frequently  to  be  examined,'  the  ca- 
daverous man  warned  me;  'and  do  not 
carry  parcels  —  they  will  be  taken  from 
you  in  the  street.' 

After  supper,  we  sat  down  to  discuss 
the  plans  of  crossing.  The  cadaverous 
Finn  took  a  pencil  and  paper  and  drew 
a  rough  sketch  of  the  frontier. 

'We  will  put  you  over  in  a  boat  at 
the  same  place  as  Melnikoff,'  he  said. 
'  Here  is  the  river,  with  woods  on  either 
bank.  Here,  about  a  mile  up,  is  an  open 
meadow  on  the  Russian  side.  It  is  now 
eleven  o'clock.  About  three  we  will  go 
out  quietly  and  follow  the  road  that 
skirts  the  river  on  this  side,  till  we  get 
opposite  the  meadow.  That  is  where 
you  will  cross.' 

'Why  at  the  open  spot?'  I  queried, 
surprised.  'Shall  I  not  be  seen  there 
most  easily  of  all?  Why  not  put  me 
across  into  the  woods?' 


'Because  the  woods  are  patrolled, 
and  the  outposts  change  their  place 
every  night.  We  cannot  follow  their 
movements.  Several  people  have  tried 
to  cross  into  the  woods.  A  few  suc- 
ceeded, but  most  were  either  caught  or 
had  to  fight  their  way  back.  But  this 
meadow  is  a  most  unlikely  place  for 
anyone  to  cross,  so  the  Redskins  don't 
watch  it.  Besides,  being  open,  we  can 
see  if  there  is  anyone  on  the  other  side. 
We  will  put  you  across  just  here,'  he 
said,  indicating  a  narrow  place  in  the 
stream  at  the  middle  of  the  meadow. 
'At  these  narrows  the  water  runs  faster, 
making  a  noise,  so  we  are  less  likely  to 
be  heard.  When  you  get  over,  run  up 
the  slope  slightly  to  the  left.  There  is 
a  path  that  leads  up  to  the  road.  Be 
careful  of  this  cottage,  though,'  he  add- 
ed, making  a  cross  on  the  paper  at  the 
extreme  northern  end  of  the  meadow. 
'The  Red  patrol  lives  in  that  cottage, 
but  at  three  o'clock  they  will  probably 
be  asleep.' 

There  remained  only  the  preparation 
of  '  documents  of  identification,'  which 
should  serve  as  passport  in  Soviet  Rus- 
sia. Melnikoff  had  told  me  I  might 
safely  leave  this  matter  to  the  Finns, 
who  kept  themselves  well  informed  of 
the  kind  of  papers  it  was  best  to  carry, 
to  allay  the  suspicions  of  Red  Guards 
and  Bolshevist  police  officials.  We  rose 
and  passed  into  another  of  the  three 
tiny  rooms  that  the  villa  contained.  It 
was  a  sort  of  office,  with  paper,  ink, 
pens,  and  a  typewriter  on  the  table. 

'What  name  do  you  want  to  have?' 
asked  the  cadaverous  man. 

'Oh,  any,'  I  replied.  'Better,  per- 
haps, let  it  have  a  slightly  noiL-Russian 
smack.  My  accent  —  ' 

The  cadaverous  man  thought  for  a 
moment.  'Afirenko,  Joseph  Hitch,'  he 
suggested;  'that  smacks  of  Ukrainia.' 

I  agreed.  One  of  the  men  sat  down 
to  the  typewriter  and,  carefully  choosing 
a  certain  sort  of  paper,  began  to  write. 


10 


THE  SECRET  DOOR 


The  cadaverous  man  went  to  a  small 
cupboard,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  a 
boxful  of  rubber  stamps  of  various  sizes 
and  shapes,  with  black  handles. 

'Soviet  seals,'  he  said,  laughing  at 
my  amazement.  '  We  keep  ourselves  up 
to  date,  you  see.  Some  of  them  were 
stolen,  some  we  made  ourselves,  and 
this  one  —  '  he  pressed  it  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  leaving  the  imprint '  Commissar 
of  the  Frontier  Station  Bielo'ostrof '  — 
'we  bought  from  over  the  river  for  a 
bottle  of  vodka.'  Bielo'ostrof  was  the 
Russian  frontier  village  just  across  the 
stream. 

I  had  had  ample  experience  earlier  in 
the  year  of  the  magical  effect  upon  the 
rudimentary  intelligence  of  Bolshevist 
authorities  of  official '  documents,'  with 
prominent  seals  or  stamps.  Multitudin-^ 
ous  stamped  papers  of  any  description 
were  a  great  asset  in  traveling,  but  a  big 
colored  seal  was  a  talisman  that  lev- 
eled all  obstacles.  The  wording  of  the 
document,  even  the  language  in  which 
it  was  written,  was  of  secondary  impor- 
tance. A  friend  of  mine  once  traveled 
from  Petrograd  to  Moscow  with  no 
other  passport  than  a  receipted  English 
tailor's  bill.  This  'document  of  identi- 
fication' had  a  big  printed  heading 
with  the  name  of  the  tailor,  some  Eng- 
lish postage-stamps  attached,  and  a 
flourishing  signature  in  red  ink.  He 
flaunted  the  document  in  the  face  of  the 
officials,  assuring  them  it  was  a  diplo- 
matic passport  issued  by  the  British 
Embassy! 

This,  however,  was  in  the  early  days 
of  Bolshevism.  The  Bolsheviki  gradu- 
ally removed  illiterates  from  service,  and 
in  the  course  of  time  restrictions  be- 
came very  severe.  But  seals  were  as  es- 
sential as  ever. 

When  the  Finn  had  finished  writing, 
he  pulled  the  paper  out  of  the  type- 
writer and  handed  it  to  me  for  perusal. 
In  the  top  left-hand  corner  it  had  this 
heading :  — 


Extraordinary  Commission  of  the  Central 
Executive  Committee  of  the  Petrograd  Soviet 
of  Workers'  and  Red  Armymen's  Deputies. 

Then  followed  the  text:  — 
CERTIFICATE 

This  is  to  certify  that  Joseph  Ilitch  Afi- 
renko  is  in  the  service  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission  of  the  Central  Executive  Com- 
mittee of  the  Petrograd  Soviet  of  Workers' 
and  Red  Armymen's  Deputies,  in  the  capac- 
ity of  office  clerk,  as  the  accompanying  signa- 
tures and  seal  attest. 

'In  the  service  of  the  Extraordinary 
Commission? '  I  gasped,  taken  aback  by 
the  amazing  audacity  of  the  thing. 

'  Why  not  ? '  said  the  cadaverous  man 
coolly;  'what  could  be  safer?' 

I  burst  into  laughter  as  I  realized  the 
grim  humor  of  pretending  to  belong  to 
the  institution  that  employed  all  the 
paid  hirelings  of  the  Tsar's  secret  police 
to  suppress  the  last  vestiges  of  the  lib- 
erty of  the  revolution! 

'Now  for  the  signatures  and  seal,' 
said  the  Finn.  'Tihonov  and  Fried- 
mann  used  to  sign  these  papers,  though 
it  does  n't  mat  ter  much ;  it 's  only  the  seal 
that  counts.' 

From  some  Soviet  papers  on  the  table 
he  selected  one  "with  two  signatures 
from  which  to  copy.  Choosing  a  suit- 
able pen,  he  scrawled  beneath  the  text 
of  my  passport,  in  an  almost  illegible 
slanting  hand,  'Tihonov.'  This  was  the 
signature  of  a  proxy  of  the  Extraordin- 
ary Commission.  The  paper  must  also 
be  signed  by  a  secretary,  or  his  proxy. 
'Sign  for  your  own  secretary,'  said  the 
Finn,  laughing  and  pushing  the  paper 
to  me.  'Write  upright  this  time,  like 
this.  Here  is  the  original.  Friedmann 
is  the  name.' 

Glancing  at  the  original,  I  made  an 
irregular  scrawl,  resembling  in  some  way 
the  signature  of  the  Bolshevist  official. 

'Have  you  a  photograph?'  asked  the 
cadaverous  man. 

I  gave  him  a  photograph  I  had  had 
taken  at  Viborg.  Cutting  it  down  small, 


THE   SECRET  DOOR 


11 


he  stuck  it  at  the  side  of  the  paper. 
Then,  taking  a  round  rubber  seal,  he 
made  two  imprints  over  the  photograph. 
The  seal  was  a  red  one,  with  the  same 
inscription  inside  the  periphery  that 
was  printed  at  the  head  of  the  paper. 
The  inner  space  of  the  seal  consisted  of 
the  five-pointed  Bolshevist  star,  with  a 
mallet  and  a  plough  in  the  centre. 

'That  is  your  certificate  of  service,' 
said  the'  Finn;  'we  will  give  you  a  sec- 
ond one  of  personal  identification.' 

Another  paper  was  quickly  printed 
off  with  the  words,  'The  holder  of  this 
is  the  Soviet  employee  Joseph  Ilitch 
Afirenko,  aged  36  years.'  This  paper 
was  unnecessary  in  itself,  but  two  '  doc- 
uments'  were  always  better  than  one. 

It  was  now  after  midnight,  and  the 
leader  of  the  Finnish  patrol  ordered  us 
to  lie  down  for  a  short  rest.  He  threw 
himself  on  a  couch  in  the  eating-room. 
There  were  only  two  beds  for  the  re- 
maining four  of  us,  and  I  lay  down  on 
one  of  them  with  one  of  the  Finns.  I 
tried  to  sleep,  but  could  n't.  I  thought 
of  all  sorts  of  things  —  of  Russia  in  the 
past,  of  the  life  of  adventure  I  had 
elected  to  lead  for  the  present,  of  the 
morrow,  of  friends  still  in  Petrograd 
who  must  not  know  of  my  return  —  if 
I  got  there.  I  was  nervous,  but  the 
dejection  that  had  overcome  me  in  the 
train  was  gone.  I  saw  the  essential  hu- 
mor of  my  situation.  The  whole  ad- 
venture was  really  one  big  exclamation 
mark.  Forsan  et  hcec  olim  — 

IV 

The  two  hours  of  repose  seemed 
interminable.  I  was  afraid  of  three 
o'clock,  and  yet  I  wanted  it  to  come 
quicker,  to  get  it  over.  At  last  a  shuf- 
fling noise  approached  from  the  neigh- 
boring room,  and  the  cadaverous  Finn 
prodded  each  of  us  with  the  butt  end 
of  his  rifle.  'Wake  up,'  he  whispered; 
*  we  '11  leave  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  No 


noise.  The  people  in  the  next  cottage 
must  n't  hear  us.' 

We  were  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  My 
entire  baggage  was  a  small  parcel  that 
went  into  my  pocket,  containing  a  pair 
of  socks,  one  or  two  handkerchiefs,  and 
some  dry  biscuit.  In  my  other  pocket 
I  had  the  medicine  bottle  of  whiskey 
I  had  hidden  from  MelnikofF,  and  some 
bread. 

One  of  the  four  Finns  remained  be- 
hind. The  other  three  were  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  river.  It  was  a  raw  and 
frosty  November  night,  and  pitch-dark. 
Nature  was  still  as  death.  We  issued 
silently  from  the  house,  the  cadaverous 
man  leading.  One  of  the  men  followed 
behind,  and  all  carried  their  rifles  ready 
for  use. 

We  walked  stealthily  along  the  road 
the  Finn  had  pointed  out  to  me  on 
paper  overnight,  bending  low  where  no 
trees  sheltered  us  from  the  Russian 
bank.  A  few  yards  below,  on.  the  right, 
I  heard  the  trickling  of  the  river.  We 
soon  arrived  at  a  ramshackle  villa, 
standing  on  the  river-bank,  surrounded 
by  trees  and  thickets.  Here  we  stood 
stock-still  for  a  moment,  to  listen  for 
any  unexpected  sounds.  The  silence 
was  absolute.  But  for  the  trickling  of 
the  river,  there  was  not  a  rustle. 

We  descended  to  the  water  under 
cover  of  the  tumble-down  villa  and  the 
bushes.  The  stream  was  about  twenty 
paces  wide  at  this  point.  Along  both 
banks  there  was  an  edging  of  ice.  I 
looked  across  at  the  opposite  side.  It 
was  open  meadow,  but  the  trees  loomed 
darkly  a  hundred  paces  away  on  either 
hand  and  hi  the  background.  On  the 
left  I  could  just  see  the  cottage  of  the 
Red  patrol,  against  which  the  Finns 
had  warned  me. 

The  cadaverous  man  took  up  his  sta- 
tion at  a  slight  break  in  the  thickets. 
A  moment  later  he  returned  and  an- 
nounced that  all  was  well.  'Remember,' 
he  enjoined  me  once  again,  in  an  under- 


12 


THE   SECRET  DOOR 


tone,  'run  slightly  to  the  left,  but  — 
keep  an  eye  on  that  cottage.' 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  other  two,  and 
from  the  bushes  they  dragged  out  a 
boat.  Working  noiselessly,  they  at- 
tached a  long  rope  to  the  stern  and  laid 
a  pole  in  it.  Then  they  slid  it  down  the 
bank  into  the  water. 

'Get  into  the  boat,'  whispered  the 
leader,  'and  push  yourself  across  with 
the  pole.  And  good  luck!' 

I  shook  hands  with  my  companions, 
pulled  at  my  little  bottle  of  whiskey, 
and  got  into  the  boat.  I  started  push- 
ing, but  with  the  rope  trailing  behind, 
it  was  no  easy  task  to  punt  the  little 
bark  straight  across  the  running  stream. 
I  was  sure  I  should  be  heard,  and  had  in 
midstream  the  sort  of  feeling  I  should 
imagine  a  man  has  as  he  walks  his  last 
walk  to  the  gallows.  At  length  I  was  at 
the  farther  side,  but  it  was  quite  im- 
possible to  hold  the  boat  steady  while  I 
landed.  In  jumping  ashore,  I  crashed 
through  the  thin  layer  of  ice.  I  scram- 
bled out  and  up  the  bank,  and  the  boat 
was  hastily  pulled  back  to  Finland  be- 
hind me. 

'Run  hard!'  I  heard  a  low  call  from 

over  the  water  behind  me.  D it, 

the  noise  of  my  splash  had  reached  the 
Red  patrol!  I  was  already  running 
hard  when  I  saw  a  light  emerge  from 
the  cottage  on  the  left.  I  forgot  the  in- 
junctions as  to  direction,  and  simply 
bolted  away  from  that  lantern.  Half- 
way across  the  sloping  meadow  I  drop- 
ped and  lay  still.  The  light  moved  rap- 
idly along  the  river  bank.  There  was 
shouting,  and  then  suddenly  two  shots; 
but  there  was  no  reply  from  the  Finnish 
side.  Then  the  light  began  to  move 
slowly  back  toward  the  cottage  of  the 
Red  patrol,  and  finally  all  was  silent 
again. 

I  lay  motionless  for  some  time,  then 
rose  and  proceeded  cautiously.  Having 
missed  the  right  direction,  I  found  that 
I  had  to  negotiate  another  small  stream 


that  ran  obliquely  down  the  slope  of  the 
meadow.  Being  already  wet,  I  did  not 
suffer  by  wading  through  it.  Then  I 
reached  some  garden  fences,  over  which 
I  climbed,  and  found  myself  in  the  road. 

Convincing  myself  that  the  road  was 
deserted,  I  crossed  it  and  came  out  on 
to  the  moors,  where  I  found  a  half- 
built  house.  Here  I  sat  down  to  await 
the  dawn  —  blessing  the  man  who  in- 
vented whiskey,  for  I  was  very  cold. 
It  began  to  snow,  and,  half-frozen,  I 
got  up  to  walk  about  and  study  the 
locality  as  well  as  I  could  in  the  dark. 
At  the  cross-roads  near  the  station  I 
discovered  some  soldiers  sitting  round 
a  bivouac  fire,  so  I  retreated  quickly 
to  my  half-built  house  and  waited  till 
it  was  light.  Then  I  approached  the 
station,  with  other  passengers.  At  the 
gate  a  soldier  was  examining  passports. 
I  was  not  a  little  nervous  when  showing 
mine  for  the  first  time;  but  the  exami- 
nation was  a  very  cursory  one.  The  sol- 
dier seemed  only  to  be  assuring  himself 
that  the  paper  had  a  proper  seal.  He 
passed  me  through  and  I  went  to  the 
ticket-office  and  demanded  a  ticket. 

'One  first  class  to  Petrograd,'  I  said 
boldly. 

'There  is  no  first  class  by  this  train, 
only  second  and  third.' 

'No  first?  Then  give  me  a  second.' 
I  had  asked  the  Finns  what  class  I 
ought  to  travel,  expecting  them  to  say 
third.  But  they  replied,  first,  of  course, 
for  it  would  be  strange  to  see  an  em- 
ployee of  the  Extraordinary  Commis- 
sion traveling  other  than  first  class. 
Third  class  was  for  workers  and  peas- 
ants. 

The  journey  to  Petrograd  was  about 
twenty-five  miles,  and,  stopping  at 
every  station,  the  train  took  nearly  two 
hours.  As  we  approached  the  city,  the 
coaches  filled  up,  until  people  were 
standing  in  the  aisles  and  on  the  plat- 
forms. There  was  a  crush  in  the  Fin- 
land station  at  which  we  arrived.  The 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


13 


examination  of  papers  was  again  merely 
cursory.  I  pushed  out  with  the  throng, 
and  looking  around  me  on  the  dirty 
rubbish-strewn  station,  I  felt  a  curious 
mixture  of  relief  and  apprehension. 

My  life,  I  suddenly  realized,  had  had 
an  aim  —  it  was  to  stand  here  on  the 
threshold  of  the  city  that  was  my  home, 
homeless,  helpless,  and  friendless,  one 


of  the  common  crowd.  That  was  it  — 
one  of  the  common  crowd.  I  wanted,  not 
the  theories  of  theorists,  or  the  doc- 
trines of  doctrinaires,  but  to  see  what 
the  greatest  social  experiment  the  world 
has  ever  seen  did  for  the  common  crowd. 
And,  strangely  buoyant,  I  stepped  light- 
ly out  of  the  station  into  the  familiar 
streets. 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


BY  DALLAS  LORE   SHARP 


THE  people  were  astonished,  for  he 
taught  them  as  one  having  authority, 
and  not  as  those  who  had  gone  to  col- 
lege (unauthorized  translation).  They 
were  astonished  that  every  reference 
to  their  sacred  books  was  to  contradict 
them;  that  over  against  their  hitherto 
unquestioned  authority  he  should  set 
himself  in  authority;  that  these  ob- 
vious things  he  said  should  be  so  true, 
so  astonishingly  new  and  true:  homely, 
familiar  things,  not  out  of  books,  but 
out  of  life  and  nature. 

Except  for  a  faint  echo  of  Isaiah  and 
the  Psalmist,  and  some  half  dozen  refer- 
ences to  Old  Testament  law  (which  he 
cited  to  refute),  all  the  matter  in  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  from  common 
life  and  the  out-of-doors:  the  house  on 
the  rock;  the  good  tree  and  the  evil 
fruit;  the  false  prophet;  the  straight 
gate;  the  son  who  asks  a  fish;  the  pearls 
before  the  swine;  the  lilies  of  the  field 
—  familiar  matter,  and  commonplace, 
but  suddenly  new  with  meaning,  and 
startling  with  authority. 


Isaiah  had  dealt  earlier  with  these 
things;  and  one  rises  from  that  prophet 
wondering  what  more  can  be  said,  how 
better  said.  Yet  Isaiah  never  spake  like* 
the  man  of  this  Sermon.  This  man  had 
the  books  of  Isaiah,  but  he  went  behind 
the  books  with  his  observations,  as  sub- 
stance goes  behind  shadow,  appealing 
from  the  books  direct  to  life  and  nature. 

Life  and  nature  are  still  the  source  of 
originality,  the  sole  seat  of  authority. 
Books  make  a  full  man.  It  is  life  and 
nature  that  give  him  authority.  But 
life  and  nature  are  little  reckoned  with 
in  formal  education ;  small  credit  is  given 
them  in  the  classroom;  yet  authority, 
—  authorship,  —  poet  and  prophet,  are 
the  glory  of  education.  Or  is  it  the  end 
of  education  to  produce  the  scribe? 

Neither  scribe  nor  author  is  the  end 
of  our  school  education;  but  that  aver- 
age intelligence  upon  which  democra- 
cy rests.  Not  scribe  but  citizen,  not 
author  but  voter,  is  the  business  of  the 
school,  the  true  end  of  its  course  of 
study.  The  schools  are  the  public's,  con- 


14 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


cerned  with  the  public,  with  the  educa- 
tion of  living  together.  There  are  sev- 
eral educations,  however:  one,  in  the 
public  school,  for  democracy;  another, 
in  and  out  of  school,  for  individuality; 
and  another  distinct  and  essential  edu- 
cation, in  life  and  nature,  for  authority 
—  as  great  a  national  need  as  democ- 
racy. We  need  peace  and  prosperity, 
and  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happi- 
ness; but  quite  as  much  does  this  na- 
tion need  vision  —  to  walk  in  truth  and 
beauty.  Where  there  is  no  vision,  the 
people  perish. 

Can  we  educate  for  vision?  teach  men 
authority  —  to  preach  a  Sermon  on  the 
Mount?  to  land  on  Plymouth  Rock?  to 
write  a  Walden  Pond?  to  be  an  Abra- 
ham Lincoln?  to  dare  a  league  of  na- 
tions? These  are  visions,  daring,  dan- 
gerous visions,  not  out  of  books,  but 
new,  out  of  life  and  nature.  We  must 
educate  for  vision  —  for  dreams  and 
deeds  that  are  without  precedent. 

But  not  in  school.  Thoreau  and  Cy- 
rus Dallin  went  to  school,  yet  they  went 
to  nature  more.  Jesus  went  little  to 
school.  He  knew  a  few  great  books  pro- 
foundly; but  he  was  not  bound  out  to 
books  for  an  education.  It  is  hardly 
strange  that  the  schools  should  make 
nothing  of  this.  It  is  passing  strange, 
however,  that  we  parents,  dreaming 
dreams  for  our  children,  should  send 
them  to  school  for  their  whole  educa- 
tion, getting  no  hint  from  an  opposite 
course  that  was  found  fit  for  Jesus. 

There  were  schools  and  books  aplenty, 
and  young  Saul  of  Tarsus  had  them, 
and  had  Gamaliel  for  his  teacher.  The 
boy  in  Nazareth  had  a  few  great  books 
of  poetry  and  prophecy;  He  had  his 
school,  too,  but  it  was  the  carpenter's 
shop,  the  village  street,  the  wild,  lonely 
hills  reaching  off  behind  the  town.  This 
was  his  education;  and  there  is  none 
better  —  none  other  perhaps  —  for 
authority. 

Supreme  utterance  is  always  poetic 


utterance,  deeply  human,  deeply  relig- 
ious, and  as  fresh  and  daring  as  the 
dawn.  Such  utterance  may  come  un- 
taught. But  if  the  conscious  power  for 
such  utterance  is  the  possession  of  the 
few,  the  instinct  for  it  and  the  joy  in  it 
is  a  quality  of  all  human  minds.  Deep- 
er within  us  than  our  conscious  mind, 
deeper  than  our  subconscious  mind, 
this  instinct  for  utterance  is  the  essence 
of  the  unconscious,  the  inmost,  mind, 
whose  substance  is  the  flux  of  all  orig- 
inals. We  can  all  utter,  create,  make; 
and  we  should  have  in  our  education 
the  raw  materials  out  of  which  new 
things  are  made. 

There  were  other  boys  in  Nazareth, 
who  had  the  books,  the  work-bench,  the 
village  street  and  the  lonely  hills,  with- 
out acquiring  authority.  This  single 
boy  was  different.  So  is  every  boy  — 
Yet  no  matter  how  different  this  par- 
ticular boy,  the  significant  thing  is  that 
He  had  for  teachers  the  humble  people, 
work  with  tools,  the  solemn,  silent  hills, 
and  a  few  beautiful,  intensely  spiritual 
books,  and  that  out  of  this  teaching 
He  learned  to  speak  with  authority. 

So  it  was  with  Lincoln :  the  very  same 
books,  work  with  his  hands,  elemental 
people,  the  lonely  backwoods.  Lin- 
coln and  Edward  Everett  were  differ- 
ent; not  so  different  in  genius,  however, 
as  in  education.  'Lincoln,'  says  a  biog- 
rapher, 'was  a  self-made  man,  in  whom 
genius  triumphed  over  circumstance.' 
I  should  rather  say  that  of  Everett,  the 
accomplished  scholar,  Greek  professor, 
President  of  Harvard  College,  Governor 
of  Massachusetts,  editor,  senator,  for- 
eign minister,  who,  in  spite  of  all  this 
circumstance,  was  something  of  an 
orator.  But  standing  beside  Lincoln 
at  Gettysburg,  he  spoke  for  an  hour 
with  this  vast  book-education,  like  the 
Scribes,  leaving  Lincoln,  with  his  nat- 
ural education,  to  speak  for  five  min- 
utes with  authority.  No,  genius  and  cir- 
cumstance in  Lincoln  were  by  chance 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


15 


joined  together;  conventional  educa- 
tion happily  did  not  put  them  asunder. 

It  is  not  often  so  with  genius.  Chance 
cannot  get  the  consent  of  circumstance; 
nor  to-day  is  there  any  match  for  con- 
vention. The  trouble  is  too  much  school 
education  and  too  little  natural  edu- 
cation. We  limit  education  to  the 
school,  as  if  the  school  were  a  whole 
education!  Neither  Lincoln  nor  Ever- 
ett had  a  whole  education.  It  is  idle  to 
speculate  on  what  Lincoln  might  have 
been,  had  his  ancestors  stayed  in  Hing- 
ham,  where  they  landed,  and  had  he 
gone  to  Derby  Academy  and  to  Har- 
vard. What  actually  happened  on  the 
Big  South  Fork  of  Nolin  Creek  is  more 
significant.  For  here  he  was  born,  the 
son  of  a  carpenter,  and  he  had  for 
teachers  his  father's  tools,  the  prairie, 
the  westering  pioneers,  the  great  river, 
the  Life  of  Washington,  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress, JSsop,  Shakespeare,  and  the  Bible 
—  the  large  electives  that  well  cover 
the  course  of  natural  education. 

This  is  the  education  for  authority. 
A  child  cannot  be  educated  for  author- 
ity on  lesser  books,  with  sophisticated 
people,  with  pointless  play  instead  of 
work,  with  ordered  lessons  in  school 
in  place  of  the  dear  disorder  of  nature, 
and  her  companionship,  and  his  own 
soul's.  The  simple  needs  of  authorship 
have  not  changed. 

n 

But  what  child  nowadays  has  such 
teaching?  Who  looks  after  his  natural 
education  —  his  religion?  As  a  factor 
in  education,  religion  has  almost  ceased 
to  operate,  notwithstanding  the  church 
schools.  The  sensitive  spirit  cannot 
seek  after  God  in  school.  It  should  have 
a  universe  —  and  have  it  all  alone.  As 
truly  as  ever  do  we  live,  and  move,  and 
have  our  being  in  God;  but  at  this 
present  moment  we  have  so  much  more 
of  being  in  business,  and  move  so  much 


faster  by  motor,  that  it  seems  that  our 
existence  in  God  must  have  been  pre- 
natal, or  might  become  possibly  a  post- 
mortem affair. 

Religion  in  education  is  strictly  the 
part  of  someone  —  the  parental  part 
of  education,  and  no  business  of  any 
school.  Is  it  because  I  fail  that  I  seem 
to  see  all  parents  failing  in  religion? 
My  children  have  not  had  what  I  had 
in  religion  —  not  my  Quaker  grand- 
father certainly,  who  was  lame  and 
walked  slowly,  and  so,  I  used  to  think, 
and  still  think,  more  surely  walked  with 
God.  My  first  memory  of  that  grand- 
father is  of  his  lifting  an  adder  out  of 
the  winding  woodpath  with  his  cane, 
saying,  'Thee  must  never  hurt  one  of 
God's  creatures'  —  an  intensely  relig- 
ious act,  which  to  this  day  covers  for 
me  the  glittering  folds  of  the  snake  with 
the  care,  and  not  the  curse,  of  God. 

Years  later  I  was  at  work  in  the 
Marine  Biological  Laboratory  at  Woods 
Hole.  Dr.  C.  O.  Whitman  was  lectur- 
ing. He  had  traced  the  development  of 
the  cod's  egg  back  to  a  single  cell  of 
jellied  protoplasm,  when  he  paused. 

'Gentlemen,'  he  said,  with  dramatic 
restraint,  'I  can  go  no  further.  There  is 
that  in  this  cell  we  call  life.  But  the 
microscope  does  not  reveal  it.  We  all 
know  what  it  does.  But  who  knows 
what  it  is?  Is  it  a  form  of  motion? 
The  theologian  calls  it  God.  I  am  not  a 
theologian.  I  do  not  know  what  life  is.' 

He  need  not  have  been  a  theologian 
—  only  a  very  little  child  once,  with 
his  lame  grandfather  to  tell  him  the 
snake  is  God's ;  and  in  those  after  years, 
coming  to  the  end  of  his  great  lecture 
on  the  embryology  of  the  cod's  egg,  and 
to  the  greater  mystery  in  that  cell  of  liv- 
ing protoplasm,  he  would  have  spoken 
with  authority. 

It  is  not  every  child  whose  sleep  is  as 
light  as  little  Samuel's,  whose  dreams 
are  stirred  by  strange  voices  as  were 
Joan  of  Arc's;  but  there  are  many  more 


16 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


such  children  than  there  are  parents 
like  Hannah,  or  priests  like  Eli,  to  tell 
them  that  it  is  the  voice  of  God. 

The  crimson  was  fading  into  cold 
October  gray  as  I  came  upon  him  — 
twelve  years  old,  and  just  an  ordinary 
boy,  his  garden  fork  under  the  hill 
of  potatoes  he  had  started  to  dig,  his 
face  upturned,  his  eyes  following  far 
off  the  flight  of  a  wild  duck  across  the 

sky. 

'He  who  from  zone  to  zone,' 

I  began,  more  to  myself  than  to  him. 
'Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight,' 
he  went  on,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  me. 

'Father,'  he  added  reflectively,  as  the 
bird  disappeared  down  the  dusky  slope 
of  the  sky, '  I  'm  glad  I  know  that  piece.' 

'Why?'  I  asked. 

'I  see  so  much  more  when  the  wild 
ducks  fly  over.' 

'How  much  more  do  you  see?' 

'I  see  the  wild  ducks  and  God  flying 
over  together.' 

And  is  he  a  poet  who  sees  less?  Beau- 
ty and  truth  that  do  not  reach  religion 
do  not  reach  the  human  heart.  An  edu- 
cation that  lacks  religion  must  lack 
authority,  because  it  cannot  know  who 
made  the  flat-headed  adder,  who  flies 
with  the  wild  duck,  who  works  in  the 
cod's  egg,  to  will  and  to  do.  Religion  is 
the  consciousness  of  the  universe — that 
it  is  infinite,  eternal,  and  that  it  is  all 
God's! 

Ill 

The  realm  of  art,  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven,  and  the  life  of  this  dear  earth 
admit  only  little  children.  Great  utter- 
ance is  universal  utterance,  simple  and 
unique. 

Henry  Adams,  hi  the  course  of  his 
'Education,'  had  come  from  the  South 
Seas  to  Paris  with  John  La  Farge.  'At 
the  galleries  and  exhibitions  he  was 
shocked,'  so  he  says,  'by  the  effort  of 
art  to  be  original;  and  when,  one  day, 


after  much  reflection,  La  Farge  asked 
whether  there  might  not  still  be  room 
for  something  simple  in  art,  Adams 
shook  his  head.  As  he  saw  the  world, 
it  was  no  longer  simple  and  could  not 
express  itself  simply.  It  should  ex- 
press what  it  was,  and  this  was  some- 
thing that  neither  Adams  nor  La  Farge 
understood.' 

But  it  was  precisely  this  sophisticated 
world  that  Adams  did  understand,  and 
not  simple  men  and  women.  Adams 
was  not  born  a  babe  into  life,  but  an 
Adams  into  Boston,  with  (to  quote  him) 
'the  First  Church,  the  Boston  State 
House,  Beacon  Hill,  John  Hancock  and 
John  Adams,  Mount  Vernon  Street, 
and  Quincy  all  crowding  on  [his]  ten 
pounds  of  babyhood.'  And  the  trouble 
with  Henry  Adams  was  that  he  never 
got  from  under. 

Jesus  was  more  fortunate.  He  was 
born  in  a  stable.  Lincoln  had  the  luck 
of  a  log  cabin  on  the  Big  South  Fork  of 
Nolin  Creek,  as  had  Cyrus  Dallin,  the 
sculptor,  only  his  cabin  stood  within  a 
stockade  in  wild,  unsettled  Utah.  Bos- 
ton has  found  room  for  Dallin's  Appeal 
to  the  Great  Spirit,  as  the  world  has 
found  ample  room  for  the  Gettysburg 
Address  —  simple,  elemental  things  of 
art  that  shall  never  want  for  room. 

The  world  is  not  simple;  or  the  cell 
of  the  cod's  egg,  either.  The  forces  of 
cleavage  are  in  that  cell,  the  whole  fear- 
ful fish  is  there,  and  future  oceans  of 
fish  besides,  all  in  that  pellucid  drop  of 
protoplasm.  Society  never  was,  never 
can  be,  simple.  It  cannot  be  educated 
for  authority,  but  only  to  know  and  ac- 
cept authority. 

God  speaks  to  the  man,  not  to  the 
multitude  —  to  Moses  on  the  Mount, 
not  to  the  people  huddled  in  the  plain. 
Society  commissions,  but  the  individ- 
ual finds  the  truth,  reveals  the  beauty. 
'Art,'  says  Whistler,  'is  limited  to  the 
infinite,  and  beginning  there,  cannot 
progress.  The  painter  has  but  the  same 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


17 


pencil,  —  the  sculptor  the  chisel  of  cen- 
turies, —  and  painter  and  sculptor  con- 
sequently work  alone.' 

We  forget  that  scribes  get  together 
in  schools,  but  that  creators  work  '  each 
in  his  separate  star,'  as  lonely  as  God; 
and  that  the  education  of  the  creator 
is  strictly  hi  the  hands  of  those  respon- 
sible for  him.  The  responsibility  of 
professional  teachers  is  for  children. 
They  must  think  children,  in  terms  of 
men  and  women;  and  must  educate 
them  for  society.  We  parents  must 
think  the  child,  must  educate  the  child, 
not  for  society,  but  for  himself  —  for 
authority.  The  teachers,  looking  upon 
their  pupils,  see  the  people,  equal  before 
the  law,  sharing  alike  the  privileges, 
shouldering  alike  the  responsibilities 
—  one  another's  keepers,  upon  whose 
intelligence  and  right  spirit  the  nation 
rests.  Thus,  as  teachers,  they  see  their 
children  and  their  educational  duty. 

As  a  parent,  I  must  see  my  child  as 
foreordained  from  the  foundation  of  the 
world;  and  looking  upon  him,  I  must 
cry,  'Unto  us  a  child  is  born,  unto  us  a 
son  is  given,  and  the  government  shall 
be  upon  his  shoulders ;  and  his  name  shall 
be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor  —  or 
poet,  or  prophet,  for  he  shall  have  au- 
thority.' So,  as  a  parent,  I  must  think 
of  my  child  and  of  my  educational  duty. 

God's  work  is  not  done;  and  mine 
may  be  the  son  called  from  the  begin- 
ning, to  complete  in  line,  or  color,  or 
word,  or  deed,  the  divine  thing  God 
started  but  could  not  finish.  For  God 
is  not  complete  until  he  is  made  flesh, 
and  dwells  among  us. 

There  is  no  school  that  can  provide 
for  this  Only  Son.  School  education  is 
social  —  it  is  for  all;  for  life  together; 
how  to  even  and  average  life's  extremes. 
The  private  school  for  the  brilliant 
mind  is  pure  sophistry,  and  Simon-pure 
snobbery.  Averaging,  of  course,  is  a 
process  down,  as  well  as  up,  to  a  com- 
mon level  —  a  social  level.  Democracy 

VOL.  128— NO.  1 


is  that  common  social  level.  Education 
in  a  democracy  must  average  —  teach 
the  high  to  come  down,  the  humble 
to  rise,  and  all  of  us  to  walk  togeth- 
er. Not  trying  to  do  more  than  this 
for  any,  or  daring  to  do  less  than  this 
for  all,  it  must  hinder  no  mind  either 
by  merging  individuality,  or  by  setting 
up  a  material  well-being  for  the  better 
values  of  the  spirit. 

The  level  of  education  has  risen  late- 
ly in  the  public  schools;  university 
standards  meanwhile  have  distinctly 
deteriorated  —  have  sought  the  aver- 
age. 'College  education  is  now  aimed 
to  qualify  the  student,  not  to  give  him 
quality.'  The  college  has  become  a 
business  institution;  even  the  college  of 
liberal  arts  is  now  a  pre-pedagogical, 
pre-medical,  pre-legal,  or  some  other 
pre-practical  vocational  school. 

Students  still  come  to  college  to  serve, 
come  seeing  visions  too,  being  young 
—  but  visions  of  business.  In  the  mul- 
titude of  twenty  college  classes  passing 
through  my  lecture-room  I  know  of 
but  one  student  to  finish  his  course, 
bent  as  he  was  born,  to  poetry.  He  is 
now  spinning  a  Ph.D.  cocoon  for  him- 
self, the  poet  about  to  emerge  a  college 
professor! 

This  is  not  the  fault  of  youth.  Trail- 
ing clouds  of  glory  do  they  come  from 
God  who  was  their  home.  But  they 
land  in  America  for  business.  And  in 
such  numbers! 

I  believe  in  numbers,  in  business.  I 
freely  trust  the  work  of  the  state  with 
this  safe,  sane  average  —  but  it  was 
none  of  them  who  wrote  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  the  Proclamation 
of  Emancipation,  or  the  Covenant  of 
the  League  of  Nations. 

The  poet  cannot  be  the  direct  pro- 
duct of  the  schools.  His  education  is 
more  out  of  things  than  books,  more 
out  of  solitude  than  society,  more  out 
of  nature  than  schools.  The  author  is 
single,  original,  free;  he  uses  raw  mate- 


18 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


rials,  elements,  earths  that  are  with- 
out form  and  void.  In  him  is  the  pat- 
tern of  all  new  worlds.  His  life  is  to 
shape  them,  and  give  them  suns  and 
stars.  But  in  place  of  raw  materials, 
the  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
we  give  him  only  the  graded  systems 
of  the  schools,  which  make  for  many 
essential  things,  but  which  may  be  more 
deadly  to  his  creative  faculty  than  any- 
thing the  headlong  angels  fell  on  in 
Hell.  For  they  had,  at  least, 

The  dark,  unf  athomed,  infinite  abyss, 

through  whose  obscufe  one  of  them 
must  find  his  uncouth  way;  whereas 
our  unfallen  children  are  run  into  the 
school  machine  at  five,  and  earlier,  as 
oranges  into  a  sorter,  the  little  ones 
dropping  out  through  their  proper  hole 
into  shop  or  office,  the  bigger  ones  roll- 
ing on  until  they  tumble  into  college. 

Human  nature  is  unique,  and  not  to 
be  handled  by  machine.  It  is  active, 
a  doing  nature,  fit  for  unfinished  earth, 
not  heaven,  the  earth-partner,  and  co-i- 
creator  in  God's  slowly  shaping  world. 
Send  human  nature  to  school?  But  if 
school  can  make  them,  why  are  we 
without  'a  great  poet,  a  great  phil- 
osopher, a  great  religious  leader '  ? 
Why  is  it  that  'the  great  voices  of  the 
spirit  are  stilled  just  now'?  It  is  be- 
cause education  is  too  far  removed  from 
the  simple,  the  original  —  from  life  and 
nature. 

IV 

A  poet  is  still-born  in  Boston  every 
day  —  killed  by  toys  in  place  of  the 
tools  that  make  them;  by  books  in 
place  of  the  life  they  tell  of;  by  schools, 
museums,  theatres,  and  stores,  where 
things  are  pieced  and  ordered,  filmed, 
collected,  canned,  and  labeled,  in  place 
of  a  whole  world  of  whole  things,  until 
the  little  poet  asks  me,  as  one  did  the 
other  day,  'What  does  cream  come 
from?'  a  sterilized  concoction  in  a  bot- 


tle, brought  by  the  grocer,  his  nearest 
approach  to  a  cow  and  a  milking-stool! 
Yet  he  was  to  have  written  of 

Wrinkled  skin  on  scalded  milk! 

The  educating  process  is  started 
wrong,  and  started  too  early.  It  should 
start  with  work.  Watch  a  child  at 
mud-pies  or  building  a  dam.  Such  in- 
tense application,  such  concentrated 
effort,  such  complete  abandon!  Play? 
The  sweat  on  that  little  face,  the  tongue 
tight  between  the  teeth,  the  utter  un- 
consciousness of  burning  sun  and  cool- 
ing dinner,  are  the  very  signs  of  divine 
creative  work. 

Every  son  of  God  needs,  if  not  a 
world  to  create,  an  earth  to  subdue.  But 
instead  of  allowing  him  to  work,  we 
teach  him  to  be  amused,  as  if  his  proper 
frame  were  passive,  his  natural  action 
irresponsible;  as  if  he  must  be  kept  busy 
at  winding  things  up  and  watching  them 
run  down. 

We  have  not  the  courage  of  our  con- 
victions —  if  indeed  we  have  educa- 
tional convictions!  No  father,  asked 
for  bread,  would  give  a  stone;  but  when 
asked  for  truth  and  beauty  and  reality, 
how  few  of  us  have  the  courage  to  give 
a  son  what  Jesus  had,  or  Lincoln  had, 
or  the  two  years  before  the  mast  that 
young  Richard  Henry  Dana  had! 

Quitting  his  cultured  home,  his  so- 
phisticated college,  his  conventional 
city,  Dana  escaped  by  way  of  the  old, 
uncultured  sea,  with  men  as  uncultured. 
He  had  plum-duff  on  Sundays.  Two 
Years  Before  the  Mast  tells  the  story  of 
that  escape  from  scribbling  into  living, 
from  a  state  of  mind  like  Boston,  out 
and  down  around  the  Horn. 

To  save  the  poet  and  prophet  now 
standardized  to  scribes,  shall  we  do 
away  with  schools?  I  have  known  too 
many  freak  poets,  too  many  fool  proph- 
ets, to  say  that.  Genius  is  unique;  it  is 
also  erratic,  and  needs  to  toe  the  mark 
in  school.  The  training  for  expression 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


19 


is  more  than  wandering  lonely  as  a 
cloud.  There  is  much  for  the  poet  in 
trigonometry,  and  in  English  gram- 
mar. He  must  go  to  school  to  meet  his 
fellows,  too,  and  his  teachers  —  but  not 
until  he  is  able  both  to  listen  to  the 
doctors  and  to  ask  them  questions. 

Education  for  authority  must  both 
precede  and  continue  with  conven- 
tional education;  equal  place  made  for 
chores,  great  books,  simple  people,  and 
the  out-of-doors;  with  that  which  is 
made  for  texts,  and  recitations,  and 
schoolroom  drill;  parents  sharing  equal- 
ly with  professional  teachers  in  the  whole 
process,  unless  we  utterly  nationalize 
our  children. 

Two  of  my  children  are  in  a  Boston 
high  school,  having  five  hours  of  Latin, 
five  of  German,  five  of  French,  three  of 
English,  three  of  mathematics,  three  of 
history,  two  of  military  drill  —  twenty- 
six  hours  in  all.  And  they  call  it  edu- 
cational! That  is  not  education.  That 
is  getting  ready  for  college  —  which  is 
not  to  be  confused  with  education.  It 
fits  for  college*,  not  for  authority;  it  is 
almost  certain  death  to  originality  and 
the  creative  faculty. 

There  must  be  a  course  of  study  in 
school  and  college,  and  it  must  be 
shaped  to  some  end.  Is  it,  however,  the 
right  end  of  four  years  in  high  school, 
to  get  to  college?  or  the  right  end  of 
four  years  in  college,  to  get  into  a  job? 
There  is  a  certain  Spartan  virtue  in 
this  high-school  study,  something  that 
makes  for  push  and  power,  but  nothing 
of  preparation  for  great  utterance  in 
sermon  or  song. 

The  children  do  not  know  that  the 
poet  in  them  is  being  killed.  I  know  — 
but  I  only  half  believe  the  poet  to  be  in 
them! 

The  sin  of  the  fathers  —  this  fear 
of  the  divine  fire!  Mine  are  ordinary 
children.  I  should  have  adopted  them, 
foundlings  of  unknown  elfin  parentage. 
Then  I  had  believed,  and  had  given 


them  to  Merlin,  as  Arthur  was  given, 
or  to  the  Lord,  as  Hannah  gave  little 
Samuel. 

I  did  have  them  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  hills  of  Hingham,  forced  out 
of  the  city  when  the  second  one  came. 
I  gave  them  the  farm,  the  woods,  the 
great  books,  the  simple  people,  and  re- 
ligion, but  timidly  —  allowing  them  at 
this  day  to  take  fifteen  hours  of  study 
in  foreign  languages  to  three  meagre 
hours  in  their  glorious  native  tongue. 
And  these  are  to  be  poets  and  prophets! 

Then  they  must  needs  speak  in  Ger- 
man, French,  and  Latin.  English  is 
a  foreign  tongue  in  the  Boston  high 
schools.  John  Gower  did  his  Confessio 
Amantis  in  three  languages,  but  Geof- 
frey Chaucer  found  it  a  life's  task  to 
conquer  his  native  English,  sighing,  — 

The  lyf  so  short,  the  craft  so  long  to  lerne. 

Poets  have  scarcely  time  to  learn 
their  own  language.  If  any  of  them  are 
going  through  American  high  schools, 
they  will  learn  a  few  French  irregular 
verbs,  know  that  Weib  is  neuter,  and 
how  Amo  is  conjugated,  but  they  will 
not  know  the  parts  of  the  verbs  'lay' 
and  'lie,'  and  their  vocabulary  of  ad- 
jectives will  be  limited  to  'some'  and 
'dandy'  or  to  'some-dandy.' 

'We  don't  need  to  study  English,  we 
inherit  it,'  one  of  my  college  men  said 
to  me. 

'How  much  did  you  inherit? '  I  asked ; 
and  as  a  test  turned  to  Whittier's  Snow- 
Bound,  which  lay  on  my  lecture-room 
desk,  and  read  to  him,  — 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors  — 

and  the  ten  lines  that  follow,  finding 
eight  words  —  'littered,'  'mows,'  'wal- 
nut bows,'  'herds-grass,'  'stanchion,' 
'  chores, ' '  querulous, '  and  '  birch' — that 
were  foreign  to  the  majority  of  the 
class  —  without  meaning,  and  so  with- 
out image  and  poetry.  It  chanced  that 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


I  was  wearing  a  brown  Windsor  tie, 
and  I  saw  one  student  nudge  another 
and  whisper,  'The  cows  had  "walnut 
bows"  on  like  the  professor's.' 

Rubbing  it  in  a  little,  I  declared  that 
I  could  open  any  English  book,  and  on 
any  page  find  a  word  that  none  of  them 
had  ever  used,  and  that  most  of  them 
would  not  even  understand.  On  my 
desk  lay  a  small  wrapped  book  from 
some  publisher.  I  cut  the  string;  found 
it  a  supplementary  reader  for  the  eighth 
grade,  and  opening  it  in  the  middle,  took 
the  middle  paragraph  on  the  page,  and 
began  to  read,  — 

'The  ragged  copses  on  the  horizon 
showed  the  effect  of  the  severe  shelling* 
—  a  war-story,  reprinted  from  the 
Youth's  Companion! 

'Copses,'  I  said  to  the  young  man 
who  had  inherited  the  English  language, 
'what  does  "ragged  copses"  mean?' 

He  took  one  profound  look  into  his 
heritage,  —  in  the  region  of  his  dia- 
phragm,—  then  cast  his  eyes  slowly 
around  the  horizon  of  the  room,  and  an- 
swered, that  he  did  n't  know  what  the 
ragged  policemen  were  doing  there  in 
No  Man's  Land! 

I  turned  to  a  young  woman  student. 
'What  does  "ragged  copses"  mean?'  I 
asked. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  her  face, 
shivered  cruelly,  and  replied  that  she 
just  hated  such  horrid  words  —  she 
just  hated  to  think  of  that  battlefield 
all  strewn  with  ghastly  tattered  corpses  ! 

And  what  shall  be  said  of  another 
college  man,  reporter  on  the  Boston 
Globe,  whose  chief  told  me  of  sending 
him  to  get  a  story  about  a  little  bay 
colt  that  was  prancing  gayly  up  News- 
paper Row.  Turning  at  the  office  door, 
the  reporter  asked  doubtfully,  'You 
said  a  bay  colt  —  Is  that  some  kind  of 
sea-horse?' 

'Who  said  sea-horse?'  snorted  the 
editor.  'I  said  a  bay  colt  out  on  the 
street.' 


'Is  that  a  new  breed  of  horse?' 

'Breed?'  roared  the  editor.  'Breed? 
I  said  a  bay  colt — a  color,  not  a  breed ! ' 

'Oh,  come  now,'  said  the  undone  re- 
porter, '  don't  jolly  me.  There  is  n't 
any  such  color  in  the  rainbow.' 

'Nor  among  neckties  either,'  added 
the  editor;  'but  there  is  among  horses, 
as  any  farm-boy  knows.' 

What  any  farm-boy  knows  is  the  be- 
ginning of  the  knowledge  and  the  foun- 
dation of  the  vocabulary  of  authority. 
The  farm-boy's  elemental,  but  amaz- 
ingly varied,  word-horde  is  the  very 
form  of  universal  speech.  Poets  and 
prophets  have  always  used  his  simple 
words;  and  poets  and  prophets  must 
ever  live  as  he  lives,  and  learn  what  he 
has  learned  of  language  and  things. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying, '  Here  is  a  story  book, 

Thy  father  has  written  for  thee. ' 

That  was  the  first  story-book.  It 
still  remains  the  greatest  of  source- 
books.  Here  the  human  story,  begins; 
against  this  background  the  plot  un- 
folds; and  here  ends.  Here  is  written 
that  older  tale  of  Limulus  polyphemus, 
the  horse-shoe  crab,  and  that  ancienter 
story  of  the  stars.  Into  the  Book  of 
Nature  are  bound  all  the  'Manuscripts 
of  God '  —  the  originals  of  all  authors, 
whether  they  create  in  words,  or  notes, 
or  colors,  or  curves;  the  originals  of  the 
past,  of  the  present,  and  that  longer, 
richer  future. 

'Come  wander  with  me,'  she  said, 

'Into  regions  yet  untrod; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God!' 

Mother  of  us  all,  Nature  should  be 
the  teacher  of  all,  lest  she  be  denied 
that  chosen  one  to  whom  she  would 
give  authority.  It  is  she  who  shall  show 
him  how, '  in  the  citron  wing  of  the  pale 
butterfly  with  its  dainty  spots  of  orange,' 
he  shall  see  'the  stately  halls  of  fair 
gold,  with  their  slender  saffron  pillars'; 


EDUCATION  FOR  AUTHORITY 


and  'how  the  delicate  drawing  high  up- 
on the  walls  shall  be  traced  in  tender 
tones  of  orpiment,  and  repeated  by  the 
base  in  notes  of  graver  hue.' 

But  these  things  are  written  in  books, 
and  hung  in  galleries,  and  can  be  taught 
more  quickly  there?  They  cannot  be 
taught  at  all  there.  Nature  keeps  no 
school.  She  teaches  her  pupils  singly, 
revealing  to  each  what  is  for  him  alone. 
He  can  learn  many  things  in  school, 
but  not  authority  —  not  how  to  paint 
Whistler's  Mother,  or  how  to  write 
Wordsworth's  '  Stepping  Westward,' 
or  how  to  cut  a  single  marble  of  the 
Parthenon. 

'By  what  authority  doest  thou  these 
things?' 

The  poet  answers:  'Nature  is  my 
authority, 

'And  that  auxiliar  light 
Which  on  the  setting  sun  bestows  new  splendor.' 

Yet  the  schools  overflow,  as  if  author- 
ity were  there!  Students  come  to  paint 
and  to  play,  before  they  learn  to  see 
and  hear;  they  come  to  write,  before 
experience  has  given  them  anything  to 
say.  They  must  come  to  school,  the 
prophet  from  the  wilderness,  the  poet 
from  the  fields  and  hills,  when  twice 
ten  summers  have  stamped  their  minds 
forever  with 

The  faces  of  the  moving  year. 

The  first  Monday  of  September, 
labor  is  on  parade.  The  Tuesday  after, 
and  the  school-children  of  America  are 
on  the  march  —  a  greater  host  than 
labor's,  as  its  work  is  greater.  This  is 
the  vastest  thing  we  Americans  do,  this 
mighty  making  of  the  democratic  mind 

—  the  average  mind.    But  it  is  not  a 
poetic-prophetic  mind  we  are  making 

—  not  educated  for  authority. 

Too,  too  few  of  all  this  marching  mul- 
titude are  coming  to  their  little  books 
well  read  in  the  Book  of  Nature;  and  to 
their  little  teachers  from  earlier,  ele- 


mental lessons  with  the  thoughtful  hills, 
with  the  winds,  and  the  watchful  stars. 

Earth  and  the  common  face  of  nature 
have  not  spoken  to  them 

.  .  .  rememberable  things. 

This  is  not  for  the  schools  to  do;  this 
is  beyond  the  schools  to  do;  and  besides, 
it  is  then  too  late;  for  Derwent,  or  some 
other  winding  stream,  should  murmur 
to  the  poet-babe  while  still  in  arms, 
and  give  him 

Amid  the  fretful  dwellings  of  mankind, 

A  foretaste,  a  dun  earnest  of  the  calm 

That  Nature  breathes  among  the  hills  and  groves. 

We  Americans  do  not  give  beauty 
and  joy  to  our  children.  We  are  not  a 
happy-hearted,  imaginative  people.  It 
is  the  foreign  children  who  steal  the 
flowers  from  our  parks;  who  dance  to 
the  hurdy-gurdy;  who  haunt  our  pic- 
ture galleries  —  little  lovers  of  warmth, 
and  tone,  and  color! 

Every  worker  bee  in  the  hive  might 
have  been  a  queen,  had  not  the  pitiless 
economy  of  the  colony  cramped  her 
growing  body  into  a  worker  cell,  till, 
pinched  and  perverted,  she  takes  her 
place  in  the  fearful  communism  of  the 
tribe,  an  unsexed  thing,  the  normal 
mother  in  her  starved  into  an  abnormal 
worker,  her  very  ovipositor  turned  from 
its  natural  use  into  a  poison-tipped 
sting. 

Theoretically,  we  are  not  communis- 
tic, but  in  industry  and  education  we 
have  put  the  worker-cell  theory  into 
operation,  cramping  the  growing  child 
into  practically  a  uniform  vocational 
system,  intellectually  overfeeding,  and 
spiritually  underfeeding  the  creator  in 
him  into  a  worker  —  a  money-maker. 

Some  fathers  of  us,  more  mothers, 
perhaps,  might  ask  prophets  and  poets 
of  the  Lord;  but  who  of  us  would  have 
the  courage  to  educate  such  children 
for  poetry  and  prophecy? 


MOVIES 


BY  KATHARINE  FULLERTON  GEROULD 


LET  me  begin  by  saying  that  I  am 
not  a  movie  fan.  Therefore  there  is  a 
lot  about  movies  that  I  do  not  know. 
Most  of  my  friends  honestly  dislike 
them.  But  now  and  then  I  find  one, 
equally  intelligent,  equally  educated, 
who  attends  regularly.  I  go  very  sel- 
dom, myself;  but  I  should  undoubtedly, 
during  the  last  year,  have  seen  more 
movies,  if  good  ones  had  been  accessi- 
ble. I  have  not  great  experience,  but  I 
have  at  least  overcome  certain  initial 
prejudices. 

It  is  certain  that  the  movies  have 
come  to  stay  —  for  a  time.  What  form 
the  theatrical  art  of  the  twenty-first 
century  will  take,  we  do  not  know.  It 
may  be  that  movies  will  be  superseded 
by  something  that  even  Mr.  Wells  can- 
not guess  at.  At  present,  we  are  con- 
fronted with  something  universally  pop- 
ular. Our  best  legitimate  actors  have 
condescended  to  the  screen,  and  Mary 
Pickford  and  Charlie  Chaplin  are  known 
to  yellow  folk  in  kimonos,  brown  folk  in 
sarongs,  and  Paraguayans  of  the  plain. 

The  movies  have  had  to  bear  a  great 
deal  of  criticism  of  late,  as  corrupters 
of  the  public  morals.  I  have  never  seen 
one  of  the  'unclean'  movies  they  talk 
about.  I  do  not  doubt  they  exist.  But 
I  should  say  that  the  danger  of  the  film- 
play  is  due  rather  to  its  wide  dispersion 
than  to  its  actual  badness.  That  is:  if 
one  bad  picture  is  released,  a  million 
people  will  see  it;  whereas  a  dozen  bad 
plays  reach  only  a  very  few  spectators 
in  comparison.  According  to  all  that  I 

22 


can  learn,  motion-picture  producers  are 
much  more  scrupulous  than  theatrical 
managers.  Moreover,  I  believe  that 
you  actually  could  go  further  in  a  mov- 
ing picture,  without  legitimate  shock, 
than  you  could  on  the  stage.  There  is 
something  very  shadowy  and  unreal 
still  in  the  film  presentment  of  life.  I 
never  saw  Zaza  —  except  played  by  a 
German  stock  company,  when  Zaza,  in 
her  most  vivid  scene,  was  swathed  to 
the  neck  in  a  red  flannel  dressing-gown. 
But  I  had  Zaza  described  to  me  in  its 
day,  and  I  have  never  seen  anything 
like  that  on  the  screen.  Say  what  you 
will,  people  who  are  looking  for  the 
'suggestive'  will  get  much  more  of 
what  they  want  for  their  money  by  look- 
ing at  half-dressed  flesh  and  blood  than 
they  will  by  looking  at  one-quarter- 
dressed  photographs.  The  movies  are 
a  two-dimensional  world,  and  crimes 
are  committed  in  three  dimensions. 
Personally,  I  have  seen  only  decent 
movies.  I  incline,  in  any  case,  to  be- 
lieve that  the  movie  peril  lies  elsewhere. 

The  peril  of  the  movies,  in  other 
words,  is  vulgarity.  By  which  I  do  not 
mean  physical  indecency,  or  even  situa- 
tions by  implication  risques.  I  mean 
general  cheapness  of  ideals,  and  senti- 
mentalism,  far  more  than  salaciousness. 
I  doubt  if  the  adverse  critics  have  put 
their  fingers  on  the  real  reason  for  this 
vulgarity,  or  found  the  real  analogy. 

There  is  not  much  sense,  for  exam- 
ple, in  comparing  the  moral  effect  of 
the  movies  with  the  moral  effect  of  the 


MOVIES 


legitimate  stage.  In  most  places,  tak- 
ing the  country  through,  the  admission 
fee  is  very  small.  The  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple who  go  to  them  constantly,  year 
in  and  year  out,  are  the  people  who 
never  went,  and  never  would  go,  year 
in  and  year  out,  to  ordinary  plays. 
The  movie  public  is  not  —  taking  the 
country  through,  as  I  say  —  the  thea- 
tre-going public.  The  movies  are  cer- 
tainly a  new  substitute  for  something; 
but  what  they  are  a  substitute  for  is 
not  the  legitimate  stage.  They  are  a 
substitute,  rather,  for  cheap  vaude- 
ville (and  they  are  much  better  for  the 
public  morals  than  cheap  vaudeville) 
and  for  cheap  literature.  The  girls 
who  throng  the  movie  theatres  are  the 
girls  who  used  to  read  Laura  Jean  Libby 
and  Mrs.  Georgie  Sheldon.  The  boys 
who  throng  them  are  the  ones  who 
used  to  read  Nick  Carter  and  Deadwood 
Dick.  Chewing-gum  was  always  inclu- 
ded with  both.  The  people  who  can 
afford  Broadway  plays,  or  who  have 
Broadway  theatres  within  their  reach, 
are  not  the  ones  who  create  the  depend- 
able movie  audience.  It  is  the  people 
who  never  could  afford  the  first-class 
theatres,  or  who  do  not  live  where 
they  could  get  at  them,  even  if  they 
had  the  money,  who  swell  the  film-cor- 
porations' dividends.  When  those  peo- 
ple saw  plays  at  all,  they  usually  saw  a 
'ten-twent'-thirt"  show:  Bertha  the 
Sewing-Machine  Girl,  or  the  Queen  of 
the  High-Binders.  They  did  not  go  to 
the  theatre  much,  anyway;  they  read 
cheap  literature  in  pink  and  green  cov- 
ers, for  which  they  paid  the  traditional 
dime.  They  do  not  read  so  much  of  it 
now.  Less  of  it  —  far  less  —  is  pro- 
duced. The  demand  has  fallen  off.  The 
people  who  used  to  call  for  it  now  go  to 
the  movies.  And  if  any  of  you  were 
ever  wicked  enough,  in  childhood,  to 
stalk  the  New  York  Fireside  Companion 
(or  whatever  it  was)  to  the  kitchen 
coalhod  (against  orders)  and  read  A 


Little  Wild  Rose  and  the  Blight  that  Fell 
upon  It  or  Was  She  His  Lawful  Wife? 
then  you  know  that  the  movies  are  bet- 
ter for  that  public  than  the  literature 
they  have  displaced.  Even  the  not  very 
clean  movie  is  better  than  the  works  of 
Albert  Ross.  Any  movie  I  have  ever 
seen  or  heard  described  is  not  only  good 
morals  but  great  art,  in  comparison. 
You  must  chalk  it  up  to  the  credit  of 
the  movies  that  they  have  actually  dis- 
placed those  books.  They  have  closed 
up  that  literary  red-light  district. 

Let  me  repeat,  and  then  have  done 
with  this  argument:  the  people  who 
go  to  moving  pictures  would  not,  had 
there  been  no  moving  pictures,  have 
been  going  to  see  Hamlet.  They  would 
have  been  going  to  see  The  Queen  of  the 
Opium  Ring;  they  would  have  been  read- 
ing Ten  Buckets  of  Blood  or  The  Apple- 
woman's  Revenge,  or  they  would  have 
been  walking  the  streets  with  an  eye 
out  for  personal  adventure.  The  cor- 
ruptible ones,  I  mean.  The  hard- 
worked  mothers  of  families  —  who  are 
a  large  part  of  movie  audiences  in  small 
towns  —  would  have  been  sitting  at 
home  inventing,  for  sheer  emptiness  and 
weariness  of  mind,  bitter  little  scandals 
about  their  neighbors.  The  men  would 
have  been  —  we  have  all  been  told  — 
in  the  wicked,  wicked  corner  saloon. 
We  must  get  it  firmly  fixed  in  our  minds 
that  the  movies  represent  a  step  up,  not 
a  step  down,  in  popular  amusement. 
Of  course,  you  may  be  fancying  that 
all  these  people,  if  deprived  of  movies, 
would  be  attending  university  exten- 
sion lectures.  But,  if  so,  I  think  you 
are  quite  wrong. 

The  question  of  the  very  young,  I 
admit,  remains.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
too  many  children  go  to  the  movies  too 
frequently.  In  well-run  theatres  they 
are  not  admitted  unless  accompanied 
by  an  older  person;  but  the  necessary 
escort  is  usually  forthcoming.  Babes  in 
arms,  I  know,  are  frequent  spectators 


MOVIES 


at  the  theatre  I  occasionally  go  to.  I 
suppose  it  will  not  particularly  hurt  the 
babes  in  arms:  the  theatre  is  better  ven- 
tilated, probably,  than  their  own  homes. 
The  boys  and  girls  from  eight  to  sixteen 
are  the  real  problem.  Even  so,  I  should 
want  to  be  very  sure  how  their  parents 
would  otherwise  provide  for  their  leis- 
ure, before  I  condemned  this  particu- 
lar way.  I  do  think  that,  for  those  of  us 
who  are  trying  to  bring  up  our  child- 
ren sanely  and  wisely,  the  movies  are 
an  obstacle,  especially  in  a  small  town 
where  the  posters  are  flamboyant  and 
unavoidable.  The  children  beg  to  go. 
You  can  deal  with  the  circus  and  the 
Hippodrome  —  things  that  have  to  be 
succumbed  to  only  once  a  year.  But 
with  three  different  matinees  a  week, 
all  the  twelve  months,  it  is  harder. 
Every  now  and  then  there  is  a  picture 
that  they  may  as  well  see:  something 
spectacular  in  the  right  sense,  travel- 
and-animal  things,  Alice  in  Wonderland 
or  Treasure  Island.  When  once  they 
have  been,  they  want  to  go  again.  But 
that  is  up  to  the  careful  parent. 

I  admit,  too,  that  boys  and  girls, 
young  people  in  general,  who  never  did 
read  the  literature  I  have  referred  to, 
are  now  movie  fans.  The  picture  palace 
is  not  the  haunt  of  the  proletariat  sim- 
ply. By  no  means.  The  taste  of  the 
young  is  likely  to  be  to  some  extent  cor- 
rupted. But  again,  what  would  they 
be  doing  if  they  did  not  go?  We  must 
not  be  foolish  enough  to  think  that  the 
movies  are  the  only  difference  between 
our  generation  and  theirs,  or  that  the 
well-brought-up  young  thing,  if  movies 
were  out  of  the  way,  would  be  cultivat- 
ing his  taste  in  the  fashion  his  grand- 
parents would  have  approved.  The 
film-play  may  be  a  step  down  for  some, 
where  it  is  a  step  up  for  others;  but  I 
am  cynical  enough  to  believe  that,  if 
a  generation  feels  like  stepping  down, 
it  will  do  so.  The  undergraduates  of 
Princeton,  for  example  (so  I  have  been 


told),  all  go  to  the  movies  every  evening 
at  seven  o'clock.  I  think  that  is  a  little 
exaggerated,  perhaps,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  they  go  very  regularly. 
Perhaps  it  is  unfortunate.  Perhaps  the 
undergraduates  of  fifteen  years  ago 
were  better  off.  But  before  I  admitted 
that,  I  should  like  to  be  sure  that  the 
undergraduates  of  fifteen  years  ago  read 
Shakespeare  or  discussed  metaphysics 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  I  am 
very  much  from  Missouri  in  this  matter. 

n 

All  this  sounds  like  defense  of  the 
movies,  which  I  have  admitted  to  be 
vulgar.  Let  us  look  at  this  special  vul- 
garity a  little.  When  a  good  novel,  say, 
is  dramatized,  it  is  practically  always 
vulgarized.  You  cannot  put  a  work  of 
art  into  a  different  medium  without, 
to  a  large  extent,  spoiling  it.  Especially 
a  work  of  art  which  has  been  wrought 
out  of  words  cannot  be  put  into  a  word- 
less medium  without  losing  a  great  deal. 
The  great  faults  of  the  picture  play,  I 
seem  to  make  out,  are  two:  sensation- 
alism and  sentimentalism.  I  read,  the 
other  day,  in  a  motion-picture  maga- 
zine (two  weeks'  allowance  for  that, 
alas !)  the  following  statement,  made  by 
a  big  producer:  'We  would  not  have 
dared,  five  years  ago,  to  use  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  of  film  with  only 
mental  movement  in  it.'  I  take  it  that 
they  are  stressing  'mental  movement' 
increasingly.  Even  so,  you  cannot  pho- 
tograph mere  psychology  indefinitely. 

When  I  hear  that  Joseph  Conrad  is 
going  to  devote  himself  to  writing  for 
the  movies,  I  wonder  greatly.  Lord  Jim 
in  the  pictures  would  not  be  precisely 
Lord  Jim,  would  it?  But  I  have  gath- 
ered also  from  the  magazine  for  which 
son's  allowance  was  spent,  that  the  cry 
is  more  and  more  for  original  plays,  not 
for  dramatizations.  On  the  whole,  that 
may  be  a  good  thing.  Now  and  then 


MOVIES 


25 


a  particular  novel  lends  itself  special- 
ly to  the  filming  process:  as  you  read 
the  novel  itself,  you  can  see  its  mani- 
fest destiny.  But,  generally  speaking,  a 
good  novel  loses  immensely.  A  large 
part  of  the  work  of  the  novelist  consists 
of  creating  human  beings.  What  they 
say  and  what  they  think  are  as  impor- 
tant as  what  they  physically  do.  And 
there  is  a  limit  to  the  mental  movement 
that  can  be  conveniently  or  even  wisely 
registered.  But  to  say  that  novels  are 
usually  vulgarized  in  screen-versions 
is  not  necessarily  to  damn  screen-plays. 
The  dramatized  novel  does  not,  for 
that  matter,  usually  make  a  good  play 
on  the  real  stage.  The  technique  is 
other;  the  same  points  must  be  differ- 
ently made  and  differently  led  up  to. 
There  are  exceptions,  of  course;  but 
certainly  the  best  plays  are  those  that 
were  written  as  plays.  And  I  fancy  the 
best  movies  will  be  those  that  were 
written  as  movie-scenarios.  Certainly, 
if  Mr.  Conrad  is  to  devote  himself  to 
film-making,  I  hope  it  will  be  by  writ- 
ing new  scenarios,  not  by  helping  them 
to  adapt  Victory  or  The  Rescue. 

This  vulgarization  of  books  in  the 
process  of  making  films  of  them  is,  I 
dare  say,  pretty  nearly  inevitable.  In 
any  novel  that  tempts  the  producers 
there  are  sure  to  be  one  or  two  big 
scenes  that  are  admirably  adapted  to 
pictcfrial  presentment.  (The  rare  novel 
of  the  picaresque  type  —  alas,  that  we 
have  so  few!  —  really  cries  out  for  the 
screen.)  But  most  of  the  preparation  for 
those  scenes,  most  of  the  preliminary 
stuff  that  gives  them  their  significance, 
is  not  transferable  to  celluloid.  Some- 
thing has  to  be  substituted  for  the  un- 
pictorial  bulk  of  the  book.  The  natural 
way  is  to  stress  minor  episodes,  make 
striking  scenes  out  of  quiet  ones,  exag- 
gerate mental  movement  into  physical 
movement.  Often  sauce  piquante  has 
to  be  added  out  of  hand.  At  times  a 
delicate  situation  has  to  be  made  crude. 


Henry  James  is  an  extreme  instance; 
but  imagining  The  Awkward  Age  on  the 
screen  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  filming  any  book  whatsoever 
that  depends  to  any  extent  on  slow  and 
subtle  delineation  of  character.  For 
the  sake  of  the  argument,  suppose  The 
Awkward  Age  to  be  taken  over  by  a 
producer:  Mrs.  Brook  and  Vanderbank 
would  have  to  be  sacrificed  at  once;  you 
would  have  to  give  them  at  least  one 
scene  which  showed  them  to  be  lovers. 
Mrs.  Brook's  wail,  'To  think  that  it's 
all  been  just  talk!'  could  hardly  be  got 
across  to  a  movie  audience.  The  scene 
at  Tishy  Grendon's,  where  Mrs.  Brook 
'  pulls  the  walls  of  the  house  down '  — 
what  could  you  do  but  show  little  Aggie 
as  a  definitely  abandoned  creature? 
The  close-up  of  a  French  novel  would 
not  turn  the  trick.  How  on  earth  could 
you  explain  Vanderbank  —  in  a  movie 
—  without  sacrificing  Nanda?  The 
Awkward  Age  is  perhaps  the  extremest 
possible  case,  but  any  producer  who 
dramatizes  a  serious  novel  is  confronted 
with  some  of  these  problems.  Even  the 
concession  of  'a  hundred  feet  of  mental 
movement'  will  not  atone  for  the  ne- 
cessary violence  done  to  psychology. 
There  are  books  where  psychology  bears, 
at  almost  every  turn,  visible  fruit;  so 
that,  going  from  scene  to  scene,  the 
spectator  can  make  out  for  himself  the 
underlying  shifts  of  mood.  But  these 
books  should  be  sifted  from  those  that 
pursue  a  different  method. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  great  novels 
would  lend  themselves  better  to  the 
screen  than  to  the  stage.  Vanity  Fair, 
for  example  —  or  so  I  imagine.  Ex- 
ceeding violence  was  done  to  Vanity 
Fair  when  it  was  turned  into  the  play 
Becky  Sharp.  It  was  not  Becky,  it 
was  not  Thackeray,  it  was  not  Vanity 
Fair,  it  was  not  anything.  But  I  can 
imagine  a  film  version  of  the  book  that 
would  be  something  —  if  the  producer 
were  willing  to  spend  enough  money  on 


MOVIES 


it.  The  fault  of  the  play  was  that  it  had 
to  confine  itself  to  a  few  scenes,  and 
the  epic  quality  of  Becky's  life  was 
lost.  What  the  screen  can  give  us,  if  it 
chooses,  is  the  epic  quality.  But  that  is 
for  the  future.  It  means,  too,  very  care- 
ful selection  of  subject. 

The  vulgarization  of  the  novel,  in 
screen  versions,  is  almost  inevitable,  — 
save  for  a  chosen  few,  —  as  I  have  tried 
to  indicate.  But  vulgarity  is  there, 
even  in  the  original  plays.  Again,  I 
fancy  that  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of 
necessity  as  of  the  easiest  way.  People 
have  been  so  pampered  by  'stunts'  on 
the  screen  that  they  expect,  they  de- 
mand, thrills.  The  drama  of  real  life  is 
not  apt  to  be  expressed  in  quick  geta- 
ways over  roofs,  leaps  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
or  even  the  achievement  of  freedom  by 
means  of  a  racing  car.  But  those  make 
a  convenient  way  to  thrills.  Contrasts, 
too,  —  just  because  the  moving  picture 
is  such  an  excellent  medium  for  them,  — 
are  overdone.  Too  much  is  pushed  off 
on  them;  they  are  made  too  crude,  too 
violent.  The  chance  for  vivifying  con- 
trasts —  whether  of  past  scenes  with 
present,  or  of  character  with  character, 
or  of  one  person's  background  and  situ- 
ation with  another's  —  is  one  of  the 
moving  picture's  greatest  assets,  artis- 
tically speaking.  As  is  also  lapse  of 
time,  that  most  difficult  thing  in  the 
world  for  the  novelist  to  manage  grace- 
fully and  plausibly.  Juxtapositions  and 
antitheses  ('antithesis  is  the  root  of  all 
style'),  which  call  for  the  greatest  tech- 
nical skill  of  an  author  who  is  restricted 
to  words  and  the  architectonics  of  the 
novel,  are  easily  achieved  for  him  in  the 
pictures. 

My  own  notion  is,  you  see,  that  there 
is  a  perfectly  legitimate  field  in  art  for 
the  picture-play;  and  that  only  by  tak- 
ing it  as  a  different  genre,  and  exploit- 
ing its  own  vast  possibilities,  can  the 
best  results  be  got.  If  the  tendency  to 
vulgarity  is  there,  even  in  the  original 


plays,  I  fancy  that  is  because  the  mak- 
ers of  them  are  still  feeling  for  the  right 
convention.  It  is  too  new  an  art  for  its 
laws  to  have  been  completely  tabulated. 
I  think  people  must  get  away  from  the 
idea  that  the  movie  scenario  is  at  all  the 
same  thing  as  a  play;  or  that  any  good 
book  can  be  made  into  a  good  film.  I  do 
not  mean  by  this  that  the  material  of 
screen  plays  is  restricted.  I  do  not  think 
it  is,  any  more  than  that  of  any  other 
genre.  But  I  believe  that  there  is  still 
a  great  deal  to  learn  about  the  proper 
exploitation  of  this  new  medium,  and 
that  a  great  deal  of  the  vulgarity  of 
films  comes  from  too  narrow  a  view  of 
what  can  be  done  and  too  great  igno- 
rance, as  yet,  of  how  to  do  it.  The  dan- 
ger is  that  the  easiest  way  will  prevail, 
and  that  the  moving-picture  art  will 
degenerate  before  it  has  had  a  chance  to 
grow  up.  The  plea  that  the  movie  audi- 
ence can  understand  nothing  that  is  not 
emotionally  cheap  and  easy  is  ridicu- 
lous. A  large  number  of  our  immigrants 
have  been  used  to  better  stuff,  dra- 
matically, than  Broadway  gives  them. 
Shakespeare  knew  perfectly,  you  may 
be  sure,  how  successfully  Hamlet  would 
hit  the  groundlings.  He  was  just  as 
consciously  writing  great  melodrama 
as  he  was  consciously  writing  great 
poetry.  The  movie  audience  that  sur- 
rounds me  when  I  go  is  not,  for  the 
most  part,  a  cultivated  or  an  educa- 
ted audience.  But  it  prefers  the  better 
movies  to  the  worse  ones.  And  I  think 
—  excellent  indication  —  that  it  shows 
signs  of  revolting  against  the  jokes  from 
the  Literary  Digest. 

• 

m 

One  of  the  great  foes  to  improvement 
in  moving-picture  art  would  seem  to  be 
the  close-up.  The  close-up,  I  take  it, 
is  still  the  approved  field  of  such  '  men- 
tal movement'  as  appears  in  a  play. 
Now,  I  have  not  seen  all  the  great 


MOVIES 


27 


movie  stars.  But  I  have  seen  half  a  doz- 
en of  the  best-known  movie  actresses, 
and  the  simple  fact  is  that,  when  they 
register  emotions  in  a  close-up,  they 
all  look  precisely  alike.  They  grimace 
identically.  Either  —  it  seems  to  me  — 
they  have  not  learned  how  to  use  the 
close-up  properly  for  dramatic  pur- 
poses, or  there  is  something  the  matter 
with  the  close-up  itself,  and  it  should  be 
gingerly  dealt  in.  I  incline  to  believe 
that  it  is  a  matter  of  imperfect  tech- 
nique. These  women  move  differently, 
act  differently,  'suggest'  differently,  in 
the  body  of  the  play.  It  is  only  when 
you  stare  into  their  tearful  or  triumph- 
ant faces,  made  colossal,  that  they  all 
become  alike.  It  may  be  that  make- 
up has  something  to  do  with  it.  But 
the  fault  is  there.  The  men  are  nearly 
as  bad,  but  not  quite.  I  suppose  all 
heroes  do  not  have  to  have  cupid's- 
bow  mouths,  for  one  thing.  People  do 
not  have  such  fixed  standards  for  male 
charm.  Both  men  and  women  need 
more  subtlety  in  this  matter  of  close- 
ups.  I  believe  there  are  too  many  close- 
ups,  anyhow;  but  I  am  sure  that  the 
close-up  has  possibilities  which  many  of 
our  stars  have  not  mastered.  I  know, 
because  I  have  several  times  seen  Sessue 
Hayakawa. 

I  am  so  little  an  authority  on  movie 
stars  that  I  do  not  wish  to  name  names 
in  this  essay.  Though  I  have  seen  a 
good  many  of  the  most  famous,  I  have 
not  seen  them  all.  Those  I  have  seen,  I 
have  not  seen  enough  times.  But  I  have 

seen  ,  and  ,  and  ,  and 

• (more  than  once,  some  of  them), 

who  are  at  the  very  top  of  popularity 
and  fame.  (I  am  omitting  entirely,  for 
the  present,  the  slap-stick  stuff,  and 
speaking  only  of  serious  plays.)  And  if 
I  had  not  seen  Sessue  Hayakawa,  I 
should  think,  perhaps,  the  subtle,  the 
really  helpful  close-up  was  well-nigh 
impossible.  Hayakawa  has  proved  to 
me  that  it  is  not;  that  great  acting,  of 


the  quiet  sort,  can  be  done  on  the 
screen.  I  have  seen  his  immobile  pro- 
file describe  a  mental  conflict  as  I  have 
never  seen  it  done  on  the  real  stage  ex- 
cept by  Mrs.  Fiske  in  Rosmersholm.  I 
have  always  thought  that  Mrs.  Fiske's 
silent  profile,  conveying  to  an  audience 
the  fact  that  incest  had  been  unwitting- 
ly committed,  was  one  of  the  greatest 
pieces  of  acting  I  have  ever  seen.  I  did 
not  suppose  it  could  be  easily  matched 
on  the  real  stage,  and  I  should  never 
have  dreamed  it  could  be  done  at  all  on 
the  screen.  But  I  believe  that,  if  neces- 
sary, Hayakawa  could  do  it.  Each  play 
that  I  have  seen  'the  Jap'  in  was  worse 
than  the  last,  and  I  have  begun  to  be 
afraid  that  he  is  going  to  be  forced  — 
why,  I  do  not  know  —  into  the  contor- 
tionism,  the  violence,  the  eventual  ab- 
surdity, that  must,  I  suppose,  always 
be  waiting  to  engulf  the  emotional 
screen  actor.  But  I  shall  never  forget 
the  first  simple  little  play  I  saw  him  in, 
where  the  setting  amounted  to  nothing, 
the  characters  were  few  and  humble, 
and  the  acting  was  supremely  quiet 
and  very  great.  It  can  be  done.  And  as 
this  is  a  discussion  of  movie  possibili- 
ties simply,  not  of  movie  achievements 
up  to  date,  that  is  all  we  need  to  know. 
I  am  not  saying  that  others  have  not 
done  it.  I  can  only  say,  out  of  my  small 
experience,  that  he  is  the  one  who  has 
proved  to  me  most  conclusively  that  it 
is  just  as  possible  to  have  great  acting 
on  the  screen  as  on  the  stage. 

The  sentimentalism  to  which  we 
have  referred  is  simply,  I  think,  a  prev- 
alent vice  of  our  own  day,  and  not  to 
be  credited  to  movies  any  more  than  to 
any  other  form  of  popular  art.  Certain- 
ly our  books  are  as  rotten  with  it  as  our 
picture-plays.  But  books  have  had  a 
long  history,  and  novel,  play,  poem,  and 
essay  are  established  genres.  They  will 
pull  up.  It  is  because  the  moving-pic- 
ture genre  is  young  and  as  yet  unsure, 
because  it  is  still  without  traditions, 


28 


MOVIES 


that  it  stands  in  peril  of  succumbing  to 
any  bad  fashion  that  is  going. 

There  are  various  attempts  being 
made  and  planned,  I  believe,  to  make 
the  movie,  not  only  pure,  but  high-brow. 
I  have  never  seen  the  results.  But  I 
wonder  if  the  authors  of  these  attempts 
are  using  the  right  methods.  Are  they 
utilizing  the  great,  the  special  assets  of 
the  screen?  The  prime  thrill  in  a  movie 
is  the  thrill  of  the  spectacular.  Great 
spaces,  with  horsemen  riding,  men  lying 
in  ambush;  the  specks  in  the  distance 
growing;  flight  and  pursuit,  wherever 
and  whoever;  the  crowd,  the  passionate 
group;  the  contrast  (as  I  have  said)  of 
past  and  present,  rich  and  poor,  happy 
and  unhappy,  hero  and  villain,  can  all 
be  made  vivid  to  an  extent  that  must 
leave  mere  words  (unless  used  by  a  mas- 
ter) lagging  far  behind.  What  one  may 
call  the  processional  value  of  the  movies 
can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  Whereas 
the  play  must  gather  up  its  action  into  a 
few  set  scenes,  the  movie  can  show  life 
in  flux  —  people  going  naturally  about 
their  appointed  ways,  as,  in  the  world, 
people  do.  I  used  to  think,  when  I  was 
new  to  film  plays,  that  the  unnatural 
movement  of  the  actors  was  due  to  some 
law  of  the  camera.  But  again,  it  is  not 
so.  A  few  weeks  ago  I  saw  a  well-known 
male  star  in  a  not  particularly  interest- 
ing adaptation  of  a  once  popular  novel, 
and  the  star  bore  himself  like  a  human 
gentleman.  He  moved  as  slowly  and  as 
gracefully  as  he  pleased.  There  was 
none  of  that  jerky  rhythm,  which  is  so 
prevalent  that  one  is  sometimes  tempt- 
ed to  think  it  the  inevitable  gait  of  the 
screen.  Whether  he  paced  the  floor,  or 
took  up  a  book,  or  lighted  a  cigarette, 
or  got  into  a  motor-car,  or  clasped  the 
heroine  in  his  arms,  he  did  it  all  with 
perfect  naturalness,  with  the  usual 
rhythm  of  well-controlled  muscles.  So 
it,  too,  can  be  done. 

I  believe  that  both  the  sensationalism 
and  the  sentimentalism  which  consti- 


tute movie-vulgarity  can  be  largely 
checked  and  controlled.  The  genre 
should  be  exploited  for  its  artistic  pos- 
sibilities, which  are  great,  and  the  ac- 
tors should  develop  variety  rather  than 
one  conventional  mode.  There  is  no 
doubt  that,  at  present,  the  most  attrac- 
tive films  are  those  which  use  vast  land- 
scapes and  numbers  of  people  in  motion. 
But  you  cannot  restrict  the  movie-art 
to  plays  of  this  type.  It  has  been  proved 
by  certain  actors  and  actresses  that 
'mental  movement'  and  natural  bod- 
ily action  are  not  impossible  to  'get 
across.'  The  cheapening,  the  over-sim- 
plification and  over-stressing  of  emo- 
tion, are  not  inevitable  concomitants  of 
filming  a  story.  You  can  get  your  thrill 
quietly,  subtly.  The  words  that  are  reft 
from  the  actor  must  be  made  up  for, 
by  him,  with  more  than  usual  signifi- 
cance of  bodily  and  facial  expression. 
But  again,  it  can  be  done.  And  to  help 
along,  there  is  that  immense  potential- 
ity of  temporal,  social,  personal,  emo- 
tional contrast  which  no  other  genre 
really  possesses.  Antithesis,  so  far,  has 
not,  I  imagine,  been  either  generally 
enough  or  subtly  enough  used.  From 
the  hovel  to  the  palace  is  one  way,  to  be 
sure;  but  that  is  cheap  and  easy.  It 
does  not  begin  to  tap  the  possibilities. 
A  proper  contrast,  properly  shown,  will 
make  up  for  chapters  of  verbiage;  but 
the  contrast  must  be  carefully  made  in 
every  detail.  Mere  '  velvet  and  rags,  so 
the  world  wags'  will  not  do. 

I  am  told  that  America  is  really  re- 
sponsible for  the  moving-picture  genre: 
that  we  are  the  chief  sponsors,  if  not 
the  positive  authors,  of  the  movie.  It  is 
we  who  must  make  or  mar  it  as  an  art. 
I  know  nothing  about  foreign  films; 
I  have  never  seen  any  outside  of  the 
United  States.  I  do  not  know  whence 
these  movies  come  which  are  doing, 
according  to  unquestionable  authority, 
such  harm  among  the  brown  and  yel- 
low races.  But  I  quite  see  that  we  have 


MOVIES 


29 


a  great  responsibility  on  our  hands.  I 
have  heard  it  said  and  corroborated,  in 
unimpeachable  quarters,  that  to  the 
movies  is  due  a  large  part  of  the  unrest 
in  India.  For  a  decade,  the  East  Indian 
has  been  gazing  upon  the  white  man's 
movie;  and  it  is  inevitable  that  he 
should  ask  why  the  people  who  behave 
that  way  at  home  should  consider  that 
they  have  a  divine  mission  to  civilize 
and  govern  other  races.  Whatever  one 
thinks  of  the  movie,  I  believe  we  should 
all  agree  that  it  does  not  illustrate,  par- 
ticularly well,  the  social  superiority  of 
the  white  race.  The  Anglo-Indian  offi- 
cial and  his  wife  may  be  supremely 
scrupulous  and  tactful;  but  the  native 
is,  of  course,  going  to  consider  that  the 
movie  gives  them  away. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  the  worst  films, 
not  the  best,  are  shipped  to  the  remoter 
continents.  Japan  is  overrun  with  for- 
eign movies,  as  well  as  India.  I  do  not 
know  about  China,  but  certainly  the 
Dutch  East  Indies,  Indo-China,  the 
Straits  Settlements  are  invaded.  Read 
the  guide-books.  Mr.  J.  O.  P.  Bland, 
who  has  been  observing  alien  races  in 
their  own  habitat,  for  many  years,  with 
patient  precision,  avers  that  the  Amer- 
ican (and  perhaps  European)  movie  is 
doing  incalculable  harm  to  the  mixed 
populaces  of  the  South  American  re- 
publics. To  take  only  one  instance:  we 
can  perfectly  see  that  to  the  Hindu  and 
the  Mohammedan,  the  Japanese,  and 
the  South  American  of  Hispano-Moor- 
ish  social  tradition,  the  spectacle  of  the 
movie-heroine  who  is  not  only  unchap- 
eroned  but  scantily  dressed,  who  more 
or  less  innocently  'vamps'  every  man 
within  striking  radius,  who  drives  her 
own  car  through  the  slums  at  midnight, 
who  places  herself  constantly  in  peril- 
ous or  unworthy  contacts,  yet  who  is  on 
the  whole  considered  a  praiseworthy 
and  eminently  marriageable  young 
woman,  is  not  calculated  to  enhance 
the  reputation  of  Europe  or  the  United 


States.  She  violates  every  law  of  de- 
cency, save  one,  that  is  known  to  the 
Hindu,  the  Japanese,  or  the  mestizo  of 
South  America.  It  is  scarcely  conceiv- 
able to  them  that  anyone  but  a  prosti- 
tute should  behave  like  that.  Yet  they 
have  it  on  good  authority  —  the  film  — 
that  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  American 
millionaire  or  the  British  peer,  who  con- 
siders himself  immeasurably  the  poor 
Hindu's,  the  poor  Jap's,  the  poor  peon's 
superior. 

Nor  do  I  believe  that  Charlie  Chaplin 
is  destined  to  spread  the  doctrine  of  the 
White  Man's  Burden  very  successfully. 
We  deal,  in  these  other  continents,  with 
peoples  to  whom  unnecessary  bodily 
activity  is  not  a  dignified  thing.  You 
cannot  possibly  explain  Charlie  Chap- 
lin to  them  correctly.  You  just  cannot. 
They  simply  think  that  official  Anglo- 
Saxons  are  minuetting  in  the  parlor  for 
diplomatic  reasons,  and  that  Charlie 
Chaplin  is  the  Anglo-Saxon  'out  hi  the 
pantry.'  Paris  is  as  keen,  I  understand, 
on '  Chariot '  as  England  and  the  United 
States.  But  compared  with  Asia,  Africa, 
and  South  America,  France  and  Eng- 
land and  we  are,  as  it  were,  one  flesh. 

This  particular  problem  is  none  of 
my  affair.  But  it  might  be  well,  all  the 
same,  not  to  present  ourselves  as  to- 
tally lacking  in  social  dignity  at  the 
very  moment  when  we  are  being  so 
haughty  about  the  Monroe  Doctrine 
and  Japanese  exclusion  and  the  White 
Man's  Burden  in  general.  The  people 
who  are  told  that  we  are  too  good 
to  mess  up  with  them  in  a  league  of 
nations  must  wonder  a  little  when  they 
look  at  Charlie  Chaplin,  having  pre- 
viously been  told  that  he  is  the  idol  of 
the  American  public.  I  have  taken 
Charlie  Chaplin  merely  because  of  his 
positively  world-wide  popularity.  The 
love  of  slap-stick  is  not  confined  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tribe,  though  I  believe  no 
other  tribe  likes  it  one  half  so  much.  Per- 
sonally, I  am  bored  to  tears  by  Charlie. 


30 


MOVIES 


But  as  a  public,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
we  adore  him.  We  understand  perfectly 
that  our  peculiar  sense  of  humor  in  no 
wise  prevents  us  from  carrying  on  an 
enlightened  form  of  government  with  a 
good  deal  of  success.  Slap-stick  has  al- 
ways been  in  the  Anglo-Saxon's  blood. 
But  I  can  see  that  the  Brahmin  or  the 
Samurai,  who  gazes  on  Charlie  and  the 
custard  pie,  might  legitimately  wonder 
whether,  after  all,  Charlie  was  intend- 
ed by  the  Deity  to  govern  the  whole 
planet;  cannot  you? 

That  was,  in  a  sense,  a  digression. 
For  what  I  really  had  set  myself  to  do 
was  to  indicate  what,  it  seemed  to  me, 
were  some  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
moving  picture  —  the  moving  picture 
as  an  artistic  genre,  that  is.  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing  what  technically 
may  be  achieved  in  another  decade  or 
two:  what  marvels  of  color,  of  scene- 
shifting,  and  the  like.  But  all  that  is 
stage-managing,  not  the  play  itself.  I 
fancy,  being  largely  Anglo-Saxon  still  in 
our  make-up,  we  shall  go  on  with  slap- 
stick to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Prob- 
ably the  alien  among  us  will  be  more 
quickly  educated  to  slap-stick  than  to 
any  other  of  our  ideals.  It  will  be  the 
first  step  in  Americanization.  I  do  not 
see  how  you  can  develop  slap-stick  ex- 
cept along  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
It  can  only  go  a  little  further  all  the 
time,  and  become  a  little  more  so. 

But  the  movie  drama  has  a  more  seri- 
ous and  varied  future  than  that.  It  is 
important.  It  must  chuck  —  it  ought 
to  chuck  —  the  Aristotelian  unities 
overboard.  The  three  unities  have  long 
since  ceased  to  be  sacred,  yet  the  mem- 
ory of  them  has  overshadowed  the 
whole  of  European  play-writing.  Our 


serious  drama  has  violated  them,  but  it 
has  never  positively  contradicted  them 
—  flung  them  out  of  court.  Unity  of 
action  has  at  least  been  kept,  in  most 
cases.  Even  unity  of  time  has  often 
been  stuck  to;  and  in  rare  cases  of  late, 
unity  of  place.  There  has  been  no  vir- 
tue in  discarding  the  three  unities,  ex- 
cept the  virtue  that  is  made  of  necessity. 
But  the  screen-play  must  discard  them, 
in  order  to  find  itself.  Unity  of  time 
and  unity  of  place  alike  would  kill  the 
movie.  Even  unity  of  action  is  by  no 
means  necessary  to  it.  At  least,  so  it 
seems  to  me;  but  then  I  am  very  strong 
for  the  picaresque,  tlje  epic  movie. 
Certainly,  unity  of  action  in  the  strict- 
est dramatic  sense  is  not  a  virtue  in  the 
screen-play.  It  is  precisely  the  movie's 
chance  to  give  the  larger,  looser  texture 
of  life  itself.  It  does  not,  at  its  best, 
have  to  artificialize  and  recast  life  as 
does  the  well-made  play.  Its  motto  not 
only  is,  but  ought  to  be,  'Good-bye, 
Aristotle!'  This  may  seem  a  superflu- 
ous saying,  since  we  have  been  bidding 
that  gentleman  farewell  so  vociferously 
for  so  long.  Yet  the  drama  has,  up  to 
our  own  time,  been  on  speaking  terms 
with  him.  The  drama,  I  fancy,  will 
have  to  continue  to  be  on  speaking 
terms  with  him;  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
the  one-act  play,  which  has  so  much 
vogue  at  present,  has  not  actually  in- 
vited him  to  come  back  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea. 

The  movie  is  another  matter.  It  has 
its  own  quite  different  future;  and  pro- 
ducer, director,  actor,  and  author  will 
all  have  to  pull  together  to  make 
that  future  artistically  as  well  as  com- 
mercially brilliant.  More  power  to  their 
elbows! 


EXILE  AND  STEAMER 


BY  JEAN  KENYON  MACKENZIE 


THERE  is  moonlight  and  sunlight, 
there  are  the  stars  and  the  sea.  Some 
days  are  gray  and  ribbed  with  the  white 
trouble  of  the  surf.  Some  are  white 
days,  full  of  a  sparkle  of  sunlight  like  a 
spray  above  the  water.  On  some  days 
mountains  that  have  been  long  lost  rise 
out  of  the  sea;  at  noon  they  are  faint 
and  far  away;  but  with  evening  they 
draw  in  and  cast  anchor  before  the  little 
cabin  where  you  live.  They  are  blue. 
Thus  beauty,  in  her  various  fashion, 
smites  with  her  rod  the  rock  of  your 
monotony,  and  water  does  indeed  gush 
forth;  you  drink  and  are  assuaged.  But 
still  you  look  to  the  sea;  you  have  a 
glass  at  hand,  —  it  is  a  ship's  glass,  — 
and  it  is  not  for  beauty  that  you  hunt 
with  your  glass:  it  is  for  excitement. 
You  are  hunting  for  the  very  heart  and 
flaming  core  of  excitement,  and  that 
is  a  steamer.  Living  in  lonely  places 
like  this,  you  are  a  prey  to  obsessions; 
you  are  obsessed  by  certain  sleepless 
thoughts;  they  stir  in  your  heart  while 
you  sleep,  and  they  speak  without  ceas- 
ing of  steamers.  It  is  they  that  drive 
you  in  the  morning  to  your  glass,  and 
to  be  looking  all  day  out  to  sea,  and 
at  night  to  be  searching  the  dark  for  a 
little  cluster  of  stars  that  are  low  upon 
the  horizon,  like  the  Pleiades  in  March; 
but  oh,  they  are  not  the  Pleiades — they 
shine  with  a  difference:  they  are  the 
lights  of  a  steamer! 

How  shall  I  be  telling  of  steamers  to 
the  dwellers  in  great  harbor  towns, 
where  the  loveliest  ladies  of  the  sea 
come  and  go  without  applause?  Or  to 
inlanders  who  never  see  a  mast  at  all, 


unless  it  is  the  superstructure  of  an  oil- 
well?  You  whose  house  is  on  the  Hud- 
son, where  a  steamer  is  at  anchor  be- 
fore your  very  door  —  it  is  eight  bells; 
the  hour  was  struck,  and  did  you  hear 
the  bell?  The  signal  stands  in  the  en- 
gine-room at  'Full  Steam  Ahead,'  and 
did  you  hear  that  drumming?  A  week 
she  lay  in  the  river;  this  morning  she  is 
gone,  and  are  you  therefore  lonely  in 
the  world? 

In  the  lost  places  of  the  earth  a  steam- 
er is  the  great  Presence  —  she  furnishes 
the  empty  seas.  However  far  out  and 
dim,  with  her  little  plume  of  smoke,  she 
leaves  her  wake  in  the  heart.  There  are 
shores  where  from  every  white  man's 
cabin  her  passing  is  followed  with  a 
sigh;  speculation  broods  upon  her  all 
day  long.  Her  ports,  her  flags,  her  cargo, 
her  crew,  seem  a  little  while  to  live  in 
the  mind  after  she  has  gone  down  the 
slope  of  the  world.  She  may  be  a  poor, 
mean,  unkempt  cargo-boat,  dingy  upon 
a  bright  sea,  but  she  is  the  symbol  of 
migration,  and  a  winged  flutter  in  the 
heart. 

As  for  The  Steamer,  that  is  another 
matter  —  a  matter  of  Elijah  and  the 
ravens.  Be  sure  that  Elijah,  once  he  got 
the  ravens'  schedule,  was  not  caught 
napping.  He  was  up  and  had  his  glass 
out  before  the  ravens  were  overdue. 
And  be  sure  that  there  is  no  steamer  so 
mean,  so  obscure  in  her  listed  sailings, 
but  is  The  Steamer  to  prisoners  some- 
where, behind  a  barring  of  cocoanut 
palms  or  a  grating  of  ice.  Be  sure  that 
she  will  put  on  airs  once  she  has  dropped 
behind  her  betters,  and  will  go  swelling 

31 


EXILE  AND  STEAMER 


into  little  empty  harbors  where  there 
is  only  one  calendar,  and  she  the  only 
saint  written  there.  Before  the  anchor 
falls,  white  men  are  off  to  her  between 
the  breaches  in  the  surf.  The  chain  is 
hardly  taut  when  the  little  canoes  and 
the  surf  boats  are  alongside,  and  white 
men  are  running  up  the  ladder.  And 
suddenly,  with  the  letting  go  of  the  an- 
chor, in  that  great  room  of  the  sea  and 
sky,  or  hi  that  narrow  river-room  with 
its  forest  wall,  there  are  the  agitations 
of  traffic  and  of  commerce.  The  winches 
fore  and  aft  thrum  and  clamor;  voices 
of  white  men  and  of  black  men  rise 
from  the  water  level  and  from  the  deck; 
cargo  is  slung  off  and  on,  dripping  with 
the  gilt  of  palm-oil  and  the  dust  of  rice- 
bags,  or  reeking  of  salt  fish. 

A  day  is  all  too  short  for  what  must 
be  done  with  the  barber  and  the  stew- 
ard and  the  purser  and  the  chief  and  the 
captain  of  The  Steamer.  All  the  white 
men  find  a  day  too  short.  Night  comes 
too  soon;  the  steamer  hangs  upon  the 
dark  like  a  bouquet  of  fireworks,  ar- 
rested. The  last  load  of  cargo  has  gone 
over  the  side;  the  ship's  launch  has 
ceased  to  sob  and  sleeps  in  her  berth  on 
deck;  the  second  officer  has  made  his 
last  bitter  comments  and  has  gone  be- 
low to  wash  himself,  and  the  time  has 
come  for  the  white  men  to  go  ashore. 
They  hang  over  the  railing  calling  to 
their  little  crews  that  are  asleep;  they 
negotiate  the  difficult  descent  into  their 
boats,  —  for  the  trade  swell  is  about  the 
ship  now,  —  and  they  go  off  into  the 
rain. 

There  is  this  about  The  Steamer  — 
she  comes  and  she  goes.  You  keep  your 
best  white  ducks  for  her;  you  keep  all 
your  dates  for  her;  you  set  your  watch 
by  her  chronometer  and  your  life  by  her 
schedule.  Your  letters  home  are  full  of 
her  worship.  But  she  has  such  sweet- 
hearts in  every  port;  the  rush  and  en- 
thusiasm of  her  advent  is  matched  by 
the  rush  and  enthusiasm  of  her  exit;  she 


carries  her  garland  of  lights  away  into 
the  darkness,  or  her  feather  of  smoke 
into  the  noon;  she  grows  smaller  and 
dimmer;  her  drums  grow  fainter,  and 
once  again  in  a  silence  and  a  void  you 
are  'ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life,'  you 
'can  have  no  note  unless  the  sun  were 
post.' 

You  see  how,  with  The  Steamer,  it  is 
a  kiss  and  a  blow.  Between  the  kiss  of 
her  coming  and  the  blow  of  her  going  is 
the  span  of  your  little  day  —  all  the 
honey  of  news  and  of  gossip,  all  the 
wine  of  excitement,  must  be  savored 
now.  I  think  of  the  many  little  settle- 
ments by  the  sea  waiting  to  hear  of  the 
war  from  The  Steamer,  on  a  day  of  her 
days.  I  think  of  the  first  camouflaged 
steamer  staggering  up  a  river  on  her 
accustomed  schedule,  like  a  fistful  of 
lightning  in  the  hand  of  Jove.  No  su- 
pernatural visitation  could  have  more 
astonished  her  worshipers,  all  unpre- 
pared. I  think  of  her  captain  shaping 
her  course  all  through  the  war,  in  the 
dark,  unarmed,  without  convoy  —  the 
very  idol  and  providence  of  the  out- 
posts of  the  earth.  And  of  the  captains 
young  and  old,  whose  names  you  do  not 
know;  and  some  of  them,  for  their  serv- 
ice of  The  Steamer,  wear  medals,  and 
some  of  them  lie  in  the  waste  of  the  sea. 
For  all  you  do  not  know  their  names, 
their  names  are  known;  living  and  dead, 
they  are  remembered.  Exiles  remember 
and  bless  them — steamer,  and  captain, 
and  the  engineers  in  the  vitals  of  the 
ship,  and  the  little  cabin-boys  who  did 
their  little  duties  when  the  steamer  was 
under  fire. 

In  my  heart  I  see  her  now,  and  she 
is  under  fire.  She  is  unarmed;  she  zig- 
zags before  her  smoke-screen,  trembling 
with  her  speed.  You  lean  on  the  iron 
wall  of  the  engine-house,  under  that 
bright  sky  where  it  is  morning,  and  you 
watch  the  great  fountains  play  upon  the 
level  of  the  sea  where  the  shells  strike 
the  water.  You  think  of  the  engineers, 


EXILE  AND  STEAMER 


33 


who  will  never  come  on  deck  if  the  ship 
goes  down;  and  you  see  on  the  bridge 
the  legs  of  the  little  cabin-boy,  whose 
head,  inside  the  pilot-house  door,  waits 
on  an  order.  All  the  life  of  the  ship, 
under  the  cover  of  the  smoke-screen 
and  the  sob  of  haste  and  the  scream  of 
the  exhaust,  waits  on  an  order.  That 
young  captain  biting  on  his  pipe,  his 
megaphone  in  his  hand,  is  a  symbol  of 
man's  will  to  order.  He  is  enshrined 
there  on  the  bridge  above  the  trouble 
of  the  ship,  —  an  image  of  ultimate  re- 
sistance so  intense,  on  so  many  solitary 
seas,  that  his  astral  —  if  ever  at  all 
there  is  an  astral  —  must  still  patrol 
the  course  of  the  steamer  he  saved,  or  of 
the  steamer  that  was  lost. 

There  is  nothing  stranger  than  a  map 
—  with  its  understood  relation  to  a 
place,  and  the  way  they  do  not  resem- 
ble. You  would  never  guess,  to  look  at 
a  place  on  a  map,  what  its  aspect  really 
is.  Often  I  go  to  the  map-room  in  the 
public  library,  where  I  ask  for  the 
Southern  Cameroun.  I  look  and  look 
at  that  symbol  of  the  African  forest,  un- 
til my  secret  knowledge  unfolds  in  my 
heart,  and  I  see  again  those  little  moun- 
tains under  their  green  cloak;  I  cross 
those  rivers  in  canoes,  or  by  the  old,  old 
bridges  of  the  fallen  trees;  those  many 
little  ravines  are  blue  again  and  full  of 
the  trouble  of  drums.  Then  I  laugh  at 
the  map,  with  its  colors  and  its  names; 
and  it  is  as  if,  in  a  group  of  strangers, 
you  have  met  the  eyes  of  your  friend. 
And  so  it  is  with  the  listed  sailings  of 
steamers  —  so  many  and  so  broadcast: 
their  names  and  their  published  ports 
trouble  your  mind  as  little  as  the  birds 
that  migrate  in  the  autumn.  But  oh, 
let  them  be  but  due  where  you  are,  and 
they  touch  you  where  you  live.  And 
of  these  there  is  one  that  drops  her  an- 
chor in  your  very  heart  —  you  call  her 
My  Steamer.  You  name  her  so,  and  all 
your  fellow  exiles  call  her  yours;  your 
ardor  does  so  subjugate  your  little  world. 

VOL.  128— NO.  1 
B 


For  My  Steamer  you  wait  and  wait, 
and  you  weary  waiting.  You  cease  to 
breathe,  lest  contrary  winds  blow  upon 
her.  But  your  ardor  has  spoked  the 
wheel  of  time;  it  slackens.  The  moons 
wax  and  wane  with  a  strange  and  cruel 
deliberation.  Well  I  remember  my  first 
affair  with  a  steamer,  and  that  the  sea- 
sons dragged,  and  then  the  days.  Long 
after,  I  came  upon  a  calendar  with  those 
days  crossed  off;  and  when  I  saw  that 
record  of  faint  hours,  I  felt  again  the 
sickening  arrest  and  backward  swing  of 
time. 

An  affair  with  a  steamer  is  not  always 
mutual.  There  she  is.  at  Kribi  to  the 
north  of  you,  and  you  with  a  glass  under 
the  eaves  since  the  dawn  asking  her  by 
wireless,  —  the  wireless  of  the  heart,  — 
is  she  yours.  And  boys  running  north 
by  the  beach  to  ask  the  captain,  is 
she  yours.  And  boys  running  south 
by  the  beach  to  say  that  she  will  be 
down  by  two  o'clock  or  not  at  all.  And 
you,  packed  and  ready,  on  the  indigo 
shade  upon  the  sand  at  two  o'clock,  and 
still  on  the  sand  at  three  o'clock,  but 
driven  back  by  the  tide  at  four  o'clock; 
and  by  misgivings  at  five  o'clock  driven 
up  a  path  you  know  too  well,  to  a 
thatch  which  you  had  thought  you  need 
not  seek  again. 

And  now  boys  run  up  the  beach  to 
say,  'Steamer  live  for  come';  and  she 
anchors  well  in.  The  red  of  evening 
grows  behind  her,  her  lights  blossom 
on  the  dark,  but  no  boat  comes  ashore. 
You  are  going  to  bed,  when  you  are 
summoned  by  a  lantern  —  '  Boat  live 
for  come';  and  you  race  back  to  the 
water's  edge,  all  your  zests  renewed. 

But  it  is  a  false  alarm.  There  on  the 
sand  you  find  a  black  man  streaming 
with  sea-water;  he  has  swum  ashore 
from  the  ship  in  search  of  the  launch, 
and  under  the  illusion  that  this  is 
Powell's  trading-post  and  that  you  are 
Powell.  With  his  wet  hand  he  urges 
upon  you  a  bill  of  lading,  incredibly  dry. 


34 


EXILE  AND   STEAMER 


You  dismiss  him  coldly,  waving  him 
south,  and  hoping  that  you  are  never  to 
see  him  again.  You  do  not  know  how 
often  and  often  he  is  to  accost  you  again 
in  memory,  his  wet  body  gilded  by  the 
light  of  the  lantern  and  his  bill  of  lading 
incredibly  dry. 

In  the  morning  that  steamer  is  gone! 
And  before  the  shocking  emptiness  of 
the  sea  your  friends  say,  'Oh,  do  let's 
sit  down!'  And  they  tell  sad  stories  of 
the  defections  of  steamers:  of  how  Mr. 
Menkel,  in  a  canoe,  with  bag  and  bag- 
gage, tried  to  hold  up  a  steamer  with  a 
gesture,  like  a  traffic  policeman  —  and 
failed;  of  how  the  Gaults  waited  weeks 
and  weeks  for  a  steamer  that  did  not 
come,  because  she  had  blown  up  in  the 
Congo  River,  as  you  may  see  for  your- 
self between  Boma  and  Matadi;  of  how 
many  a  steamer  has  passed  by  on  pre- 
text of  quarantine;  of  how,  off  Quillu, 
when  the  surf  is  high,  the  steamer  will 
not  so  much  as  call.  Until,  what  with 
tales  of  the  coldness  of  steamers  and 
their  misadventures,  you  cannot  think 
how  you  are  to  get  home  at  all. 

Yes,  you  wonder  that.  Many  a  man 
has  wondered  that.  Betrayed  by  some 
steamer,  he  has  thought  of  his  little 
cabin,  with  its  million  roaches  —  that 
he  must  live  there  forever;  and  that  he 
is  never  to  escape  the  sound  of  the  reit- 
erant  surf  and  its  endless  pacings.  Long 
after,  he  will  sigh  when  he  thinks  of 
that  season,  rainy  or  dry;  he  will  re- 
member dark  thoughts  that  came  upon 
him  then,  and  his  sleepless  nights.  A 
trader  who  cut  the  vein  in  his  wrist  with 
the  scissors  off  his  counter  told  the  mis- 
sion doctor  that  he  knew  he  was  never 
to  go  home.  He  would  never  live  to  get 
home,  he  said.  And  he  could  no  longer 
endure  that  shanty  of  his,  with  its  store 
of  cotton  print  and  salt  fish  and  matches 
and  tobacco.  So  he  cut  his  wrist.  And 
then  he  sent,  as  you  see,  for  the  doctor. 
And  the  doctor,  a  long  time  wise  in  the 
things  of  exile,  sent  him  off  in  a  canoe, 


with  a  lantern  and  a  little  crew  who 
were  to  travel  with  their  'big  Massa' 
until  they  met  the  steamer  from  the 
south.  For  it  is  a  great  thing,  said  the 
doctor,  to  feel  water  under  the  keel. 

That  is  a  wonderful  feeling.  And  it  is 
wonderful,  when  you  have  lived  so  long 
by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  to  find  a  star 
in  your  ceiling.  For  there  it  is  in  the 
ceiling  of  your  cabin  —  a  star.  And 
there,  beneath  the  light  of  that  star,  is 
an  apple.  Because  you  look  as  he  had 
hoped  you  would  look  when  you  see  the 
star  shining  like  this  upon  the  apple,  the 
steward  tells  you  that,  yes,  he  likes  to 
have  an  apple  aboard  his  steamer.  He 
lets  you  know  at  once  that  he  is  proud 
of  his  steamer,  and  ashamed  where  there 
is  cause.  He  will  speak  to  you  often  of 
these  things. 

I  see  myself  stretched  at  ease  on  the 
deck  of  My  Steamer,  sunk  in  an  ex- 
cess of  languor  and  of  calm.  It  is  a 
night  as  bright  as  silver  and  as  clear  as 
glass.  We  are  moored  to  a  great  tree 
beside  a  bank  of  the  Congo  River;  a 
million  little  voices  speak  to  me  from 
the  sedges  on  the  margin,  and  the  stew- 
ard speaks  to  me.  He  has  brought  me 
my  coffee,  and  he  tells  me  of  the  shame 
he  feels.  He  is  ashamed  of  his  knives 
and  forks,  of  his  linen  and  the  bugs  in 
his  beds;  he  is  ashamed  of  his  captain, 
who  is  tipsy,  and  he  groans  there  in  the 
moonlight:  'This  is  no  place  for  you, 
miss,  no  place  at  all ! ' 

Bui  oh,  what  does  he,  all  ashamed 
there  on  his  execrable  boat,  know  of  the 
ineffable  calm  that  is  the  atmosphere 
of  My  Steamer,  where  I  am  as  safe  from 
his  knives  and  forks  and  the  weevils 
in  his  oatmeal  as  a -silly  silver  lamb  at 
the  heart  of  a  glass  ball !  Not  the  clamor 
of  the  winches,  or  the  thunder  of  the 
great  mahogany  logs  as  they  come 
aboard,  or  the  clangor  of  iron  rails  as 
they  go  over  the  side,  can  break  that  in- 
sulation. Only  the  rattle  of  the  anchor- 


EXILE  AND  STEAMER 


chain  and  the  signal  to  the  engine-room 
can  do  this;  and  if  we  lie  off  every  set- 
tlement on  the  West  Coast  and  go  up 
every  stream  in  the  delta  of  the  Niger, 
for  every  time  the  anchor  is  weighed 
I  will  tremble,  and  will  tremble  in  my 
heart  whenever  the  ship  trembles  with 
that  shudder  of  getting  under  weigh, 
which  is  the  initial  throe  of  the  ecstasy 
of  going  home. 

When  last  I  went  to  Africa,  it  was 
in  war-time,  and  I  took  five  steamers. 
Five  steamers  I  took,  and  for  these  five 
steamers  I  waited  in  five  several  ports, 
for  five  aeons  of  time;  until  at  last  I  said 
that,  if  ever  in  opening  a  book  I  came 
upon  a  traveler  waiting  on  a  dock,  open 
sea-beach,  or  river-bank,  for  a  galley, 
caracul,  frigate,  clipper,  or  steamer,  I 
would  then  close  the  book.  I  would 
never  read,  I  said,  of  Jason  and  the 
Argo,  or  of  Hero  and  Leander,  or  even 
of  Europa  and  the  Bull.  All  adventures 
taking  account  of  transportation  by 
water  would  be  for  me  forever  anath- 
ema. And  I  would  forever  forget  my 
voyage  of  the  five  steamers.  But  often 
and  often,  in  a  kind  of  little  flock,  the 
odd  assorted  lot  of  them  comes  back  to 
mind ;  I  see  them  in  my  heart  and  I  love 
them. 

There  is  the  Montevideo,  and  she  is 
a  lady.  There  is  the  Delphin,  so  little, 
so  rolling,  and  so  dirty,  carrying  her 
cargo  of  flies  from  the  clean,  pale  alleys 
of  Cadiz  to  the  sea-based  mountains 
of  the  Canaries.  There  is  the  Cataluna, 


—  not  so  very  neutral,  —  with  her  mar- 
red romantic  beauty,  and  her  bright 
lacquers  in  her  cabins,  and  her  noble 
deck,  where  it  is  always  one  o'clock  of 
the  afternoon,  and  we  are  drawing  away 
from    the    Canaries.     The    afternoon 
clouds  are  gathering  on  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules;  gray  gulls  are  flying;  a  young 
priest  hangs  his  little  golden  bird  on 
the  port  side,  under  the  awning,  and  at 
once  and  forever  that  little  bird  casts  a 
tendril  of  song  out  to  sea.    There  is  the 
Burutu;  and  still  I  see  her  come  into 
the  harbor  of  Dakar  at  dusk,  her  lights 
fore  and  aft  the  color  of  primroses,  and 
her  signals  flat  in  the  wind  from  Tim- 
buctoo.  Still  I  see  her  pick  her  way  in 
the  dark  down  the  West  Coast,  or,  in 
the  safety  of  a  river,  paint  the  forest 
walls  with  her  light.  In  my  heart  I  save 
her  forever  from  that  betrayal  in  the 
English  Channel,  where  she  was  lost, 
and  her  crew.    And  still  I  remember 
that  last  little  steamer  of  all,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten,  who  had  no 
cabins,  but  suffered  her  passengers  on 
her  bridge,  where  they  idly  slept  while 
she  hurried  all  night  under  the  stars 
upon  the  errands  of  exiles.   For  them 
she  turned  the  furrow  and  cast  her  an- 
chor in  their  service  wherever  there  was 
a  lamp  at  night,  or  a  zinc  roof  to  shine 
in  the  sun.  She  was  for  them,  in  those 
irregular  war-times,  a  kind'  of  miracle 

—  a  sweet  chariot  swinging  low  and 
coming  for  to  carry  them  home.    She 
was  Their  Steamer. 


AT  NIGHT 

BY  LAURA  SPENCER  PORTOR 

Is  my  heart  ordered,  clean,  and  sweet, 
For  my  loved  Master's  hasting  feet? 

Is  my  heart  warm,  that,  when  He  stands 
Chilled,  He  may  stoop  and  warm  his  hands? 

And  quiet  that  He  may  be  blest  — 
Tired  from  all  turmoil  —  and  have  rest? 

And  lighted,  that  He  may  forget 

The  rough  road,  and  the  storm  and  wet? 

Garnished  with  fragrant  flowers,  that  might 
Recall  dear  joys  across  black  night?       t 

And  is  there  bread?  and  wine?  lest  He 
Should  thirst  —  or  should  be  hungry? 

Hark!     Who  is  there?     Oh,  enter  in! 
Enters  a  man  bowed  down  with  sin. 

Behind  him,  bent,  is  one  who  stands, 
A  broken  heart  within  her  hands; 

And  back  of  them  (oh,  shut  the  wild 
Night  out!)  a  shrinking  starved  child. 

A  step!  O  Master  do  not  wake 

Thy  friends  who  sleep  here  for  thy  sake! 

Disturb  them  not,  O  Mighty  Guest! 
They  sleep!  They  have  such  need  of  rest! 

The  Master  smiles,  then  He  and  I 
Go  softly;  speak  but  whisperingly. 


THE  INTERPRETER.  I 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  EAST 


BY  L.   ADAMS  BECK 


THERE  are  strange  things  in  this 
story,  but,  so  far  as  I  understand  them, 
I  tell  the  truth.  If  you  measure  the 
East  with  a  Western  foot-rule,  you  will 
say,  'Impossible.'  I  should  have  said 
it  myself. 

Of  myself  I  will  say  as  little  as  I  can, 
for  this  story  is  of  Vanna  Loring.  I  am 
an  incident  only,  though  I  did  not  know 
that  at  first. 

My  name  is  Stephen  Clifden,  and  I 
was  eight-and-thirty;  plenty  of  money, 
sound  in  wind  and  limb.  I  had  been  by 
way  of  being  a  writer  before  the  war, 
the  hobby  of  a  rich  man;  but  if  I  picked 
up  anything  in  the  welter  in  France,  it 
was  that  real  work  is  the  only  salvation 
this  mad  world  has  to  offer;  so  I  meant 
to  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  learn  my 
trade  like  a  journeyman  laborer. 

I  had  come  to  the  right  place.  A  very 
wonderful  city  is  Peshawar  —  the  Key 
of  India,  and  a  city  of  Romance,  which 
stands  at  every  corner,  and  cries  aloud 
in  the  market-place.  But  there  was 
society  here,  and  I  was  swept  into  it  — 
there  was  chatter,  and  it  galled  me. 

I  was  beginning  to  feel  that  I  had 
missed  my  mark,  and  must  go  farther 
afield,  perhaps  up  into  Central  Asia, 
when  I  met  Vanna  Loring.  If  I  say  that 
her  hair  was  soft  and  dark;  that  she  had 
the  deepest  hazel  eyes  I  have  ever  seen, 
and  a  sensitive,  tender  mouth;  that  she 
moved  with  a  flowing  grace  like  'a  wave 


of  the  sea'  —  it  sounds  like  the  portrait 
of  a  beauty,  and  she  was  never  that. 
Also,  incidentally,  it  gives  none  of  her 
charm.  I  never  heard  anyone  get  any 
further  than  that  she  was  'oddly  at- 
tractive' —  let  us  leave  it  at  that.  She 
was  certainly  attractive  to  me. 

She  was  the  governess  of  little  Wini- 
fred Meryon,  whose  father  held  the  au- 
gust position  of  General  Commanding 
the  Frontier  Forces,  and  her  mother  the 
more  commanding  position  of  the  reign- 
ing beauty  of  Northern  India,  generally 
speaking. 

But  Vanna  —  I  gleaned  her  story  by 
bits  when  I  came  across  her  with  the 
child  in  the  gardens.  I  was  beginning 
to  piece  it  together  now. 

Her  love  of  the  strange  and  beauti- 
ful she  had  inherited  from  a  young 
Italian  mother,  daughter  of  a  political 
refugee;  her  childhood  had  been  spent 
in  a  remote  little  village  in  the  West  of 
England;  half  reluctantly  she  told  me 
how  she  had  brought  herself  up  after 
her  mother's  death  and  her  father's 
second  marriage.  Little  was  said  of 
that,  but  I  gathered  that  it  had  been  a 
grief  to  her,  a  factor  in  her  flight  to  the 
East. 

'So  when  I  came  to  three-and- 
twenty,'  she  said  slowly,  'I  felt  I  must 
break  away  from  our  narrow  life.  I 
had  a  call  to  India  stronger  than  any- 
thing on  earth.  You  would  not  under- 

87 


38 


THE  INTERPRETER 


stand,  but  that  was  so,  and  I  had  spent 
every  spare  moment  in  teaching  my- 
self India  —  its  history,  legends,  re- 
ligions, everything !  And  I  was  not  want- 
ed at  home,  and  I  had  grown  afraid.' 

'What  were  you  afraid  of?' 

'Of  growing  old  and  missing  what 
was  waiting  for  me  out  here.  But  I 
could  not  get  away  like  other  people. 
No  money,  you  see.  So  I  thought  I 
would  come  out  and  teach  here.  Dare 
I?  Would  they  let  me?  I  knew  I  was 
fighting  life  and  chances  and  risks  if  I 
did  it;  but  it  was  death  if  I  stayed  there. 
And  then  —  Do  you  really  care  to 
hear?' 

'Of  course.  Tell  me  how  you  broke 
your  chain.' 

'I  spare  you  the  family  quarrels.  I 
can  never  go  back.  But  I  was  spurred 
—  spurred  to  take  some  wild  leap;  and 
I  took  it.  So  six  years  ago  I  came  out. 
First  I  went  to  a  doctor  and  his  wife 
at  Cawnpore.  They  had  a  wonderful 
knowledge  of  the  Indian  peoples,  and 
there  I  learned  Hindustani  and  much 
else.  Then  he  died.  But  an  aunt  had 
left  me  two  hundred  pounds,  and  I 
could  wait  a  little  and  choose;  and  so  I 
came  here.' 

It  interested  me.  The  courage  that 
pale  elastic  type  of  woman  has! 

'Have  you  ever  regretted  it?  Would 
they  take  you  back  if  you  failed?' 

'Never,  to  both  questions,'  she  said, 
smiling.  'Life  is  glorious.  I've  drunk  of 
a  cup  I  never  thought  to  taste;  and  if 
I  died  to-morrow  I  should  know  I  had 
done  right.  I  rejoice  in  every  moment 
I  live  —  even  when  Winifred  and  I  are 
wrestling  with  arithmetic.' 

'I  shouldn't  have  thought  life  was 
very  easy  with  Lady  Meryon.' 

'Oh,  she  is  kind  enough  in  an  indif- 
ferent sort  of  way.  I  am  not  the  perse- 
cuted Jane  Eyre  sort  of  governess  at  all. 
But  that  is  all  on  the  surface  and  does 
not  matter.  It  is  India  I  care  for  —  the 
people,  the  sun,  the  infinite  beauty.  It 


was  coming  home.  You  would  laugh  if 
I  told  you  I  knew  Peshawar  long  before 
I  came  here.  Knew  it  —  walked  here, 
lived.  Before  there  were  English  in  In- 
dia at  all.'  She  broke  off.  'You  won't 
understand.' 

'Oh,  I  have  had  that  feeling,  too,' 
I  said  patronizingly.  'If  one  has  read 
very  much  about  a  place  — ' 

'That  was  not  quite  what  I  meant. 
Never  mind.  The  people,  the  place  — 
that  is  the  real  thing  to  me.  All  this  is 
the  dream.' 

The  sweep  of  her  hand  took  in  not 
only  Winifred  and  myself,  but  the  gen- 
eral's stately  residence,  which  to  blas- 
pheme in  Peshawar  is  rank  infidelity. 

'By  George,  I  would  give  thousands 
to  feel  that!  I  can't  get  out  of  Europe 
here.  I  want  to  write,  Miss  Loring,'  I 
found  myself  saying.  'I'd  done  a  bit, 
and  then  the  war  came  and  blew  my 
life  to  pieces.  Now  I  want  to  get  inside 
the  skin  of  the  East,  and  I  can't  do  it. 
I  see  it  from  outside,  with  a  pane  of 
glass  between.  No  life  in  it.  If  you 
feel  as  you  say,  for  God's  sake  be  my 
interpreter!' 

'Interpret?'  she  said,  looking  at  me 
with  clear  hazel  eyes;  'how  could  I? 
You  were  in  the  native  city  yesterday. 
What  did  you  miss?' 

'Everything!  I  saw  masses  of  color, 
light,  movement.  Brilliantly  pictur- 
esque people.  Children  like  Asiatic  an- 
gels. Magnificently  scowling  ruffians 
in  sheepskin  coats.  In  fact,  a  movie 
staged  for  my  benefit.  I  was  afraid  they 
would  ring  down  the  curtain  before  I 
had  had  enough.  It  had  no  meaning. 
When  I  got  back  to  my  diggings  I  tried 
to  put  down  what  I  had  just  seen,  and 
I  swear  there 's  more  inspiration  in  the 
guide-book.' 

'Did  you  go  alone?' 

'Yes,  I  certainly  would  not  go  sight- 
seeing with  the  Meryon  crowd.  Tell  me 
what  you  felt  when  you  saw  it  first.' 

'I  went  with  Sir  John's  uncle.    He 


THE  INTERPRETER 


39 


was  a  great  traveler.  The  color  struck 
me  dumb.  It  flames  —  it  sings.  Think 
of  the  gray  pinched  life  in  the  West !  I 
saw  a  grave  dark  potter  turning  his 
wheel,  while  his  little  girl  stood  by, 
glad  at  our  pleasure,  her  head  veiled 
like  a  miniature  woman,  tiny  baggy 
trousers,  and  a  silver  nose-stud,  like  a 
star,  in  one  delicate  nostril.  In  her  thin 
arms  she  held  a  heavy  baby  in  a  gilt 
cap,  like  a  monkey.  And  the  wheel 
turned  and  whirled  until  it  seemed  to 
be  spinning  dreams,  thick  as  motes  in 
the  sun.  The  clay  rose  in  smooth  spi- 
rals under  his  hand,  and  the  wheel  sang, 
"Shall  the  vessel  reprove  him  who 
made  one  to  honor  and  one  to  dishon- 
or?" And  I  saw  the  potter  thumping 
his  wet  clay,  and  the  clay,  plastic  as 
dream-stuff,  shaped  swift  as  light,  and 
the  three  Fates  stood  at  his  shoulder. 
Dreams,  dreams,  and  all  in  the  spinning 
of  the  wheel,  and  the  rich  shadows  of 
the  old  broken  courtyard  where  he  sat. 
And  the  wheel  stopped  and  the  thread 
broke,  and  the  little  new  shapes  he  had 
made  stood  all  about  him,  and  he  was 
only  a  potter  hi  Peshawar.' 

Her  voice  was  like  a  song.  She  had 
utterly  forgotten  my  existence.  I  did 
not  dislike  it  at  the  moment,  for  I  want- 
ed to  hear  more,  and  the  impersonal  is 
the  rarest  gift  a  woman  can  give  a  man. 

'Did  you  buy  anything?' 

'He  gave  me  a  gift  —  a  flawed  jar  of 
turquoise  blue,  faint  turquoise  green 
round  the  lip.  He  saw  I  understood. 
And  then  I  bought  a  little  gold  cap  and 
a  wooden  box  of  jade-green  Kabul 
grapes.  About  a  rupee,  all  told.  But  it 
was  Eastern  merchandise,  and  I  was 
trading  from  Balsora  and  Baghdad, 
and  Eleazar's  camels  were  swaying 
down  from  Damascus  along  the  Khyber 
Pass,  and  coming  in  at  the  great  Dar- 
wazah,  and  friends'  eyes  met  me  every- 
where. I  am  profoundly  happy  here.' 

The  sinking  sun  lit  an  almost  ecsta- 
tic face. 


'It  may  be  very  beautiful  on  the  sur- 
face,' I  said  morosely;  'but  there's  a 
lot  of  misery  below  —  hateful,  they  tell 
me.' 

'Of  course,  I  shall  get  to  work  one 
day.  But  look  at  the  sunset.  It  opens 
like  a  mysterious  flower.  I  must  take 
Winifred  home  now.' 

'One  moment,'  I  pleaded;  'I  can  only 
see  it  through  your  eyes.  I  feel  it  while 
you  speak,  and  then  the  good  minute 
goes.' 

She  laughed. 

'And  so  must  I.    Come,  Winifred. 
Look,  there's  an  owl;  not  like  the  owls 
in  the  summer  dark  in  England  — 
'Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping, 
Wavy  in  the  dark,  lit  by  one  low  star.' 

Suddenly  she  turned  again  and  look- 
ed at  me  half  wistfully. 

'It  is  good  to  talk  to  you.  You  want 
to  know.  You  are  so  near  it  all.  I  wish 
I  could  help  you;  I  am  so  exquisitely 
happy  myself.' 

My  writing  was  at  a  standstill.  It 
seemed  the  groping  of  a  blind  man  in  a 
radiant  world.  Once  perhaps  I  had  felt 
that  life  was  good  in  itself  —  when  the 
guns  came  thundering  toward  the  Vimy 
Ridge  in  a  mad  gallop  of  horses,  and 
men  shouting  and  swearing  and  fran- 
tically urging  them  on.  Then,  riding 
for  more  than  life,  I  had  tasted  life  for 
an  instant.  Not  before  or  since.  But 
this  woman  had  the  secret. 

Lady  Meryon,  with  her  escort  of  girls 
and  subalterns,  came  daintily  past  the 
hotel  compound,  and  startled  me  from 
my  brooding  with  her  pretty  silvery 
voice. 

'Dreaming,  Mr.  Clifden?  It  is  n't  at 
all  wholesome  to  dream  in  the  East. 
Come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  A 
tiny  dance  afterwards,  you  know;  or 
bridge  for  those  who  like  it.' 

I  had  not  the  faintest  notion  whether 
governesses  dined  with  the  family  or 
came  in  afterward  with  the  coffee;  but 
it  was  a  sporting  chance,  and  I  took  it. 


40 


THE  INTERPRETER 


Then  Sir  John  came  up  and  joined  us. 
'You  can't  well  dance  to-morrow, 
Kitty,'  he  said  to  his  wife.  'There's 
been  an  outpost  affair  in  the  Swat  Hills, 
and  young  Fitzgerald  has  been  shot. 
Come  to  dinner  of  course,  Clifden. 
Glad  to  see  you.  But  no  dancing,  I 
think.' 

n 

Next  evening  I  went  into  Lady  Mery- 
on's  flower-scented  drawing-room. 

Governesses  dine,  it  appeared,  only  to 
fill  an  unexpected  place,  or  make  a  dec- 
orous entry  afterward,  to  play  accom- 
paniments. Fortunately  Kitty  Meryon 
sang,  in  a  pinched  little  soprano,  not 
nearly  so  pretty  as  her  silver  ripple  of 
talk. 

It  was  when  the  party  had  settled 
down  to  bridge  and  I  was  standing  out, 
that  I  ventured  to  go  up  to  her  as  she 
sat  knitting  by  a  window  —  not  un- 
watched  by  the  quick  blue  flash  of 
Lady  Meryon's  eyes  as  I  did  it. 

'I  think  you  hypnotize  me,  Miss 
Loring.  When  I  hear  anything,  I 
straightway  want  to  know  what  you 
will  say.  Have  you  heard  of  Fitzger- 
ald's death?' 

'That  is  why  we  are  not  dancing  to- 
night. To-morrow  the  cable  will  reach 
his  home  in  England.  He  was  an  only 
child,  and  they  are  the  great  people  of 
the  village  where  we  are  little  people. 
I  knew  his  mother  as  one  knows  a  great 
lady  who  is  kind  to  all  the  village  folk. 
It  may  kill  her.  It  is  traveling  to-night 
like  a  bullet  to  her  heart,  and  she  does 
not  know.' 

'His  father?* 

'A  brave  man  —  a  soldier  himself. 
He  will  know  it  was  a  good  death  and 
that  Harry  would  not  fail.  He  did  not 
at  Ypres.  He  would  not  here.  But  all 
joy  and  hope  will  be  dead  in  that  house 
to-morrow.' 

'And  what  do  you  think?' 

'I  am  not  sorry  for  Harry,  if  you 


mean  that.  He  knew  —  we  all  know — 
that  he  was  on  guard  here  holding  the 
outposts  against  blood  and  treachery 
and  terrible  things  —  playing  the  Great 
Game.  One  never  loses  at  that  game  if 
one  plays  it  straight,  and  I  am  sure  that 
at  the  last  it  w&s  joy  he  felt  and  not 
fear.  He  has  not  lost.  Did  you  notice 
in  the  church  a  niche  before  every  sol- 
dier's seat  to  hold  his  loaded  gun?  And 
the  tablets  on  the  walls:  "Killed  at 
Kabu  River,  aged  22."  — "Killed  on 
outpost  duty."  —  "  Murdered  by  an  Af- 
ghan fanatic."  This  will  be  one  mem- 
ory more.  Why  be  sorry?' 

Presently:  — 

'I  am  going  up  to  the  hills  to-morrow, 
to  the  Malakhand  Fort,  with  Mrs.  De- 
lany,  Lady  Meryon's  aunt,  and  we  shall 
see  the  wonderful  Tahkt-i-Bahi  Mon- 
astery on  the  way.  You  should  do  that 
run  before  you  go.  The  fort  is  the  last 
but  one  on  the  way  to  Chitral,  and  be- 
yond that  the  road  is  so  beset  that  only 
soldiers  may  go  farther,  and  indeed 
the  regiments  escort  each  other  up  and 
down.  But  it  is  an  early  start,  for  we 
must  be  back  in  Peshawar  at  six  for 
fear  of  raiding  natives.' 

'I  know;  they  hauled  me  up  in  the 
dusk  the  other  day,  and  told  me  I  should 
be  swept  off  to  the  hills  if  I  fooled  about 
after  dusk.  But  I  say  —  is  it  safe  for 
you  to  go?  You  ought  to  have  a  man. 
Could  I  go,  too?' 

I  thought  she  did  not  look  enthusias- 
tic at  the  proposal. 

'Ask.  You  know  I  settle  nothing.  I 
go  where  I  am  sent.' 

She  left  the  room ;  and  when  the  bridge 
was  over,  I  made  my  request.  Lady 
Meryon  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
declared  it  would  be  a  terribly  dull  run 
—  the  scenery  nothing,  'and  only'  (she 
whispered)  'Aunt  Selina  and  poor  Miss 
Loring.' 

Of  course  I  saw  at  once  that  she  did 
not  like  it;  but  Sir  John  was  all  for  my 
going,  and  that  saved  the  situation. 


THE  INTERPRETER 


41 


I  certainly  could  have  dispensed  with 
Aunt  Selina  when  the  automobile  drew 
up  in  the  golden  river  of  the  sunrise  at 
the  hotel.  There  were  only  the  driver, 
a  personal  servant,  and  the  two  ladies: 
Mrs.  Delany,  comely,  pleasant,  talka- 
tive, and  Vanna  — 

We  glided  along  the  straight  military 
road  from  Peshawar  to  Nowshera,  the 
gold-bright  sun  dazzling  in  its  white- 
ness —  a  strange  drive  through  the  flat, 
burned  country,  with  the  ominous 
Kabul  River  flowing  through  it.  Mili- 
tary preparations  everywhere,  and  the 
hills  looking  watchfully  down  —  alive, 
as  it  were,  with  keen,  hostile  eyes.  War 
was  as  present  about  us  as  behind  the 
lines  in  France;  and  when  we  crossed 
the  Kabul  River  on  a  bridge  of  boats, 
and  I  saw  its  haunted  waters,  I  began 
to  feel  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
closing  down  upon  me.  It  had  a  sinister 
beauty;  it  breathed  suspense;  and  I 
wished,  as  I  was  sure  Vanna  did,  for 
silence  that  was  not  at  our  command. 

For  Mrs.  Delany  felt  nothing  of  it. 
A  bright  shallow  ripple  of  talk  was  her 
contribution  to  the  joys  of  the  day; 
though  it  was,  fortunately,  enough  for 
her  happiness  if  we  listened  and  agreed. 
I  knew  Vanna  listened  only  in  show. 
Her  intent  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Tahkt- 
i-Bahi  hills  after  we  had  swept  out  of 
Nowshera;  and  when  the  car  drew  up 
at  the  rough  track,  she  had  a  strange 
look  of  suspense  and  pallor.  I  remem- 
ber I  wondered  at  the  tune  if  she  were 
nervous  in  the  wild  open  country. 

'Now  pray  don't  be  shocked,'  said 
Mrs.  Delany  comfortably;  'but  you 
two  young  people  may  go  up  to  the 
monastery,  and  I  shall  stay  here.  I  am 
dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself,  but  the 
sight  of  that  hill  is  enough  for  me. 
Don't  hurry.  I  may  have  a  little  doze, 
and  be  all  the  better  company  when  you 
get  back.  No,  don't  try  to  persuade 
me,  Mr.  Clifden.  It  is  n't  the  part  of  a 
friend.' 


I  cannot  say  I  was  sorry,  though  I 
had  a  moment  of  panic  when  Vanna 
offered  to  stay  with  her  —  very  much, 
too,  as  if  she  really  meant  it.  So  we  set 
out  perforce,  Vanna  leading  steadily,  as 
if  she  knew  the  way.  She  never  looked 
up,  and  her  wish  for  silence  was  so  evi- 
dent, that  I  followed,  lending  my  hand 
mutely  when  the  difficulties  obliged  it, 
she  accepting  absently,  and  as  if  her 
thoughts  were  far  away. 

Suddenly  she  quickened  her  pace. 
We  had  climbed  about  nine  hundred 
feet,  and  now  the  narrow  track  twisted 
through  the  rocks  —  a  track  that  look- 
ed as  age-worn  as  no  doubt  it  was.  We 
threaded  it,  and  struggled  over  the 
ridge,  and  looked  down  victorious  on 
the  other  side. 

There  she  stopped.  A  very  wonderful 
sight,  of  which  I  had  never  seen  the 
like,  lay  below  us.  Rock  and  waste  and 
towering  crags,  and  the  mighty  ruin  of 
the  monastery  set  in  the  fangs  of  the 
mountain  like  a  robber  baron's  castle, 
looking  far  away  to  the  blue  mountains 
of  the  Debatable  Land  —  the  land  of 
mystery  and  danger.  It  stood  there  — 
the  great  rum  of  a  vast  habitation  of 
men.  Building  after  building,  mysteri- 
ous and  broken,  corridors,  halls,  refec- 
tories, cells;  the  dwelling  of  a  faith  so 
alien  that  I  could  not  reconstruct  the 
life  that  gave  it  being.  And  all  sinking 
gently  into  ruin  that  hi  a  century  more 
would  confound  it  with  the  roots  of  the 
mountains.  Gray  and  wonderful,  it 
clung  to  the  heights  and  looked  with 
eyeless  windows  at  the  past.  Somehow 
I  found  it  infinitely  pathetic:  the  very 
faith  it  expressed  is  dead  in  India,  and 
none  left  so  poor  to  do  it  reverence. 

But  Vanna  knew  her  way.  Unerr- 
ingly she  led  me  from  point  to  point, 
and  she  was  visibly  at  home  in  the  in- 
tricacies. Such  knowledge  in  a  young 
woman  bewildered  me.  Could  she  have 
studied  the  plans  in  the  Museum?  How 
else  should  she  know  where  the  abbot 


THE  INTERPRETER 


lived,  or  where  the  refractory  brothers 
were  punished? 

Once  I  missed  her,  while  I  stooped  to 
examine  some  scroll-work,  and  follow- 
ing, found  her  before  one  of  the  few 
images  of  the  Buddha  that  the  rapa- 
cious Museum  had  spared  —  a  singu- 
larly beautiful  bas-relief,  the  hand  rais- 
ed to  enforce  the  truth  the  calm  lips 
were  speaking,  the  drapery  falling  in 
stately  folds  to  the  bare  feet.  As  I  came 
up,  she  had  an  air  as  if  she  had  just 
ceased  from  movement,  and  I  had  a  dis- 
tinct feeling  that  she  had  knelt  before 
it  —  I  saw  the  look  of  worship!  The 
thing  troubled  me  like  a  dream,  haunt- 
ing, impossible,  but  real. 

'How  beautiful!'  I  said  in  spite  of 
myself,  as  she  pointed  to  the  image. 
'In  this  utter  solitude  it  seems  the  very 
spirit  of  the  place.' 

'He  was.  He  is,'  said  Vanna. 

'Explain  to  me.  I  don't  understand. 
I  know  so  little  of  him.  What  is  the 
subject?' 

She  hesitated;  then  chose  her  words 
as  if  for  a  beginner:  — 

'It  is  the  Blessed  One  preaching  to 
the  Tree-Spirits.  See  how  eagerly  they 
lean  from  the  boughs  to  listen.  This 
other  relief  represents  him  in  the  state 
of  mystic  vision.  Here  he  is  drowned  in 
peace.  See  how  it  overflows  from  the 
closed  eyes;  the  closed  lips.  The  air  is 
filled  with  his  quiet.' 

'What  is  he  dreaming?' 

'Not  dreaming  —  seeing.  Peace.  He 
sits  at  the  point  where  time  and  infin- 
ity meet.  To  attain  that  vision  was  the 
aim  of  the  monks  who  lived  here.' 

'Did  they  attain?'  I  found  myself 
speaking  as  if  she  could  certainly  an- 
swer. 

'A  few.  There  was  one,  Vasettha, 
the  Brahmin,  a  young  man  who  had  re- 
nounced all  his  possessions  and  riches, 
and  seated  here  before  this  image  of  the 
Blessed  One,  he  fell  often  into  the  mys- 
tic state.  He  had  a  strange  vision  at 


one  time  of  the  future  of  India,  which 
will  surely  be  fulfilled.  He  did  not  for- 
get it  hi  his  rebirths.  He  remembers — ' 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  said  with 
forced  indifference,  — 

'He  would  sit  here  often  looking  out 
over  the  mountains;  the  monks  sat  at 
his  feet  to  hear.  He  became  abbot  while 
still  young.  But  his  story  is  a  sad  one.' 

'I  entreat  you  to  tell  me.' 

She  looked  away  over  the  mountains. 

'While  he  was  abbot  here,  —  still  a 
young  man,  —  a  famous  Chinese  pil- 
grim came  down  through  Kashmir  to 
visit  the  Holy  Places  in  India.  The  ab- 
bot went  forward  with  him  to  Pesha- 
war, that  he  might  make  him  welcome. 
And  there  came  a  dancer  to  Peshawar, 
named  Lilavanti,  most  beautiful !  I  dare 
not  tell  you  her  beauty.  I  tremble  now 
to  think — ' 

Again  she  paused,  and  again  the  faint 
creeping  sense  of  mystery  invaded  me. 
She  resumed :  — 

'The  abbot  saw  her  and  he  loved 
her.  He  was  young  still,  you  remem- 
ber. She  was  a  woman  of  the  Hindu 
faith  and  hated  Buddhism.  It  swept  him 
down  into  the  lower  worlds  of  storm 
and  desire.  He  fled  with  Lilavanti  and 
never  returned  here.  So  in  his  rebirth 
he  fell—' 

She  stopped  dead;  her  face  pale  as 
death. 

'How  do  you  know?  Where  have  you 
read  it?  If  I  could  only  find  what  you 
find  and  know  what  you  know!  The 
East  is  like  an  open  book  to  you.  Tell 
me  the  rest.' 

'How  should  I  know  any  more?' 
she  said  hurriedly.  '  \^e  must  be  going 
back.  You  should  study  the  plans  of 
this  place  at  Peshawar.  They  were  very 
learned  monks  who  lived  here.  It  is 
famous  for  learning.' 

The  life  had  gone  out  of  her  words  — 
out  of  the  ruins.  There  was  no  more  to 
be  said. 

We  clambered  down  the  hill  in  the 


THE  INTERPRETER 


43 


hot  sunshine,  speaking  only  of  the  view, 
the  strange  shrubs  and  flowers,  and, 
once,  the  swift  gliding  of  a  snake,  and 
found  Mrs.  Delany  blissfully  asleep  in 
the  most  padded  corner  of  the  car. 
The  spirit  of  the  East  vanished  in  her 
comfortable  presence,  and  luncheon 
seemed  the  only  matter  of  moment. 

'I  wonder,  my  dears,'  she  said,  'if 
you  would  be  very  disappointed  and 
think  me  very  dense  if  I  proposed  our 
giving  up  the  Malakhand  Fort?  Mr. 
Clifden  can  lunch  with  the  officers  at 
Nowshera  and  come  any  day.  I  know 
I  am  an  atrocity.' 

That  night  I  resolutely  began  my 
packing,  and  wrote  a  note  of  farewell 
to  Lady  Meryon.  The  next  morning  I 
furiously  undid  it,  and  destroyed  the 
note.  And  that  afternoon  I  took  the 
shortest  way  to  the  Sunset  Road  to 
lounge  about  and  wait  for  Vanna  and 
Winifred.  She  never  came,  and  I  was 
as  unreasonably  angry  as  if  I  had  de- 
served the  blessing  of  her  presence. 
Next  day  I  could  see  that  she  tried, 
gently  but  clearly,  to  discourage  our 
meeting;  and  for  three  days  I  never  saw 
her  at  all.  Yet  I  knew  that  in  her  solitary 
life  our  talks  counted  for  a  pleasure. 

Ill 

On  the  day  when  things  became  clear 
to  me,  I  was  walking  toward  the  Mery- 
ons'  gates  when  I  met  her  coming  alone 
along  the  Sunset  Road,  in  the  late  gold 
of  the  afternoon.  She  looked  pale  and 
a  little  wearied,  and  I  remember  that  I 
wished  I  did  not  know  every  change  of 
her  face  as  I  did. 

'So  you  have  been  up  the  Khyber 
Pass,'  she  said  as  I  fell  into  step  at  her 
side.  'Tell  me  —  was  it  as  wonderful 
as  you  expected?' 

'No,  no  —  you  tell  me.  It  will  give 
me  what  I  missed.  Begin  at  the  begin- 
ning. Tell  me  what  I  saw.' 


I  could  not  miss  the  delight  of  her 
words,  and  she  laughed,  knowing  my 
whim. 

'Oh,  that  pass!  But  did  you  go  on 
Tuesday  or  Friday?' 

For  these  are  the  only  two  days  in 
the  week  when  the  Khyber  can  be  safely 
entered.  The  British  then  turn  out  the 
Khyber  Rifles  and  man  every  crag, 
and  the  loaded  caravans  move  like  a 
tide,  and  go  up  and  down  the  narrow 
road  on  their  occasions. 

'Tuesday.  But  make  a  picture  for 
me.' 

'You  went  up  to  Jumrood  Fort  at 
the  entrance.  Did  they  tell  you  it  is  an 
old  Sikh  fort  and  has  been  on  duty  in 
that  turbulent  place  for  five  hundred 
years?  And  did  you  see  the  machine- 
guns  in  the  court?  And  everyone  arm- 
ed —  even  the  boys,  with  belts  of  cart- 
ridges? Then  you  went  up  the  narrow 
winding  track  between  the  mountains, 
and  you  said  to  yourself,  "This  is  the 
road  of  pure  romance.  It  goes  up  to 
silken  Samarcand,  and  I  can  ride  to 
Bokhara  of  the  beautiful  women,  and 
to  all  the  dreams.  Am  I  alive  and  is  it 
real?"  You  felt  that?' 

'All,  every  bit.  Go  on!' 

She  smiled  with  pleasure. 

'And  you  saw  the  little  forts  on  the 
crags  and  the  men  on  guard  all  along  — 
rifles  ready!  You  could  hear  the  guns 
rattle  as  they  saluted.  Do  you  know 
that  up  there  men  plough  with  rifles 
loaded  beside  them?  They  have  to  be 
men,  indeed.' 

'Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  we  are 
not  men?' 

'Different  men,  at  least.  This  is  life 
in  a  Border  ballad.  Such  a  life  as  you 
knew  in  France,  but  beautiful  in  a  wild- 
hawk  sort  of  way.  Don't  the  Khyber 
Rifles  bewilder  you?  They  are  drawn 
from  these  very  Hill  tribes,  and  will 
shoot  their  own  fathers  and  brothers  in 
the  way  of  duty  as  comfortably  as  if 
they  were  jackals.  Once  there  was  a 


44 


THE  INTERPRETER 


scrap  here  and  one  of  the  tribesmen 
sniped  our  men  unbearably.  What  do 
you  suppose  happened?  A  Khyber 
Rifle  came  to  the  colonel  and  said,  "Let 
me  put  an  end  to  him,  Colonel  Sahib. 
I  know  exactly  where  he  sits.  He  is  my 
grandfather."  And  he  did  it.' 

'The  bond  of  bread  and  salt?' 

'Yes,  and  discipline.  I'm  sometimes 
half  frightened  of  discipline.  It  moulds 
a  man  like  wax.  Even  God  doesn't 
do  that.  Well  —  then  you  saw  the 
traders:  wild  shaggy  men  in  sheepskin, 
and  women  in  massive  jewelry  of  silver 
and  turquoise  —  great  earrings,  heavy 
bracelets  loading  their  arms,  wild, 
fierce,  handsome.  And  the  camels,  — 
thousands  of  them,  —  some  going  up, 
some  coming  down,  —  a  mass  of  human 
and  animal  life.  Above  you,  moving 
figures  against  the  keen  blue  sky,  or 
deep  below  you  in  the  ravines.  The 
camels  were  swaying  along  with  huge 
bales  of  goods,  and  with  dark  beautiful 
women  in  wicker  cages  perched  on 
them.  "Silks  and  carpets  from  Bokhara, 
and  blue-eyed  Persian  cats,  and  bluer 
Persian  turquoises.  Wonderful!  And 
the  dust  —  gilded  by  the  sunshine  — 
makes  a  vaporous  golden  atmosphere 
for  it  all.' 

'  What  was  the  most  wonderful  thing 
you  saw  there?'  I  asked  her. 

'The  most  beautiful  of  all,  I  think, 
was  a  man  —  a  splendid  dark  ruffian, 
lounging  along.  He  wanted  to  show 
off,  and  his  swagger  was  perfect.  Long 
black  onyx  eyes,  and  a  tumble  of  black 
curls,  and  teeth  like  almonds.  But  what 
do  you  think  he  carried  on  his  wrist? 
A  hawk  with  fierce  yellow  eyes,  ringed 
and  chained.  Hawking  is  a  favorite 
sport  in  the  hills.  Oh,  why  does  n't  some 
great  painter  come  and  paint  it  all  be- 
fore they  take  to  trains  and  cars?  I  long 
to  see  it  all  again,  but  I  never  shall.' 

'  Surely  Sir  John  can  get  you  up  there 
any  day.' 

'I  am  leaving.' 


'Leaving?'  My  heart  gave  a  leap. 
'Why?  Where?' 

'I  had  rather  not  tell  you.' 

*I  shall  ask  Lady  Meryon.' 

*I  forbid  you.' 

And  then  the  unexpected  happened, 
and  an  unbearable  impulse  swept  me 
into  folly  —  or  was  it  wisdom? 

'Listen  to  me.  I  would  not  have  said 
it  yet,  but  this  settles  it.  I  want  you  to 
marry  me.  I  want  it  atrociously!' 

It  was  a  strange  word.  What  I  felt 
for  her  at  that  moment  was  difficult  to 
describe. 

She  looked  at  me  in  transparent  as- 
tonishment. 

'Mr.  Clifden,  are  you  dreaming? 
You  can't  mean  what  you  say.' 

'Why  can't  I?  I  do.  I  want  you. 
You  have  the  key  of  all  I  care  for.' 

'Surely  you  have  all  the  world  can 
give?  What  do  you  want  more?' 

'The  power  to  enjoy  it  —  to  under- 
stand it.  I  want  you  always  with  me  to 
interpret,  like  a  guide  to  a  blind  fellow. 
I  am  no  better.' 

'Say  like  a  dog,  at  once!'  she  inter- 
rupted. 'At  least,  you  are  frank  enough 
to  put  it  on  that  ground.  You  have  not 
said  that  you  love  me.  You  could  not 
say  it.' 

'I  don't  know  whether  I  door  not. 
I  know  nothing  about  love.  I  want 
you.  Indescribably.  Perhaps  that  is 
love  —  is  it?  I  never  wanted  anyone 
before.  I  have  tried  to  get  away  and  I 
can't.' 

'Why  have  you  tried?' 

'Because  every  man  likes  freedom. 
But  I  like  you  better.' 

'I  can  tell  you  the  reason,'  she  said, 
in  her  gentle,  unwavering  voice.  '  I  am 
Lady  Meryon's  governess,  and  an  un- 
desirable. You  have  felt  that?' 

'Don't  make  me  out  such  a  snob. 
No  —  yes.  You  force  me  into  honesty. 
I  did  feel  it  at  first.  But  I  could  kick 
myself  when  I  think  of  that  now.  It  is 
utterly  forgotten.  Take  me  and  make 


THE  INTERPRETER 


45 


me  what  you  will,  and  forgive  me. 
Only  tell  me  your  secret  of  joy.  How 
is  it  you  understand  everything  alive 
or  dead?  I  want  to  live  —  to  see,  to 
know/ 

It  was  a  rhapsody  like  a  boy's.  Yet 
at  the  moment  I  was  not  even  ashamed 
of  it,  so  sharp  was  my  need. 

'I  think,'  she  said,  slowly,  looking 
straight  before  her,  'that  I  had  better 
be  quite  frank.  I  don't  love  you.  I 
don't  know  what  love  means  in  the 
Western  sense.  It  has  a  very  different 
meaning  for  me.  Your  voice  comes  to 
me  from  an  immense  distance  when 
you  speak  in  that  way.  You  want  me 

—  but  never  with  a  thought  of  what  7 
might  want.   Is  that  love?   I  like  you 
very  deeply  as  a  friend,  but  we  are  of 
different  races.    There  is  a  gulf.' 

'A  gulf?  You  are  English.' 
'By  birth,  yes.  In  mind,  no.  And 
there  are  things  that  go  deeper,  that 
you  could  not  understand.  So  I  refuse 
quite  definitely,  and  our  ways  part  here, 
for  in  a  few  days  I  go.  I  shall  not  see 
you  again,  but  I  wished  to  say  good- 
bye.' 

I  felt  as  if  my  all  were  deserting  me 

—  a  sickening  feeling  of  loneliness. 

'I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  why,  and 
where.' 

'Since  you  have  made  me  this  offer, 
I  will  tell  you  why.  Lady  Meryon  ob- 
jected to  my  friendship  with  you,  and 
objected  in  a  way  which  — ' 

She  stopped,  flushing  palely.  I  caught 
her  hand. 

'That  settles  it,  that  she  should  have 
dared!  I'll  go  up  this  minute  and  tell 
her  we  are  engaged.  Vanna  —  Vanna ! ' 

For  she  disengaged  her  hand. 

'On  no  account.  How  can  I  make  it 
more  plain  to  you?  I  should  have  gone 
soon  in  any  case.  My  place  is  in  the 
native  city  —  that  is  the  life  I  want. 
I  have  work  there;  I  knew  it  before  I 
came  out.  My  sympathies  are  all  with 
them.  They  know  what  life  is  —  why, 


even  the  beggars,  poorer  than  poor,  are 
perfectly  happy,  basking  in  the  great 
generous  sun.  Oh,  the  splendor  and 
riot  of  life  and  color!  That's  my  life  — 
I  sicken  of  this.' 

'But  I  will  give  it  to  you.  Marry 
me,  and  we  will  travel  till  you  're  tired 
of  it.' 

'And  look  on  as  at  a  play.  No,  I'm 
going  to  work  there.' 

'For  God's  sake,  how?  Let  me  come 
too.' 

'You  can't.  You're  not  in  it.  I  am 
going  to  attach  myself  to  the  medical 
mission  at  Lahore  and  learn  nursing, 
and  then  I  shall  go  to  my  own  people.' 

'Missionaries?' 

'They  teach  what  I  want.  Mr.  Clif- 
den,  I  shall  not  come  this  way  again.  If 
I  remember  —  I'll  write  to  you,  and 
tell  you  what  the  real  world  is  like.' 

She  smiled,  the  absorbed  little  smile 
I  knew  and  feared. 

'  Vanna,  before  you  go,  give  me  your 
gift  of  sight.  Interpret  for  me.  Stay 
with  me  a  little  and  make  me  see.' 

'What  do  you  mean,  exactly?'  she 
asked  in  her  gentlest  voice,  half  turning 
to  me. 

'Make  one  journey  with  me,  as  my 
sister,  if  you  will  do  no  more.  Though 
I  warn  you  that  all  the  tune  I  shall  be 
trying  to  win  my  wife.  But  come  with 
me  once,  and  after  that  —  if  you  will 
go,  you  must.  Say  yes.' 

She  hesitated  —  a  hesitation  full  of 
hope  —  and  looked  at  me  with  intent 
eyes. 

'I  will  tell  you  frankly,'  she  said  at 
last,  '  that  1  know  my  knowledge  of  the 
East  and  kinship  with  it  goes  far  be- 
yond mere  words.  In  my  case  the  doors 
were  not  shut.  I  believe  —  I  know  that 
long  ago  this  was  my  life.  If  I  spoke 
forever,  I  could  not  make  you  under- 
stand how  much  I  know,  and  why.  So 
I  shall  quite  certainly  go  back  to  it. 
Nothing  —  you,  least  of  all  —  can  hold 
me.  But  you  are  my  friend  —  that  is  a 


46 


THE  INTERPRETER 


true  bond.  And  if  you  would  wish  me 
to  give  you  two  months  before  I  go,  I 
might  do  that  if  it  would  in  any  way 
help  you.  As  your  friend  only  —  you 
clearly  understand.  You  would  not  re- 
proach me  afterward  when  I  left  you, 
as  I  should  most  certainly  do?' 

'I  swear  I  would  not.  I  swear  I 
would  protect  you  even  from  myself. 
I  want  you  forever;  but  if  you  will  only 
give  me  two  months  —  Come !  But 
have  you  thought  that  people  will  talk? 
I  'm  not  worth  that,  God  knows/ 

She  spoke  very  quietly. 

'That  does  not  trouble  me.  It  would 
only  trouble  me  if  you  asked  what  I 
have  not  to  give.  For  two  months  I 
would  travel  with  you  as  a  friend,  if, 
like  a  friend,  I  paid  my  own  expenses. 
—  No,  I  must  do  as  I  say;  I  would 
go  on  no  other  terms.  It  would  be  hard 
if,  because  we  are  man  and  woman,  I 
might  not  do  one  act  of  friendship  for 
you  before  we  part.  For  though  I  re- 
fuse your  offer  utterly,  I  appreciate  it, 
and  I  would  make  what  little  return  I 
can.  It  would  be  a  sharp  pain  to  me 
to  distress  you.' 

Her  gentleness  and  calm,  the  magni- 
tude of  the  offer  she  was  making,  stun- 
ned me  so  that  I  could  scarcely  speak. 
She  gave  me  such  opportunities  as  the 
most  ardent  lover  might  in  his  wildest 
dream  desire,  and  with  the  remoteness 
in  her  eyes  and  her  still  voice  she  de- 
prived them  of  all  hope. 

'Vanna,  is  it  a  promise?  You  mean 
it?' 

'If  you  wish  it,  yes.  But  I  warn  you 
that  I  think  it  will  not  make  it  easier 
for  you  when  the  time  is  over.' 

'Why  two  months? ' 

'Partly  because  I  can  afford  no  more. 
No!  I  know  what  you  would  say.  Part- 
ly because  I  can  spare  no  more  time.  I 
think  it  unwise  for  you.  I  would  pro- 
tect you  if  I  could  —  indeed  I  would!' 

It  was  my  turn  to  hesitate  now. 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  let  her  go  be- 


fore she  had  become  a  part  of  my  daily 
experience?  I  began  to  fear  I  was  court- 
ing my  own  shipwreck.  She  read  my 
thoughts  clearly. 

'Indeed  you  would  be  wise  to  decide 
against  it.  Release  me  from  my  promise. 
It  was  a  mad  scheme.' 

The  superiority  —  or  so  I  felt  it  — 
of  her  gentleness  maddened  me.  It 
might  have. been  I  who  needed  protec- 
tion, who  was  running  the  risk  of  mis- 
judgment  —  not  she,  a  lonely  woman. 
I  felt  utterly  exiled  from  the  real  pur- 
pose of  her  life. 

'I  will  never  release  you.  I  claim 
your  promise.  I  hold  to  it.' 

She  extended  her  hand,  cool  as  a  snow- 
flake,  and  was  gone,  walking  swiftly  up 
the  road.  Ah,  let  a  man  beware  when 
his  wishes  fulfilled  rain  down  upon  him! 

To  what  had  I  committed  myself? 

Strange  she  is  and  secret, 

Strange  her  eyes;  her  cheeks  are  cold  and  as  cold 
sea-shells. 

Yet  I  would  risk  it. 

Next  day  this  reached  me:  — 

DEAR  MR.  CLIFDEN,  — 

I  am  going  to  some  Indian  friends  for 
a  time.  On  the  15th  of  June  I  shall  be 
at  Srinagar  in  Kashmir.  A  friend  has 
allowed  me  to  take  her  little  houseboat, 
the  Kedarnath.  If  you  like  this  plan, 
we  will  share  the  cost  for  two  months. 
I  warn  you  it  is  not  luxurious,  but  I 
think  you  will  like  it.  I  shall  do  this 
whether  you  come  or  no,  for  I  want  a 
quiet  time  before  I  take  up  my  nursing 
in  Lahore.  In  thinking  of  all  this,  will 
you  remember  that  I  am  not  a  girl  but 
a  woman?  I  shall  be  twenty-nine  my 
next  birthday. 

Sincerely  yours, 

VANNA  LORING. 

P.S.  But  I  still  think  you  would  be 
wiser  not  to  come.  I  hope  to  hear  you 
will  not. 

I  replied  only  this :  — 


THE  INTERPRETER 


47 


DEAR  Miss  LORING,  — 

I  think  I  understand  the  position  fully  % 
I  will  be  there.  I  thank  you  with  all  my 
heart. 

Gratefully  yours, 

STEPHEN  CLTFDEN. 

IV 

On  the  15th  of  June,  I  found  my- 
self riding  into  Srinagar  in  Kashmir, 
through  the  pure,  tremulous  green  of  the 
mighty  poplars  that  hedge  the  road  into 
the  city.  The  beauty  of  the  country 
had  half  stunned  me  when  I  entered 
the  mountain  barrier  of  Baramula  and 
saw  the  snowy  peaks  that  guard  the 
Happy  Valley,  with  the  Jhelum  flow- 
ing through  its  tranquil  loveliness. 
The  flush  of  the  almond-blossom  was 
over,  but  the  iris,  like  a  sea  of  peace, 
had  overflowed  the  world,  and  the  blue 
meadows  .smiled  at  the  radiant  sky. 
Such  blossom!  the  blue  shading  into 
clear  violet,  like  a  shoaling  sea.  The 
earth,  like  a  cup  held  in  the  hand  of  a 
god,  brimmed  with  the  draught  of  youth 
and  summer  and  —  love?  But  no.  For 
me  the  very  word  was  sinister.  Vanna's 
face,  immutably  calm,  confronted  it. 

The  night  I  had  slept  in  a  boat  at 
Sopor  had  been  my  first  in  Kashmir; 
and  I  remember  that,  waking  at  mid- 
night, I  looked  out  and  saw  a  mountain 
with  a  gloriole  of  hazy  silver  about  it, 
misty  and  faint  as  a  cobweb  threaded 
with  dew.  The  river,  there  spreading 
into  a  lake,  was  dark  under  it,  flowing 
in  a  deep,  smooth  blackness  of  shad- 
ow, and  everything  waited  —  for  what? 
Even  while  I  looked,  the  moon  floated 
serenely  above  the  peak,  and  all  was 
bathed  in  pure  light,  the  water  rippling 
hi  broken  silver  and  pearl.  So  had  Van- 
na  floated  into  my  life,  sweet,  remote, 
luminous. 

I  rode  past  the  lovely  wooden  bridges, 
where  the  balconied  houses  totter  to 
each  other  across  the  canals  in  a  dim 


splendor  of  carving  and  age;  where  the 
many-colored  native  life  crowds  down 
to  the  river-steps  and  cleanses  its  flower- 
bright  robes,  its  gold-bright  brass  ves- 
sels, in  the  shining  stream;  and  my  heart 
said  only,  'Vanna,  Vanna!' 

My  servant  dismounted  and  led  his 
horse,  asking  from  everyone  where  the 
Kedarnath  could  be  found;  and  two 
little  bronze  images  detached  them- 
selves from  the  crowd  of  boys  and  ran, 
fleet  as  fauns,  before  us. 

Above  the  last  bridge  the  Jhelum 
broadens  out  into  a  stately  river,  con- 
trolled at  one  side  by  the  banked  walk 
known  as  the  Bund,  with  the  Club 
House  upon  it  and  the  line  of  house- 
boats beneath.  She  would  not  be  here; 
my  heart  told  me  that;  and  sure  enough 
the  boys  were  leading  across  the  bridge, 
and  by  a  quiet  shady  way  to  one  of  the 
many  backwaters  that  the  great  river 
makes  in  the  enchanting  city.  There 
is  one  waterway  stretching  on  and  afar 
to  the  Dal  Lake.  It  looks  like  a  river  — 
it  is  the  very  haunt  of  peace.  Under 
those  mighty  chenar  or  plane  trees, 
that  are  the  glory  of  Kashmir,  clouding 
the  water  with  deep  green  shadows,  the 
sun  can  scarcely  pierce,  save  in  a  dip- 
ping sparkle  here  and  there,  to  inten- 
sify the  green  gloom.  The  murmur  of 
the  city,  the  chatter  of  the  club,  are 
hundreds  of  miles  away. 

We  rode  downward  under  the  tower- 
ing trees,  and  dismounting,  saw  a  little 
houseboat  tethered  to  the  bank.  It  was 
not  of  the  richer  sort  that  haunts  the 
Bund,  where  the  native  servants  fol- 
low hi  a  separate  boat,  and  even  the 
electric  light  is  turned  on  as  part  of  the 
luxury.  This  was  a  long,  low  craft,  very 
broad,  thatched  like  a  country  cottage 
afloat.  In  the  afterpart  the  native  own- 
er and  his  family  lived  —  our  crew,  our 
cooks  and  servants;  for  they  played 
many  parts  in  our  service.  And  in  the 
forepart,  room  for  a  life,  a  dream,  the 
joy  or  curse  of  my  days  to  be. 


48 


THE  INTERPRETER 


But  then,  I  saw  only  one  thing  — 
Vanna  sat  under  the  trees,  reading,  or 
looking  at  the  cool,  dim,  watery  vista, 
with  a  single  boat,  loaded  to  the  river's 
edge  with  melons  and  scarlet  tomatoes, 
punting  lazily  down  to  Srinagar  in  the 
sleepy  afternoon. 

For  the  first  time  I  knew  she  was 
beautiful.  Beauty  shone  in  her  like  the 
flame  in  an,  alabaster  lamp,  serene,  dif- 
fused in  the  very  air  about  her,  so  that 
to  me  she  moved  hi  a  mild  radiance. 
She  rose  to  meet  me  with  both  hands 
outstretched  —  the  kindest,  most  cor- 
dial welcome.  Not  an  eyelash  flickered, 
not  a  trace  of  self-consciousness. 

I  tried,  with  a  hopeless  pretence,  to 
follow  her  example  and  hide  what  I 
felt,  where  she  had  nothing  to  hide. 

*  What  a  place  you  have  found !  Why, 
it's  like  the  deep  heart  of  a  wood.' 

I  threw  myself  on  the  grass  beside 
her  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  rest. 

The  very  spirit  of  Quiet  seemed  to  be 
drowsing  in  those  branches  towering  up 
into  the  blue,  dipping  their  green  fin- 
gers into  the  crystal  of  the  water.  What 
a  heaven! 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  see  still  that  first 
meal  of  my  new  life.  The  little  table 
that  Pir  Baksh,  breathing  full  East  in 
his  jade-green  turban,  set  before  her, 
with  its  cloth  worked  in  a  pattern  of 
the  chenar  leaves  that  are  the  symbol 
of  Kashmir;  the  brown  cakes  made  by 
Ahmed  Khan  in  a  miraculous  kitchen 
of  his  own  invention  —  a  few  holes 
burrowed  in  the  river-bank,  a  smoulder- 
ing fire  beneath  them,  and  a  width  of 
canvas  for  a  roof.  But  it  served,  and  no 
more  need  be  asked  of  luxury.  And 
Vanna,  making  it  mysteriously  the  first 
home  I  ever  had  known,  the  central 
joy  of  it  all.  Oh,  wonderful  days  of  life 
that  breathe  the  spirit  of  immortality 
and  pass  so  quickly  —  surely  they  must 
be  treasured  somewhere  in  Eternity, 
that  we  may  look  upon  their  beloved 
light  once  more! 


'Now  you  must  see  the  boat.  The 
Kedarnath  is  not  a  Dreadnought,  but 
she  is  broad  and  very  comfortable. 
And  we  have  many  chaperons.  They 
all  live  in  the  stern,  and  exist  simply  to 
protect  the  Sahib-log  from  all  discom- 
fort; and  very  well  they  do  it.  That  is 
Ahmed  Khan  by  the  kitchen.  He  cooks 
for  us.  Salama  owns  the  boat,  and 
steers  her  and  engages  the  men  to  tow 
us  when  we  move.  And  when  I  ar- 
rived, he  aired  a  little  English  and  said 
piously,  "The  Lord  help  me  to  give  you 
no  trouble,  and  the  Lord  help  you!" 
That  is  his  wife  sitting  on  the  bank. 
She  speaks  little  but  Kashmiri,  but  I 
know  a  little  of  that.  Look  at  the  hun- 
dred rat-tail  plaits  of  her  hair,  lengthen- 
ed with  wool;  and  see  her  silver  and 
turquoise  jewelry!  She  wears  much  of 
the  family  fortune  and  is  quite  a  walk- 
ing bank.  Salama,  Ahmed  Khan,  and 
I  talk  by  the  hour.  Ahmed  comes  from 
Fyzabad.  Look  at  Salama's  boy  —  I 
call  him  the  Orange  Imp.  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  beautiful?' 

I  looked  in  sheer  delight,  and  grasped 
my  camera.  Sitting  near  us  was  a  love- 
ly little  Kashmiri  boy  of  about  eight,  in 
a  faded  orange  coat,  and  a  turban  exact- 
ly like  his  father's.  His  curled  black 
eyelashes  were  so  long  that  they  made  a 
soft  gloom  over  the  upper  part  of  the 
little  golden  face.  The  perfect  bow  of 
the  scarlet  lips,  the  long  eyes,  the  shy 
smile,  suggested  an  Indian  Eros.  He 
sat  dipping  his  feet  in  the  water,  with 
little  pigeon-like  cries  of  content. 

'He  paddles  at  the  bow  of  our  lit- 
tle shikara  boat,  with  a  paddle  exactly 
like  a  water-lily  leaf.  Do  you  like  our 
friends?  I  love  them  already,  and  know 
all  their  affairs.  — And  now  for  the  boat.' 

'One  moment.  If  we  are  friends  on  a 
great  adventure,  I  must  call  you  Vanna, 
and  you  me  Stephen.' 

'Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  part  of  it,'  she 
said,  smiling.  'Come,  Stephen.' 

It  was  like  music,  but  a  cold  music 


THE  INTERPRETER 


49 


that  chilled  me.  She  should  have  hesi- 
tated, should  have  flushed  —  it  was  I 
who  trembled. 

So  I  followed  her  across  the  broad 
plank  into  our  new  home. 

'This  is  our  sitting-room.  Look,  how 
charming ! ' 

It  was  better  than  charming:  it  was 
home,  indeed.  Windows  at  each  side 
opening  down  almost  to  the  water;  a 
little  table  for  meals,  with  a  gray  pot  of 
irises  in  the  middle;  another  table  for 
writing,  photographing,  and  all  the  lit- 
tle pursuits  of  travel;  a  bookshelf,  with 
some  well-worn  friends;  two  low,  cush- 
ioned chairs,  two  others  for  meals,  and 
a  Bokhara  rug,  soft  and  pleasant  for 
the  feet.  The  interior  was  plain  un- 
painted  wood,  but  set  so  that  the  grain 
showed  like  satin  in  the  rippling  lights 
from  the  water. 

'It  is  perfect,'  was  all  I  said,  as  she 
waved  her  hand  proudly  to  show  it; 
'it  is  home.' 

We  dined  on  the  bank  that  evening, 
the  lamp  burning  steadily  in  the  still 
air  and  throwing  broken  reflections  in 
the  water,  while  the  moon  looked  in  up- 
on us  among  the  leaves.  I  felt  extraor- 
dinarily young  and  happy. 

The  quiet  of  her  voice  was  as  soft  as 
the  little  lap  of  water  against  the  bank; 
and  Kahdra,  the  Orange  Imp,  was  sing- 
ing a  little  wordless  song  to  himself  as 
he  washed  the  plates  beside  us. 

'The  wealth  of  the  world  could  not 
buy  this,'  I  said;  and  was  silent. 


And  so  began  a  life  of  sheer  enchant- 
ment. Looking  back,  I  know  in  what  a 
wonder-world  I  was  privileged  to  live. 
Vanna  could  talk  with  all  our  ship- 
mates. She  did  not  move  apart,  a  con- 
descending or  indifferent  foreigner.  Lit- 
tle Kahdra  would  come  to  her  knee 
and  chatter  to  her  of  the  great  snake 
that  lived  up  on  Mahadeo,  to  devour 

VOL.  128— NO.  1 


erring  boys  who  omitted  to  say  their 
prayers  at  proper  Moslem  intervals. 
She  would  sit  with  the  baby  in  her 
lap,  while  the  mother  busied  herself 
in  the  sunny  boat  with  the  mysterious 
dishes  that  smelt  so  good  to  a  hungry 


man. 


'I  am  graduating  as  a  nurse,'  she 
would  say  laughing,  as  she  bent  over 
the  lean  arm  of  some  weirdly  wrinkled 
old  lady,  bandaging  and  soothing  at 
the  same  time.  Her  reward  would  be 
some  bit  of  folk-lore,  some  quaintness 
of  gratitude,  which  I  noted  down  in  the 
little  book  I  kept  for  remembrance  — 
and  do  not  need,  for  every  word  is  in 
my  heart. 

We  pulled  down  through  the  city 
next  day,  Salama  rowing,  and  Kahdra 
lazily  paddling  at  the  bow.  A  wonderful 
city,  with  its  narrow  ways  begrimed 
with  the  dirt  of  ages,  and  its  balconied 
houses  looking  as  if  disease  and  sin  had 
soaked  into  them  and  given  them  a 
vicious,  tottering  beauty,  horrible,  yet 
lovely  too.  We  saw  the  swarming  life 
of  the  bazaar;  the  white  turbans  coming 
and  going,  diversified  by  the  rose  and 
yellow  Hindu  turbans;  the  fine  aquiline 
faces  and  the  caste-marks,  orange  and 
red,  on  the  dark  brows.  I  saw  two 
women  —  girls  —  painted  and  tired 
like  Jezebel,  looking  out  of  one  window 
carved  and  old,  and  the  gray  burnished 
doves  flying  about  it.  They  leaned  in- 
dolently, like  all  the  old,  old  wicked- 
ness of  the  East  that  yet  is  ever  young 
—  'Flowers  of  Delight,'  with  smooth 
black  hair  braided  with  gold  and  blos- 
soms, and  covered  with  pale-rose  veils, 
and  gold-embossed  disks  swinging  like 
lamps  beside  the  olive  cheeks,  the  great 
eyes  artificially  lengthened  and  dark- 
ened with  soorma,  and  the  curves  of  the 
full  lips  emphasized  with  vermilion. 
They  looked  down  on  us  with  apathy, 
a  dull  weariness  that  held  all  the  old 
evil  of  the  wicked,  humming  city.  It 
had  taken  shape  in  those  indolent  bodies 


50 


THE  INTERPRETER 


and  heavy  eyes,  which  could  flash  into 
life  as  a  snake  wakes  into  fierce  darting 
energy  when  the  time  comes  to  spring 

—  direct  inheritrixes  from  Lilith,  in  the 
fittest  setting  in  the  world  —  the  al- 
most exhausted  vice  of  an  Oriental  city 
as  old  as  time. 

'Look  —  below  here,'  said  Vanna, 
pointing  to  one  of  the  great  ghats 

—  long  rugged  steps  running  down  to 
the  river.    'When  I  came  yesterday,  a 
great  broken  crowd  was  collected,  al- 
most shouldering  each  other  into  the 
water,  where  a  boat  lay  rocking.   In  it 
was  the  body  of  a  man,  brutally  mur- 
dered for  the  sake  of  a  few  rupees  and 
flung  into  the  river.    I  could  see  the 
poor  brown  body  stark  in  the  boat, 
with  a  friend  weeping  beside  it.    On 
the  lovely  deodar  bridge  people  leaned 
over,  watching  with  grim,  open-mouthed 
curiosity,  and  business  went  on  gayly 
where   the  jewelers   make   the  silver 
bangles  for  slender  wrists,  and  the  rows 
of  silver  coins  that  make  the  necks  like . 
"the  Tower  of  Damascus  builded  for 
an  armory."   It  was  all  very  wild  and 
cruel.  I  went  down  to  them — ' 

'Vanna  —  you  went  down?  Hor- 
rible!' 

'No;  you  see  I  heard  them  say  the 
wife  was  almost  a  child  and  needed 
help.  So  I  went.  Once,  long  ago,  at 
Peshawar,  I  saw  the  same  thing  happen, 
and  they  came  and  took  the  child  for 
the  service  of  the  gods,  for  she  was  most 
lovely,  and  she  clung  to  the  feet  of  a 
man  in  terror,  and  the  priest  stabbed 
her  to  the  heart.  She  died  in  my  arms.' 

'Good  God!'  I  said,  shuddering; 
'what  a  sight  for  you!  Did  they  never 
hang  him?' 

'He  was  not  punished.  I  told  you  it 
was  a  very  long  tune  ago.' 

She  said  no  more.  But  in  her  words 
and  the  terrible  crowding  of  its  life, 
Srinagar  seemed  to  me  more  of  a  night- 
mare than  anything  I  had  seen,  except- 
ing only  Benares;  for  the  holy  Benares 


is  a  memory  of  horror,  with  a  sense  of 
blood  hidden  under  its  frantic,  crazy 
devotion,  and  not  far  hidden,  either. 

Our  own  green  shade,  when  we  pulled 
back  to  it  hi  the  evening  cool,  was  a 
refuge  of  unspeakable  quiet.  She  read 
aloud  to  me  that  evening,  by  the  small 
light  of  our  lamp  beneath  the  trees; 
and,  singularly,  she  read  of  joy. 

'  I  have  drunk  of  the  Cup  of  the  Ineffable, 

I  have  found  the  Key  of  the  Mystery; 

Traveling  by  no  track,  I  have  come  to  the  Sor- 
rowless  Land;  very  easily  has  the  mercy  of 
the  great  Lord  come  upon  me. 

Wonder  is  that  Land  of  rest  to  which  no  merit 
can  win. 

There  have  I  seen  joy  filled  to  the  brim,  perfec- 
tion of  joy. 

He  dances  in  rapture  and  waves  of  form  arise 
from  his  dance. 

He  holds  all  within  his  bliss.' 

'What  is  that?'  I  asked,  when  the 
music  ceased  for  a  moment. 

'It  is  from  the  songs  of  the  great 
Indian  mystic  —  Kabir.  Let  me  read 
you  more.  It  is  like  the  singing  of  a  lark, 
lost  in  the  infinite  of  light  and  heaven.' 

So  in  the  soft  darkness  I  heard  for  the 
first  time  those  immortal  words;  and 
hearing,  a  faint  glimmer  of  understand- 
ing broke  upon  me  as  to  the  source  of 
the  peace  that  surrounded  her.  I  had 
accepted  it  as  an  emanation  of  her  own 
heart,  when  it  was  the  pulsing  of  the 
tide  of  the  Divine.  She  read,  choosing 
a  verse  here  and  there,  and  I  listened 
with  absorption.  Suppose  I  had  been 
wrong  in  believing  that  sorrow  is  the 
key-note  of  life;  that  pain  is  the  road  of 
ascent,  if  road  there  be;  that  an  implac- 
able Nature  presides  over  all  our  piti- 
ful struggles  and  writes  a  black  'Finis' 
to  the  holograph  of  our  existence? 
What  then?  Was  she  teaching  me  that 
joy  is  the  only  truth,  —  the  only  real- 
ity,—  and  all  else  illusion?  Was  she 
the  Interpreter  of  a  Beauty  eternal  in 
the  heavens  and  reflected  in  broken 
prisms  in  the  beauty  that  walked  vis- 
ible beside  me?  I  listened  as  a  man  to 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


51 


an  unknown  tongue;  but  I  listened, 
though  I  ventured  my  protest. 

'In  India,  in  this  strange  country 
where  men  have  time  and  will  for  spec- 
ulation, such  thoughts  may  be  natural. 
Can  they  be  found  in  the  West?' 

'This  is  from  the  West  —  might  not 
Kabir  himself  have  said  it?  Certainly 
he  would  have  felt  it.  "Happy  is  he 
who  seeks  not  to  understand  the  Mys-' 
tery  of  God,  but  who,  merging  his  spirit 
into  thine,  sings  to  thy  Face,  O  Lord, 
like  a  harp,  understanding  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  know  —  how  easy  to  love 
Thee."  We  debate  and  argue,  and  the 
Vision  passes  us  by.  We  try  to  prove 
it,  and  kill  it  in  the  laboratory  of  our 
minds,  when  on  the  altar  of  our  souls  it 
will  dwell  forever.' 

Silence  —  and  I  pondered.  Finally 
she  laid  the  book  aside  and  repeated 
from  memory  and  in  a  tone  of  perfect 
music:  'Kabir  says,  "I  shall  go  to  the 


House  of  my  Lord  with  my  Love  at  my 
side;  then  shall  I  sound  the  trumpet  of 
triumph."' 

When  she  left  me  alone,  the  old  doubts 
came  back  —  the  fear  that  I  saw  only 
through  her  eyes;  and  I  began  to  believe 
in  joy,  only  because  I  loved  her.  I  re- 
member that  I  wrote  in  the  little  book 
that  I  kept  for  my  stray  thoughts  these 
words,  which  are  not  mine  but  reflect 
my  vision  of  her. 

'Thine  is  the  skill  of  the  Fairy  Wom- 
an, and  the  virtue  of  St.  Bride,  and  the 
faith  of  Mary  the  Mild,  and  the  gra- 
cious way  of  the  Greek  woman,  and  the 
beauty  of  lovely  Emer,  and  the  tender- 
ness of  heart-sweet  Deirdre,  and  the 
courage  of  Maev  the  great  Queen,  and 
the  charm  of  Mouth-of-Music.' 

Yes,  all  that  and  more;  but  I  feared 
lest  I  should  see  the  heaven  of  joy 
through  her  eyes  only,  and  find  it  mi- 
rage, as  I  had  found  so  much  else. 


(To  be  concluded) 


THE  ATTAS— A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


BY  WILLIAM  BEEBE 


PTERODACTYL  PUPS  led  me  to  the 
wonderful  Attas  —  the  most  astound- 
ing of  the  jungle  labor-unions.  We  were 
all  sitting  on  the  Mazaruni  bank,  the 
night  before  the  full  moon,  immediately 
in  front  of  my  British  Guiana  labora- 
tory. All  the  jungle  was  silent  in  the 
white  light,  and  only  a  big  fish  broke 
now  and  then.  On  the  end  of  the  bench 
was  the  monosyllabic  Scot,  who  ceased 
the  exquisite  painting  of  mora  but- 


tresses and  jungle  shadows  only  for  the 
equal  fascination  of  searching  bats  for 
parasites.  Then  the  great  physician,  who 
had  come  six  thousand  miles  to  peer 
into  the  eyes  of  birds  and  lizards  in  my 
dark-room,  working  with  a  gentle  hyp- 
notic manner  that  made  the  little  be- 
ings seem  to  enjoy  the  experience.  On 
my  right  sat  an  army  captain,  who  had 
given  more  thought  to  the  possible 
secrets  of  French  chaffinches  than  to 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


the  approaching  barrage.  There  was 
also  the  artist,  who  could  draw  a  lizard's 
head  like  a  Japanese  print,  but  preferred 
to  depict  impressionistic  Laocoon  roots. 

These  and  others  sat  with  me  on  the 
long  bench  and  watched  the  moon- 
path.  The  conversation  had  begun 
with  possible  former  life  on  the  moon, 
then  shifted  to  Conan  Doyle's  Lost 
World,  based  on  the  great  Roraima  - 
plateau,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  west 
of  where  we  were  sitting.  Then  we 
spoke  of  the  amusing  world-wide  ru- 
mor, which  had  started  no  one  knows 
how,  that  I  had  recently  discovered  a 
pterodactyl.  One  delightful  result  of 
this  had  been  a  letter  from  a  little  Eng- 
lish girl,  which  would  have  made  a 
worthy  chapter-subject  for  Dream  Days. 
For  years  she  and  her  little  sister  had 
peopled  a  wood  near  her  home  with 
pterodactyls,  but  had  somehow  never 
quite  seen  one;  and  would  I  tell  her 
a  little  about  them  —  whether  they  had 
scales,  or  made  nests;  so  that  those  in 
the  wood  might  be  a  little  easier  to 
recognize. 

When  strange  things  are  discussed 
for  a  long  time,  in  the  light  of  a  tropical 
moon,  at  the  edge  of  a  dark,  whispering 
jungle,  the  mind  becomes  singularly 
imaginative  and  receptive;  and,  as  I 
looked  through  powerful  binoculars  at 
the  great  suspended  globe,  the  dead 
craters  and  precipices  became  very 
vivid  and  near.  Suddenly,  without 
warning,  there  flapped  into  my  field,  a 
huge  shapeless  creature.  It  was  no 
bird,  and  there  was  nothing  of  the  bat 
in  its  flight  —  the  wings  moved  with 
steady  rhythmical  beats,  and  drove  it 
straight  onward.  The  wings  were  skin- 
ny, the  body  large  and  of  a  pale  ashy 
hue.  For  a  moment  I  was  shaken.  One 
of  the  others  had  seen  it,  and  he,  too, 
did  not  speak,  but  concentrated  every 
sense  into  the  end  of  the  little  tubes. 
By  the  time  I  had  begun  to  find  words, 
I  realized  that  a  giant  fruit  bat  had 


flown  from  utter  darkness  across  my 
line  of  sight;  and  by  close  watching  we 
soon  saw  others.  But  for  a  very  few 
seconds  these  Pterodactyl  Pups,  as  I 
nicknamed  them,  gave  me  all  the  thrill 
of  a  sudden  glimpse  into  the  life  of  past 
ages.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  fruit 
bats  was  in  the  gardens  of  Perideniya, 
Ceylon.  I  had  forgotten  that  they  oc- 
curred in  Guiana,  and  was  wholly  un- 
prepared for  the  sight  of  bats  a  yard 
across,  with  a  heron's  flight,  passing 
high  over  the  Mazaruni  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  talk  ended  on  the  misfortune  of 
the  configuration  of  human  anatomy, 
which  makes  sky-searching  so  uncom- 
fortable a  habit.  This  outlook  was 
probably  developed  to  a  greater  extent 
during  the  war  than  ever  before;  and  I 
can  remember  many  evenings  in  Paris 
and  London  when  a  sinister  half-moon 
kept  the  faces  of  millions  turned  search- 
ingly  upward.  But  whether  in  city  or 
jungle,  sky-scanning  is  a  neck-aching 
affair. 

The  following  day  my  experience 
with  the  Pterodactyl  Pups  was  not  for- 
gotten, and  as  a  direct  result  of  looking 
out  for  soaring  vultures  and  eagles, 
with  hopes  of  again  seeing  a  white- 
plumaged  King  and  the  regal  Harpy,  I 
caught  sight  of  a  tiny  mote  high  up  in 
mid-sky.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  a 
martin  or  swift;  but  it  descended,  slow- 
ly spiraling,  and  became  too  small  for 
any  bird.  With  a  final,  long,  descending 
curve,  it  alighted  in  the  compound  of 
our  bungalow  laboratory  and  rested 
quietly  —  a  great  queen  of  the  leaf- 
cutting  Attas  returning  from  her  mar- 
riage flight.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
stirred,  walked  a  few  steps,  cleaned  her 
antennae,  and  searched  nervously  about 
on  the  sand.  A  foot  away  was  a  tiny 
sprig  of  indigo,  the  offspring  of  some 
seed  planted  two  or  three  centuries  ago 
by  a  thrifty  Dutchman.  In  the  shade  of 
its  three  leaves  the  insect  paused,  and 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


53 


at  once  began  scraping  at  the  sand  with 
her  jaws.  She  loosened  grain  after 
grain,  and  as  they  came  free  they  were 
moistened,  agglutinated,  and  pressed 
back  against  her  fore-legs.  When  at 
last  a  good-sized  ball  was  formed,  she 
picked  it  up,  turned  around  and,  after 
some  fussy  indecision,  deposited  it  on 
the  sand  behind  her.  Then  she  returned 
to  the  very  shallow,  round  depression, 
and  began  to  gather  a  second  ball. 

I  thought  of  the  first  handful  of  sand 
thrown  out  for  the  base  of  Cheops,  of 
the  first  brick  placed  in  position  for  the 
Great  Wall,  of  a  fresh-cut  trunk,  rough- 
hewn  and  squared  for  a  log-cabin  on 
Manhattan;  of  the  first  shovelful  of 
earth  flung  out  of  the  line  of  the  Panama 
Canal.  Yet  none  seemed  worthy  of  com- 
parison with  even  what  little  I  knew 
of  the  significance  of  this  ant's  labor, 
for  this  was  earnest  of  what  would  make 
trivial  the  engineering  skill  of  Egyp- 
tians, of  Chinese  patience,  of  municipal 
pride  and  continental  schism. 

Imagine  sawing  off  a  barn-door  at 
the  top  of  a  giant  sequoia,  growing  at 
the  bottom  of  the  Grand  Canon,  and 
then,  with  five  or  six  children  clinging 
to  it,  descending  the  tree,  and  carrying 
it  up  the  canon  walls  against  a  subway 
rush  of  rude  people,  who  elbowed  and 
pushed  blindly  against  you.  This  is 
what  hundreds  of  leaf-cutting  ants  ac- 
complish daily,  when  cutting  leaves 
from  a  tall  bush,  at  the  foot  of  the  bank 
near  the  laboratory. 

There  are  three  dominant  labor- 
unions  in  the  jungle,  all  social  insects, 
two  of  them  ants,  never  interfering 
with  each  other's  field  of  action,  and  all 
supremely  illustrative  of  conditions 
resulting  from  absolute  equality,  free- 
and-equalness,  communalism,  socialism 
carried  to  the  (forgive  me!)  anth  power. 
The  Army  Ants  are  carnivorous,  preda- 
tory, militant  nomads;  the  Termites  are 
vegetarian  scavengers,  sedentary,  nega- 
tive and  provincial;  the  Attas,  or  leaf- 


cutting  ants,  are  vegetarians,  active 
and  dominant,  and  in  many  ways  the 
most  interesting  of  all. 

The  casual  observer  becomes  aware 
of  them  through  their  raids  upon  gar- 
dens; and  indeed  the  Attas  are  a  very 
serious  menace  to  agriculture  in  many 
parts  of  the  tropics,  where  their  nests, 
although  underground,  may  be  as  large 
as  a  house  and  contain  millions  of  indi- 
viduals. While  their  choice  among  wild 
plants  is  exceedingly  varied,  it  seems 
that  there  are  certain  things  they 
will  not  touch;  but  when  any  human- 
reared  flower,  vegetable,  shrub,  vine,  or 
tree  is  planted,  the  Attas  rejoice,  and 
straightway  desert  the  native  vegeta- 
tion to  fall  upon  the  newcomers.  Their 
whims  and  irregular  feeding  habits 
make  it  difficult  to  guard  against  them. 
They  will  work  all  round  a  garden  for 
weeks,  perhaps  pass  through  it  en  route 
to  some  tree  that  they  are  defoliating, 
and  then  suddenly,  one  night,  every 
Atta  in  the  world  seems  possessed  with 
a  desire  to  work  havoc,  and  at  daylight 
the  next  morning,  the  garden  looks  like 
winter  stubble  —  a  vast  expanse  of 
stems  and  twigs,  without  a  single  re- 
maining leaf.  Volumes  have  been  writ- 
ten, and  a  whole  chemist's  shop  of  dead- 
ly concoctions  devised,  for  combating 
these  ants,  and  still  they  go  steadily  on, 
gathering  leaves  which,  as  we  shall  see, 
they  do  not  even  use  for  food. 

Although  essentially  a  tropical  fam- 
ily, Attas  have  pushed  as  far  north  as 
New  Jersey,  where  they  make  a  tiny 
nest,  a  few  inches  across,  and  bring  to  it 
bits  of  pine  needles. 

In  a  jungle  Baedeker,  we  should 
double-star  these  insects,  and  paragraph 
them  as  'Atta,  named  by  Fabricius  in 
1804 ;  two  Kartabo  species,  sexdens  and 
cephcdotes;  Leaf-cutting  or  Cushie  or 
Parasol  Ants;  very  abundant.  Atta,  a 
subgenus  of  Atta,  which  is  a  genus  of 
Attii,  which  is  a  tribe  of  Myrmicince, 
which  is  a  subfamily  of  Formicidce,'  etc. 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


With  a  feeling  of  slightly  greater  in- 
timacy, of  mental  possession,  we  set 
out,  armed  with  a  name  of  one  hundred 
and  seventeen  years'  standing,  and  find 
a  big  Atta  worker  carving  away  at  a  bit 
of  leaf,  exactly  as  his  ancestors  had  done 
for  probably  one  hundred  and  seven- 
teen thousand  years. 

We  gently  lift  him  from  his  labor, 
and  a  drop  of  chloroform  banishes  from 
his  ganglia  all  memory  of  the  hundred 
thousand  years  of  pruning.  Under  the 
lens  his  strange  personality  becomes 
manifest,  and  we  wonder  whether  the 
old  Danish  zoologist  had  in  mind  the 
slender  toe-tips  which  support  him,  or 
in  a  chuckling  mood  made  him  a  name- 
sake of  C.  Quintius  Atta.  A  close-up 
shows  a  very  comic  little  being,  en- 
cased in  a  prickly,  chestnut-colored 
armor,  which  should  make  him  fearless 
in  a  den  of  a  hundred  anteaters.  The 
front  view  of  his  head  is  a  bit  mephis- 
tophelian,  for  it  is  drawn  upward  into 
two  horny  spines;  but  the  side  view  re- 
calls a  little  girl  with  her  hair  brushed 
very  tightly  up  and  back  from  her  face. 

The  connection  between  Atta  and 
the  world  about  him  is  furnished  by 
this  same  head:  two  huge,  flail-shaped 
antennae  arching  up  like  aerial,  de- 
tached eyebrows  —  vehicles,  through 
their  golden  pile,  of  senses  which  foil 
our  most  delicate  tests.  Outside  of 
these  are  two  little  shoe-button  eyes; 
and  we  are  not  certain  whether  they  re- 
flect to  the  head  ganglion  two  or  three 
hundred  bits  of  leaf,  or  one  large  mosaic 
leaf.  Below  all  is  swung  the  pair  of 
great  scythes,  so  edged  and  hung  that 
they  can  function  as  jaws,  rip-saws, 
scissors,  forceps,  and  clamps.  The  tho- 
rax, like  the  head  of  a  titanothere,  bears 
three  pairs  of  horns  —  a  great  irregular 
expanse  of  tumbled,  rock-like  skin  and 
thorn,  a  foundation  for  three  pairs  of 
long  legs,  and  sheltering  somewhere  in 
its  heart  a  thread  of  ant-life;  finally, 
two  little  pedicels  lead  to  a  rounded 


abdomen,  smaller  than  the  head.  This 
Third-of-an-inch  is  a  worker  Atta  to  the 
physical  eye;  and  if  we  catch  another,  or 
ten,  or  ten  million,  we  find  that  some  are 
small,  others  much  larger,  but  that  all 
are  cast  in  the  same  mould,  all  indistin- 
guishable except,  perhaps,  to  the  shoe- 
button  eyes. 

II 

When  a  worker  has  traveled  along  the 
Atta  trails,  and  has  followed  the  tempo- 
rary mob-instinct  and  climbed  bush  or 
tree,  the  same  irresistible  force  drives 
him  out  upon  a  leaf.  Here,  apparently, 
instinct  slightly  loosens  its  hold,  and  he 
seems  to  become  individual  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  look  about,  and  to  decide  upon 
a  suitable  edge  or  corner  of  green  leaf. 
But  even  in  this  he  probably  has  no 
choice.  At  any  rate,  he  secures  a  good 
hold  and  sinks  his  jaws  into  the  tissue. 
Standing  firmly  on  the  leaf,  he  meas- 
ures his  distance  by  cutting  across  a 
segment  of  a  circle,  with  one  of  his  hind 
feet  as  a  centre.  This  gives  a  very  true 
curve,  and  provides  a  leaf-load  of  suit- 
able size.  He  does  not  scissor  his  way 
across,  but  bit  by  bit  sinks  the  tip  of 
one  jaw,  hook-like,  into  the  surface, 
and  brings  the  other  up  to  it,  slicing 
through  the  tissue  with  surprising  ease. 
He  stands  upon  the  leaf,  and  I  always 
expect  to  see  him  cut  himself  and  his 
load  free,  Irishman-wise.  But  one  or 
two  of  his  feet  have  invariably  secured 
a  grip  on  the  plant,  sufficient  to  hold 
him  safely.  Even  if  one  or  two  of  his 
fellows  are  at  work  farther  down  the 
leaf,  he  has  power  enough  in  his  slight 
grip  to  suspend  all  until  they  have 
finished  and  clambered  up  over  him 
with  their  loads. 

Holding  his  bit  of  leaf  edge-wise,  he 
bends  his  head  down  as  far  as  possible, 
and  secures  a  strong  purchase  along  the 
very  rim.  Then,  as  he  raises  his  head, 
the  leaf  rises  with  it,  suspended  high 
over  his  back,  out  of  the  way.  Down 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


55 


the  stem  or  tree-trunk  he  trudges,  head 
first,  fighting  with  gravitation,  until  he 
reaches  the  ground.  After  a  few  feet,  or, 
measured  by  his  stature,  several  hun- 
dred yards,  his  infallible  instinct  guides 
him  around  pebble  boulders,  mossy  or- 
chards, and  grass  jungles  to  a  specially 
prepared  path. 

Thus  in  words,  in  sentences,  we  may 
describe  the  cutting  of  a  single  leaf;  but 
only  in  the  imagination  can  we  visual- 
ize the  cell-like  or  crystal-like  duplica- 
tion of  this  throughout  all  the  great  for- 
ests of  Guiana  and  of  South  America. 
As  I  write,  a  million  jaws  snip  through 
their  stint;  as  you  read,  ten  million 
Attas  begin  on  new  bits  of  leaf.  And 
all  in  silence  and  in  dim  light,  legions 
passing  along  the  little  jungle  roads, 
unending  lines  of  trembling  banners, 
a  political  parade  of  ultra  socialism, 
a  procession  of  chlorophyll  floats  il- 
lustrating unreasoning  unmorality,  a 
fairy  replica  of  '  Birnam  forest  come  to 
Dunsinane.' 

In  their  leaf-cutting,  Attas  have  mas- 
tered mass,  but  not  form.  I  have  nev- 
er seen  one  cut  off  a  piece  too  heavy  to 
carry,  but  many  a  hard-sliced  bit  has 
had  to  be  deserted  because  of  the  con- 
figuration of  the  upper  edge.  On  al- 
most any  trail,  an  ant  can  be  found  with 
a  two-inch  stem  of  grass,  attempting  to 
pass  under  a  twig  an  inch  overhead. 
After  five  or  ten  minutes  of  pushing, 
backing,  and  pushing,  he  may  acci- 
dentally march  off  to  one  side,  or  reach 
up  and  climb  over;  but  usually  he  drops 
his  burden.  His  little  works  have  been 
wound  up,  and  set  at  the  mark  'home'; 
and  though  he  has  now  dropped  the 
prize  for  which  he  walked  a  dozen  ant- 
miles,  yet  any  idea  of  cutting  another 
stem,  or  of  picking  up  a  slice  of  leaf 
from  those  lying  along  the  trail,  never 
occurs  to  him.  He  sets  off  homeward, 
and  if  any  emotion  of  sorrow,  regret, 
disappointment,  or  secret  relief  trou- 
bles his  ganglia,  no  trace  of  it  appears 


in  antennae,  carriage,  or  speed.  I  can 
very  readily  conceive  of  his  trudging 
sturdily  all  the  way  back  to  the  nest, 
entering  it,  and  going  to  the  place 
where  he  would  have  dumped  his  load, 
having  fulfilled  his  duty  in  the  spirit  at 
least.  Then,  if  there  comes  a  click  in 
his  internal  time-clock,  he  may  set  out 
upon  another  quest  —  more  cabined, 
cribbed,  and  confined  than  any  member 
of  a  Cook's  tourist  party. 

I  once  watched  an  ant  with  a  piece 
of  leaf  which  had  a  regular  shepherd's 
crook  at  the  top,  and  if  his  adventures 
of  fifty  feet  could  have  been  caught  on 
a  moving-picture  film,  Charlie  Chaplin 
would  have  had  an  arthropod  rival.  It 
hooked  on  stems  and  pulled  its  bearer 
off  his  feet,  it  careened  and  ensnared  the 
leaves  of  other  ants,  at  one  place  mixing 
up  with  half  a  dozen.  A  big  thistledown 
became  tangled  in  it,  and  well-nigh 
blew  away  with  leaf  and  all;  hardly  a 
foot  of  his  path  was  smooth-going.  But 
he  persisted,  and  I  watched  him  reach 
the  nest,  after  two  hours  of  tugging  and 
falling  and  interference  with  traffic. 

Occasionally  an  ant  will  slip  in  cross- 
ing a  twiggy  crevasse,  and  his  leaf  be- 
come tightly  wedged.  After  sprawling 
on  his  back  and  vainly  clawing  at  the 
air  for  a  while,  he  gets  up,  brushes  off 
his  antennae,  and  sets  to  work.  For 
fifteen  minutes  I  have  watched  an  Atta 
in  this  predicament,  stodgily  endeavor- 
ing to  lift  his  leaf  while  standing  on  it 
at  the  same  time.  The  equation  of  push 
equaling  pull  is  fourth  dimensional  to 
the  Attas. 

With  all  this  terrible  expenditure  of 
energy,  the  activities  of  these  ants  are 
functional  within  very  narrow  limits. 
The  blazing  sun  causes  them  to  drop 
their  burdens  and  flee  for  home;  a 
heavy  wind  frustrates  them,  for  they 
cannot  reef.  When  a  gale  arises  and 
sweeps  an  exposed  portion  of  the  trail, 
their  only  resource  is  to  cut  away  all 
sail  and  heave  it  overboard.  A  sudden 


56 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


downpour  reduces  a  thousand  banners 
and  waving,  bright-colored  petals  to 
debris,  to  be  trodden  under  foot.  Some- 
times, after  a  ten-minute  storm,  the 
trails  will  be  carpeted  with  thousands  of 
bits  of  green  mosaic,  which  the  out- 
going hordes  will  trample  in  their  search 
for  more  leaves.  On  a  dark  night  little 
seems  to  be  done;  but  at  dawn  and  dusk, 
and  in  the  moonlight  or  clear  starlight, 
the  greatest  activity  is  manifest. 

Attas  are  such  unpalatable  creatures 
that  they  are  singularly  free  from  dan- 
gers. There  is  a  tacit  armistice  between 
them  and  the  other  labor-unions.  The 
Army  Ants  occasionally  make  use  of 
their  trails  when  they  are  deserted ;  but 
when  the  two  great  races  of  ants  meet, 
each  antennses  the  aura  of  the  other, 
and  turns  respectfully  aside.  When 
Termites  wish  to  traverse  an  Atta  trail, 
they  burrow  beneath  it,  or  build  a  cover- 
ed causeway  across,  through  which  they 
pass  and  repass  at  will,  and  over  which 
the  Attas  trudge,  uncaring  and  uncon- 
scious of  its  significance. 

Only  creatures  with  the  toughest  of 
digestions  would  dare  to  include  these 
prickly,  strong-jawed,  meatless  insects 
in  a  bill  of  fare.  Now  and  then  I  have 
found  an  ani,  or  black  cuckoo,  with  a 
few  in  its  stomach:  but  an  ani  can 
swallow  a  stinging-haired  caterpillar 
and  enjoy  it.  The  most  consistent  feed- 
er upon  Attas  is  the  giant  marine  toad. 
Two  hundred  Attas  in  a  night  is  not  an 
uncommon  meal,  the  exact  number  be- 
ing verifiable  by  a  count  of  the  undi- 
gested remains  of  heads  and  abdomens. 
Bufo  marinus  is  the  gardener's  best 
friend  in  this  tropic  land,  and  besides, 
he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  philosopher,  if 
ever  an  amphibian  was  one. 

While  the  cutting  of  living  foliage  is 
the  chief  aim  in  life  of  these  ants,  yet 
they  take  advantage  of  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  along  the  shore,  and  each  low 
tide  finds  a  column  from  some  nearby 
nest  salvaging  flowerets,  leaves,  and 


even  tiny  berries.  A  sudden  wash  of 
tide  lifts  a  hundred  ants  with  their 
burdens  and  then  sets  them  down  again, 
when  they  start  off  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

The  paths  or  trails  of  the  Attas  rep- 
resent very  remarkable  feats  of  en- 
gineering, and  wind  about  through 
jungle  and  glade  for  surprising  dis- 
tances. I  once  traced  a  very  old  and 
wide  trail  for  well  over  two  hundred 
yards.  Taking  little  Third-of-an-inch 
for  a  type  (although  he  would  rank  as  a 
rather  large  Atta),  and  comparing  him 
with  a  six-foot  man,  we  reckon  this 
trail,  ant-ratio,  as  a  full  twenty-five 
miles.  Belt  records  a  leaf-cutter's  trail 
half  a  mile  long,  which  would  mean 
that  every  ant  that  went  out,  cut  his 
tiny  bit  of  leaf,  and  returned,  would 
traverse  a  distance  of  a  hundred  and 
sixteen  miles.  This  was  an  extreme;  but 
our  Atta  may  take  it  for  granted,  speak- 
ing antly,  that  once  on  the  home  trail, 
he  has,  at  the  least,  four  or  five  miles 
ahead  of  him. 

The  Atta  roads  are  clean  swept,  as 
straight  as  possible,  and  very  conspicu- 
ous in  the  jungle.  The  chief  high-roads 
leading  from  very  large  nests  are  a  good 
foot  across,  and  the  white  sand  of  their 
beds  is  visible  a  long  distance  away.  I 
once  knew  a  family  of  opossums  living 
in  a  stump  in  the  centre  of  a  dense 
thicket.  When  they  left  at  evening, 
they  always  climbed  along  as  far  as  an 
Atta  trail,  dropped  down  to  it,  and  fol- 
lowed it  for  twenty  or  thirty  yards. 
During  the  rains  I  have  occasionally 
found"  tracks  of  agoutis  and  deer  in 
these  roads.  So  it  would  be  very  pos- 
sible for  the  Attas  to  lay  the  foundation 
for  an  animal  trail,  and  this,  d  la  calf- 
path,  for  the  street  of  a  future  city. 

The  part  that  scent  plays  in  the  trails 
is  evidenced  if  we  scatter  an  inch  or  two 
of  fresh  sand  across  the  road.  A  mass  of 
ants  banks  against  the  strange  obstruc- 
tion on  both  sides,  on  the  one  hand  a 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


57 


solid  phalanx  of  waving  green  banners, 
and  on  the  other  a  mob  of  empty-jawed 
workers  with  wildly  waving  antennae. 
Scouts  from  both  sides  slowly  wander 
forward,  and  finally  reach  one  another 
and  pass  across.  But  not  for  ten  min- 
utes does  anything  like  regular  traffic 
begin  again. 

When  carrying  a  large  piece  of  leaf, 
and  traveling  at  a  fair  rate  of  speed,  the 
ants  average  about  a  foot  in  ten  seconds, 
although  many  go  the  same  distance  in 
five.  I  tested  the  speed  of  an  Atta,  and 
then  I  saw  that  its  leaf  seemed  to  have 
a  peculiar-shaped  bug  upon  it,  and 
picked  it  up  with  its  bearer.  Finding 
the  blemish  to  be  only  a  bit  of  fungus,  I 
replaced  it.  Half  an  hour  later  I  was 
seated  by  a  trail  far  away,  when  sud- 
denly my  ant  with  the  blemished  spot 
appeared.  It  was  unmistakable,  for  I 
had  noticed  that  the  spot  was  exactly 
that  of  the  Egyptian  symbol  of  life.  I 
paced  the  trail,  and  found  that  seventy 
yards  away  it  joined  the  spot  where  I 
had  first  seen  my  friend.  So,  with  oc- 
casional spurts,  he  had  done  two  hun- 
dred and  ten  feet  in  thirty  minutes,  and 
this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
picked  up  a  supercargo. 

Two  parts  of  hydrogen  and  one  of 
oxygen,  under  the  proper  stimulus,  in- 
variably result  in  water;  two  and  two, 
considered  calmly  and  without  passion, 
combine  into  four;  the  workings  of  in- 
stinct, especially  in  social  insects,  is  so 
mechanical  that  its  results  can  almost 
be  demonstrated  in  formula;  and  yet 
here  was  my  Atta  leaf-carrier  burdened 
with  a  minim.  The  worker  Attas  vary 
greatly  in  size,  as  a  glance  at  a  populous 
trail  will  show.  They  have  been  chris- 
tened macrergates,  desmergates  and 
micrergates;  or  we  may  call  the  largest 
maxims,  the  average  middle  class 
mediums,  and  the  tiny  chaps  minims, 
and  all  have  more  or  less  separate  func- 
tions in  the  ecology  of  the  colony.  The 
minims  are  replicas  in  miniature  of  the 


big  chaps,  except  that  their  armor  is 
pale  cinnamon  rather  than  chestnut. 
Although  they  can  bite  ferociously, 
they  are  too  small  to  cut  through 
leaves,  and  they  have  very  definite 
duties  in  the  nest;  yet  they  are  found 
with  every  leaf-cutting  gang,  hastening 
along  with  their  larger  brethren,  but 
never  doing  anything,  that  I  could  de- 
tect, at  their  journey's  end.  I  have  a 
suspicion  that  the  little  minims,  who 
are  very  numerous,  function  as  light 
cavalry;  for  in  case  of  danger  they  are 
as  eager  at  attack  as  the  great  soldiers, 
and  the  leaf-cutters,  absorbed  in  their 
arduous  labor,  would  benefit  greatly 
from  the  immunity  ensured  by  a  flying 
corps  of  their  little  bulldog  comrades. 

I  can  readily  imagine  that  these  nest- 
ling minims  become  weary  and  foot-sore 
(like  bank-clerks  guarding  a  reservoir), 
and  if  instinct  allows  such  abomin- 
able individuality,  they  must  often  wish 
themselves  back  at  the  nest,  for  every 
mile  of  a  medium  is  three  miles  to  them. 

Here  is  where  our  mechanical  for- 
mula breaks  down;  for,  often,  as  many 
as  one  hi  every  five  leaves  that  pass 
bears  aloft  a  minim  or  two,  clinging 
desperately  to  the  waving  leaf  and  get- 
ting a  free  ride  at  the  expense  of  the 
already  overburdened  medium.  Ten  is 
the  extreme  number  seen,  but  six  to 
eight  minims  collected  on  a  single  leaf 
is  not  uncommon.  Several  times  I  have 
seen  one  of  these  little  banner-riders 
shift  deftly  from  leaf  to  leaf,  when  a 
swifter  carrier  passed  by,  as  a  circus 
bareback  rider  changes  steeds  at  full 
gallop. 

Once  I  saw  enacted  above  ground, 
and  in  the  light  of  day,  something 
which  may  have  had  its  roots  in  an 
Anlage  of  divine  discontent.  If  I  were 
describing  the  episode  half  a  century 
ago,  I  should  entitle  it,  'The  Battle  of 
the  Giants,  or  Emotion  Enthroned/ 
A  quadruple  line  of  leaf-carriers  was 
disappearing  down  a  hole  in  front  of 


58 


THE  ATTAS  — A  JUNGLE  LABOR-UNION 


the  laboratory,  bumped  and  pushed  by 
an  out-pouring,  empty-jawed  mass  of 
workers.  As  I  watched  them,  I  became 
aware  of  an  area  of  great  excitement 
beyond  the  hole.  Getting  down  as 
nearly  as  possible  to  ant  height,  I  wit- 
nessed a  terrible  struggle.  Two  giants 
—  of  the  largest  soldier  maxim  caste  — 
were  locked  in  each  other's  jaws,  and 
to  my  horror,  I  saw  that  each  had  lost 
his  abdomen.  The  antennae  and  the 
abdomen  petiole  are  the  only  vulner- 
able portions  of  an  Atta,  and  long  after 
he  has  lost  these  apparently  dispens- 
able portions  of  his  anatomy,  he  is  able 
to  walk,  fight,  and  continue  an  active 
but  erratic  life.  These  mighty-jawed 
fellows  seem  never  to  come  to  the  sur- 
face unless  danger  threatens;  and  my 
mind  went  down  into  the  black,  musty 
depths,  where  it  is  the  duty  of  these 
soldiers  to  walk  about  and  wait  for 
trouble.  What  could  have  raised  the 
ire  of  such  stolid  neuters  against  one 
another?  Was  it  sheer  lack  of  something 
to  do?  or  was  there  a  cell  or  two  of  the 
winged  caste  lying  fallow  within  their 
bodies,  which,  stirring  at  last,  inspired 
a  will  to  battle,  a  passing  echo  of  ro- 
mance, of  the  activities  of  the  male 
Atta? 

Their  unnatural  combat  had  stirred 
scores  of  smaller  workers  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  excitement.  Now  and  then,  out 
of  the  melee,  a  medium  would  emerge, 
with  a  tiny  minim  in  his  jaws.  One  of 
these  carried  his  still  living  burden 
many  feet  away,  along  an  unused  trail, 
and  dropped  it.  I  examined  the  small 
ant,  and  found  that  it  had  lost  an  an- 
tenna, and  its  body  was  crushed.  When 
the  ball  of  fighters  cleared,  twelve  small 
ants  were  seen  clinging  to  the  legs  and 
heads  of  the  mutilated  giants,  and  now 
and  then  these  would  loosen  their  hold 
on  each  other,  turn,  and  crush  one  of 


their  small  tormenters.  Several  times  I 
saw  a  medium  rush  up  and  tear  a  small 
ant  away,  apparently  quite  insane  with 
excitement. 

Occasionally  the  least  exhausted  giant 
would  stagger  to  his  four  and  a  half 
remaining  legs,  hoist  his  assailant,  to- 
gether with  a  mass  of  the  midgets,  high 
in  air,  and  stagger  for  a  few  steps,  be- 
fore falling  beneath  the  onrush  of  new 
attackers.  It  made  me  wish  to  help  the 
great  insect,  who,  for  aught  I  knew,  was 
doomed  because  he  was  different  —  be- 
cause he  had  dared  to  be  an  individual. 

I  left  them  struggling  there,  and  half 
an  hour  later,  when  I  returned,  the 
episode  was  just  coming  to  a  climax. 
My  Atta  hero  was  exerting  his  last 
strength,  flinging  off  the  pile  that  as- 
saulted him,  fighting  all  the  easier 
because  of  the  loss  of  his  heavy  body. 
He  lurched  forward,  dragging  the  sec- 
ond giant,  now  dead,  not  toward  the 
deserted  trail  or  the  world  of  jungle 
around  him,  but  headlong  into  the 
lines  of  stupid  leaf-carriers,  scattering 
green  leaves  and  flower-petals  in  all 
directions.  Only  when  dozens  of  ants 
threw  themselves  upon  him,  many  of 
them  biting  each  other  in  their  wild 
confusion,  did  he  rear  up  for  the  last 
time,  and,  with  the  whole  mob,  rolled 
down  into  the  yawning  mouth  of  the 
Atta  nesting-hole,  disappearing  from 
view,  and  carrying  with  him  all  those 
hurrying  up  the  steep  sides.  It  was  a 
great  battle.  I  was  breathing  fast  with 
sympathy,  and  whatever  his  cause,  I 
was  on  his  side. 

The  next  day  both  giants  were  lying 
on  the  old,  disused  trail;  the  revolt 
against  absolute  democracy  was  over; 
ten  thousand  ants  passed  to  and  fro 
without  a  dissenting  thought,  or  any 
thought,  and  the  Spirit  of  the  Attas 
was  content. 


WHAT  DO  BOYS  KNOW? 


BY  ALFRED  G.  ROLFE 


'ALL  men  are  liars,'  said  the  Psalm- 
ist, in  his  haste.  It  was  a  rash  state- 
ment, which,  doubtless,  he  had  cause 
later  to  regret.  Were  he  living  now,  and 
a  teacher  of  youth,  he  might  well  be 
tempted  to  say  in  his  wrath,  'All  young 
people  are  fools ' ;  and  again  he  would  be 
wrong,  at  least  so  far  as  boys  are  con- 
cerned. Girls  I  must  leave  to  those  who 
know  them  better  than  I.  They  look 
intelligent;  but  appearances  are  deceit- 
ful, and  their  conversation,  while  pic- 
turesque, is  not  always  reassuring.  . 

Once  there  was  a  girl  who,  through  all 
the  courses  of  a  long  dinner,  entertained 
her  neighbor  with  sprightly  talk.  At 
the  time  he  thought  that  he  had  never 
enjoyed  a  conversation  more;  but  when 
he  meditated  upon  it,  in  the  cold  night 
watches,  he  realized  that  he  had  done 
all  the  talking,  her  share  being  confined 
to  two  words,  'rippin"  and  'rath-er.' 
The  rest  was  'charm.'  That  is,  how- 
ever, another  story. 

I  have  a  theory  that  girls  know  better 
than  boys  how  to  make  a  little  informa- 
tion, as  well  as  a  limited  vocabulary,  go 
a  long  way.  It  is  a  theory  the  truth  of 
which  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  establish, 
and  I  shall  not  attempt  to  do  so.  Boys, 
on  the  other  hand,  seem  at  times  to 
glory  in  their  ignorance.  They  wear  it 
as  a  garment ;  they  flaunt  it  in  one's  face. 
'The  world  is  still  deceived  with  orna- 
ment,' but  not  by  them.  Knowledge  is 
theirs,  but '  knowledge  never  learned  of 
schools,'  hidden  below  the  surface.  This 
makes  them  a  fascinating,  if  baffling, 
subject  of  study,  and  gives  point  to 
the  query,  'What  do  boys  know?' 


For  some  years  it  has  been  part  of 
my  job  as  master  in  a  large  preparatory 
school  for  boys,  to  make  out  each  year 
two  'information  tests,'  and  to  super- 
intend the  correction  of  the  papers. 
Each  test  contains  one  hundred  ques- 
tions, and  presupposes  on  the  part  of 
the  pupil  a  bowing  acquaintance  with 
the  masterpieces  of  English  literature, 
including  the  Bible,  some  knowledge  of 
the  political  doings  of  the  day  at  home 
and  abroad,  and  a  smattering  of  what  is 
politely,  but  vaguely,  styled  'general  in- 
formation,' which  comes  from  the  habit 
of  keeping  open  the  eyes  and  ears. 

The  boys  who  take  the  tests  range 
from  twelve  to  nineteen  years  of  age 
and  are,  for  the  most  part,  sons  of 
wealthy  parents.  They  have  enjoyed  all 
the  advantages  that  money  can  buy. 
Many  have  traveled  widely.  Not  a  few 
have  been  exposed  to  the  society  of  re- 
fined and  cultured  persons. 

The  tests  are  anticipated  with  an  in- 
terest that  amounts  almost  to  enthusi- 
asm. There  are  book  prizes  for  the  win- 
ners, and  the  successful  ones  receive 
from  their  fellows  plaudits  not  usually 
given  in  this  day  and  generation  to 
those  whose  wits  are  nimbler  than  their 
heels. 

After  reading  some  hundreds  of  these 
'general  information'  papers,  I  am 
forced  to  conclude  that  the  average 
boy's  ignorance  of  literature,  especially 
of  the  Bible,  is  profound,  not  to  say 
abysmal.  The  unplumbed  depth  of  the 
abyss  may,  perhaps,  be  assigned  to  the 
youth  who  gave  as  his  version  of  the 
third  commandment,  'Thou  shalt  not 

59 


60 


WHAT  DO  BOYS  KNOW? 


commit  Deuteronomy!'  but  he  will  not 
lack  company.  The  question,  'Who  led 
the  children  of  Israel  into  the  Promised 
Land?'  brought  out  an  amazing  array 
of  candidates  for  that  high  honor,  be- 
ginning with  Noah,  embracing  all  the 
prophets,  major  and  minor,  and  ending 
with  'Moses,  the  Baptist.'  Answers  to 
the  question,  'What  book  of  the  Old 
Testament  has  no  mention  of  God?' 
ranged  impartially  from  Genesis  to 
Malachi,  with  a  strong  bias  toward  the 
former,  in  spite  of  its  opening  words, 
'In  the  beginning  God  created  the 
heaven  and  the  earth.' 

It  is  only  too  evident  that  in  many 
modern  households  family  worship  is 
unknown.  No  longer  does  'the  priest- 
like  father  read  the  sacred  page,'  while 
'the  children  round  the  ingle  form  a 
circle  wide.'  As  a  matter  of  fact,  one 
would  have  to  look  far  to  find  an  ingle  in 
a  modern  apartment;  the  father,  quite 
unpriestlike  in  garb  and  conversation, 
is  on  the  links,  or  snuggling  with  pipe 
and  paper  in  his  easy  chair;  the  children 
are  swinging  wide  in  quite  another  sort 
of  circle,  and  the  family  Bible,  if  there 
be  one,  is  lying,  neglected,  on  the  table, 
hidden  from  sight  by  The  New  Repub- 
lic, Vanity  Fair  (not  Thackeray's),  and 
the  Golfer's  Companion. 

How,  then,  is  the  boy  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  'the  only  book,'  as  Wal- 
ter Scott  would  have  it?  In  Church  and 
Sunday  School?  Many  a  boy  never  has 
attended  either  of  them.  In  the  public 
school?  The  Bible  was  banished  from 
it  long  ago. 

There  remains  the  private  school,  in 
whose  curriculum  may  be  found  a  brief 
course  in  'Bible,'  which,  in  the  boy's 
mind,  takes  its  place  with  his  other 
lessons,  to  be  learned,  recited,  and  joy- 
fully forgotten  as  soon  as  possible. 
Why  should  he  know  who  pulled  down 
the  temple  of  Dagon,  or  who  slew  a 
thousand  men  with  the  jawbone  of  an 
ass?  These  tragic  happenings  mean  no 


more  to  him  than  the  death  of  Baldur, 
the  exploits  of  Asurbanipal,  or  many 
other  'old  unhappy  far-off  things  and 
battles  long  ago.' 

Clearly,  then,  the  fault  lies  not  with 
the  boy.  Teacher  and  parent  must 
share  the  blame,  and  it  would  ill  become 
one  who  views  the  matter  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  teacher  only,  to  say 
which  is  the  more  culpable. 

Unfortunately,  the  boy's  ignorance  of 
the  great  English  masterpieces  is  not 
limited  to  the  Bible.  Profane  literature 
receives  but  little  better  treatment  at 
his  hands.  Every  boy  has  a  few  favor- 
ite authors,  whom  he  holds  responsible 
for  all  that  has  been  written  in  prose  or 
verse  since  Shakespeare's  day.  Long- 
fellow heads  the  list,  with  Tennyson 
and  Kipling  following  closely;  and 
many  are  the  crimes  that  are  committed 
in  their  names.  There  is  some  reason 
for  attributing  The  Vision  of  Sir  Laun- 
fal  to  Lord  Tennyson,  for  he  sang  of 
knights  and  their  visions;  but  why 
should  he  be  made  to  father  Two  Years 
before  the  Mast,  Westward  Ho!  and  The 
Ancient  Mariner?  Evidently,  in  the 
minds  of  many  boys,  *  the  sea  is  his,  and 
he  made  it.'  There  are,  however,  two 
poems  which  every  boy  hails  with  joy 
as  his  very  own.  These  are  Hiawatha 
and  The  Raven.  Few  boys  have  read 
them,  and  fewer  could  quote  a  line  of 
them,  but  the  majority  identify  with- 
out difficulty  quotations  from  either. 
How  the  boy  knows  them,  I  cannot  tell, 
nor  can  he.  It  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of 
literature. 

'The  proper  study  of  mankind  is 
man,'  but  it  is  evident  that  boykind  has 
not  greatly  concerned  itself  with  the 
study  of  boy:  for  we  learn  that  the  cen- 
tre of  the  nervous  system  is  the  spine, 
spleen,  lungs,  pancreas,  and  'diafram'; 
the  bones  of  the  forearm  are  the  elbow, 
biceps,  forceps,  and  habeas  corpus;  the 
normal  temperature  of  the  human  body 
varies  from  fifty  to  two  hundred  and 


WHAT  DO  BOYS  KNOW? 


61 


twelve  degrees,  Fahrenheit;  and  one 
element  in  the  atmosphere  essential  to 
the  support  of  human  life  is  gasoline, 
the  other  being,  presumably,  'Mobiloil.' 

The  female  of  the  species,  if  not  more 
deadly  than  the  male,  is,  in  the  boy's 
mind,  more  pervasive,  for  the  feminine 
of  ram  is  doe,  dam,  yew,  roe,  nanny- 
goat,  and  she-ram;  while  the  feminine 
of  farmer  —  hardly  a  fair  question,  that 
—  is  milkmaid,  old  maid,  farmeuse, 
husband-woman,  and  Mrs.  Farmer. 

It  has  long  been  maintained  that  no 
English  word  rhymes  with  window,  but 
one  test  brought  to  light  several  such 
rhymes,  among  them  widow,  Hindu, 
akimbo,  shadow,  billow,  and  potato! 

When  the  history  and  geography  of 
the  United  States  are  in  question,  the 
answers  are  equally  astounding.  The 
largest  city  of  Ohio  is  Detroit,  St. 
Louis,  '  Sinsinnatah,'  and  'Omerhaw.' 
(The  average  boy  refuses  to  be  a  slave 
to  orthography.)  Washington,  Lincoln, 
Garfield,  McKinley,  and  Roosevelt  were 
all  impeached,  Farragut  was  admiral  in 
the  Spanish  war,  and  Mr.  Taft  was  the 
third  President  of  the  United  States. 
In  the  youthful  mind  'a  hundred  years 
are  as  a  day,'  and  it  matters  little 
whether  Lee  surrendered  at  Appomat- 
tox  or  at  Yorktown. 

There  is,  however,  a  brighter  side  of 
the  picture.  Mother-wit  often  comes  to 
the  aid  of  ignorance,  and  the  task  of  the 
examiner  is  lightened  by  many  a  gleam 
of  humor.  What,  for  instance,  could  be 
better  than  the  answer  which  one  boy 
gave  to  the  question,  'Who  discovered 
the  Pacific  Ocean?'  His  natural  an- 
swer would  have  been,  'You  can  search 
me ' ;  but  flippancy  is  not  encouraged ;  so 
he  replied,  "The  natives  who  lived  along 
the  shore.'  Another  defined  conjunctiv- 
itis as  '  the  knack  of  getting  along  with 
people';  and  a  third  would  have  a  bar- 
racuda 'a  feast  where  oxen  are  roasted 
whole.' 

'How  many  legs  has  a  Kaffir?'  was  a 


staggerer.  Conjecture  ranged  from  two 
to  twelve,  the  majority  favoring  three, 
without  making' it  clear  what  the  un- 
fortunate creature  could  do  with  the 
odd  leg. 

What  is  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter?  May  we  say  in  our  haste  that 
all  boys  are  fools?  Prithee,  not  too  fast. 
These  are  out-of-doors  boys,  living  in 
a  world  of  motor-cars,  air-planes,  and 
wireless.  Many  a  boy  who  could  not 
for  his  life  name  a  member  of  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's  Cabinet,  can,  by  the  sound  of  the 
engine,  'spot'  every  motor-car  made  in 
this  country,  improvise  an  aerial  from 
the  springs  of  his  bed,  or  draw  a  model 
of  a  gasoline  engine  that  would  do 
credit  to  a  mechanical  engineer.  Child- 
ren of  Martha,  'they  are  concerned 
with  matters  hidden  —  under  the  earth- 
line  their  altars  lie.' 

Perhaps  they  have  chosen  the  better 
part.  Who  can  say?  At  any  rate,  they 
are  content  to  leave  letters  to  those 
who  love  them;  to  let  their  secretaries 
do  their  spelling,  and  politicians  man- 
age the  government,  'while  they  finger 
death  at  their  gloves'  end.' 

I,  who  can  distinguish  but  two  makes 
of  automobiles  without  giving  a  furtive 
glance  at  the  hub-caps,  am  thankful 
that  it  is  mine  to  ask  the  questions,  not 
to  answer  them.  I  know  full  well  that 
many  boys  who  cannot  say  whether 
Keats  is  a  poet  or  a  breakfast  food 
could  make  out  a  test  that  would  put 
their  masters  to  shame. 

Times  have  changed,  and  those  who 
aspire  to  ride  the  whirlwind  have  neither 
time  nor  inclination  to  trudge  along 
the  dusty  paths  of  learning  that  their 
fathers  trod. 

Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back. 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut,  — 

and  he  who  judges  a  quarrel  between 
the  mountain  and  the  squirrel  has  no 
easy  task. 


THE  CHRISTENING  OF  THE  BELL 


BY  BELLE   SKINNER 


ON  the  thirteenth  of  September, 
1920,  the  bell  was  christened. 

It  was  a  perfect  day  —  not  a  cloud  in 
the  blue  sky,  not  a  breath  of  wind,  not 
too  warm,  not  too  cool,  brilliant  sun- 
shine —  a  perfect  day. 

The  little  village  on  the  hill,  the  gray 
ruins  of  the  Gothic  church,  the  bell- 
tower,  the  classic  lines  of  the  old  mar- 
ket, the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  few  rebuilt 
cottages  —  all  these,  with  the  French 
and  American  flags  and  garlands  of 
laurel  leaves,  made  an  incomparable  set- 
ting for  the  ceremony. 

The  idea  came  about  through  a  con- 
versation with  my  host,  the  cure  of 
Hattonchatel,  in  which  he  told  me  of 
the  ancient  glories  of  the  village,  of  its 
long  ecclesiastical  history  dating  back 
to  the  tenth  century.  In  those  early 
days  Hattonchatel  was  famous  as  a 
place  of  retreat  for  the  bishops  of  Ver- 
dun, Metz,  and  Toul,  from  one  of  whom, 
Bishop  Hatton,  it  took  its  name,  chdtel, 
of  course,  being  the  old  form  of  cha- 
teau; and  for  several  succeeding  cen- 
turies it  belonged  to  the  Church  —  a 
fortress  village  enclosed  by  high,  thick 
walls. 

It  was  during  its  ecclesiastical  exist- 
ence that  Hattonchatel  acquired  most 
of  its  glory.  The  present  church  was 
built  then,  pure  Gothic  in  style,  as  were 
the  cloisters  connecting  the  church  with 
the  bishop's  palace  at  the  end  of  the 
street;  for  bishops  in  those  days  did  not 
walk  exposed  to  the  elements.  Houses 
for  the  priests  who  came  in  the  bishop's 
train  were  built  then,  also,  and  the 
famous  old  Market,  now  one  of  the 

62 


Monuments  Historiques  of  France.  But 
though  Hattonchatel  was,  first  of  all, 
an  ecclesiastical  village,  it  was  not  un- 
known to  the  Court;  its  forest  was  one 
of  the  hunting  preserves  of  Louis  XIV; 
and  during  the  season  for  chasing  the 
wild  boar,  Hattonchatel  heard  more 
than  the  mass. 

Time  passed. 

Wars  were  fought  around  the  village; 
for  Hattonchatel  has  always  been  the 
heart's  desire  of  conquerors.  Lying  as 
it  does  on  the  crest  of  a  high  hill,  which 
juts  out  like  a  promontory  into  the 
valley  of  the  Meuse  six  hundred  feet 
below,  it  dominates  the  countryside,  and 
in  the  days  of  milder  warfare  was  prac- 
tically unassailable. 

The  Swedish  bombardment,  how- 
ever, of  the  fourteenth  century  did  its 
work  well.  The  walls  of  the  fortress 
were  broken  down,  the  strong  gates 
demolished,  and  its  entrance  being  no 
longer  barred,  peasant-life  appeared  in 
Hattonchatel. 

Out  of  the  stones  of  the  almost  wholly 
destroyed  church  property  the  new- 
comers built  their  homes;  and  as  the 
centuries  passed,  the  fame  of  Hatton- 
chatel was  no  longer  in  the  splendor  of 
the  Roman  Church  or  in  the  brilliance 
of  the  French  Court;  rather,  its  glory  lay 
in  the  courage  of  those  spirits  whose 
descendants,  undaunted,  are  to-day  re- 
surrecting their  devastated  provinces 
—  the  peasants  of  France. 

Monsieur  le  cure  sadly  called  my  at- 
tention to  the  empty  bell-tower,  and 
told  me  what  the  church  bell  means  to 
a  rural  community  in  France:  how  the 


THE   CHRISTENING  OF  THE  BELL 


63 


villagers  love  and  listen  for  it  and  sing 
songs  about  it,  and  how  they  speak  of 
it  affectionately  as  of  a  person,  for  bells 
have  names  in  France.  It  is  the  bell 
that  wakens  them  hi  the  early  mom- 
ing  and  sends  them  to  the  fields  to 
work;  it  tells  them  the  noon  hour;  and 
again,  the  day's  work  done,  it  sounds 
the  Angelus,  bidding  the  faithful  to 
prayer.  It  announces  all  the  fetes,  it 
rings  for  the  marriages,  the  births,  the 
deaths. 

Then  the  cure  went  on  to  tell  me 
how,  during  the  German  occupation  of 
the  village,  their  church  bell  had  been 
taken  away  and  melted  for  military 
purposes,  and  they  had  heard  no  bell  hi 
Hattonchatel  for  five  long  years. 

The  story  was  so  simple,  so  appealing, 
that  I  could  only  say,  'Oh,  monsieur  le 
cure,  let  me  replace  the  stolen  bell.' 

He  replied,  'Ah,  mademoiselle,  Ger- 
many must  pay  for  the  wanton  destruc- 
tion she  wrought  in  our  villages,  but,  of 
course,  we  do  not  know  when  we  can 
collect  the  money,  and  in  the  meantime 
—  perhaps  — ' 

So  the  bell  was  ordered,  of  bronze,  a 
metre  in  height. 

It  is  beautifully  embossed  with  the 
symbols  of  the  Roman  Church,  to  which 
was  added,  according  to  custom,  its 
name. 

I  fell  in  with  the  cure's  suggestion 
that  the  bell  should  have  my  name;  but 
my  name  is  Belle,  and  the  cure  with  a 
rueful  shake  of  his  head  objected  that 
no  saint  had  ever  been  named  Belle, 
and  church  bells  must  bear  the  names 
of  saints.  I  admitted  that  I  had  been 
christened  Isabel.  Smiling  approval, 
and  with  a  splendid  disregard  of  the 
English  spelling,  the  cure  wrote  out, 
'Isabelle.' 

But  that  was  not  all.  A  bell,  it  seems, 
must  have  two  Christian  names. 

The  cure  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 
I  suggested  Ruth,  my  other  name. 
With  a  deprecating  gesture  he  replied 


testily,  'No,  no,  we  cannot  have  Ruth.' 
As  I  had  no  other  name  to  offer,  the 
cure,  inscrutable  as  the  Sphinx,  impa- 
tiently tapped  his  pencil  on  the  table 
and  said,  'Then  choose  a  name.' 

Almost  with  fear  and  trembling  I 
gave  my  mother's,  'Sarah.' 

'Ah,  Sarah  has  been  sainted,'  he  re- 
plied softly,  and  wrote  in  full,  'Sarah 
Isabelle.' 

It  piqued  my  disposition  to  inquire 

—  Isabelle  a  saint  in  perfectly  good 
standing:  Ruth  without  the  fold.  Why, 
I  wondered?    But  I  did  not  ask  the 
cure.    I  rarely  bother  him  with  ques- 
tions. When  I  am  a  part  of  his  house- 
hold, I  feel  that  I  am  living  Balzac,  and 
I  would  not  venture  to  show  an  indis- 
creet curiosity  that  might  break  the 
charm. 

In  that  war-torn  house  the  spell  of 
the  eighteenth  century  is  everywhere 

—  in  the  irregular  flagstones  of  the  cor- 
ridors, hi  the  bits  of  faded  wall-paper 
still  hanging  here  and  there,  even  in 
the  cheap  oak  centre  table  about  which 
we  sat  for  our  many  conferences  —  a 
strange  company:  the  cure  alert,  re- 
sourceful, always  the  dominant  figure; 
the  mayor  shy,  silent,  determined;  the 
notary  looking  like  a  sketch  by  Thack- 
eray, and  talking  grandiloquently  — 
these  three  children  of  Hattonchatel 
breathing  forth  the  atmosphere  of  old 
France,  and  I  of  another  age  and  world, 
yet  feeling  through  them  the  antiquity, 
the  splendor,  and  the  genius  of  their 
country,  their  ideal  of  patriotism;  see- 
ing through  their  eyes  the  changeless 
character  and  fearless  courage  of  the 
men  and  women  of  Northern  France, 
who,  in  the  face  of  seemingly  insuper- 
able difficulties  and  hardships,  are  al- 
ready beginning  life  anew  amid  the 
rums. 

Hattonchatel  on  the  C6tes-de-Meuse, 
in  all  its  quaint  beauty,  has  been  quite 
unknown  to  tourists.  Before  the  war 
the  only  way  of  visiting  the  village  was 


64 


THE   CHRISTENING  OF  THE  BELL 


on  foot.  Now  there  is  a  good  motor- 
road  to  the  top  of  the  hill;  but  the  vil- 
lage itself  remains  the  France  of  two 
hundred  years  ago,  unchanged.  Gen- 
eration after  generation  of  French  peas- 
ants have  lived  as  their  fathers  lived, 
and  died  as  their  fathers  died,  within 
the  village  walls,  knowing  nothing  and 
desiring  nothing  but  Hattonchatel. 

This  village,  then,  gave  the  setting 
for  the  mediaeval  ceremony  of  the  chris- 
tening of  the  bell.  We  had  chosen  the 
date  —  September  the  thirteenth,  the 
second  anniversary  of  the  liberation  of 
the  village  by  French  and  American 
troops,  the  two  armies  having  come  to- 
gether at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  exact 
point  of  meeting  is  marked  by  a  stone 
shaft  erected  about  a  year  ago,  by  the 
Salvation  Army,  to  the  memory  of  the 
First  Division,  the  first  of  our  troops  to 
engage  with  the  French  in  the  battle  for 
Hattonchatel. 

Perhaps  because  the  hill  was  of  such 
military  importance  during  the  Great 
War,  perhaps  because  it  was  wrested 
from  the  Germans  by  the  help  of 
America,  perhaps,  too,  a  little  because 
the  new  church  bell  would  so  soon  and 
for  always  speak  of  America's  love  for 
France  —  perhaps  for  these  reasons  the 
authorities  decided  to  add  to  the  chris- 
tening ceremony  exercises  by  the  State 
in  celebration  of  the  partial  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  village,  especially  the  instal- 
lation of  the  water-system.  General 
Berthelot,  Governor-General  of  Metz, 
was  chosen  to  represent  the  Army,  and 
the  Sous-Prefet  of  the  Meuse,  to  repre- 
sent the  Department. 

When  I  looked  out  of  my  window  in 
the  cure's  house,  at  eight  o'clock  on  the 
morning  of  the  great  day,  the  hill  was 
already  black  with  people  coming  to 
the  fete.  Some  of  them  had  walked 
half  the  night,  so  eager  were  they  to  be 
present.  Up  the  hill  they  came,  in  fam- 
ilies, in  pairs,  in  groups  of  eight  or  ten, 


old  and  young,  weak  and  strong,  many 
of  them  wearing  the  costumes  of  Alsace 
and  Lorraine,  all  in  holiday  attire,  their 
worn  faces  aglow  with  pleasure  and  ex- 
citement —  coming  to  the  Christening. 

The  exercises  began  with  mass  at  ten 
o'clock,  at  which  a  tablet  dedicated  to 
the  memory  of  the  soldier  dead  of  Hat- 
tonchatel was  unveiled.  This  cere- 
mony, conducted  by  Monseigneur  Ge- 
nisty,  the  Bishop  of  Verdun,  took  place 
in  the  ruins  of  the  church.  There  was 
no  cover  over  our  heads.  Not  a  vestige 
of  roof  remains.  During  the  five  years 
that  the  interior  of  the  church  has  been 
exposed  to  the  weather,  shrubs  four  or 
five  feet  high  have  grown  up  in  the 
nave;  and  it  was  against  this  lovely 
background  of  green  that  we  built  a 
temporary  altar.  On  one  side  of  the  al- 
tar was  improvised  a  throne  for  the 
bishop;  on  the  other  the  peasant  choir 
was  grouped  about  a  little  portable 
organ. 

The  scene  amid  the  ruins:  the  bishop 
in  his  purple  robes,  the  acolytes  in 
crimson  slowly  swinging  the  golden  cen- 
sers, the  low  chanting  of  the  attendant 
priests  and  the  youthful  voices  of  the 
choir  in  response  —  this,  with  the  sun's 
rays  glinting  on  fragments  of  precious 
old  glass  still  hanging  in  the  battered 
window-frames,  making  them  flash  like 
jewels,  and,  every  available  nook  and 
corner  packed  with  peasants,  their  heads 
bowed  in  reverence,  made  an  unfor- 
gettable picture.  As  the  services  pro- 
ceeded and  the  prayers  were  read,  a 
fanfare  of  trumpets,  from  the  chas- 
seurs-a-pied  stationed  in  the  cloister, 
thrilled  us  with  the  thought  of  what  the 
French  army  had  meant  to  civilization, 
as  it  saddened  us  with  the  remembrance 
of  France's  terrible  losses  in  the  war, 
the  while  the  smoke  of  the  burning  in- 
cense rising  through  the  roofless  church 
to  heaven  made  us  feel  that  every  pray- 
er for  the  soldier  dead  was  mounting 
straight  to  the  Throne  of  God. 


THE   CHRISTENING  OF  THE  BELL 


65 


The  mass  ended,  we  went  outside 
for  the  principal  event  of  the  day  —  the 
Christening  of  the  Bell. 

This  ceremony  of  mediaeval  origin, 
performed  with  all  the  pomp  and  dig- 
nity of  the  Roman  Church,  was  full 
of  picturesque  details.  Above  us  was 
the  cloudless  blue,  around  us  were  the 
wrecks  of  war  —  heaps  and  heaps  of 
stones  piled  high,  the  tottering  walls  of 
the  church,  its  bell-tower  strangely  up- 
right; beyond,  on  all  sides,  the  peasants, 
the  black  Alsatian  bows  and  the  white 
caps  of  Lorraine  mingling  with  the  dull 
gray  garments  of  every  day,  all  eagerly 
crowding  in.  Against  these  sombre  col- 
ors the  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  gen- 
eral and  his  staff"  stood  out  in  vivid  con- 
trast; while  stretching  up  the  village 
street  and  fading  away  into  the  sky  were 
masses  of  horizon  blue,  the  uniform  of 
the  poilu  of  France. 

The  bell  was  placed  on  a  low  plat- 
form near  the  entrance  to  the  cloisters. 
It  was  hung  in  a  wooden  frame  en- 
twined with  green  garlands  and  pink 
roses,  and  surmounted  by  a  golden 
cross.  At  the  right  of  the  platform 
stood  the  godfather  and  godmother  of 
the  bell.  On  the  other  side  were  the 
priests  and  the  choir.  Opposite,  and 
facing  the  bell,  we  built  a  tribune  for 
the  speakers  and  invited  guests,  and 
decorated  it  with  the  flags  of  France 
and  America. 

But  the  bell  did  not  hang  in  the 
frame  in  its  naked  bronze:  it  was  draped 
in  a  white  lace  robe,  veiled  from  curious 
eyes  as  is  a  bride,  and  at  a  given  point 
in  the  ceremony,  the  veil  was  laid  back 
just  as  a  bride  is  unveiled  at  the  altar, 
and  the  bishop,  amid  the  low  chanting 
of  the  priests  and  the  burning  of  the 
incense,  touched  it  with  holy  water  and 
pronounced  its  name. 

'Je  m'appelle  Sarah  Isabelle.  J'ai 
pour  parrain  Monsieur  Jules  Haldrech, 
Maire.  J'ai  pour  marraine  Miss  Skin- 
ner. J'ai  ete  baptisee  par  Monseigneur 

VOL.  188— NO.  1 
C 


Genisty,  1'Eveque  de  Verdun,  le  13 
Septembre,  1920, 1'Abbe  Thierry  etant 
cure  a  Hattonchatel.' 

The  tongue  was  then  placed  in  the 
bell,  for  as  yet,  remember,  no  one  had 
heard  its  voice;  a  long  blue  ribbon  was 
attached  to  it,  which  the  bishop  pulled 
three  times,  announcing  in  loud  tones 
to  Hattonchatel  and  the  whole  coun- 
tryside the  advent,  let  us  hope,  of  hap- 
pier days  for  those  stricken  villages. 
His  Grace  then  passed  the  ribbon  to 
me,  and  I  too  sent  the  rich  tone  ringing 
out  across  the  valley;  hi  turn,  the  mayor 
and  the  cure  followed. 

Then  to  the  music  of  the  Marche  Lor- 
raine we  crossed  over  to  the  tribune, 
where  the  civil  exercises  were  opened  by 
General  Berthelot.  The  general  paid 
a  graceful  tribute  to  America's  help  in 
the  St.  Mihiel  Salient,  with  particular 
reference  to  Hattonchatel;  after  which 
Monsieur  le  Sous-Prefet  spoke  elo- 
quently of  the  work  of  reconstruction 
in  the  Department  of  the  Meuse,  and  of 
what  had  already  been  accomplished 
there.  He  was  followed  by  Major  Cot- 
chett,  representing  the  American  Em- 
bassy at  Paris. 

The  speeches  ended,  the  marraine  of 
the  bell,  as  a  part  of  the  christening 
ceremony  and  in  keeping  with  its  medi- 
seval  character,  stepped  out  from  the 
tribune  and,  amid  acclaims  and  huz- 
zas, quite  in  the  manner  of  a  feudal 
lord  giving  largesse,  scattered  dragees 
to  the  crowds. 

So  ended  the  christening. 

Immediately  afterward  luncheon  was 
served.  It  was  like  the  feeding  of  the 
five  thousand,  with  the  miracle  left  out. 
The  peasants  of  the  village  were  served 
in  their  own  homes;  the  principal  guests 
were  seated  at  a  long  table  in  the  open 
square;  the  crowds  found  places  for 
themselves  among  the  ruins;  but  all 
were  served.  While  we  were  engaged  in 
eating,  the  newly  christened  bell  was 
hoisted  into  the  belfry,  and  a  little  later, 


66 


FOR  INSTANCE  —  PAUL  ZONBOR 


very  dramatically,  just  as  the  cham- 
pagne was  being  served,  it  pealed  forth. 
The  silence  of  five  years  of  suffering 
was  broken.  Instinctively  the  musi- 
cians sti«uck  up  the  Sambre  et  Meuse, 
the  whole  company  rose  to  its  feet  and, 
with  tears  in  eyes  and  voice,  saluted 
'Sarah  Isabelle.' 
Toward  evening  we  went  down  the 


hill,  —  on  foot,  like  pilgrims  going  to  a 
shrine,  —  and  in  the  deep  shadow  we 
placed  upon  the  monument  to  the  First 
Division  a  laurel  wreath.  Carried  as  it 
was  by  two  common  soldiers,  a  dough- 
boy of  America  and  a  poilu  of  France, 
to  us  it  symbolized  the  close  union  of 
the  two  great  Republics  —  together  in 
war,  together  in  peace. 


FOR  INSTANCE  — PAUL  ZONBOR 


BY  HARRY  HUBERT  FIELD 


Unless  we  take  seriously  to  heart  the  ed- 
ucation of  .  .  .  the  foreign-born,  we  shatt 
sooner  or  later  suffer  the  consequences. 
—  GENERAL  JOHN  J.  PERSHING. 


PAUL  ZONBOR,  son  of  a  Hungarian 
laborer,  was  born  hi  a  small  village  near 
the  town  of  Temesvar,  where  German 
is  the  common  tongue. 

In  his  childhood,  Paul  went  to  the 
village  school,  where,  as  he  saw  it  in 
after  years,  the  chief  subject  of  enlight- 
enment was,  in  general,  the  greatness 
and  glory  of  the  reigning  families  of  the 
Austro-Hungarian  kingdoms,  and,  in 
particular,  the  names  of  each  and  every 
prince,  duke,  and  baron  of  the  Haps- 
burg  Empire,  their  titles,  their  great 
services  to  the  country,  their  still  great- 
er service  to  the  world  at  large.  Super- 
men, these  all,  as  Paul  and  his  mates 
were  taught:  gods  on  earth,  to  be  feared 
and  venerated. 

At  the  age  of  twelve,  Paul,  taken 
from  school,  was  sent  into  the  fields, 
where,  with  other  laborers,  he  worked 


for  a  wage  that  barely  bought  food 
enough  to  maintain  life,  leaving  the  ac- 
quisition of  clothing  to  kindly  hazard. 

As  to  the  fields  themselves,  they  be- 
longed to  a  wealthy  baron.  His  name 
the  laborers  knew,  but  not  his  face. 
What,  indeed,  should  such  a  fine  gentle- 
man do,  in  a  place  so  barbarous,  so  out- 
landish as  this  his  estate  on  the  Temes? 

Still,  it  appeared  he  had  need  of 
whatever  they  could  possibly  make  for 
him.  So  they  went  to  work  at  sunrise. 
And  when  the  sun  stood  over  their 
heads,  they  stopped  to  eat  their  midday 
meal.  And  when  the  sun  sank  low,  they 
stumbled  home,  dog-tired,  to  their  rest, 
only  to  rise  with  the  morrow's  sun  for 
another  day  like  the  last.  The  sky  was 
their  only  clock,  its  moods  their  only 
variety. 

Thus  the  years  passed,  until  the  time 
drew  near  when  Paul  must  follow  his 
brothers  and  his  friends  into  the  army, 
to  serve  his  two  years  of  compulsory 
training. 

Now,  the  chief  conscious  grievance 
among  the  peasant  inhabitants  of  the 
Temes  district  was  that  their  sons  were 


FOR  INSTANCE  —  PAUL  ZONBOR 


67 


forced  to  give  two  years  out  of  their 
young  lives  for  this  same  military  train- 
ing; forced  to  give  two  precious  years 
to  learn  to  defend  with  their  own  blood 
the  lands  of  their  princes  and  dukes; 
to  learn  to  fight  for  their  task-master's 
sake,  whenever  their  task-master's  lands 
or  privileges  might  be  endangered. 

Further,  the  men  conscripted  from 
the  Temes  district  must  join  a  regiment 
officered  by  Austrians,  who  neither  un- 
derstood their  men  nor  were  in  the  least 
concerned  about  their  lives  or  comforts. 
'Hungarian  dogs,'  their  expression  ran, 
'what  are  they  fit  for  but  cannon-fod- 
der in  case  of  need!  Everything  to  its 
use.' 

Then,  when  the  young  men  came 
back  to  the  village,  the  two  years  done, 
invariably  they  brought  tales  of  brutal 
floggings  undergone,  of  long  sentences 
served  in  unspeakable  prisons,  of  pro- 
digious cruelties  wantonly  inflicted  for 
offenses  that,  in  the  eyes  of  humane  of- 
ficers, would  have  passed  unrecognized 
as  offenses  at  all.  Many  wore  disfigur- 
ing scars  —  the  marks  of  willful  blows 
from  Austrian  officers.  And  so,  as  the 
time  came  near  when  Paul  must  stand 
his  turn,  his  ever-present  under-horror 
became  a  constant  obsession,  and  his 
nightly  dreams  were  of  conscription,  of 
Austrian  officers  striking  him  with 
swords,  of  hideous  black  dungeons  in 
which  he  fought  for  his  food,  fought  for 
his  life,  fought  for  his  reason,  against 
battalions  of  rats. 

Then  came  a  Sunday  afternoon  when 
an  uncle  visited  the  Zonbors'  mean  little 
cottage,  bringing  a  letter  from  his  son, 
Paul's  cousin,  who  had  dared  the  un- 
known and  crossed  the  sea.  The  letter 
spoke  of  a  new  land  of  promise  —  of  a 
country  of  the  free,  where  men  earned 
more  than  a  mere  existing  wage;  a  coun- 
try where  men  were  men,  not  mere  slaves 
to  the  earth. 

Thus  it  was  that  Paul  Zonbor  first 
heard  of  the  United  States  of  America. 


And  from  that  very  Sunday  he  deter- 
mined to  leave  to  the  Austrian  officers 
one  man  less  to  maltreat  —  to  follow 
his  bold  cousin  and  to  try  his  luck  in  the 
Country  of  the  Free. 

n 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1906, 
to  be  exact,  that  a  ship  crowded  with 
emigrants  from  Southeastern  Europe, 
entering  New  York  Harbor,  brought  as 
an  atom  among  the  horde  this  son  of  a 
Hungarian  laborer,  from  the  little  vil- 
lage near  Temesvar. 

Once  ashore,  the  atom  shared  a  com- 
mon lot  —  he  was  caught  by  one  of 
the  swarm  of  mercenary  employment 
agents,  who  are  always  alert  and  eager 
to  clutch  any  ignorant  victim,  to  suck 
out  his  all. 

'  These  labor  agencies  are  often  owned 
and  staffed  by  men  born  in  Central 
Europe  —  men  who,  when  first  they 
set  foot  in  America,  were  themselves 
helpless  atoms  in  a  helpless  mass,  and 
who  themselves  fell  easy  prey  to  the 
sharks.  But,  their  own  sufferings  out- 
lived, they  draw  from  their  scars  no 
lesson  of  compassion  —  nothing  but 
a  sinister  shrewdness  in  doing  as  they 
were  done  by.  Posing  as  friends  of  the 
stranger  in  the  land,  they  exploit  the 
ignorance  of  their  own  countrymen,  and 
make  a  cannibal  livelihood  by  skinning 
them  alive. 

But  Paul  Zonbor  knew  nothing  of 
these  things.  And  now,  whether  for 
good  or  for  evil,  he  had  arrived  in  the 
Promised  Land.  To-day,  years  later,  — 
a  point  which  should  be  borne  well  in 
mind  throughout  this  account,  —  to- 
day, years  later,  Paul  Zonbor,  looking 
back  on  these  his  first  experiences,  en- 
tirely forgets  the  nationality  of  those 
who  skinned  him,  remembering  only 
that  it  was  in  America,  the  Land  of  the 
Free,  the  Promised  Land,  that  he  was 
so  skinned. 


68 


FOR  INSTANCE  — PAUL  ZONBOR 


The  job  that  he  got  from  the  canni- 
bals took  him  into  a  night  bakery,  in  the 
colossal  city.  Here  again  his  mother- 
tongue,  German,  greeted  him  —  was 
the  only  language  either  spoken  or  un- 
derstood; and  during  the  period  that 
followed,  he  not  only  worked,  but  lived, 
moved,  had  his  entire  being  among 
a  German-speaking,  German-thinking 
population.  Never  did  it  occur  to  him 
—  never  was  it  suggested  to  him  —  to 
try  to  learn  something  about  the  strange 
country  that  he  had  so  newly  made  his 
home.  His  work  left  him  stupefied.  He 
seemed  to  have  neither  will  nor  energy 
nor  imagination,  when  it  was  done,  to 
reach  out  beyond  into  the  true  mean- 
ing, whatever  that  might  be,  of  the 
Promised  Land.  He  did  not  even  sus- 
pect that  it  had  another  aspect  than 
that  in  which  he  slaved.  To  all  intents, 
he  was  living  in  Hungary,  under  Aus- 
trian influences  still. 

But  even  to-day  he  does  not  realize 
this.  He  still  thinks  that  America,  the 
Promised  Land,  of  her  own  deliberate 
greed  and  inhumanity  shoved  him  into 
that  hole. 

Yet,  through  the  haze  in  his  dull 
brain,  one  longing  did  arise  and  grow  — 
a  great  and  greater  longing  for  open  air. 
After  the  big  skies  of  Central  Europe, 
the  long  nights  in  an  underground  ba- 
kery, so  suddenly  assumed,  were  soon 
intolerable;  and,  after  he  had  taken  his 
necessary  amount  of  sleep,  the  rag  of 
daylight  that  remained  was  not  enough. 
So,  after  a  few  months  of  stifling,  the 
emigrant,  bestirring  himself,  made  shift 
for  breath,  and  changed  his  vocation  to 
that  of  laborer  for  a  contracting  com- 
pany. You  can  see  the  like  of  him,  any 
hour  of  any  day,  in  any  big  city,  han- 
dling a  pick  or  shovel  in  the  excavation 
for  a  new  sky-scraper.  And  so,  with  no 
wider  change,  his  life  wound  on. 

But  one  morning  came  an  incident: 
the  man  at  the  control  carelessly  push- 
ed the  wrong  lever.  Bang!  Crash!  A 


cry  —  a  moan  —  silence.  The  crane 
had  dropped  its  load.  And  two  men 
who,  a  moment  before,  had  been  active 
bread-winners,  lay  motionless,  crushed 
to  death.  The  boss  came  along  to  gath- 
er the  story,  while  the  dead  men  lay  at 
his  feet. 

'Oh,  well  —  they  're  only  Hunkies!' 
he  exclaimed,  prefacing  his  orders  with 
that  one  phrase  of  relief. 

Paul  Zonbor  caught  the  words,  and, 
by  a  perverse  chance,  he  understood 
them  every  one.  Through  the  fogs  in 
his  brain  they  took  on  life  and  glowed 
dully,  with  an  evil  fire.  And  they  made 
his  first  clear  picture  of  the  concept  that 
he  was  finally  to  call  America. 

America,  he  perceived,  was  a  place 
where  'Hunkies'  did  not  matter,  alive 
or  dead.  American  bosses,  then,  were 
merely  Austrian  officers  in  another 
guise.  'Only  Hunkies'  and  'cannon- 
fodder'  were  synonyms. 

The  laborers  had  no  right  under  the 
crane? 

The  incident  was  an  exceptional  one? 

Not  more  than  one  boss  in  a  thou- 
sand is  like  the  man  that  Paul  heard 
speak? 

True,  true,  true;  and  that  thousandth 
boss  was  probably  born  anywhere  on 
earth  except  under  the  Eagle  of  Liberty. 

All  true.  Yet  Paul  Zonbor,  living  in 
the  Promised  Land,  to  this  day  thinks 
of  that  early  boss  of  his  as  a  typical 
American,  and  believes  the  typical 
American  boss  to  be  a  cold-blooded 
slave-driver. 

To  be  sure,  he  himself  has  since  had 
bosses  who  have  treated  him  in  a  hu- 
mane and  friendly  way;  but  these,  he  is 
certain,  must  be  the  exceptions  that 
prove  the  rule,  as  the  only  ones  that 
he  hears  of  aside  from  his  own  experi- 
ence are  described  as  slave-drivers  and 
brutes. 

Next,  while  Paul  was  working  with 
the  spade,  came  an  opportunity  to  go  to 
Pittsburgh,  at  better  wages.  He  went. 


FOR  INSTANCE  —  PAUL  ZONBOR 


69 


Once  arrived  in  the  great  iron  centre, 
again  he  found  whole  communities  liv- 
ing the  only  life  he  knew,  speaking  the 
only  tongue  he  understood,  and  being 
the  only  things  he  imagined  men  to  be. 
Here  again,  it  was  as  if  a  piece  of  the 
Hapsburg  Empire  had  been  transplant- 
ed into  the  heart  of  the  United  States . 
Here,  to  such  a  community  he  naturally 
gravitated,  and  was  at  once  submerged. 
Here,  too,  he  met  the  woman  he  made 
his  wife  —  a  woman  differing  in  no  de- 
gree or  habit  from  the  one  he  would 
have  married  had  he  never  left  his  na- 
tive land. 

By  and  by  bad  times  came  to  Pitts- 
burgh— strikes  and  riots,  want  and  mis- 
ery. Men  were  tossed  about,  pawns  in 
a  game  they  did  not  understand.  Thus 
we  find  Paul  Zonbor,  with  a  handful 
of  his  countrymen,  again  casting  loose 
and  moving  with  all  their  possessions 

—  this  time  to  Buffalo. 

Here  Paul  locates  in  a  section  of  the 
city  where  he  is  able  to  buy  all  the  ne- 
cessities of  life  from  stores  owned  by 
his  countrymen;  where  the  Austrians, 
the  Southern  Europeans,  the  Germans, 
have  their  own  saloons,  their  own  banks 
and  clubs;  where  they  never  come  into 
contact  with  English-speaking  Amer- 
icans outside  their  laboring  hours. 

And  again  Paul  is  swallowed  up  in  a 
little  Central  Europe,  under  the  spray 
of  Niagara  Falls! 

HI 

Nevertheless,  what  with  the  passing 
of  years,  what  with  the  evolution  of  nat- 
ural character,  Paul,  for  all  the  tightness 
of  the  shell  in  which  he  has  lived,  has 
grown.  He  has  a  certain  quality  now 

—  and  a  heightened  value.     He  can 
command  steady  work.   In  fact,  he  ac- 
tually spent  eight  years  under  the  same 
roof,  in  the  great  Buffalo  plant  that 
employed  him.  He  has  climbed  upward 
in  the  respect  of  his  community;  has 


become  a  leader,  well-liked  and  trust- 
ed; is  the  elected  chairman  of  the  club. 

Moreover,  he  has  learned,  or  so  he 
believes,  about  America.  If  now  you 
were  to  ask  Paul  any  sort  of  questions 
about  present-day  politics,  you  would 
find  that  he  possesses  an  amazing 
familiarity  with  things  about  which  he 
knows  nothing  whatever.  His  know- 
ledge to-day  includes  a  great  deal  more 
than  the  history  of  the  Hapsburg  dy- 
nasty. He  is  ready  and  glib  in  discuss- 
ing Bolshevism,  Atheism,  Darwinism, 
Marxism,  Prohibition,  John  Brown, 
or  the  Mayflower.  The  names  of  labor 
•  leaders  the  world  over  are  common  to 
his  memory,  and  he  can  dilate  on  the 
particular  creed  and  preaching  of  each 
one. 

Where  did  he  gain  all  this  knowledge? 
In  America? 

Yes,  surely,  since  the  laborer  of  the 
Temes  knew  nothing  of  it. 

From  Americans? 

Most  emphatically,  no !  America  has 
not  concerned  herself  with  the  mental 
processes  of  Paul  Zonbor.  Using  his 
hands  as  vital  tools,  teaching  him  at 
most  a  little  English  in  order  to  direct 
these  tools,  she  has  taken  no  cognizance 
of  his  mental  processes  beyond  those 
used  in  shop  practice. 

It  appears,  however,  that  some  sort 
of  power  exists,  has  existed,  that  does 
see  a  use  for  Paul's  mentality.  This 
power  manifests  itself  in  several  shapes. 
For  example,  it  supplies  Paul  Zonbor 
with  weekly  newspapers  printed  in  the 
language  he  best  understands  —  Ger- 
man. It  supplies  him  also  with  what- 
ever books  he  may  desire  to  read,  all 
written  in  that  same  language.  That 
those  books  heavily  tend  to  certain 
main  lines,  are  chosen  with  purpose, 
and  that  his  desires  are  guided  toward 
them;  that  his  judgment  is  distorted 
by  them,  is  not  apparent  to  Paul.  His 
horizon  affords  so  restricted  a  vision, 
that  variety  of  conditions  and  compari- 


70 


FOR  INSTANCE  — PAUL  ZONBOR 


son  of  values  can  play  little  part  there 
as  disputants  of  any  systematic  invader. 
And  the  actual  invader  is  systematic 
indeed ! 

As  has  already  been  stated,  Paul 
presides  over  a  club.  This  club  has  a 
very  considerable  number  of  members, 
for  Paul's  class  is  large  in  the  manufac- 
turing city  by  the  Falls.  But  the  whole 
organization  has  not  one  real  American 
member,  and  it  would  be  strange  to 
hear  an  English  word  spoken  within  its 
walls.  It  is,  however,  an  exceedingly 
live  and  active  centre.  It  has  endless 
inner  societies  for  all  sorts  of  ends.  But 
beyond  that,  it  has  an  amazing  lot  of 
debates,  meetings,  lectures,  concerts, 
where  the  proceedings,  it  seems,  are 
stimulated  by,  and  infused  with  a  steady 
and  consistent  current  from  without. 

Nothing  that  is  done  here  in  any  way 
relates  to  America's  America.  Whether 
it  be  in  songs,  discussions,  or  teaching, 
the  underlying  trend  is  very  strong  and 
is  always  the  same. 

All  the  lecturers  are  'sent'  from  some 
mysterious  elsewhere.  All  lecture  in 
German,  and  the  majority  of  them  state 
either  that  they  are  Russians  or  that 
they  have  been  in  Russia  quite  re- 
cently. Russia  and  Labor  in  that  and 
other  distant  parts  are,  almost  exclu- 
sively, the  subjects  of  their  talk.  And 
never  do  they  miss  a  chance  to  quicken 
their  hearers'  hatred  against  the  em- 
ploying classes  of  any  country  in  the 
world. 

Always  they  affirm  that  the  laborers 
of  other  countries  are  ready  to  rise  and 
salute  Bolshevism,  if  only  they  can  be 
sure  that  in  the  United  States  a  ma- 
jority will  follow  them.  They  tell  how 
prosperous  the  Russians  are,  under 
their  present  rulers;  how  every  man  has 
to  work  for  a  living,  —  labor  for  a  liv- 
ing, —  explaining  that  thus  none  has  to 
work  for  more  than  six  hours  a  day. 
They  tell  how,  in  Russia,  all  profits  are 
shared,  and  thus  all  alike  are  wealthy; 


and  how  more  schools  have  been  built 
by  the  regime  of  the  last  order  than 
were  built  in  a  generation  of  Tsardom. 
And  above  all,  always  they  beseech, 
nay,  order,  their  audiences  not  to  be- 
lieve one  word  that  is  printed  in  the 
American  press. 

'All  that  it  says  is  lies,  damned,  de- 
liberate lies,'  the  speaker  repeats,  with 
a  fire  and  an  eloquence  that  drives  his 
words  deep.  'America  the  land  of  the 
free?  Bah!  Russia  is  the  only  free  coun- 
try on  the  face  of  the  earth  to-day.  It 
is  the  only  country  that  has  rid  itself 
of  the  High  Capitalist  —  the  gorging, 
wine-bibbing  High  Capitalist.  He  is 
your  true  enemy,  with  his  wines  and  his 
women  —  as  bad,  and  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  the  officers  that  you  thought 
abused  you  in  the  old  days  at  home. 
Why,  look  at  the  hugeness  of  the  thing: 
the  men  you  see  around  you  —  the 
plant  managers,  the  foremen  and  what- 
nots —  are  scarcely  better  off,  in  prin- 
ciple, than  you  are  yourselves.  They 
are  only  the  tools  of  the  High  Capital- 
ist. They  are  only  slave-gang  bosses, 
who  have  to  drive  you  in  order  to  keep 
their  jobs.  Pity  them.  The  High  Capi- 
talists are  nothing  else  than  blood-suck- 
ing vampires,  forever  bleeding  every 
man  under  their  control,  from  the  first 
down,  in  order  to  make  a  few  more  dol- 
lars to  keep  their  palaces  of  wickedness. 

'But  our  day  is  coming,  mind  you. 
Our  plans  are  laid,  our  hour  is  close  at 
hand.  When  the  moment  arrives,  we 
shall  strike  in  every  country  at  the 
same  time.  Russia  has  already  set  us 
our  example.  Germany  is  on  our  side. 
Italy,  Canada,  France,  and  England  will 
rise  as  one  man  when  our  leaders  give 
the  signal.  Here  in  the  United  States 
we  are  well  organized;  but  remember 
that  each  one  of  you  has  to  spread  our 
doctrine  each  hour  of  every  day.  So  our 
victory  is  assured.' 

What  response  does  this  teaching, 
preached  day  by  day,  year  by  year, 


FOR  INSTANCE  —  PAUL  ZONBOR 


71 


awaken  in  Paul  Zonbor  and  the  like  of 
him?  Keep  sight  of  the  fact  that  Paul 
Zonbor,  —  now  confessedly  a  Bol- 
shevik, —  like  nearly  all  Bolsheviki  and 
I.W.W.'s,  was  born  in  an  environment 
of  hate.  In  his  earliest  childhood  he  saw 
his  parents  and  all  their  world  hating, 
bitterly  hating,  the  rulers,  the  rich  men, 
the  officials  of  his  native  land.  And  he, 
in  his  turn  and  on  his  own  account,  grew 
up  to  hate  them  as  bitterly. 

Then,  being  perhaps  something  more 
virile  than  the  rest,  he  left  his  native 
land  to  escape  the  exploiter  of  *  cannon- 
fodder,'  taking  refuge  in  the  Land  of  the 
Free.  He  had  expected  much  of  this 
Promised  Land.  He  had  been  taught, 
and  had  taught  himself,  to  regard  it 
most  truly  as  heaven  on  a  new  earth, 
where  men  were  paid  fabulous  sums  for 
half  the  work  that  on  the  Temes  barely 
bought  food  enough  to  maintain  life. 
Were  not  the  dollars  huge  weekly,  nay, 
daily,  fortunes  when  translated  into  his 
native  currency? 

Yet  once  in  the  Promised  Land, 
what  had  he  found?  Was  it  not  the 
term  'cannon-fodder'  giving  place, 
when  the  crane  drops  its  load,  to  'only 
a  Hunkie,'  while  the  mill  grinds  on  over 
the  dead? 

Then  other  .  things  happened  — 
things  that,  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
world  in  which  he  groped,  nobody  in- 
terpreted to  him — nobody,  until '  they  * 
hunted  him  out  with  the  doctrine  that 
gives  fresh  direction  to  the  old,  fierce 
faculty  of  hate.  So  that,  as  the  New 
World  increasingly  disappointed  him, 
as  the  beauties  of  the  Old  World  grad- 
ually blotted  out,  in  his  memory,  the 
grievances  that  drove  him  across  the 
sea,  he  transferred  his  hatred,  strength- 
ened with  the  strength  of  his  full  ma- 
turity, to  objects  chosen  by  the  only 
teachers  that  came  his  way. 

'Who  are  the  High  Capitalists?'  you 
ask  him  now.  'Is  the  head  of  this  plant 
one?' 


'He?  No.  He  works  himself.  You 
can  see  that.  He  is  only  a  slave,  driven 
like  the  rest  of  us.' 

'Is  the  president  of  the  corporation 
one?' 

Paul  hesitates.  'I  don't  know.  I 
should  have  to  see  how  much  stock  he 
owns.  But  I  can  find  out.  In  two  days' 
time.  Do  you  want  to  know?' 

And  so  you  find  that  the  'High  Cap- 
italist' actually  has  no  other  name,  no 
definite  identity  in  Paul's  mind,  but  is, 
in  fact,  merely  an  imaginary  figure  con- 
jured behind  mists  by  paid  revolution- 
ary agitators. 

IV 

What  is  the  cure  for  this  prodigious 
ignorance  that  is  so  genuinely  misleading 
a  great  part  of  the  foreign-born  labor  in 
America  to-day? 

As  for  those  who  make  their  liveli- 
hood by  preaching  a  foul  and  destruc- 
tive doctrine,  —  those  who  defile  the 
world  for  greed  and  defilement's  sake, — 
they  are  best  left  alone,  with  rope  enough 
to  hang  themselves,  since  hang  they  will, 
if  given  time  and  space. 

But  as  for  those  who  are  honestly  de- 
ceived and  misguided,  like  Paul  Zonbor, 
they,  surely,  have  a  just  claim  on  men 
of  better  understanding  to  be  shown  the 
truth,  the  way  to  right  thinking  and 
right  living  by  the  code  of  the  Golden 
Rule. 

If  a  right-thinking  man  sees  a  forest 
on  fire,  he  will  immediately  take  steps 
to  quench  that  fire,  no  matter  to  whom 
the  forest  may  belong.  Yet  many  men 
who  do  themselves  see  outbreakings  of 
the  flame  started  in  Russia  and  smoul- 
dering the  world  over,  instead  of  jump- 
ing to  help  smother  it,  turn  their  heads 
away,  either  because  they  believe  it  to 
be  none  of  their  business,  or  because 
they  are  too  self-occupied  to  care  for 
the  world  at  large. 

That  is  to  say,  they  will  wait  until 


FOR  INSTANCE  —  PAUL  ZONBOR 


their  neighbors  have  been  destroyed 
and  the  flames  have  reached  their  own 
doors,  before  they  will  stir  in  their  com- 
mon duty. 

When  the  Reds  of  Buffalo  were  ar- 
rested, at  the  beginning  of  last  year, 
Paul  Zonbor  was  overlooked.  Paul  had 
been  pro-German  in  his  sympathies  all 
through  the  war,  although  not  at  that 
time  an  actively  dangerous  man.  Since 
the  Armistice,  however,  the  multiplied 
weight  of  Bolshevist  propaganda  di- 
rected upon  him  as  a  key  man,  in- 
fluencing the  thought  of  his  fellows,  had 
had  its  cumulative  effect.  He  was  now 
in  the  condition  where  any  spark  might 
incite  him  to  translate  his  theories  into 
bloody  facts.  Yet  Paul  was  overlooked, 
in  the  arrests  of  the  Reds,  although 
many  of  his  friends  and  followers  went 
to  jail;  whence,  after  two  weeks  in  the 
cells,  they  were  released,  to  spread  with 
increased  vigor  their  horrible  creed, 
with  all  the  rage  of  martyrs  to  a  cause. 

The  authorities  of  the  plant  in  which 
Paul  had  worked  for  eight  years,  having 
got  wind  of  his  tendencies,  determined, 
however,  to  act  for  themselves.  He  was 
an  undesirable  —  a  spreader  of  discon- 
tent among  his  fellow  workmen.  They 
would  quietly  dismiss  him  without  any 
words  as  to  the  cause.  They  did  not 
want  to  fan  red  coals. 

Accordingly,  one  morning,  the  fore- 
man of  the  department  informed  No. 
1896,  Paul  Zonbor,  that  another  man 
would  take  over  his  job. 

'Why?  Don't  I  give  satisfaction?' 
asked  Paul. 

Paul,  by  the  way,  was  one  of  the 
most  valuable  men  in  his  line.  He  car- 
ried a  string  of  numbers  in  his  mind 
running  into  the  thousands,  was  accu- 
rate, trustworthy,  and  in  times  of  spe- 
cial pressure  had  scarcely  an  equal,  in  his 
own  way,  among  the  plant's  personnel. 

'Satisfaction?  Oh,  yes,'  replied  the 
foreman; '  but  we  have  decided  that  the 
job  is  only  worth  seventy  cents  an  hour, 


and  you  are  getting  seventy-five.  You 
can  go  into  the  cleaning-room.  They  're 
a  man  short  there.' 

Now  the  cleaning-room  was  the 
worst  place  in  the  whole  plant,  while 
the  job  that  Paul  held  was  by  no  means 
a  bad  one.  In  fact,  he  ran  a  sort  of  small 
department  of  his  own,  with  two  men 
under  him. 

'That 's  not  the  real  reason  you  are 
canning  me,'  said  Paul.  'Tell  me  the 
truth  straight  out.  What 's  the  matter 
with  me?' 

'I  tell  you  that's  all  there  is  to  it,' 
repeated  the  foreman. 

'Then  I  want  to  see  the  manager.' 

So  Paul  saw  the  manager,  only  to 
hear  the  same  statement,  unelaborated. 

Therefore,  hot  with  rage,  believing 
himself  the  victim  of  a  great  injustice, 
he  went  his  way,  and  actually  got  a 
better-paying  job  on  the  following 
Monday  in  a  neighboring  but  different 
concern. 

There,  to-day,  with  an  increased  fol- 
lowing, he  carries  on  his  crusade  of 
revolution  with  increased  vigor. 

To-day  Paul  Zonbor  is  indeed  a  dan- 
gerous man.  He  is  personally  honest. 
He  has  no  weakening  vices.  He  does 
not  drink  to  excess.  He  loves  his  wife 
and  children  and  is  good  to  them.  Un- 
like the  mass  of  his  fellows,  he  is  not 
now  foul-mouthed,  whatever  he  may 
once  have  been.  He  is  thrifty,  decent, 
likeable,  square.  And  he  uses  his  brains 
to  the  best  of  the  only  light  that  has 
ever  been  given  him.  It  comes  from 
Russia  and  it  is  Red.  It  may  one  day 
burst  into  an  awful  flame. 

This  is  no  attempt  to  answer  great 
questions  with  a  general  panacea.  It  is 
just  the  story  —  the  literally  true  story 
—  of  one  man  —  an  obscure  but,  as  it 
happens,  a  no  longer  quite  negligible  or 
insignificant  man. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  profited  the 
corporation  if,  instead  of  allowing  his 


FOR  INSTANCE  — PAUL  ZONBOR 


73 


mind  to  remain  polluted  with  damnable 
lies,  they  had  expended  time,  trouble, 
and  money  to  show  him  how,  step  by 
step,  he  has  been  deceived  and  then  de- 
ceived again,  until  nothing  but  black- 
ness shows  in  front  of  him,  and  a  Red 
light  beyond  —  a  Red  light  whose  gos- 
pel he  now  preaches  to  his  hungrily 
listening,  deeply  trusting  fellow  work- 
ers, as  the  Gospel  of  Salvation. 

Many  labor  agencies  in  New  York 
have  changed  since  1906,  although 
some  of  them  are  still  of  the  type  that 
exploited  Paul.  He  could  now  be  shown 
in  that  field  great  and  sincere  efforts  at 
improvement.  He  could  be  shown  Ellis 
Island's  schools,  concerts,  Americaniza- 
tion lectures,  and  the  like.  He  could 
be  shown  the  true  value  of  the  Work- 
men's Compensation  laws,  which  he 
now  distrusts.  He  could  be  taught  the 
meaning  and  sincerity  of  the  many  legis- 
lative measures  passed  for  the  preven- 
tion of  accidents.  If  done  in  the  right 
spirit,  a  course  in  economics  could  be 
so  presented  that  even  the  one-time 
laborer  on  an  Austrian  baron's  estate, 
who  has  since  learned  to  think,  could 
be  persuaded  that  capital  is  as  neces- 
sary as  labor.  Wholesome  changes  could 
certainly  be  wrought  in  that  perverted 
mind;  and  because  Paul  Zonbor  is 
honest  at  heart,  is  true,  lovable,  square, 
and  decent-minded,  the  truth  would 
strike  root  in  his  brain. 

But,  difficult  as  it  might  be  to  attain, 
there  is  one  conceivable  short  cut  that 
would  be  a  thousand  times  more  rapid 
and  effective  than  all  this.  If  the  cor- 


poration, instead  of  handling  No.  1896, 
Paul  Zonbor,  as  it  did,  —  kicking  him 
out,  furious,  ready  for  any  revenge,  — 
had  spent  $2000  in  sending  him  to 
Russia,  it  would  have  been  repaid  many 
times  over.  There  let  him  see  the  actual 
want,  misery,  slavery,  brutality  to-day 
rampant  in  that  unhappy  country. 
There  let  him  realize  that  in  America 
he  has  suffered,  not  from  Americanism, 
but  merely  from  the  carrying  out,  in 
America,  by  Europeans,  of  European 
abuses,  to-day  in  Russia  pushed  to  their 
utmost  worst.  And  then  bring  him 
straight  back  to  the  plant  again,  where, 
after  such  an  experience,  he  would  be 
the  greatest  curative  force,  the  greatest 
force  of  true  Americanism  that  the 
corporation  could  possibly  secure  for  a 
lessened  labor  turn-over  and  industrial 
peace. 

Employers  complain  that  the  cost  of 
production  is  greatly  increased  by  the 
yearly  labor  turn-over,  often  120  per 
cent.  And  nobody  can  dispute  the  fact. 
But  it  is  equally  indisputable  that,  in 
spite  of  any  improved  labor  conditions, 
in  spite  of  the  most  liberal  welfare 
work,  more  will  have  to  be  done  by  the 
majority  of  employers,  as  well  as  by 
the  government,  —  more  and  deeper 
thought  given,  more  intelligent  and 
further-reaching  measures  taken,  more 
present  profits  devoted  to  the  effective 
enlightenment  of  their  human  material, 
—  if  the  labor  turn-over  is  to  be  per- 
ceptibly reduced,  and  if  the  Red  activi- 
ties more  and  more  permeating  the 
personnel  are  to  be  overcome. 


THE  NEW  ROAD  TO  EQUALITY 


BY   GROVER   CLARK 


'EQUALITY  before  the  law'  has  been, 
and  still  is,  one  of  the  favorite  battle- 
cries  of  the  democracy.  '  Class  legisla- 
tion' and  'special  privilege'  have  been 
equally  popular  as  objects  of  attack. 
But  there  has  not  been  a  corresponding 
unity  of  interpretation  of  these  phrases 
—  of  understanding  as  to  what  they  are 
to  mean  in  terms  of  specific  legislation 
and  social  organization. 

We  condemn  class  legislation  and 
special  privilege  as  severely  as  did  our 
predecessors.  Modern  industrial  and 
social  development,  however,  has  forced 
us  to  a  new  conception  of  what  belongs 
under  these  categories.  We  insist  as 
strongly  as  they  that  men  should  be 
equal,  before  the  law,  in  opportunity, 
and  in  all  their  relations  with  their 
fellows.  But  we  are  finding  that  a 
new  technique,  a  new  kind  of  legisla- 
tion, and  a  new  attitude  on  the  part  of 
the  government  are  necessary,  if  that 
equality  is  to  be  real  and  not  merely 
theoretical. 


In  the  care-free  days  of  rampant  in- 
dividualism and  the  laissez-faire  theory 
in  industry,  the  government  was  sup- 
posed to  keep  its  hands  off  the  organi- 
zation and  conduct  of  industry.  Labor 
laws,  factory  laws,  anti-trust  laws  — 
all  such  were  held  to  be  violations  of 
the  fundamental  right  of  individuals  to 
pursue  life,  liberty,  and  happiness  in 
equality  before  the  law.  If  some  were 
more  successful  than  others  in  securing 
financial  or  other  rewards  for  their  ef- 
forts, they  were  to  be  congratulated. 

74 


And  certainly  it  was  no  part  of  the  task 
of  the  government  to  handicap  men  in 
the  race  for  success.  Yet  to-day  we 
have  such  laws  in  profusion:  laws  that 
put  a  special  handicap  on  some  indi- 
viduals, or  give  special  advantages  to 
others.  And  our  Supreme  Court  has 
found  it  possible  to  approve,  as  consti- 
tutional, such  measures. 

If  by  'class  legislation*  we  mean 
legislation  that  favors  or  restricts  some 
special  group  in  the  community,  then 
many  of  our  more  important  modern 
laws  must  plead  guilty  to  this  charge. 
Tariff  laws  are  designed  to  benefit  par- 
ticular groups  —  the  manufacturers. 
Labor  laws  benefit  the  workers.  Anti- 
trust laws  put  a  handicap  on  the  organ- 
izers of  business.  Income  and  profit 
taxes  are  collected  from  a  very  small 
portion  of  the  whole  people.  Even  the 
woman's  suffrage  amendment  was  class 
legislation,  since  it  benefited  only  a  part 
of  the  community.  Yet  we  find  no 
great  difficulty  in  approving  such  meas- 
ures, because  we  feel  that,  while  they 
may  apply  in  practice  to  special  groups, 
they  benefit  the  community  as  a  whole. 
And  we  avoid  a  technical  infringement 
of  the  principle  of  equality  by  stating 
the  special  privileges,  or  the  special 
prohibitions,  in  terms  of  ways  of  acting 
rather  than  of  persons,  even  though  we 
are  well  aware  that  in  practice  certain 
specific  persons,  or  groups  of  persons, 
will  be  directly  affected. 

It  is  little  more  than  soothing  self- 
delusion  to  say  that  in  this  respect 
there  is  any  essential  difference  be- 
tween the  stipulation  in  the  Clayton 


THE  NEW  ROAD  TO  EQUALITY 


75 


Anti-Trust  Act  of  1914,  which  exempted 
labor  organizations  from  the  prohibi- 
tions of  the  Sherman  Act,  and  the  pro- 
visions of  the  old  English  law,  by  which 
the  nobility  could  plead  exemption  from 
certain  penalties  of  the  law  for  the  com- 
mon people.  Nor  is  there,  from  this 
point  of  view,  any  essential  difference 
between  a  tariff  to  'protect'  an  'infant 
industry'  and  the  feudal  law  that  gave 
the  king  administration  of  the  estates 
of  minor  heirs.  In  each  case  special 
groups  are  given  special  advantages. 

The  difference,  of  course,  is  in  the 
social  results.  We  approve  the  modern 
regulations  in  each  case,  —  if  we  do  ap- 
prove them,  —  and  condemn  the  an- 
cient, because,  as  I  have  suggested,  we 
think  the  community  as  a  whole  is  bene- 
fited, or  injured,  as  the  case  may  be. 
But  we  need  to  keep  clearly  in  mind, 
in  discussing  these  matters  of  special 
privilege  and  equality  before  the  law, 
that  most  of  the  'progressive'  measures 
on  which  we  are  inclined  to  pride  our- 
selves are  in  reality  class  legislation; 
and  while  we  may  not  approve  much 
of  the  Socialist  programme,  we  need  to 
be  careful  about  throwing  stones  while 
we  have  so  much  glass  in  the  walls  of 
our  own  house. 

We  condemn,  for  example,  the  seizure 
of  socially  usable  property  by  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  Bolsheviki  on  the  ground 
that  it  is  class  legislation.  Yet  we  ap- 
prove an  excess-profits  tax,  —  at  least, 
the  majority  of  us  do,  as  represented 
by  our  lawmakers  and  our  Supreme 
Court,  —  which  is  a  seizure,  in  essen- 
tially the  same  way,  of  socially  usable 
property.  We  deny  the  claim  of  a  mon- 
arch that  his  kingdom  is  his  private 
property,  to  do  with  as  he  may  choose. 
Of  late,  like  the  Bolsheviki,  we  have 
begun  to  deny  the  similar  claim  of  a 
manufacturer  as  to  his  factory.  But  we 
grant  the  claim  to  private  control  of 
private  property  in  most  other  cases. 
Yet  there  is  no  essential  difference  be- 


tween these  claims.  The  difference  — 
as  in  the  cases  cited  above  —  is  not  one 
of  kind,  but  of  degree.  The  question  is 
not  whether  a  person  or  a  group  shall 
be  given  special  privileges  or  be  favored 
or  handicapped  by  class  legislation; 
rather  it  is,  how  far  the  principle  of 
favoring  one  group  is  to  be  carried,  and 
of  the  relative  size  of  the  group  favored. 
In  other  words,  we  are  learning  that 
it  is  impossible  to  obtain  real  equal- 
ity between  men  on  an  individualistic, 
laissez-faire  basis.  And  in  actual  prac- 
tice we  are  seeking  that  equality  by 
various  sorts  of  special  legislation, 
which  favor  one  group  as  against  an- 
other. But  our  interpretation  of  the 
doctrine  of  equality  has  lagged  behind 
our  practice. 

n 

This  inconsistency  between  the  older 
conception  of  equality  and  much  of  our 
recent  legislation  has  not  escaped  the 
notice  of  able  students  of  politics.  Nor 
have  some  of  them  failed  to  point  out 
the  growth  of  a  tendency  to  stratifica- 
tion of  the  American  people  into  classes 
delimited,  if  not  actually  created,  by 
legislation  which  definitely  grants,  or 
does  not  positively  deny,  special  priv- 
ileges to  special  groups.  This,  for  ex- 
ample, is  the  point  of  Mr.  George  W. 
Alger's  article  on  'The  Menace  of 
New  Privilege,'  in  a  recent  issue  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly. 

Many  see  in  this  tendency  a  grave 
danger  to  American  social  organization 
as  we  know  it,  and  a  fundamental  chal- 
lenge to  democracy,  just  because  it  runs 
counter  to  the  older,  and  even  now  more 
generally  accepted,  interpretation  of 
the  doctrine  of  equality.  Mr.  Alger  ex- 
presses this  point  of  view  most  effec- 
tively in  his  concluding  paragraph:  — 

'In  the  final  analysis,  the  question 
resolves  itself  into  whether  we  desire 
the  development  in  America  of  class- 
war  by  recognizing  class-distinctions, 


76 


THE  NEW  ROAD  TO  EQUALITY 


class-rights,  and  class-privileges,  which 
make,  not  for  peace,  but  for  inevitable 
conflict.  The  time  has  arrived  when 
this  great  question  must  receive  a  far 
more  thorough  and  consistent  study  by 
the  American  people,  not  as  classes, 
but  as  citizens;  not  as  petitioners  for 
special  privileges,  which  the  nobles  of 
feudalism  surrendered,  but  as  the  will- 
ing participators  in  a  system  of  law 
whose  basis  is  equality,  a  system  which 
can  have  no  other  basis  than  equality, 
if  democracy  is  not  to  perish  from  the 
earth.' 

But  in  this  'thorough  and  consistent 
study'  it  will  appear,  I  think,  that, 
crude  and  in  many  ways  undesirable 
as  this  recent  class  legislation  is,  it  is, 
after  all,  the  product  of  a  real  though 
somewhat  blind  striving  to  reestablish 
that  real  equality  before  the  law,  and 
in  the  relations  between  men,  which 
modern  industrial  development  has  de- 
stroyed. One  does  not  need  to  be  a 
'Red'  to  realize  that  in  actual  practice 
there  is  little  more  than  a  theoretical 
equality  before  the  law  in  America  to- 
day. The  accumulation  of  wealth  in 
the  hands  of  certain  individuals  and 
certain  small  groups  has  given  them  a 
power  that  has  made  almost  a  mock- 
ery any  talk  of  equality  between  all 
men  in  any  significant  sphere  of  life. 
The  tale  of  the  special  advantages  that 
wealth  has  brought  its  possessors  has 
been  told  too  often  to  need  repetition 
here.  But  it  is  exactly  this  disturbance 
of  the  even  balance  of  equality  by  the 
power  of  accumulated  capital  that  has 
led  to  the  whole  movement  for  social 
legislation  of  all  kinds. 

Labor  laws,  factory  laws,  the  exemp- 
tion of  labor-unions  from  the  operation 
of  the  anti-trust  laws,  minimum-wage 
legislation —  all  these  and  the  multi- 
tude of  other  attempts  to  better  the 
conditions  of  living  of  the  'have-nots' 
are  fundamentally  attempts  to  restore 
the  balance  of  equality  by  putting  the 


weight  of  legislation  into  the  scale 
against  the  power  of  capital.  All  these 
measures  are  class  legislation,  for  they 
give  special  advantages  to  one  part  of 
the  whole  group  as  opposed  to  some 
other  part.  But  men  have  felt  that  it 
was  necessary  to  give  such  advantages, 
in  order  to  save  the  large  majority 
from  complete  domination  by  a  small 
minority  —  that  is,  in  order  to  preserve 
equality. 

m 

There  can  be  no  serious  denial  that 
the  attempt  to  reestablish  equality  by 
these  means  has  had  many  unfortunate 
results,  or  that  certain  groups  have  in- 
sisted on  special  privileges  for  them- 
selves at  the  expense  of  the  people  as  a 
whole.  But  the  labor  organizations,  the 
farmers,  the  cotton-growers,  and  the 
rest,  are  by  no  means  the  only  ones 
guilty  on  this  score.  And  neither  can 
the  claim  be  seriously  advanced  that 
the  developments  in  the  capitalistic 
organization  of  industry,  which  are  in 
large  measure  the  cause  of  this  attempt, 
have  been  an  entirely  unmixed  blessing. 
These  developments,  producing  the  ne- 
cessity for  large  accumulations  of  capi- 
tal to  carry  on  industry,  and  the  actual 
accumulation  of  capital  to  meet  the 
need,  together  with  our  conception  of 
the  rights  of  private  property,  have 
given  a  disproportionate  share  of  power 
to  a  relatively  small  group  in  the  com- 
munity, and  so  have  eliminated  real 
equality,  whether  before  the  law,  or  of 
opportunity,  or  in  any  vital  sense. 

But  the  fight  for  equality  will  go  on. 
And,  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  so  long 
as  the  social  organization  and  the  laws 
permit  certain  men  —  or  certain  small 
groups  —  to  secure  and  hold  more  than 
their  share  of  actual  power  and  oppor- 
tunity, so  long  will  the  effort  be  con- 
tinued to  right  the  balance  by  organi- 
zation into  groups  and  by  legislation 
favoring  the  non-privileged  groups. 


THE  NEW  ROAD  TO  EQUALITY 


77 


Whether  this  attempt  by  the  larger 
groups,  made  up  of  the  individually  less 
powerful,  to  secure  equality  by  insisting 
upon  'class-rights  and  class-privileges' 
will  mean  'class- war'  and  'inevitable 
conflict '  will  depend  principally  on  the 
vigor  of  the  resistance  made  to  the 
attempt  by  those  who  are  favored  by 
the  present  inequality.  Unquestionably, 
the  problem  must  be  faced  by  'the 
American  people,  not  as  classes,  but  as 
citizens.'  But  there  is  real  danger  in  the 
present  situation,  not  primarily  because 
the  large  majority  of  the  American  peo- 
ple are  'petitioners  for  special  privi- 
leges,' but  because  a  small  minority, 
who  possess  special  privileges,  are  reluc- 
tant to  give  them  up. 

At  present  the  attack  on  the  citadel 
of  privilege  is  being  made  more  or  less 
independently  by  separate  groups;  and 
each  group,  of  defenders  as  well  as  of 
attackers,  is,  naturally  enough,  more 
keenly  awake  to  its  own  immediate  in- 
terest —  that  of  securing  for  its  mem- 
bers full  equality  with  the  most  favored 
individuals,  or  of  protecting  what  priv- 
ileges they  possess  —  than  to  the  inter- 
ests of  other  groups.  Hence  the  tend- 
ency to  stratification  into  classes.  But 
the  fundamental  cause  of  this  stratifica- 
tion is  not  a  lack  of  desire  for  equality 
on  the  part  of  those  who  are  seeking 
advantages,  but  a  failure  to  unite  into  a 
single  army  the  different  bands  fighting 
in  this  cause.  Men,  however,  are  realiz- 
ing that  this  lack  of  unity  delays  the 
final  victory  —  or  weakens  the  defense; 
for  there  is  a  similar  lack  of  unity 
among  the  privileged  groups.  Conse- 
quently, we  are  hearing  more  and  more 
about  the  necessity  for  presenting  a 
united  front  on  both  sides,  and  are  wit- 
nessing, not  only  in  the  United  States, 
but  throughout  the  whole  world,  the 
steady  growth  of  the  tendency  toward  a 
merging  of  separate  classes  into  the  two 
great  groups  of  the  'haves'  and  the 
'have-nots.' 


IV 


The  fight  for  equality  is  not  new;  but 
the  recent  attempts  to  secure  equality 
have  been  along  a  somewhat  new  line. 
Instead  of  taking  the  negative  course 
of  denying  special  privileges,  as  our 
predecessors  did,  we  more  and  more  are 
positively  asserting  the  rights  of  special 
groups. 

When  men  first  tried  actually  to 
build  a  society  on  the  principle  of  equal- 
ity, the  most  pressing  problem  was  to 
clear  away  the  special  privileges  of  cer- 
tain classes.  Magna  Carta,  for  example, 
represented  an  attempt  on  the  part  of 
the  nobles,  not  primarily  to  secure  pow- 
ers for  themselves,  but  rather  to  take 
powers  away  from  the  king.  Similarly, 
the  long  history  of  the  development  of 
democratic  control,  until  quite  recent- 
ly, is  a  record  of  progressively  success- 
ful efforts  on  the  part  of  the  representa- 
tives of  the  people  to  wrest  power  from 
the  king  or  the  aristocracy.  When  the 
rights  of  the  people  were  positively  as- 
serted, it  was  not  so  much  from  lust 
for  power  as  such,  —  as  the  rights  of 
the  kings  and  the  aristocracy  had  been 
asserted  against  the  people,  —  as  from 
a  desire  to  secure  protection  from  the 
abuse  of  power  in  the  hands  of  the  aris- 
tocracy. Equality  was  to  be  achieved, 
as  it  were,  by  taking  away  the  jewels 
and  rich  clothing  from  the  favored  few 
rather  than  by  giving  jewels  and  rich 
clothing  to  the  many. 

Utilitarian  individualism  and  the 
laissez-faire  doctrine  were  the  natural 
results  of  this  conception  of  how  the 
equality  of  men  was  to  be  realized.  To 
carry  on  the  figure:  business  practice 
and  social  legislation  generally,  for  a 
large  part  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
were  based  on  the  assumption  that 
everyone  started  out  with  a  full  suit 
of  clothes,  while,  if  anyone  was  clever 
enough  to  get  another  man's  coat  away 
from  him,  or  to  find  jewels  to  wear,  that 


78 


THE  NEW  ROAD  TO  EQUALITY 


was  none  of  society's  business.  But  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  century,  it  became 
obvious  that  a  few  people  had  virtually 
cornered  the  supply  of  clothes  and 
jewels,  so  that  in  reality  there  no  longer 
was  even  a  suit  for  everyone,  except  at 
the  pleasure  of  these  few. 

To  drop  the  figure:  with  the  accumu- 
lation of  capital  in  the  hands  of  a  few, 
the  emphasis  in  democratic  legislation 
shifted.  Such  legislation  sought  less 
and  less  to  take  privileges  from  a  small 
group  and  more  and  more  to  assert 
them  for  larger  groups.  The  difference 
between  the  Sherman  and  the  Clayton 
Anti-Trust  acts  is  a  case  in  point.  The 
first  specifically  denies  the  right  to  form 
certain  kinds  of  combinations  —  which 
affected,  as  was  intended,  a  group  nu- 
merically small  but  financially  power- 
ful. The  latter  specifically  asserts  the 
right  of  other  groups  —  the  laborers, 
the  farmers,  and  so  forth  —  to  form 
combinations  of  a  sort  which,  in  certain 
respects,  would  otherwise  be  in  violation 
of  the  Sherman  Act. 

As  I  have  suggested,  from  the  older 
point  of  view  the  exemptions  in  the 
Clayton  Act  are  clearly  contrary  to  the 
doctrine  of  equality  before  the  law. 
Yet,  as  will  be  generally  admitted,  the 
Clayton  Act  gives  special  advantages 
to  labor  organizations  for  the  definite 
purpose  of  helping  the  workers  to  secure 
real  equality  in  their  relations  with 
their  employers  —  an  equality  that  had 
been  destroyed  by  the  power  which  the 
employers  possessed  through  their  con- 
trol of  capital.  In  reality,  therefore, 
this  act  is  the  product  of  an  attempt  to 
make  actual  this  theoretical  equality, 
rather  than  to  destroy  a  real  equality. 

This  newer  tendency,  through  legis- 
lation, to  give  special  advantages  in 


order  to  maintain  a  balance  of  equality 
has  had  some  unfortunate  results.  But 
the  solution  of  the  problem  of  class- 
conflict  will  not  come  through  returning 
to  the  older  attitude,  even  if  that  were 
possible.  A  continuation  of  the  laissez- 
faire  individualism  of  the  nineteenth 
century  would  have  resulted  in  the 
creation  of  a  new  aristocracy  based  on 
wealth  rather  than  on  birth,  —  in  the 
beginning,  at  least,  —  which,  if  unre- 
strained, would  have  developed  all  the 
objectionable  features  of  feudalism.  A 
return  to  this  older  attitude,  the  rein- 
corporation  into  our  legal  and  political 
practice  of  the  older  interpretation  of 
equality  before  the  law,  would  mean, 
not  the  saving  of  democracy,  but  its 
destruction. 

Democracy  will  be  saved,  real  equal- 
ity, not  only  before  the  law,  but  in  all 
men's  relations,  will  be  secured,  by 
making  sure,  through  legislation  or 
otherwise,  that  a  balance  is  maintained, 
in  spite  of  the  weight  on  one  side  that 
comes  through  the  possession  of  capital. 
Clearly,  the  balance  is  not  even  now. 
Equally  clearly,  we  should  not  over- 
weight it  on  the  other  side.  But  neither 
should  we  forget  that  we  must  take  ac- 
tive steps  to  achieve  a  balance.  Nega- 
tive effort  toward  taking  away  advan- 
tages from  the  few  will  no  longer  suffice. 
Such  efforts  cleared  the  ground  for  the 
growth  of  the  present  inequalities;  and 
men  will  always  find  means  to  circum- 
vent merely  negative  prohibitions.  Our 
task  therefore  is,  with  due  considera- 
tion for  the  interests  and  rights  of  all, 
to  go  forward  along  the  positive  line  of 
giving  advantages  to  the  many,  so  that 
they  may  achieve  a  real  equality  with 
those  who  have  secured  special  advan- 
tages for  themselves. 


ONLY  A  MATTER  OF  TIME 

BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

DOWN-SLIPPING  Time,  sweet,  swift,  and  shallow  stream, 
Here,  like  a  boulder,  lies  this  afternoon 
Across  your  eager  flow.     So  you  shall  stay, 
Deepened  and  dammed,  to  let  me  breathe  and  be. 
Your  troubled  fluency,  your  running  gleam 
Shall  pause,  and  circle  idly,  still  and  clear: 
The  while  I  lie  and  search  your  glassy  pool 
Where,  gently  coiling  in  their  lazy  round,     •• 
Unseparable  minutes  drift  and  swim, 
Eddy  and  rise  and  brim.     And  I  will  see 
How  many  crystal  bubbles  of  slack  Time 
The  mind  can  hold  and  cherish  in  one  Now  I 

Now,  for  one  conscious  vacancy  of  sense, 
The  stream  is  gathered  in  a  deepening  pond, 
Not  a  mere  moving  mirror.     Through  the  sharp 
Correct  reflection  of  the  standing  scene 
The  mind  can  dip,  and  cleanse  itself  with  rest, 
And  see,  slow  spinning  in  the  lucid  gold, 
Your  liquid  motes,  imperishable  Tune. 

It  cannot  be.     The  runnel  slips  away: 
The  clear  smooth  downward  sluice  begins  again, 
More  brightly  slanting  for  that  trembling  pause, 
Leaving  the  sense  its  conscious  vague  unease 
As  when  a  sonnet  flashes  on  the  mind, 
Trembles  and  burns  an  instant,  and  is  gone. 


WHY  IS  HE  A  GENERAL? 


BY  NICHOLAI  VELIMIKOVIC 


The  circumstances  under  which  this  brief  parable  was  written  deserve  to  be  told. 
When  Bishop  Nicholai,  of  Serbia,  was  in  this  country,  pleading  for  funds  for  Serbian 
children,  a  friend  presented  him  with  a  copy  of  Elbert  Hubbard's  'Message  to  Garcia,' 
the  point  of  which,  as  readers  will  commonly  remember,  was  the  absolute  importance 
of  giving  genuine  service  for  wages  or  for  contract.  A  few  days  later  the  Bishop  wrote 
his  friend:  'After  I  read  your  ''Message  to  Garcia"  I  remembered  a  happening  (which 
occurred  during  the  tragic  retreat  of  the  Serbians),  which  I  have  tried  to  describe  in  this 
brief  paper.  The  moral  of  it  is  similar  to  that  of  the  "Message."'  —  THE  EDITOR. 


NIGHT  and  rain.  Three  of  us  were 
riding  in  a  coach,  ten  miles  away  from 
our  destination.  One  of  the  horses  col- 
lapsed and  fell  down.  Stop.  No  star  in 
the  sky,  no  counselor  to  comfort.  What 
to  do? 

A  man  appeared,  as  a  nightmare  — 
as  if  he  came  out  of  the  rocks  on  which 
we  were  leaning. 

*  My  name  is  Marko,'  he  said.  '  Don't 
worry.  In  a  few  minutes  everything 
will  be  all  right/ 

And  he  disappeared.  But  soon  after, 
we  found  that  our  second  horse  had  dis- 
appeared, too. 

He  had  stolen  it;  all  of  us  thought  so, 
smiling  ironically  at  the  unfair  game  of 
fate. 

Yet,  in  a  few  minutes,  Marko  re- 
turned, riding  on  the  horse,  and  leading 
another  horse  by  the  string. 

We  asked  questions:  Who  was  he? 
where  did  he  find  a  horse?  and  so  forth. 
He  murmured  something,  and  kept  busy 
about  the  horses  and  the  coach. 

'Ready!'  he  said.  'Good-night  to 
you.'  And  the  darkness  of  night  swal- 
lowed him  up. 

'Thank  God,  there  are  still  Christ- 
ian men  in  this  world,  we  thought,'  and 
started. 


I  visited  Mrs.  Haverfield's  orphanage 
at  Uzice.  She  said,  — 

'The  peasants  of  the  surrounding  vil- 
lages are  most  helpful  to  me,  especially 
Marko.  He  is  beyond  description.' 

'  But  who  is  Marko  ? '  I  asked,  remem- 
bering a  dreadful  emergency  in  my  life. 

'Don't  you  know  Marko?  He  is  a  man 
of  perfect  service  to  everybody.  You 
will  see  him  to-morrow.' 

We  were  sitting  at  the  open  fire  and 
listening  to  Marko.  He  is  nothing  more 
than  an  ordinary  Serbian  peasant. 

'Everybody  must  have  learned  a  les- 
son in  the  war.  Mine  is  a  strange  one, 
and  yet  the  most  valuable  for  the  rest 
of  my  days.' 

Then  he  became  reluctant.  But  we 
insisted  and  he  continued :  — 

'My  sin  against  our  General  M 

was  the  cause  of  the  lesson.  We  were 
ten  privates  under  the  same  tent.  Our 
duty  was  to  attend  the  general  and  his 
staff.  We  did  our  duty  half-heartedly, 
and  the  officers  often  complained.  One 
day  the  general  called  all  of  us  and 
said,  — 

'  "Brothers,  you  are  called  to  do  serv- 
ice to  me  and  to  my  officers.  Do  it  per- 
fectly and  joyfully!" 


WHY  IS  HE  A  GENERAL? 


81 


*  We  corrected  ourselves  a  little.  But 
war  continued  endlessly.  Day  and  night 
we  were  filled  with  the  dreams  of  our 
homes,  and  we  walked  ceaselessly  in 
the  camp  like  shadows,  and  did  our 
service  very  badly.  Water  for  the  offi- 
cers was  not  brought  always  in  time; 
boots  were  not  dried  at  fire  and  cleaned, 
as  they  ought  to  be.  And  again  and 
again  officers  remonstrated.  They  must 
have  complained  to  the  general.  One 
night  the  general  opened  our  tent,  look- 
ed in,  and  asked,  — 

'"Brothers,  are  you  all  right?" 

4 He  went  off.     And  I—' 

There  Marko  stopped,  and  his  eyes 
were  shining  with  tears. 

'And  I  said  loudly:  "Why  is  he  a 
general?  He  does  nothing.  We  are  do- 
ing everything.  It  is  easy  for  him." 

'The  night  was  a  very  long  one,  but 
our  sleep  fast  and  our  dreams  of  home 
very  vivid. 

"'What  is  that?"  we  all  asked,  as 
with  one  voice,  looking  at  a  marvel. 
And  the  marvel  was  this :  all  the  boots, 
both  of  the  officers  and  our  own,  were 
perfectly  cleaned  and  arranged  at  our 
feet.  We  went  to  the  officers'  rooms. 
There,  again,  all  the  uniforms  nicely 
hung  up  and  cleaned,  water-jars  filled, 
and  a  big  fire  made  in  the  hall,  and  the 
hall  swept  and  put  in  order  properly. 

'"Who  did  it?" 

'No  one  of  us  knew.  Of  course,  all 
day  we  were  talking  of  that. 

'The  next  morning  the  same  thing 
happened.  We  were  quite  startled  and 
confused.  "Is  God  perhaps  sending  an 
angel  to  do  this  service  for  us?"  This 
we  asked  each  other,  and  retold  all  the 
fairy  tales  we  remembered  from  our 
childhood. 

'But  now,  behold. 

'We  decided  to  watch.  And  our  sen- 
tinel saw,  soon  after  midnight,  our 
general  creeping  into  our  tent.  Oh, 
shame!  the  mystery  was  now  revealed 
and  the  lesson  learned. 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  1 

D 


'That  day  the  general  asked  for  me. 
I  was  trembling  with  all  my  body  and 
soul.  It  was  clear  for  me  that  he  must 
have  heard  my  remark  about  him  two 
nights  before. 

'But,  O  Lord,  he  was  all  smiles. 
"Brother  Marko,  did  you  ever  read 
the  Gospel?" 

'My  lips  were  trembling,  and  I  an- 
swered nothing. 

'"Well,"  he  continued,  "take  it  once 
more  to-day  and  read  the  story  how  the 
Captain  of  men,  who  is  called  by  us  the 
Lord  of  Lords  and  the  King  of  Kings, 
was  the  perfect  servant  of  men." 

'I  cried  like  a  child  found  hi  a  theft.' 

And  Marko  began  to  cry  once  again 
in  telling  his  story,  and  we  all  were  very 
much  moved. 

Then  he  took  courage  again,  and  con- 
tinued :  — 

'Then  the  general  said:  "My  bro- 
ther, two  nights  ago  you  asked  a  ques- 
tion which  I  have  to  answer  now.  Lis- 
ten: I  am  your  general  because  I  am 
supposed  to  be  able  to  do  my  own 
'invisible'  and  'lordly'  duty,  but  also 
because  I  am  supposed  to  be  fit  to  do  in 
a  most  excellent  way  the  service  you, 
the  privates,  are  called  to  do." 

'The  general  stopped  and  closed  his 
eyes.  I  never  shall  forget  that  moment. 
I  wished  I  were  killed  instantly  by  a 
bullet,  so  overwhelming  was  the  pres- 
ence of  the  general.  I  stood  there  all 
misery  and  fear. 

'Finally  the  general  lifted  up  his  head 
and  said,  — 

"'You  must  try  your  hardest  to  do 
your  service  to  men  perfectly  and  joy- 
fully, now  and  always,  not  because  of 
the  severe  order  and  discipline,  but  be- 
cause of  joy  hidden  in  every  perfect 
service." 

'The  general  walked  two  or  three 
steps  toward  the  window  and  turned  to 
me  and  said,  — 

'"Now,  brother  Marko,  I  tell  you 
honestly,  I  enjoyed  greatly  cleaning 


82 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


your  boots,  for  I  am  greatly  repaid  by 
doing  so.  Don't  forget,  every  perfect 
service  hides  a  perfect  payment  in 
itself,  because  —  because,  brother,  it 
hides  God  in  itself." 

'Of  course,  after  that,  the  service  in 
the  general's  camp  was  all  right,  and 
the  officers  never  since  had  to  com- 
plain.' 

Thus  finished  Marko  his  story.  The 
soft  words  of  his  good  general  were  soft- 
ened still  more,  and  all  the  time,  with 
Marko's  warm  tears. 

Later  on,  I  was  told  by  many  people 
that  Marko,  who  before  the  war  was 
not  at  all  considered  a  very  kind  man, 
and  much  less  a  man  of  stern  principles, 
has  become,  through  his  perfect  service 
to  everybody  within  a  time  of  existence 


of  eighteen  months,  the  most  beloved 
human  being  in  his  mountains.  At  the 
last  election  the  people  unanimously 
asked  him  to  go  to  represent  them  in 
the  Parliament;  but  he  declined.  He 
said, — 

'That  post  is  for  the  generals,  and  I 
am  merely  a  private  still.' 

This  is  Private  Marko's  lesson  from 
the  war,  through  which  he  has  become 
involuntarily  a  captain  of  men. 

For  I  have  given  you  an  example,  that 
ye  should  do  as  I  have  done  to  you.  Verily, 
verily,  1  say  unto  you,  the  servant  is  not 
greater  than  his  lord;  neither  he  that  is 
sent  greater  than  he  that  sent  him.  If  ye 
know  these  things,  happy  are  ye  if  ye  do 
them.  —  ST.  JOHN  13,  15-17. 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


BY  GERTRUDE  HENDERSON 


THE  body  of  Mrs.  Sarah  Pennefather 
lay  on  the  bed,  and  her  spirit  linger- 
ed, considering  it.  'Curious  fashion!' 
mused  the  spirit.  'I  wonder  I  could 
have  worn  it  all  these  years!' 

The  spirit  was  only  this  moment  dis- 
encumbered. It  floated  above  its  late 
habiliments,  wavered,  and  loitered  still. 

'  I  remember  being  proud  of  it  when 
it  was  new  —  comparatively  new.  The 
colors  I  thought  were  pretty.  They 
have  n't  worn  well.  And  how  it  has 
wrinkled!  It  looks  incredibly  clumsy. 
One  sees  these  things  so  much  more 
clearly,  getting  a  little  away.  It 's  been 
extremely  uncomfortable  lately  —  very 
ill-fitting.  I  wonder  I  put  up  with  it  so 


long.  You  patch  and  mend  and  freshen 
one  way  and  another,  and  try  to  make 
it  do  for  another  season  —  put  off  as 
long  as  you  can  throwing  it  aside  and 
getting  something  new  —  ' 

The  spirit  drifted,  eddied,  not  quite 
yielding  yet  to  the  breeze  between  the 
worlds  that  impelled  it  away. 

'I  suppose  there's  really  nothing  I 
can  do  for  them  —  nothing  more. 
They'll  all  sleep  until  morning,  and  it's 
really  much  better  they  should.  I'm 
glad  to  be  going  this  way,  without  any 
fuss.  Dear  children!  I  hope  they  won't 
'  be  unhappy.  Miss  me,  but  not  be  un- 
happy. They  have  their  lives  —  and  I 
must  go  on  with  mine.' 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


83 


The  wind  that  blows  between  the 
worlds  blew  stronger,  filled  space  and 
overfilled  it,  surged  over  its  little  boun- 
daries, obliterating  them,  and  swept  on, 
mighty  and  resistless;  and  the  spirit  that 
was  Mrs.  Pennefather's  floated  out  and 
out  upon  it  and  away  to  the  Uttermost, 
beyond  the  reach  of  thinking  —  drifted, 
drifted,  with  peace  flowing  about  it 
like  currents  of  smooth  air  —  drifted, 
drifted,  deep  in  seons  of  unconsciousness 
—  drifted,  drifted,  through  sunrise  col- 
ors and  the  sparkle  of  adventure,  and 
waked  in  the  World  to  Come. 

Heaven  lay  all  about,  and  the  spirit 
of  Mrs.  Pennefather  sat  sipping  her  af- 
ternoon nectar  in  deep  contentment, 
nibbling  the  crisp  edge  of  a  bit  of  admir- 
able ambrosia,  and  exchanging  ideas 
with  a  group  of  spirit  ladies  similarly 
refreshing  themselves  —  congenial  spir- 
its. One  of  them  paused  in  the  obser- 
vation she  was  about  to  make.  Mrs. 
Pennefather  lowered  her  poised  cup, 
looked,  and  saw  the  courteous  attend- 
ant waiting  deferentially. 

'Ouija  for  Mrs.  Pennefather,'  he 
said. 

The  slightest  possible  shade  crossed 
Mrs.  Pennefather's  face.  She  rose,  and 
excused  herself. 

'Don't  keep  the  tray  for  me,'  she 
said.  '  I  may  be  some  time.  I  really  had 
finished.' 

She  moved  away  toward  the  ouija 
booths  and  closed  the  door  of  the  one 
where  the  call  was  waiting. 

'It's  just  a  shame!'  said  one  of  the 
remaining  ladies  explosively.  'She's 
the  sweetest  thing  that  ever  drew  the 
breath  of  heaven,  and  I  know  she  never 
will  say  a  word  to  them;  but  I  wish  she 
would!  They've  kept  her  stirred  up 
one  way  and  another  ever  since  she  got 
here.  She  is  n't  getting  her  rest  at  all. 
And  now  if  they  have  n't  begun  on  the 
ouija ! ' 

'I  really  sometimes  wish,'  said  an- 


other, ' —  it  seems  a  little  harsh,  and 
perhaps  selfish,  —  but  I  do  almost  wish 
they  had  n't  put  in  the  ouija  connec- 
tions. It  was  so  much  more  peaceful 
before.' 

'Oh,  that  kind  of  people!  If  it  were 
n't  the  ouija,  it  would  be  something 
else!  They  're  always  clamoring  for  at- 
tention. Why  don't  we  just  systemati- 
cally refuse  it?' 

'Some  of  us  would,'  said  a  third 
speaker.  'I  would  do  so  myself — at 
least,  I  think  I  would ;  but  this  has  been 
my  home  for  so  long,  there  is  no  one 
who  would  now  be  at  all  likely  to  call 
me,  and  you  cannot  be  perfectly  sure 
what  you  would  do  till  the  emergency 
arises.' 

There  was  a  subtle  suggestion  of 
Revolutionary  times  about  her,  deepen- 
ing as  she  talked  on.  You  could  scarcely 
say  it  was  a  matter  of  costume,  for,  of 
course,  this  was  not  a  material  universe; 
but  in  some  indescribable,  ethereal  way 
she  conveyed  it.  It  may  have  been  per- 
sonality. She  impressed  one  increas- 
ingly as  a  Martha  Washington  kind  of 
lady,  though,  of  course,  not  Martha 
Washington. 

'Still,  I  think  I  myself  should  refuse,' 
she  went  on.  'But  a  lady  like  Mrs. 
Pennefather,  with  her  soft,  warm  heart, 
and  her  sense  of  responsibility  and  life- 
long habit  of  regarding  others  rather 
than  herself,  —  so  lately  come  away, 
too,  and  loving  her  children  so  tenderly, 
—  you  can  see  she  really  could  not.  I 
can  scarcely  imagine  her  refusing  any 
claim  that  might  be  put  upon  her.' 

The  gentle  spirit  who  had  deplored 
the  ouija  connections  '  hemmed '  apolo- 
getically and  was  about  to  speak  again. 
She  might  have  been  from  Cranford. 
There  was  something  in  her  manner 
that  made  one  feel  it,  vaguely  —  like 
the  perfume  emanating  from  the  spirit 
of  a  sprig  of  lavender. 

'Oh,  I  suppose  you  can't  refuse,'  said 
the  vehement  first  speaker,  breaking  in 


84 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


upon  the  other's  hesitation.  'It  just 
is  n't  done.  Whatever  way  they  take 
of  calling  you,  you've  just  got  to  go, 
ouija  or  anything  else,  if  they  can  get 
across  with  it.  But  I  'd  like  to  get  hold 
of  that  ouija  line  myself  and  scamper 
round  the  board  a  little  for  Mrs.  Pen- 
nefather's  family.  I  know  some  things 
I'd  say!' 

The  gentle  presence  reminiscent  of 
Cranford  tried  it  again. 

'There  are  other  ways  so  much  more 
delicate,'  she  said.  'One  doesn't  find 
any  fault  with  the  silent  outreachings 
of  the  heart,  not  employing  instru- 
ments; though,  of  course,  even  those 
are  engrossing,  and  one  questions  if 
they  are  quite  —  quite  —  kind,  if  I 
may  say  so.  Still,  they  are  sensitive, 
and  refined,  and  —  and  very  natural. 
One  can't  wonder  that  the  lonely  feel- 
ings cry  out  to  us  and  keep  calling  us 
back.  But  the  ouija  is  quite  unlike  that. 
It  seems  so  —  so  indelicate.  I  don't 
know  how  to  say  what  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing about  it.  It  has  a  bold  way  that 
offends  one's  —  is  it  only  one's  taste,  I 
wonder?  As  if  it  were  not  —  perhaps 
—  altogether  —  respectful.  It  —  it  in- 
sists so!  Perhaps  it  is  only  because  we 
were  not  brought  up  to  it.  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  it  is  a  little  humiliating,  like 
playing  tricks  on  a  lady  and  putting  her 
in  an  undignified  position;  and  I  won- 
der if  dear  Mrs.  Pennefather  does  n't 
feel  the  same  way.' 

The  door  of  the  ouija  booth  opened 
and  Mrs.  Pennefather  came  back.  Her 
expression  was  troubled,  and  she  did 
not  resume  her  place  among  her  friends. 

'It's  Harriet's  daughter,'  she  said. 
'She  does  n't  know  whether  to  run  off 
with  Jack  or  not.  Her  mother  does  n't 
like  him,  and  she's  quite  right.  Sara 
won't  herself  after  a  while.  But  the 
child  is  so  young!  There's  a  sort  of 
jolly,  reckless,  all-for-a-good-time  flow 
of  spirits  about  him  that  she  can't  re- 
sist. And  he 's  after  her  so  hard !  He's 


begging  her  to  go  to-night,  and  she 
wants  to  and  does  n't  want  to.  She's  a 
good  child  and  can't  bear  to  distress  her 
father  and  mother,  but  she  does  n't 
know  what  to  do.  She 's  in  a  whirl.  I  '11 
just  have  to  go  and  talk  it  over  with  her 
and  calm  her  down.  She's  reasonable, 
if  you  can  get  her  quiet.  She  always 
did  care  what  her  grandmother  thinks. 
Just  now  she  can't  listen  to  her  mother 
because  she  thinks  her  mother  is  pre-. 
judiced,  and  she  won't  talk  to  her 
father.  Poor  little  girl !  She 's  having  a 
hard  fight.  She  does  n't  know  anyone 
to  turn  to  excepting  her  old  grand- 
mother, to  help  her  make  up  her  mind.' 

'What  will  it  matter,  after  a  while?' 
said  a  quiet  voice  that  had  not  been  lift- 
ed in  the  ouija  discussion. 

'Yes,  of  course,'  said  Mrs.  Penne- 
father. '  I  suppose  we  all  see  that  here. 
But  this  is  n't  after  a  while  to  Harriet's 
little  girl.  It's  now.  I'll  have  to  go 
help  her.' 

Again  the  well-mannered  attendant 
was  at  their  side. 

'The  ouija,  Mrs.  Pennefather,'  he 
said. 

One  of  the  lesser  executives  was  talk- 
ing to  somebody  else,  but  I  think  not  to 
the  greatest. 

'Mrs.  Pennefather  really  is  n't  doing 
the  least  good  here,  you  know.' 

'What 's  the  matter?  Is  n't  she  hap- 
py? "Blessed  damosel  leaned  out"  — 
is  it  that  kind  of  case?' 

'No.  Oh,  no!  Oh,  she  would  be,  if 
they  'd  let  her  alone.  She  has  imagina- 
tion enough  to  see  what  there  is  in  it. 
It  went  like  great  music  through  her 
when  she  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  — 
the  possibilities.  She  longs  to  be  up  and 
about  it.  It 's  those  in  the  World  Before 
bothering  around  all  the  time,  dragging 
her  back.  They  call  it  loving  her!  You 
know.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you.' 

'Mediums?  Do  they  go  as  far  down 
as  that?' 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


85 


'Oh,  yes,  and  worse.  All  the  ways. 
They've  even  a  ouija  lately.  It's  one 
of  the  aggravated  cases.' 

'Well?' 

'It  is  n't  her  fault  at  all,  you  know. 
She  really  is  n't  here.  They  won't  let 
her  be.  They  keep  pulling  her  back  and 
back,  and  making  her  stay  with  them. 
She  is  having  to  spend  her  whole  time 
in  the  World  Before  —  that's  what  it 
amounts  to.  She  has  n't  had  a  chance, 
the  way  they  keep  interrupting  her. 
She  knows  it's  like  being  in  a  swarm 
of  gnats,  but  she  has  n't  the  heart  to 
brush  them  away  —  all  her  family's 
calls  and  calls  to  her.  She  loved  them, 
you  know,  and  her  heart  is  so  tender.' 

'And  yet  we  don't  want  to  keep  this 
life  from  shining  through.  One  hesi- 
tates to  thicken  the  barriers.' 

'  Of  course,  that  is  true.  But  how  to 
keep  them  from  abusing  it  on  the  other 
side?  Now,  here's  this  case  of  Mrs. 
Pennefather.  It 's  one  of  any  number. 
You  could  duplicate  it  all  over  this  life 
and  the  other,  I'd  hate  to  say  how 
many  times.  Her  little  grandson  has  a 
temper.  Many  boys  have;  it 's  not  un- 
common. Well,  one  day,  out  it  flies,  and 
another  small  boy  gets  knocked  down 
and  goes  home  crying.  WTiat  does  his 
mother  do?  "Ambrose,"  she  says,  very 
gently,  "don't  you  remember  how 
Grandmother  hated  to  see  you  give 
way  to  your  temper?  You  don't  like 
to  do  what  pained  Grandmother  so, 
do  you?" 

'Now,  that's  all  very  well;  sweet  and 
loyal  and  loving,  and  appeals  to  what's 
fine  in  the  boy  —  all  very  well,  if  she'd 
stop  there.  But  does  she?  Not  she! 
She  goes  on.  Just  listen  to  what  she 
says  to  the  youngster  —  and,  as  I  said, 
it 's  not  just  Mrs.  Pennefather's  daugh- 
ter-in-law. It's  happening  every  day, 
all  over  Christendom. 

"Grandmother  hasn't  gone  away 
from  us,"  she  says.  "We  don't  see  her 


—  nearer  than  she  ever  was  before! 
When  you  feel  your  bad  temper  coming 
up  you  just  stop  and  think  of  Grand- 
mother, and  she'll  help  you  get  the 
best  of  it." 

'Well!  There  it  is!  So  Mrs.  Penne- 
father has  to  drop  all  the  big  things  she 
might  be  doing  and  go  back  and  stay 
around  and  help  Ambrose  take  care 
of  his  temper,  which  his  mother  ought 
to  be  perfectly  equal  to  doing  herself. 
Mrs.  Pennefather  did  it  for  Ambrose's 
father,  and  a  big  job  it  was  and  took 
years  of  patience;  but  she  did  it,  and 
now  it's  Ambrose's  mother's  turn  to  do 
it  for  Ambrose. 

'And  even  that  is  n't  so  bad.  One 
could  forgive  that.  There's  something 
fine  in  it  too,  of  course.  But  the  ones 
who  're  just  lonesome !  No  other  excuse 
in  the  world,  but  just  lonesome!  What 
are  they  thinking  about  ?  Do  they  think 
these  Dead  have  n't  anything  else  to  do 
than  to  keep  hanging  about  their  poor 
little  lives  forever  and  ever?  Don't 
they  know  they  have  their  own  great 
place  in  the  marvelous  universe  and 
can't  be  playing  at  midges'  work  any 
longer?  What  do  they  think  they  died 
for? 

'Excuse  me.  It  does  make  one  im- 
moderate. But  the  foolishness  of  it! 
The  lack  of  imagination !  The  belittling 
the  whole  scheme!' 

There  are  thoughts  that  demand  ex- 
pression before  the  ultimate  authority. 
It  is  not  quite  honest  to  say  them  to 
anyone  else,  or  to  leave  them  unspoken. 

Mrs.  Pennefather  went  to  find  the 
very  oldest  residents.  They  might  know. 
Their  aspect  was  stately  and  somewhat 
awesome,  because  they  were  from  the 
most  remote  antiquity,  but  then-  eyes 
were  kind  and  wise. 

'Can  anyone  see  Him?'  she  asked. 

'The  Maker  of  Plans?' 

'The  Thinker  of  Everything,'  she 


any  more,  but  she's  always  near  us     said. 


86 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 


'You  might  try/  they  answered. 
'We  don't  know  whether  you  could; 
only  whether  we  could.' 

There  was  a  great,  quiet  space,  and 
in  it  a  veil  like  a  misty  cloud  hanging, 
stirring  —  like  a  breath  on  waters. 

Mrs.  Pennefather  began  to  say  what 
she  had  to  say.  She  thought  it  was  the 
one  she  had  come  to  speak  to,  listening. 
It  could  n't  be  anyone  else.  She  had  no 
hesitation,  and  said  what  was  in  her 
mind. 

'God,  O  God,  it  isn't  in  the  least 
what  I  expected.  I  did  n't  think  it  of 
you,  God!  Can't  you  ever  let  us  off 
from  living?  Frittering  away  death  — 
like  this!  They  don't  understand,  back 
there,  but  why  can't  you  make  them 
let  us  alone?  I  was  your  faithful  serv- 
ant there,  O  God  —  you  know  I  was! 
I  did  the  very  best  I  knew  how.  I  did 
n't  shirk  or  complain  —  much.  I  tried 
hard!  And  I  was  so  tired!  I  thought  I 
could  go  away  and  rest.  And  ever  since 
I  came,  every  minute,  they  keep  calling 
me  to  help  them  do  things.  Just  the 
way  it  always  was  —  only  worse :  for 
then  they  used  to  try  to  spare  me  and 
not  let  me  overdo,  and  now  they  think 
they  're  being  kind  to  me.  Kind !  They 
really  think  that!  I  don't  mean  to 
blame  them,  God.  It's  just  because 
they  don't  know  any  better;  but  really 
they  do.  The  more  they  call  me,  the 
more  they  think  they  're  being  kind  and 
loving  to  me.  O  God,  I'm  so  disap- 
pointed in  dying!  Is  n't  there  some- 
thing else?  Something  bigger?  Because 
if  there  is  n't,  if  it's  just  going  on  living 
the  same  things  over  and  over,  with  a 


kind  of  a  veil  between,  then  I  can't  see 
what's  the  good  of  dying,  you  know. 
Because  they're  all  such  little  things. 
One  does  n't  see  that  at  the  time.  You 
think  they  matter,  and  so  you  're  willing 
to  pour  your  soul  into  them.  But  to  see 
how  little  they  are  and  how  little  they 
matter,  and  just  when  you  've  drawn  a 
long  breath,  then  to  feel  them  reaching, 
reaching,  clinging  to  you,  holding  you 
back  —  when  you  see  it  does  n't  matter! 
O  God,  how  can  you  let  them  interrupt 
great  beautiful  Death  like  that?' 

Again  the  wind  that  blows  between 
the  worlds  lifted  the  spirit  of  Mrs. 
Pennefather  and  swirled  it  away  and 
away  —  high  into  ecstasies  —  deep  into 
unconsciousness  —  far  and  far  through 
the  unthinkable  realms  that  lie  between 
the  worlds.  After  the  aeons,  emerged 
from  the  spaces,  she  lifted  eyelids  from 
tired  eyes  and  looked  at  the  light  of  the 
windows  of  her  familiar  bedroom  and 
her  daughter's  face  bending  over  her. 

'Am  I  dead?'  said  the  living  Mrs. 
Pennefather,  slowly  moving  the  lips  of 
her  body. 

'No,  dear  —  oh,  no!'  said  her  daugh- 
ter. 'You've  been  sleeping  a  long  time. 
It's  quite  late.' 

'  I  knew  it  could  n't  be  like  that,' 
said  Mrs.  Pennefather  after  long  sec- 
onds; 'God  would  n't  fool  anybody  so.' 

She  turned  her  head,  and  her  eyelids 
closed  sleepily. 

'Now,'  she  murmured,  the  words  a 
light  breath  scarcely  moving  her  lips, 
'  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace.' 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


AS  EXEMPLIFIED   IN  A  NEW  SCHOOL 


BY  THEODORE  M.  KNAPPEN 


IN  a  greenhouse  at  Dayton,  Ohio, 
where  a  master  of  scientific  research 
once  experimented  with  plant-life,  there 
is  being  conducted  an  interesting  ex- 
periment in  juvenile  life,  conceived  by 
the  man  of  research  and  a  group  of 
friends  and  associates.  There  was  no 
significance  in  the  choice  of  the  green- 
house for  the  human  experiment.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  the  most  available  shelter 
for  the  new-old  school  that  the  group 
had  in  mind.  Yet  a  building  so  little 
suited  for  school  purposes  did  comple- 
ment an  idea  behind  the  school  —  that 
now,  as  in  Garfield's  time,  a  log  with 
a  Mark  Hopkins  on  one  end  and  the 
student  on  the  other  is  enough  material 
equipment  to  ensure  the  success  of  a 
school. 

This  '  Moraine  Park  School '  began  as 
a  preparatory  school,  but  the  scheme 
has  now  been  projected  down  to  the 
tenderest  school-years;  so  that  it  is 
possible  for  220  of  the  more  fortunate  of 
the  Dayton  boys  and  girls  to  pass  all 
their  years,  from  kindergarten  to  col- 
lege entrance,  in  the  pleasant  paths  of 
education  that  have  been  sketched  for 
them  by  the  founders.  The  paths  are 
many.  Some  are  well-defined;  some  are 
merely  blazed  and  left  to  the  devel- 
opment of  the  boys  and  girls  as  they 
move  forward  through  the  years;  but 
all  lead  up  toward  the  general  goal  of 
mastery  of  the  arts  of  life,  which  is  edu- 


cation according  to  the  Moraine  Park 
conception. 

The  definition  is  important,  because 
it  shapes  the  scheme  of  this  novel  school. 
Manifestly  the  arts  of  life  cannot  be 
mastered  by  excising  the  boy  from  life. 
He  cannot  be  prepared  for  life  by  stay- 
ing out  of  life  for  twelve  or  sixteen 
years.  From  the  standpoint  of  this  def- 
inition, education  and  life  cannot  be 
kept  in  separate  compartments  for  a 
quarter,  or  a  third,  of  a  lifetime.  Edu- 
cation, regarded  as  something  wholly 
preliminary  to,  or  dissociated  from, 
practical  life,  could  thus  be  segregated, 
and  has  been  these  last  fifty  years  in 
America  —  or  ever  since  our  education- 
al system  spread  out  to  enclose  the 
youth  of  the  land  in  its  meshes  for  nine 
months  or  more  in  all  the  formative 
years.  The  arts  of  life,  like  any  tech- 
nical art,  are  mastered  by  doing,  not  by 
looking  on. 

But  what  are  these  arts  of  life,  whose 
mastery  constitutes  education  accord- 
ing to  the  Moraine  Park  way  of  think- 
ing? They  do  not  consist  of  technical 
expertness  in  any  particular  formal 
study,  or  in  any  craft.  They  are  not 
based  on  the  attainment  of  a  rating  of 
70  per  cent  in  algebra,  or  on  such  and 
such  a  rating  in  making  tools  and  ma- 
chines. On  the  contrary,  'the  arts  of 
life'  are  described  as  occupations,  ten 
in  number.  And  these  occupations  do 

87 


88 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


not  respond  to  the  ordinary  definition 
of  the  word,  as  a  means  of  gaining  a 
living;  rather  are  they  the  departments 
of  human  activity  which,  taken  to- 
gether, make  up  the  whole  life.  In  the 
'pedagese'  of  the  school  publications 
these  'occupations'  are  set  down  as 
(1)  Body-building;  (2)  Spirit-building; 
(3)  Society-serving;  (4)  Man-conserv- 
ing; (5)  Opinion-forming;  (6)  Truth- 
discovering;  (7)  Thought-expressing; 
(8)  Wealth-producing;  (9)  Comrade- or 
mate-seeking;  (10)  Life-refreshing. 

The  ordinary  studies  of  the  schools 
are  relegated  to  places  in  these  'occu- 
pations.' In  the  monthly  report  cards 
that  go  to  the  parents,  the  latter  have 
to  look  closely  to  find  out  how  their  boy 
is  doing  in  history.  They  find  it  listed 
as  No.  3  under  opinion-forming,  such 
unheard-of  qualities  in  scholastic  re- 
ports as  fairness  of  mind  and  judgment 
being  listed  above  it  in  this '  occupation ' 
or  art  of  life.  This  grouping  illustrates 
the  theory  of  the  school.  It  does  not 
look  upon  history  as  something  to  be 
taught  for  itself,  but  as  something  to  be 
studied  as  a  means  of  developing  the 
ability  to  form  sound  opinions.  The 
boy  may  be  very  lame  in  history  as  a 
study,  and  yet  stand  up  well  in  his  rating 
in  opinion-forming. 

Should  the  parent  wish  to  know  how 
his  son  is  doing  in  chemistry,  or  zoology 
or  physics,  or  botany,  he  will  consult 
the  score-card  in  vain.  In  the  space  set 
aside  for  appraisal  of  progress  in  truth- 
discovering,  he  will,  however,  get  a 
hint  of  how  well  the  boy  is  doing  in  sci- 
ence as  a  whole,  as  one  of  the  seven  fac- 
tors that  contribute  to  the  mastery  of 
truth-discovering  —  but  that  is  all. 
Manifestly  the  boy  might  have  only  an 
'unsatisfactory'  in  science  as  a  study, 
and  being  excellent  and  satisfactory  in 
the  six  other  elements  of  truth-discov- 
ering, make  a  most  excellent  showing 
as  a  discoverer  of  truth.  The  other 
elements  of  the  mastery  of  truth-dis- 


covering are  set  down  as  alertness, 
thoroughness,  skill  in  observing,  skill 
in  experimenting,  soundness  in  inter- 
preting, and  geography. 

Following  the  obscured  trail  of  the 
traditional  studies  through  the  Moraine 
Park  curriculum,  we  find  French,  Latin, 
Spanish,  and  mathematics  set  down 
as  contributors  to  thought-express- 
ing, with  truthfulness  and  accuracy 
listed  ahead  of  them.  Unless  we  except 
manual  training,  listed  under  wealth- 
producing,  this  completes  the  list  of 
mention  of  'studies'  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation.  Grouped  with  manual 
training  under  wealth-producing  are 
'project  work,'  diligence,  perseverance, 
honesty,  initiative,  thriftiness.  As  for 
the  other  'occupations,'  body-building 
includes  eating  carefully,  general  care 
of  health,  regular  exercise.  Spirit-build- 
ing is  made  up  of  loyalty  to  high  ideals, 
efforts  to  do  the  best,  trustworthiness, 
power  to  will  to  do  the  right.  Under  so- 
ciety-serving come  obedience,  respect 
for  law,  faithfulness  in  office,  interest 
in  the  community,  punctuality.  Man- 
conserving  is  made  up  of  generosity, 
spirit  of  helpfulness,  home-making. 
Contributing  to  comrade-  or  mate-seek- 
ing ability  are  the  elements  of  coop- 
eration, courtesy,  agreeableness,  frank- 
ness. Elements  of  the  mastery  of  the 
art  of  life-refreshing  are  play  interest, 
sportsmanlike  spirit,  courage,  self-con- 
trol, resourcefulness. 

The  report  card  really  tells  the  story 
of  the  Moraine  Park  School.  The  par- 
ent examines  it  to  learn  whether  and 
how  the  child  is  progressing  in  his  mas- 
tery of  the  art  of  living  and  its  compo- 
nent arts;  the  child  views  it  as  a  picture 
of  his  progress  in  the  adventure  of  life. 
Neither  worries  about  the  progress  in 
studies,  school-exercises,  or  methods, 
for  both  conceive  of  them  as  but  'the 
material  and  means  of  education.'  In 
fact,  the  so-called  studies,  which  must 
be  carried  on  for  drill  purposes,  and  to 


keep  up  the  articulation  of  the  school 
with  the  colleges  and  universities,  and 
also  to  keep  the  student  from  coming 
short  of  the  mastery  of  living  because 
of  lack  of  understanding  of  the  formal 
education  of  the  past  and  present,  are 
only  a  part  of  the  instruments  of  edu- 
cation at  Moraine  Park.  Training  in 
business  and  in  citizenship  are  granted 
as  much  importance  and  as  much  time 
as  the  formal  studies;  and  beneath  all 
three  is  the  ever-considered  basic  oc- 
cupation of  being  physically  well  and 
strong. 

n 

The  method  of  the  school  varies  in 
detail  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to 
year,  from  class  to  class  and  pupil  to 
pupil,  but,  in  general,  it  seeks  always 
to  blend  studies  and  life,  mental  and 
moral  drill,  with  business  and  citizen- 
ship. So  far  as  practicable,  all  things 
are  learned  or  acquired  by  doing.  Citi- 
zenship is  mastered  by  making  the 
school  democratically  self-governing, 
even  to  the  conducting  of  the  classes, 
wherein  one  of  the  class  presides  and 
does  the  'paper  work,'  leaving  the 
teacher  free  to  be  'one  of  the  bunch.' 
The  studies  are  absorbed  by  utilizing 
them.  This  utilization  may  be  through 
the  'projects'  or  through  the  working 
out  of  real-life  problems.  The  book 
learning  comes  in  as  a  tool  in  handling 
the  problem.  Instead  of  leading  a  boy 
up  to  a  textbook  on  arithmetic,  for 
example,  and  giving  him  so  many  rules 
to  learn  and  so  many  examples  to  do, 
the  textbook  is  arrived  at  by  indirec- 
tion. If  a  boy  is  going  through  all  the 
phases  of  a  duplication  of  earning 
money,  saving  it,  and  building  a  home 
on  the  installment  plan,  he  finds  him- 
self up  against  many  real-life  problems 
in  mathematics  and  naturally  wants 
to  know  how  to  meet  them.  At  this 
stage  he  is  eager  for  the  study  of  math- 
ematics. He  takes  up  arithmetic  now 


89 

because  he  has  a  compelling  interest 
in  it. 

Running  the  school  and  the  classes 
on  a  democratic  plan  inevitably  leads 
to  a  desire  to  study  civics  and  politics. 
In  these  ways  the  student  comes  to  get, 
as  a  means  to  an  end,  what  in  the  ordi- 
nary school  is  the  end  of  his  work.  He 
follows  his  interests.  He  acquires  with 
feverish  enthusiasm  the  things  that 
he  might  otherwise  rebel  against.  The 
idea  is,  not  to  lay  a  course  of  education 
before  a  boy  and  tell  him  to  swallow 
it,  nolens  volens,  but  to  lead  him  along 
to  a  point  where  he  demands  it.  He 
works  out  his  own  education.  The 
teacher  stays  in  the  background  as 
friend  and  adviser.  He  does  not  do  all 
the  swimming  himself,  but  gets  the  boy 
to  come  into  the  pool  with  him.  Educa- 
tion flows  from  the  irresistible  impul- 
sion of  his  own  activities  —  until  it 
becomes  his  life. 

So  wide  are  the  boundaries  within 
which  the  girls  and  boys  may  follow  the 
needle  of  their  own  inclinations  that 
if,  as  sometimes  happens,  a  class  votes 
to  pursue  a  study  in  the  conventional 
manner  of  study,  recitations,  and  ex- 
aminations, it  has  its  way;  for  the  old 
way  is  held  to  be  as  good  as  any  for 
those  who  like  it.  This  does  not  often 
occur.  Usually  the  indirect  route  is  the 
one  followed. 

Take  English,  for  example.  Spelling 
and  grammar  are  merely  incidental. 
The  pupils  read  pretty  much  what  they 
want  to  read,  fix  a  minimum  of  achieve- 
ment, and  choose  their  own  themes. 
Eager  to  write  or  to  understand,  they 
perceive  the  necessity  of  knowing  what 
is  correct  in  composition  and  rhetoric. 
Spelling,  grammar,  and  composition 
are  now  appealed  to.  Themes  written 
in  the  pursuance  of  any  study  or  oc- 
cupation serve  for  the  themes  of  the 
English  class.  A  boy  who  was  all  for  ag- 
riculture in  his  interests  was  utterly 
indifferent  to  literature.  But  to  acquire 


90 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


the  facts  that  appealed  to  him,  he  had 
to  read  various  agricultural  papers  and 
bulletins.  Then  he  noticed  that  some 
of  these  publications  were  easy  to  read 
and  had  an  appealing  style,  while  others 
were  obscure  and  dull.  This  observa- 
tion opened  the  door  of  English  and 
literature  to  him.  He  desired  to  learn 
how  to  write  lucidly  and  interestingly 
himself. 

The  learners  of  the  arts  of  life  can  go 
as  slowly  or  as  rapidly  as  their  abilities 
and  energies  determine.  They  receive 
credits,  not  on  the  basis  of  so  many 
hours  a  week  or  on  mere  memory  ex- 
aminations and  formal  recitations,  but 
rather  on  what  they  have  mastered  as 
shown  by  inquiry,  ability-testing  exam- 
inations, and  observation.  As  the  child 
progresses,  he  is  informally  appraised 
from  time  to  time,  and  fundamentally 
surveyed  and  checked  up  at  long  inter- 
vals. Many  children  are  notoriously 
slow  in  grasping  particular  drill  stud- 
ies, as,  for  example,  mathematics.  For 
them  there  are  no  despairing  moments 
of  agonizing  tests  and  torturing  exam- 
inations at  Moraine.  The  mastery  of 
mathematics  being  but  one  seventh 
of  the  mastery  of  'thought-expressing/ 
the  child  to  whom  numbers  come  but 
slowly  has  abundant  opportunity  to 
compensate  his  pride  and  defend  him- 
self from  mortification.  Left  to  his  own 
evolution  in  ample  time,  he  generally 
finds  himself  sufficiently  informed,  even 
in  the  most  backward  studies,  to  master 
minimum  requirements  before  the  day 
comes  for  him  to  be  graduated. 

The  so-called  projects  are  related  to 
all  the  ten  occupations.  They  are  real- 
life  enterprises,  in  the  development  of 
which  the  child  finds  understanding  of 
the  arts  of  life.  One  group  of  boys  has 
a  project  for  building  an  air-plane  —  a 
natural  enterprise  in  an  aeronautical 
centre  like  Dayton.  This  project  has  its 
mechanical,  scientific,  and  business  as- 
pects. First,  of  all,  it  must  be  financed; 


and  the  financing  must  be  earned.  So 
the  boys  rent  a  plot  of  land  and  plant 
popcorn,  which  they  tend,  harvest,  and 
sell.  This  involves  many  business  ac- 
tivities and  much  business  initiative. 
Incidentally  they  learn  something  of 
agriculture,  something  of  the  popcorn 
business,  something  of  banking,  some- 
thing of  commercial  correspondence.  At 
each  stage  of  the  progress  of  the  project 
they  have  to  do  something  that  is  done 
in  everyday  life  —  and  their  natural 
prompting  is  to  find  out  how  to  do  it  in 
the  best  way.  They  are  turned  to  com- 
position, to  arithmetic,  to  typewriting, 
to  bookkeeping.  The  mechanical  and 
scientific  by-paths  are  many  and  obvi- 
ous. The  air-ship  boys  were  unfortu- 
nate enough  to  purchase  an  engine  that 
was  not  satisfactory.  In  trying  to  un- 
load it,  they  fell  into  a  commercial 
temptation.  They  bethought  themselves 
to  offer  it  to  the  school  bank,  which  is 
the  project  of  another  group,  as  collat- 
eral for  a  loan,  leave  the  loan  unpaid, 
and  let  the  bank  take  possession  of  the 
worthless  engine.  At  this  point  they 
learned  something  of  business  ethics 
and  morals. 

The  bank  project,  besides  being  one 
means  of  the  mastery  of  the  arts  of  life 
for  its  shareholders  and  officers,  is  im- 
portant in  the  financing  of  the  other 
projects,  as  well  as  a  convenience  to  the 
students  in  general,  and  an  open  door  to 
banking  practice.  It  has  about  a  hun- 
dred accounts  and  its  deposits  amount 
to  one  thousand  dollars.  It  makes  loans 
at  current  interest  rates,  and  on  notes 
supported  by  collateral  or  good  indorse- 
ments. 

The  projects  number  more  than  a 
hundred.  Usually  they  are  of  a  money- 
earning  or  money-absorbing  nature, 
but  they  are  sometimes  purely  research 
or  educational,  and  may  be  within  the 
school's  purview  or  outside  it.  Among 
them  are  a  school  drug-store;  a  print- 
ing-shop; a  newspaper;  managing  the 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


91 


school  library;  toy-manufacturing;  a 
lunch-room;  a  law  firm  to  look  after 
the  legal  contacts  and  court  trials  that 
arise  under  the  self-established  govern- 
ment and  from  the  conflicts  of  projects; 
a  brokerage  company;  a  second-hand 
store  on  pawnshop  lines;  a  towel-supply 
service;  a  lost-and-found  office;  getting 
out  the  school  catalogue  (which  is  al- 
most entirely  performed  by  the  stu- 
dents); camera  shop;  serving  as  secre- 
taries to  the  director  and  instructors; 
advertising  production  for  school  an- 
nouncements and  business  projects; 
an  insurance  company,  which  protects 
against  various  losses,  including  broken 
panes  in  the  greenhouse  that  still  shel- 
ters the  larger  part  of  the  school;  an 
advertising  company;  a  bookstore;  a 
transfer  company;  a  construction  com- 
pany; and  so  on. 

What  with  the  handling  of  the  many 
and  diverse  projects,  and  the  work  of 
the  'details'  that  perform  the  school 
chores,  —  such  as  janitoring,  —  the 
internal  business  administration  of  the 
school,  and  some  of  its  external  rela- 
tions, are  largely  carried  on  by  the 
pupils.  There  are,  of  course,  various 
clubs,  and  sports  and  play  are  as  much 
a  part  of  the  daily  programme  as  classes 
and  'projects.' 

m 

The  very  fact  that  the  school  began 
in  a  disused  greenhouse  and  without 
much  physical  equipment  opened  the 
way  for  many  projects  and  leaves  it  still 
open.  There  were,  and  are,  many  alter- 
ations to  be  made.  The  boys  plan 
changes  in  their  environment,  and 
carry  them  out  with  saw  and  hammer, 
plane  and  paint-brush.  Subject  to  the 
advice  and  counsel  of  the  instructors, 
they  make  their  way  through  school 
much  as  they  will  have  to  make  it 
when  the  designated  school  years  are 
over.  They  educate  themselves.  With- 
in spacious  bounds  they  follow  the 


paths  of  their  own  interests  and  inclina- 
tions through  the  studies  and  activities 
that  give  the  mastery  of  the  arts  of  life. 
They  are  driven  on  by  the  impulsions 
born  of  what  they  do.  In  a  large  sense 
they  'run'  themselves  and  the  school. 
Thus  they  come  to  the  final  goal  of  the 
twelfth  grade,  —  though  grades  are  but 
shadowy  things  in  this  school,  which 
flows  steadily  rather  than  advances  by 
steps,  —  only  partly  by  virtue  of  the 
book-learning  that  is  revealed  by  set 
examinations,  but  as  men  progress  in 
daily  life;  and  they  show  their  progress 
by  their  deeds  rather  than  by  accounts 
of  what  they  have  memorized. 

The  pupils  are  divided  into  four 
groups,  with  a  normal  allocation  of 
four  years  to  the  first  or  primary  group, 
two  years  to  the  second,  three  years  to 
the  third,  and  three  years  to  the  fourth. 
To  each  group  are  assigned  certain 
standards,  the  attainment  of  which  in- 
dicates eligibility  for  the  next  higher 
group.  The  standards  are  not  arbi- 
trary, but  are  used  as  goals,  and  are 
subject  to  change.  Just  now,  for  exam- 
ple, the  child  is  ready  to  emerge  from 
the  first  group  when  (1)  he  has  made 
definite  progress  in  physical  develop- 
ment toward  the  norm  for  his  age,  ac- 
cording to  standard  tables;  (2)  when 
he  has  attained  satisfactory  standing  in 
at  least  seven  of  the  personal  traits  of 
self-control,  thrift,  perseverance,  trust- 
worthiness, obedience,  truthfulness, 
helpfulness,  generosity,  courage,  initia- 
tive, self-reliance;  (3)  when  he  shows 
by  mental  tests  that  his  intelligence  is 
within  two  years  of  the  normal  for  his 
actual  age;  and  (4)  when  he  has  reached 
a  full  fourth-grade  standard  in  the 
*  drill  subjects,'  namely,  reading,  spell- 
ing, numbers,  and  writing. 

To  complete  the  work  of  the  second 
group,  the  requisite  normal  physical 
progress  must  be  in  evidence ;  there  must 
have  been  satisfactory  advancement  in 
the  personal  traits;  there  must  be  a  well- 


MASTERING   THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


established  purpose '  to  support  the  right 
and  oppose  the  wrong';  there  must 
be  an  intelligence  within  two  years  of 
that  indicated  as  normal  for  the  child's 
actual  age,  and  the  attainment  of  a 
full  sixth-grade  proficiency  in  the  drill 
subjects. 

To  pass  through  the  third  group  the 
pupil  must  keep  his  physique  up  to  the 
age-standard,  pass  mental  tests  indica- 
ting an  intelligence  within  two  years 
of  that  for  his  age,  and  have  a  standing 
of  'good'  in  at  least  seven  of  the  nine 
'occupations'  that  are  based  on  the 
primal  occupation  of  body-building  or 
health-preserving;  and  must  have  com- 
pleted, with  a  grade  of  'good,'  at  least 
ten  of  the  twelve  units  of  the  drill-sub- 
ject work  of  this  group  —  a  unit  being 
a  year's  work. 

To  complete  the  fourth  group  (end  of 
twelve  years  of  work),  the  physical 
standard  must  be  satisfied,  the  intelli- 
gence test  must  be  passed,  all  the  nine 
'occupations'  must  be  mastered  to  the 
extent  of  'good,'  and,  finally,  credit 
gained  for  twelve  units  of  conventional 
studies  of  this  group,  and  a  total  sixteen 
units,  including  those  of  the  last  year 
of  the  third  group.  These  units  are 
chosen  so  that  they  'equip  for  entrance 
to  college  or  for  a  life  occupation.' 

In  reviewing  these  progress-require- 
ments, it  will  be  observed  that  in  each 
group  there  are  three  fields  of  appraisal 
in  addition  to  the  conventional  ones. 
Roughly,  it  might  be  said  that  at  Mo- 
raine the  work  of  the  typical  school 
counts  only  as  one  fourth  of  the  pupil's 
advancement;  and  that  statement  pre- 
sents briefly  the  difference  between  this 
school  and  the  familiar  ones.  Were  it 
not  for  the  fact  that  Moraine  must 
adapt  itself  to  the  general  educational 
scheme,  in  order  to  equip  its  graduates 
for  college  entrance  examinations  and 
to  enable  them  to  produce  the  accepted 
symbols  of  education,  it  would  doubt- 
less give  still  less  weight  to  the  conven- 


tional. It  is  the  hope  of  the  founders 
and  director  to  persuade  colleges  and 
universities  to  accept  Moraine  gradu- 
ates on  the  school's  recommendation, 
full  confidence  being  felt  that  they  will 
more  than  make  good.  Already  Michi- 
gan, Ohio  State,  and  some  other  univer- 
sities and  colleges  have  agreed  to  accept 
Moraine  boys  for  the  full  valuation  the 
school  accords  to  them.  A  number  of 
boys,  by  their  college  records,  have  jus- 
tified the  school's  confidence  in  them 
and  in  itself. 

Moraine  is  as  adaptable  and  reason- 
able in  its  own  entrance-requirements 
as  it  would  have  the  colleges  in  theirs. 
By  means  of  an  application  blank, 
which  is  an  elaborate  questionnaire,  it 
gets  a  survey  of  the  applicant's  life, 
character,  disposition,  attainments,  per- 
formance, inclinations,  and  health. 
The  parent,  not  the  child,  fills  out  and 
signs  this  blank.  The  last  two  ques- 
tions remind  him  sharply  of  the  educa- 
tional creed  he  subscribes  to  in  sending 
his  child  to  Moraine.  They  are:  — 

'Do  you  believe  that  self-discipline 
is  the  kind  for  children  to  acquire, 
rather  than  that  they  be  trained  by 
force  of  the  will  of  adults?' 

'Do  you  believe  that  books,  classes, 
materials,  are  of  secondary  importance 
to  fundamental  attitudes  and  qualities 
in  education?' 

IV 

The  pressure  of  Dayton  boys  and 
girls  to  get  into  this  school,  lured  by  the 
glowing  accounts  of  its  fascinating  ad- 
ventures in  the  book  of  life,  soon  scrap- 
ped the  original  scheme  of  a  private 
school  for  a  dozen  or  so  sons  of  the 
creators.  The  latter  are  all  democratic 
Americans,  and  they  abhor  exclusive- 
ness.  They  had  no  intention  of  estab- 
lishing a  school  that  should  seek  patron- 
age, but  were  merely  trying  to  find  a 
better  way  of  educating  their  children 
—  not  to  set  them  apart  from  other 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


93 


children.  Within  limits,  a  larger  num- 
ber of  pupils  would  contribute  to  the 
realization  of  their  ideas,  as  it  would 
create  a  community,  and  establish  op- 
portunity for  contacts  and  the  practice 
of  the  '  occupations '  that  would  be  im- 
possible in  a  small  group.  Moreover,  a 
larger  school  would  afford  a  desirable 
demonstration  of  the  applicability  of 
the  conception  to  the  public  schools. 
By  a  weighted  scale  of  tuition,  whereby 
wealthy  parents  pay  more  than  those 
less  fortunate,  it  has  become  possible  to 
keep  the  school  from  becoming  a  mere 
congregation  of  rich  men's  sons.  As  the 
school  is  a  self-governing  democracy, 
the  '  citizens '  have  a  voice  in  the  matter 
of  admissions.  Newcomers  are  accepted 
on  probation  while  the  community  gets 
a  chance  to  give  them  the  'once  over.' 
No  snobs  or  mere  sons  of  their  fathers 
can  get  by  that  searching  scrutiny, 
although  hasty  judgments  are  often 
revised  after  taking  counsel  with  the 
instructors. 

The  democratic  spirit  of  the  school  is 
further  promoted  by  the  comradeship 
of  instructors  and  pupils.  The  for- 
mer have  no  pride  of  position.  They 
are  of,  for,  and  by  the  boys.  They 
stand  on  no  dignity  of  authority.  The 
boys  address  them  as  familiarly  as  they 
do  each  other,  and  they  maintain  their 
leadership  solely  by  virtue  of  their  en- 
gaging personalities  and  their  success  in 
helping  the  boys  to  explore  zestfully 
the  realm  of  education.  The  teacher 
who  requires  the  support  of  authority 
cannot  remain  at  Moraine  Park. 

The  expansion  of  the  school,  now  but 
three  years  old,  has  compelled  an  en- 
largement of  its  housing.  A  beautiful 
home  —  not  a  schoolhouse  —  has  been 
erected  in  Dayton  proper  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  the  little  tots,  a  cottage 
for  the  older  girls  has  been  erected  at 
the  Park,  and  soon  the  boys  will  have 
a  new  building  there;  but  the  green- 
house will  not  be  forsaken.  Moraine 


Park  is  out  in  the  country,  though  but 
a  few  miles  from  Dayton,  so  that  the 
older  children  have  the  advantage  of 
passing  all  their  school-work  and  play- 
hours  in  the  midst  of  fields  and  forests, 
though  their  homes  are  in  the  city.  So 
far,  Moraine  is  entirely  a  school  for 
Dayton,  there  being  no  accomodations 
for  children  who  do  not  live  with  their 
families.  The  long  waiting-list  makes 
it  doubtful  whether  Moraine  will  ever 
grow  away  from  Dayton.  Its  spirit  will 
doubtless  go  to  other  cities  in  like 
schools  to  be. 

The  admirers  of  the  conventional 
school  will  decry  Moraine  Park  as  one 
more  of  many  pedagogical  fads  and  edu- 
cational experiments,  and  'practical* 
men  will  brand  it  as  a  doomed  child  of 
theory.  Yet  it  is  entirely  the  creation 
of  practical  men  —  self-made  men  — 
who  desired  a  thoroughly  practical 
school  for  their  boys.  When,  some  ten 
years  ago,  Colonel  E.  A.  Deeds  and  Mr. 
C.  F.  Kettering,  men  whose  names  are 
of  much  import  in  the  American  auto- 
motive industries,  and  others,  were  de- 
veloping one  of  the  products  of  their 
genius,  two  boys,  imitating  their  fath- 
ers, developed  a  waste-paper  basket, 
and  manufactured  and  marketed  it 
with  such  success,  that,  though  they 
were  but  seven  or  eight  years  old,  they 
made  a  thousand  dollars.  This  venture 
being  wound  up,  one  of  the  boys  took 
up  poultry-raising  and  made  a  corre- 
sponding success  of  it.  The  fathers,  per- 
ceiving that  the  boys  had  developed 
strong  commercial,  engineering,  and  in- 
dustrial tendencies,  and  were  educating 
themselves  in  the  'getting-on'  side  of 
life,  so  indispensable  to  happiness  in 
this  age,  bethought  themselves  whether 
it  was  possible  to  send  the  boys  on 
through  school  and  college,  and  give 
them  the  rest  of  the  equipment  of  a 
well-balanced  man  of  culture,  without 
checking  or  perverting  their  spontane- 
ous tendencies  to  learn  for  themselves. 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


In  other  words,  they  desired  their  sons 
to  get  college  educations  without  losing 
their  innate  practicality  and  their  one- 
ness with  life.  They  sought  a  prepara- 
tory school  that  would  make  the  boys 
resistant  to  the  diversion  of  college  life 
and  equip  them  to  make  the  most  of  its 
potentialities. 

Thinking  along  similar  lines,  indi- 
vidually for  his  own  son,  and  generally 
for  better  educational  methods,  was 
Mr.  Arthur  E.  Morgan,  an  eminent  en- 
gineer, who  had  come  to  Dayton  to  di- 
rect the  $35,000,000  task  of  preventing 
such  floods  in  the  Miami  Valley  as  the 
one  that  cost  that  part  of  Ohio  several 
hundred  lives  and  a  property  loss  of 
more  than  $100,000,000  in  1913.  So  it 
came  about  that  these  men,  and  others 
who  soon  became  interested,  decided  to 
start  a  school  of  their  own,  which  would 
embody  their  ideas  of  what  education 
should  be.  Realizing  that  the  first  es- 
sential was  the  finding  of  a  teacher  with 
sympathetic  conceptions  of  education, 
possessing  at  the  same  time  the  char- 
acter, energy,  and  personality  to  be  an 
inspiring  comrade  and  leader  for  nor- 
mal boys,  the  searchers  for  something 
new  in  schooling  set  out  in  a  character- 
istic way  to  find  him.  Being  engineers 
and  producers,  they  drew  up,  through 
Mr.  Morgan,  what  they  facetiously 
called  plans  and  specifications  for  the 
type  of  man  they  desired.  They  pro- 
ceeded deliberately.  Just  as  they  had 
taken  five  years  to  plan  their  huge  work 
of  flood-prevention  before  they  put  a 
shovel  in  the  ground,  so  they  took  two 
years  to  find  the  man  who  would  fit 
their  plans  and  specifications.  The 
whole  of  the  United  States  was  combed 
over,  and  more  than  two  thousand  men 
offered  themselves  for  consideration  in 
response  to  the  circular  setting  forth 
the  requirements  and  the  conceptions 
of  what  the  proposed  school  should  be. 

Lest  it  be  inferred  that  these  busy 
men  of  large  affairs  were  seeking  merely 


to  establish  a  sort  of  exceptional  busi- 
ness or  technical  school  and  were  think- 
ing not  at  all  of  cultural  values,  a  few 
sentences  from  this  remarkable  circular 
must  be  quoted,  with  regret  that  the 
whole  of  it  cannot  be  reprinted  here. 

Among  the  acquirements  which  reduce 
the  embarrassments  and  inefficiencies  of 
everyday  material  life  are  an  experimental 
knowledge  of  commercial  habits,  rules  and 
methods;  of  the  art  of  being  solvent;  of  ap- 
praising accurately  one's  possessions;  and 
of  making  correct  measurements  and  judg- 
ment of  material  values.  .  .  .  The  teaching 
of  common-school  subjects  can  be  inter- 
woven with  all  these  interests.  .  .  .  By 
such  methods  proficiency  in  elementary  and 
high-school  subjects,  as  well  as  manual 
training,  to  some  extent,  may  be  acquired 
coincidentally  with  a  knowledge  of  the  usual 
contacts  of  everyday  life,  whether  they  be 
industrial,  domestic,  scientific,  or  cultural. 
.  .  .  Any  education  is  vitally  at  fault  which 
does  not  develop  a  habit  of  enjoyment  of 
the  finer  resources  of  life.  The  companion- 
ship of  the  teacher  should  result  in  opening 
eyes  and  minds  to  the  phenomena  of  natural 
science  —  to  life-processes  and  habits  of 
plants  and  animals;  to  the  data  of  geology, 
of  physics  and  of  astronomy;  and  to  the 
appeal  of  good  literature,  poetry,  history, 
and  the  various  forms  of  art.  .  .  .  Educa- 
tion is  not  complete  if  its  aim  is  so  to-engross 
the  attention  of  men  and  women,  either  in 
industrial,  professional,  or  social  life,  that 
they  will  not  have  time  to  ask  themselves 
the  question,  'What  is  it  all  about?'  To 
have  asked  this  question  and  to  have  reach- 
ed a  satisfactory  attitude,  which  is  not  out 
of  harmony  with  present-day  knowledge, 
is  necessary  to  a  teacher  who  is  wisely  to  di- 
rect the  minds  of  boys.  And  unless  the  con- 
clusion he  has  reached  results  in  his  having 
and  imparting  an  enthusiastic  faith  in  the 
worth-whileness  of  a  full  development  of 
the  physical,  mental,  and  moral  faculties, 
and  in  his  being  committed  to  complete  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  freedom,  he  would 
be  out  of  place  with  us.  As  a  corollary  of 
this  attitude,  we  would  expect  that  the  con- 
trolling necessity  of  life  would  be  intellec- 
tual and  moral  integrity,  with  comprehen- 
sive unity  of  purpose.  .  .  . 


MASTERING  THE  ARTS  OF  LIFE 


95 


Bearing  in  mind  always  the  need  for  main- 
taining progress  approximately  equal  to 
that  of  our  graded  schools,  the  aims  should 
be,  not  first  of  all  to  impart  knowledge,  but 
to  open  the  boys'  eyes  and  minds;  to  arouse 
interest,  aspiration,  and  determination;  to 
develop  accuracy  of  observation  and  of  judg- 
ment. We  should  aim  at  vital  orderliness, 
not  dead  conformity;  at  self-reliance,  self- 
discipline,  self-control;  providing  enough 
routine  to  develop  patience,  power  of  ad- 
justment, and  habits  of  social  team-work. 

The  circular  lays  stress  on  the  teach- 
ing of  manners  born  of '  considerateness 
and  good-will ' ;  on  the  encouragement  of 
independence,  'so  that  a  boy  will  stand 
on  his  own  resources ' ;  on  the  conserva- 
tion of  'the  spirit  of  daring  and  adven- 
ture so  nearly  universal  hi  youth,  com- 
monly thwarted  at  every  turn  in  a  boy's 
life';  and  adds:  'A  man  whose  personal- 
ity and  temperament  do  not  answer  to 
this  spirit  in  the  boy  would  be  out  of 
place  with  us.' 

While  the  Dayton  seekers  after  an 
ideal  education  were  advertising,  cor- 
respond ing,  and  traveling  in  search  of 
their  Moses,  a  group  of  educators  in 
Colorado,  meeting  in  'shop'  conference 
every  six  weeks,  had  progressed  far  in 
thinking  out,  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  professional  teacher,  a  programme 
of  education  that  the  Dayton  men  were 
groping  for  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
layman  familiar  with  the  shortcomings 
of  educational  systems  as  measured  in 
terms  of  actual  life.  They,  too,  had 
evolved  the  idea  of  the  'occupations'  of 
life,  the  mastery  of  which  would  consti- 
tute education.  One  of  them  was  Frank 
D.  Slutz,  then  superintendent  of  the 
public  schools  of  Pueblo.  When  the 
Colorado  teachers  heard  of  the  Dayton 
quest  for  a  new  school  and  a  teacher, 
they  recommended  Mr.  Slutz  and  freely 
gave  him  the  right  to  use  their  joint- 
thought  product.  He  was  elected,  and, 
with  the  help  of  other  teachers  and  the 
pupils, '  the  particular  adaptation  of  this 


general  theory  to  the  actual  practice  of 
the  schoolroom'  has  been  evolved. 

After  three  years  of  such  practice, 
Mr.  Slutz  and  the  Dayton  citizens  who 
support  the  school  are  more  enamored 
than  ever  of  their  venture.  They  regard 
it  as  a  return  in  conscious  form  to  the 
unconscious  schooling  of  an  earlier 
American  day,  when  the  farm-boy  'had 
but  three  months  of  schooling  in  the 
year,  which  left  nine  months  for  him  to 
get  an  education.'  Now  that  the  three 
months  of  schooling  have  grown  to 
nine,  they  seek  to  make  them,  as  well  as 
the  other  three,  months  in  which  to  get 
an  education. 

'One  way  of  looking  at  our  school,' 
says  Mr.  Slutz,  'is  to  consider  it  as  a 
return  to  Americanism.  We  had  abun- 
dant education  in  this  country  of  a  very 
good  quality,  if  of  narrow  field,  when 
the  average  boy  got  two  or  three  months 
of  usually  distasteful  "book  larnin'," 
and  put  in  the  rest  of  the  year  getting 
his  education  in  the  barn,  the  shed,  and 
the  field,  ^ith  the  taking  on  of  an 
elaborate  system  of  public  schools  that 
largely  copied  their  methods  from  the 
Germans  or  the  classic  English  public 
school,  and  with  the  extension  of  the 
scholastic  year  to  include  three  fourths 
of  the  calendar  year,  we  crowded  out 
the  American  sort  of  education,  which, 
as  Mr.  Morgan  says,  is  as  old  as  life. 
American  schools  should  make  Amer- 
icans. To  make  Americans,  you  must 
inculcate  and  strengthen  American 
traits.  That,  our  schools  are  not  doing. 
Initiative  is  a  prime  American  trait, 
but  our  schools  teach  conformity.  We 
are  an  ambitious  people,  but  our  schools 
put  a  premium  on  average  performance. 
We  are  a  sports-loving,  athletic  people, 
but  our  schools  tend  to  delegate  ath- 
letics to  specialists.  The  American  is 
many-sided,  but  our  educational  system 
aggrandizes  only  one  side  of  the  mas- 
tery of  living.  Business  shrewdness  is 
another  distinctive  American  trait,  but 


THE   FEELING   OF   IRRITATION 


our  education  does  not  give  us  business 
power.  We  believe  in  democracy  and 
self-government,  and  our  schools  are 
autocracies.  We  are  a  religious  people, 
and  our  schools  are  unreligious,  repress- 
ing the  spiritual  element  in  education 
through  fear  of  offending  sectarian 


prejudices.  At  Moraine  Park  we  are 
trying  to  teach  Americanism  by  devel- 
oping the  American  type  —  not  the 
English,  French,  German,  or  some 
other  type.  You  can't  develop  a  hunt- 
ing dog  by  giving  it  the  training  suited 
to  a  poodle.' 


THE  FEELING  OF  IRRITATION 


BY  FRANCES  LESTER  WARNER 


THE  feeling  of  irritation  in  its  earliest 
form  once  overtook  a  little  girl  whose 
mother  had  enforced  a  wholesome  bit  of 
discipline.  In  a  great  state  of  wrath, 
the  little  girl  went  to  her  room,  got  out 
a  large  sheet  of  paper,  and  ruled  it 
heavily  down  the  middle.  Then  she 
headed  one  column  'People  I  Like,'  and 
crowded  that  half  of  the  sheet  with  the 
names  of  all  her  acquaintance  far  and 
near.  The  other  half  of  the  page  she 
headed  'People  I  Don't  Like,'  and  in 
that  column  listed  one  word  only  — 
'Mamma.'  This  done,  she  locked  the 
grim  document  in  her  safe-deposit  box, 
and  hid  the  key. 

That  glowering  deed  was  the  very 
ritual  of  irritation.  The  feeling  of  irri- 
tation is  not  merely  one  of  heat :  it  is  a 
tall  wave  of  towering  dislike  that  goes 
mounting  up  our  blood.  When  we  have 
it,  it  feels  permanent.  Our  friend  is  not 
what  we  thought  he  was  —  our  family 
is  not  what  it  should  be  —  our  job  is  a 
failure  —  we  have  placed  our  affections 
in  the  wrong  quarter.  When  young 
politicians  give  way  to  this  feeling,  they 
bolt  the  ticket;  when  young  employees 
have  it,  they  resign.  The  first  time  that 
young  married  people  have  it,  they 


think  that  love  is  dead.  If  they  have 
too  much  wealth  and  leisure,  they  fly 
apart  and  eventually  get  a  decree.  But 
in  households  where  the  budget  does 
not  cover  alimony,  they  commonly 
stay  together  and  see  for  themselves 
how  the  wave  of  wrath  goes  down. 
The  material  inconveniences  of  resig- 
nations, abscondings,  law-suits,  and  the 
like,  have  been  a  great  safeguard  in 
many  a  career.  Nothing  in  Barrie's 
plays  is  more  subtle  than  the  perfect 
moment  when  the  young  couple  decide 
to  postpone  separation  until  the  laun- 
dry comes  home. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  'tempera- 
mental' person,  or  a  fire-eater  of  any 
sort,  in  order  to  know  how  it  feels  to  be 
irritated  —  and  irritating.  The  gentlest 
folk  are  capable  of  both  sensations. 
Anyone  who  has  seen  a  lovely  lady  de- 
liberately stir  up  strife  in  the  bosom  of 
a  genial  story-teller,  by  correcting  his 
facts  for  him  and  exposing  his  fictions, 
will  remember  the  tones  of  restrained 
choler  with  which  the  merry  tale  pro- 
gressed. Who  has  not  remarked  to  a 
kind  relative,  'Well,  if  you  know  so 
much  about  it,  why  don't  you  tell  it 
yourself? ' 


THE  FEELING   OF  IRRITATION 


97 


There  is  no  ratio  or  proportion  at  all 
between  the  cause  of  irritation  and  the 
ensuing  state  of  mind.  In  our  moments 
of  ferment  we  lose  the  faculty  of  dis- 
crimination. We  hardly  ever  refer  our 
exasperation  to  the  trivial  detail  that 
brought  it  on.  We  feel  that  the  detail  is 
simply  an  indication  of  the  great  gen- 
eral flaws  in  the  whole  situation.  We 
have  a  crow  to  pluck,  not  only  with 
our  friend,  but  —  to  use  the  words  of 
Quiller  Couch  —  with  everything  that 
appertains  to  that  potentate. 

For  instance,  suppose  that  we  are 
at  loggerheads  with  a  fellow  member 
of  a  public-welfare  committee.  He  op- 
poses a  measure  that  we  endorse.  We 
instantly  refer  him  to  his  class:  he  is  a 
typical  politician,  a  single-track  mind, 
a  combination  of  Mugwump  and  Boss 
Tweed.  He  represents  the  backward- 
looking  element.  We  ourselves,  mean- 
while, are  a  blend  of  Martin  Luther  and 
the  prophet  Isaiah,  with  tongs  from  the 
altar. 

Or  perhaps  one  is  irritated  with  a 
colleague  on  a  teaching  staff,  after  the 
events  of  a  varied  day.  Irrelevant  mat- 
ters have  happened  all  the  morning  in 
amazing  succession:  an  itinerant  jan- 
itor filling  inkwells;  an  inkwell  turning 
turtle  —  blotters  rushed  to  flood-suf- 
ferers; an  electrician,  with  tall  step- 
ladder  and  scaling-irons,  to  repair  the 
electric  clock;  a  fire-drill  in  examination 
period;  one  too  many  revolutions  of  the 
pencil-sharpener;  one  too  many  patri- 
otic 'drives,'  involving  the  care  of  pub- 
lic moneys  kept  in  a  candy-box. 

And  now  our  zealous  academic  friend 
calls  an  unexpected  committee  meeting 
to  tabulate  the  results  of  intelligence- 
tests.  We  are  in  no  mood  for  intelli- 
gence-tests. We  object.  He  persists. 
We  take  umbrage.  He  still  calls  the 
meeting.  Then,  up  rears  the  wave  of 
dislike  and  irritation,  not  at  the  details 
that  have  brought  us  to  our  crusty 
state,  —  not  dislike  of  ink  and  elec- 

VOL.  1X8— NO.  I 


tricity  and  patriotism  and  intelligence, 
—  but  dislike  of  our  friend  and  of  the 
Art  of  Teaching  that  he  represents. 
The  trouble  with  our  friend,  we  decide, 
is  his  academic  environment.  He  is 
over-educated,  attenuated,  a  Brahmin. 
Nobody  in  touch  with  Real  Life  could 
be  so  thoroughly  a  mule  and  an  opin- 
ionist.  Better  get  out  of  this  ultra-civil- 
ized atmosphere  before  our  own  beauti- 
ful catholicity  of  thought  is  crippled, 
cramped,  like  his.  At  these  moments 
we  do  not  stop  to  remember  that  peo- 
ple are  also  opinionated  on  the  island 
of  Yap. 

Most  frequently  of  all,  we  apply  our 
dudgeon  to  the  kind  of  community  in 
which  we  live.  We  are  nettled  at  a  bit 
of  criticism  that  has  reached  our  ears. 
Instantly  we  say  cutting  things  about 
the  narrow  ways  of  a  small  community, 
with  page-references  to  Main  Street  and 
the  Five  Towns.  We  forget  that  our 
friends  in  great  cities  might  be  quite 
as  chatty.  Margot  Asquith  lives  and 
thrives  in  crowds. 

We  refer  our  irritation,  also,  to  types. 
Any  skirmish  in  a  women's  organiza- 
tion is  referred  to  women  and  their 
catty  ways.  Any  Church  or  Red  Cross 
breeze  is  an  example  of  the  captious 
temper  of  the  godly.  All  friction  be- 
tween soldiers  of  different  nations  is  a 
sign  of  Race  Antagonism;  the  French 
are  not  what  we  had  inferred  from 
Lafayette. 

In  short,  the  whole  history  and  liter- 
ature of  dissension  show  that  people 
have  always  tried  to  make  their  irrita- 
tions prove  something  about  certain 
types,  or  situations,  or  races,  or  com- 
munities. Whereas  the  one  thing  that 
has  been  eternally  proved  is  the  fact 
that  human  beings  are  irritable. 

If  we  accept  that  fact  as  a  normal 
thing,  we  find  ourselves  ready  for  one 
more  great  truth.  Violent  irritation 
produced  on  small  means  is  a  deeply 
human  thing,  a  delicately  unbalanced 


THE   FEELING   OF   IRRITATION 


thing,  something  to  reckon  with,  and 
something  from  which  we  eventually 
recover  on  certain  ancient  and  well- 
recognized  lines.  When  our  fury  is  at 
its  height,  we  are  ready  to  smash  any- 
thing, throw  away  anything,  burn  all 
bridges.  Nothing  is  too  valuable  to 
cast  into  the  tall  flame  of  our  everlast- 
ing bonfire.  This  sounds  exaggerated. 
'Emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity'  is 
a  pallid  thing.  But  it  is  hot  enough  at 
the  time.  The  whole  round  of  sensation 
and  emotion  may  be  traveled  in  an 
hour,  at  a  pace  incredible  —  a  sort  of 
round-trip  survey  of  the  soul. 

The  father  of  a  large  family  sat  in 
church  at  one  end  of  a  long  pew.  His 
wife  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  pew, 
with  a  row  of  sons,  daughters,  and 
guests  ranged  in  the  space  between. 
Near  the  close  of  the  sermon  one  morn- 
ing, the  father  glanced  down  the  line, 
gazed  for  a  horrified  moment  at  his 
eldest  daughter  Kate,  got  out  his  pen- 
cil, wrote  a  few  words  on  a  scrap  of 
paper,  put  the  paper  into  his  hat,  and 
passed  the  hat  down  the  line.  As  the 
hat  went  from  hand  to  hand,  each 
member  of  the  family  peered  in,  read 
the  message,  glanced  at  Kate,  and  be- 
gan to  shake  as  inconspicuously  as  is 
ever  possible  in  an  open  pew.  Kate, 
absorbed  in  the  sermon,  was  startled  by 
a  nudge  from  her  brother,  who  offered 
her  the  hat,  with  note  enclosed.  She 
looked  in  and  read,  'Tell  Kate  that  her 
mouth  is  partly  open.' 

Kate  remembered  that  it  must  have 
been.  The  whole  pew  was  quivering 
with  seven  concentrated  efforts  at  self- 
control. 

Now,  one  would  think  that  a  moment 
like  this  would  be  jolly  even  for  the 
cause  of  laughter  in  others.  But  it  was 
not.  Kate  knew  that  they  had  been 
laughing  before  the  note  reached  her, 
and  she  was  hurt.  If  they  loved  her  as 
she  loved  them,  they  would  not  want  to 
laugh.  She  set  her  jaw  like  iron  and 


gazed  straight  ahead.  This  started 
them  all  off  again.  With  the  instinct  of 
a  well-trained  elder  sister,  she  knew 
that,  if  she  wanted  any  peace,  she  ought 
to  turn  and  smile  and  nod  cordially  all 
down  the  row,  as  at  a  reception.  But  it 
was  too  late  for  that.  She  had  taken 
the  proud  line,  and  she  would  follow  it 
to  the  end. 

As  her  expression  grew  more  austere, 
the  boys  grew  more  convulsed.  Aloof 
now,  cut  off  from  her  kin  entirely,  she 
sat  seething.  Floods  of  scarlet  anger 
drowned  the  sermon's  end.  The  closing 
hymn  was  given  out,  but  she  declined 
the  offered  half  of  her  brother's  hym- 
nal. 'Tell  Kate  she  can  open  it  now,' 
telegraphed  one  of  the  boys  as  the  con- 
gregation began  to  sing.  Here  was  her 
chance  to  join  the  group  and  nod  and 
smile  again,  but  she  was  too  far  gone. 
She  received  the  message  with  lifted 
eyebrows,  and  stood  with  cold  pure 
profile  averted  until  after  the  benedic- 
tion. Then  she  turned  away  and  walked 
off  in  a  towering  passion.  Her  anger 
was  not  at  her  father,  whose  note  caused 
the  stir.  She  had  no  resentment  toward 
him  at  all.  If  one's  mouth  is  open,  one 
would  wish  to  be  advised  of  the  fact. 
Her  feeling  was  the  mighty  wrath  of  the 
person  who  has  been  laughed  at  before 
being  told  the  joke. 

When  she  reached  home,  the  whole 
family  gathered  around  her  in  a  group. 
'I  think,'  said  one  of  the  boys,  'that in 
the  cause  of  friendship  we  owe  Kate  an 
apology.' 

The  grand  manner  of  formal  apology 
from  one's  relatives  is  the  most  disarm- 
ing thing  in  the  world.  Friendly  con- 
versation flowed  back  into  the  normal 
at  once.  But  it  was  years  before  it  was 
quite  safe  for  Kate  to  rest  her  chin  on 
her  hand  in  church. 

Very  often  our  most  genuine  irrita- 
tions appear  unreasonable  to  our 
friends.  For  instance,  why  should  peo- 
ple object  to  being  called  by  each 


THE   FEELING   OF   IRRITATION 


99 


other's  names?  Children  suffer  from 
this  continually:  grown  people  tend  to 
confuse  brothers  and  call  them  by  each 
other's  names  promiscuously.  We  may 
love  our  brother  tenderly,  and  yet  not 
like  to  be  confounded  with  him.  Even 
parents  sometimes  grow  careless.  The 
smallest  boy  in  a  lively  family  had  a 
mother  who  did  this.  Absentmindedly 
she  would  call  the  roll  of  all  the  child- 
ren's names  before  she  hit  upon  the 
right  one.  Consequently,  the  smallest 
boy  learned  to  respond  to  the  names 
Alice,  Christine,  George,  and  Amos. 
But  the  thing  had  happened  to  him 
once  too  often.  One  morning  he  ap- 
peared at  breakfast  with  a  large  square 
of  cardboard  pinned  to  his  bosom;  and 
on  the  placard  in  large  letters  was 
printed  the  word  'Henry.'  Rather  go 
through  life  with  a  tag  around  his  neck 
than  be  called  Alice  any  more. 

I  do  not  quite  agree  with  the  adage 
that  it  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel.  If 
we  are,  really  on  a  rampage,  the  other 
person  can  be  a  perfect  pacifist  and  still 
call  down  our  ire.  We  can  make  the  hot- 
foot excursion  to  the  heights  of  mad- 
ness when  a  friend  with  whom  we  are 
arguing  whistles  softly  away  to  himself 
while  we  talk.  Even  worse  is  the  person 
who  sings  a  gay  little  aria  after  we  are 
through.  In  the  presence  of  such  peo- 
ple, we  feel  like  the  college  girl  who 
became  annoyed  with  her  room-mate, 
and,  reflecting  prudently  upon  the  in- 
conveniences of  open  war,  rushed  out  of 
the  room  and  down  the  stairs,  to  relieve 
her  feelings  by  slamming  the  front  door. 
She  tore  open  the  great  door  with  vio- 
lent hands,  braced  it  wide,  and  flung  it 
together  with  all  her  might.  But  there 
was  no  crash.  It  was  the  kind  of  door 
that  shuts  with  an  air-valve,  and  it 
closed  gradually,  tranquilly,  like  vel- 
vet; a  perfect  lady  of  a  door.  People 
who  sing  and  whistle  and  hum  softly  to 
themselves  while  we  rage  are  like  that 
door. 


Knowing  that  human  beings  are  ir- 
ritable, that  they  can  recover  from  their 
irritation,  and  that  we  also  can  recover 
from  ours,  why  is  it  that  we  ever  hold 
resentment  long?  Some  people,  like 
soapstones,  hold  their  heat  longer  than 
others;  but  the  mildest  of  us,  even  after 
we  have  quite  cooled  off,  sometimes 
find  ourselves  warming  up  intermit- 
tently at  the  mere  memory  of  the  fray. 
We  are  like  the  old  lady  who  said  that 
she  could  forgive  and  forget,  but  she 
could  n't  help  thinking  about  it.  We 
love  our  friend  as  much  as  ever,  but  one 
or  two  things  that  he  said  to  us  stay  in 
mind.  This  is  because  words  spoken  in 
the  height  of  irritation  are  easily  mem- 
orized. They  have  an  epigrammatic 
swing,  a  vivacity,  and  a  racy  Anglo- 
Saxon  flavor.  Unless  we  are  ready  to 
discount  them  entirely,  they  come  into 
our  minds  in  our  pleasantest  moods, 
checking  our  impulses  of  affection,  and 
stiffening  our  cordial  ways. 

On  this  account,  the  very  proud  and 
the  very  young  sometimes  let  a  passing 
rancor  estrange  a  friend.  When  we  are 
young,  and  fresh  from  much  novel-read- 
ing, we  are  likely  to  think  of  love  as  a 
frail  and  perishable  treasure  —  some- 
thing like  a  rare  vase,  delicate  and  per- 
fect as  it  stands.  One  crash  destroys  it 
forever.  But  love  that  involves  the 
years  is  not  a  frail  and  finished  crystal. 
It  is  a  growing  thing.  It  is  not  even 
a  simple  growing  thing,  like  a  tree.  A 
really  durable  friendship  is  a  varied, 
homelike  country  full  of  growing  things. 
We  cannot  destroy  it  and  throw  it 
away.  We  can  even  have  a  crackling 
bonfire  there  without  burning  up  the 
world.  Fire  is  dangerous,  but  it  is  not 
final. 

Of  course,  it  is  in  our  power  to  let  a 
single  conflagration  spoil  all  our  love, 
if  we  burn  the  field  all  over  and  sow  it 
with  salt,  and  refuse  to  go  near  it  ever 
again.  But  after  the  fires  have  gone 
down  on  the  waste  tract,  then  the  stars 


100 


THE   FEELING  OF  IRRITATION 


wheel  over  and  the  quiet  moon  comes 
out  —  and  forever  afterward  we  have 
to  skirt  hastily  around  that  territory 
in  our  thought.  It  is  still  there,  the 
place  that  once  was  home. 

Perhaps  it  is  trifling  and  perverse  to 
be  harking  back  to  nature  and  to  child- 
hood for  parables.  But  sometimes 
there  is  reassurance  in  the  simplest 
things.  The  real  war-god  in  one  family 
was  a  small  boy  named  Gordon.  When- 
ever his  younger  sister  wanted  a  little 
peace,  she  used  to  take  her  dolls  to  the 
attic,  saying  to  her  mother  as  she  went, 
'K.  G.'  This  meant,  'Keep  Gordon.' 
But  one  time  the  sister  was  very  ill. 
Gordon  was  afraid  that  she  was  going 
to  die,  and  showered  her  with  atten- 
tions of  every  kind.  He  even  gathered 
flowers  for  her  every  day.  The  trained 
nurse  was  much  impressed.  One  after- 
noon, when  the  crisis  was  past,  the 
nurse  told  Gordon  that  she  thought 
that  he  was  very  sweet  indeed  to  his 
little  sick  sister.  Gordon  was  squatting 
on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  watching  his 
sister  with  speculative  eye.  He  con- 
sidered this  new  light  upon  his  char- 
acter for  a  moment,  and  then  remarked, 
'Well,  you  just  wait  till  she  gets  her 
strength.' 

We  live  in  cantankerous  days.  Any- 
body who  has  energy  enough  to  try  to 


do  anything  particular  in  the  world  has 
more  or  less  difficulty  in  getting  on 
with  people.  Unless  he  chooses  to  take 
his  dolls  to  the  attic,  he  is  in  for  occa- 
sional criticism,  laughter,  interruptions, 
and  even  the  experience  of  being  called 
by  names  that  are  not  his  own.  The 
world  sends  flowers  to  the  dying,  but 
not  to  people  when  they  get  their 
strength.  It  is  the  very  rare  person  who 
goes  through  a  busy  life  with  nothing 
to  ruffle  him  at  all. 

In  moments  of  irritation  at  all  this, 
we  are  tempted  to  rule  off  the  world 
into  two  columns,  and  in  the  columns 
to  compile  two  lists  of  people:  people 
who  agree  with  us  and  people  who  do 
not;  'People  I  Like,'  and  'People  I 
Don't  Like.'  This,  as  we  have  seen  be- 
fore, is  the  simple  ritual  of  irritation. 
Unconsciously  we  make  the  lists,  and 
file  them  away.  If  we  could  lay  hands 
on  the  ghostly  files  of  twenty  years  and 
scan  the  blacklists  through,  we  should 
find  that  we  had,  not  a  catalogue  of 
permanent  and  bitter  hatred,  but  a  sort 
of  Friendship  Calendar.  Perhaps  we 
should  not  find  our  mothers  very  re- 
cently among  the  blackballed;  but  the 
chances  are  that,  if  our  relatives  and 
friends  could  see  the  lists,  they  would 
read  with  no  small  amazement  certain 
of  the  fine  old  names  that  once  were 
written  there. 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


BY  PAUL  SCOTT  MOWRER 


And  Haman  said  unto  King  Ahasuerus, 
There  is  a  certain  people  scattered  abroad  and 
dispersed  among  the  people  in  all  the  provinces 
of  thy  kingdom;  and  their  laws  are  diverse  from 
all  people;  neither  keep  they  the  king's  law. — 
ESTHER,  in,  8. 


THE  revival  of  anti-Semitism  in 
Europe  since  the  close  of  the  war,  and 
its  curious  repercussion  even  in  the 
United  States,  are  phenomena  that  can 
no  longer  be  ignored.  The  Jews,  we  are 
warned,  are  a  secret  organization,  with 
branches  in  every  land,  whose  aim  is 
nothing  less  than  world-domination. 
To  attain  their  bold  ends,  they  plan,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  undermine  society  by 
sapping  its  foundations  with  revolu- 
tionary and  anti-religious  propaganda, 
and  on  the  other,  to  crush  it  from  above 
by  attaining  control  of  the  great  bank- 
ing and  industrial  system  on  which  the 
material  power  of  present-day  civiliza- 
tion immediately  reposes.  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  economic  and  political 
confusion  following  five  years  of  war, 
they  are  even  now,  it  is  asserted,  en- 
gaged in  realizing  this  ambitious  pro- 
gramme, at  which,  indeed,  they  have 
been  quietly  working  for  a  century  or 
more.  As  evidence  of  this  alarming 
thesis,  it  is  pointed  out  that  there  are 
already  Jews  among  the  leading  finan- 
ciers hi  every  country;  that  there  are 
Jews  among  the  leading  international 
revolutionaries;  and,  finally,  that  all 
Jews  have  a  tendency  to  solidarity. 

Of  course,  this  ingenious  fantasy  will 
not  bear  analysis.  The  Jewish  agitation 
is  as  much  a  menace  to  the  Jewish  cap- 


italist as  to  the  Gentile;  the  Jewish 
employer  is  no  less  a  burden  of  author- 
ity upon  Jewish  workmen  than  upon 
Christians;  and  from  a  vague  feeling  of 
solidarity  to  the  contrivance  of  a  vast 
and  definite  conspiracy  is  a  far  cry. 
Moreover,  it  is  just  at  the  two  extremes 
of  wealth  and  poverty  that  the  racial 
apostasy  of  the  emancipated  Jew  is 
most  common. 

But  the  fact  that  his  theories  fall  to 
pieces  under  scrutiny  is  of  no  conse- 
quence to  the  true  anti-Semite. 

In  Germany,  the  anti-Jewish  agita- 
tion is  so  vigorous  that  the  Inter-Allied 
High  Commission  in  the  Rhineland 
recently  felt  obliged  to  order  the  troops 
of  occupation  to  seize  all  copies  discov- 
ered of  a  book  called  From  the  Reign 
of  the  Hohenzollerns  to  the  Reign  of  the 
Jews. 

In  England,  a  writer  in  the  sober 
Blackwood's  protests  that,  if  the  Jews 
were  to  be  given  no  part,  either  open  or 
surreptitious,  in  the  imperial  govern- 
ment, the  danger  of  revolution  would 
be  greatly  diminished.  Saint-Loe  Stra- 
chey,  writing  in  the  Spectator,  accuses 
the  English  Jews  of  being  Jews  first  and 
English  afterward.  'Of  all  the  govern- 
ments which  have  accepted  the  power 
in  Great  Britain,'  declared  Sir  Lionel 
Rothschild,  in  a  recent  speech,  'none 
has  shown  so  much  sympathy  for  the 
projects  and  ideals  of  the  Jews  as  the 
present  government.'  And  the  declara- 
tion is  taken  by  Lloyd  George's  ene- 
mies to  mean  that  Lloyd  George  is 
'pro-Jewish/  Has  he  not  appointed 
Sir  Herbert  Samuel  to  rule  over  Pales- 

101 


102 

tine?  Did  he  not  send  Sir  Stuart  Sam- 
uel to  'investigate'  the  alleged  pogroms 
in  Poland?  Is  not  Sir  Eric  Drummond, 
General  Secretary  of  the  League  of  Na- 
tions, Hebraic  by  origin?  Are  not  Lord 
Reading  and  Lord  Montagu,  respec- 
tively Viceroy  of  India  and  Secretary 
of  State  for  India,  both  of  Jewish  de- 
scent? And  when  it  comes  to  that,  was 
it  not  Mayer  Amschel,  under  the  better 
known  name  of  Rothschild,  who '  found- 
ed the  dynasty  of  the  secret  emperors 
of  Israel'?  The  Poles,  it  appears,  are 
so  afraid  of  the  power  of  the  English 
Jews,  that  they  have  actually  appointed 
a  Polish  Jew,  Professor  Szimon  Asken- 
azy,  as  Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James's.  And  in  their  effort  to  prove 
that  even  the  British  labor  movement 
is  under  Jewish  control,  the  British 
anti-Semites,  nothing  daunted,  assert 
that  Smillie  is  merely  a  tool  of  the  Jew, 
Emanuel  Shinwell,  who  promoted  the 
strikes  in  the  Clyde  shipyards  during 
the  war;  that  Thomas  is  a  catspaw  of 
the  Jew,  Abraham;  that  Williams  is 
actually  married  to  a  Jewess,  and  that 
all  three  are  closely  associated  with  the 
'Lansbury-Fels-Zangwill  group.' 

In  France,  the  old  anti-Dreyfusards 
of  the  Action  FranQaise  have  lately  re- 
doubled their  'exposures'  of  the  'Jew- 
ish peril.'  'Throughout  Europe,'  writes 
Charles  Maurras, '  the  Jew  is  the  travel- 
ing-man of  the  revolution.'  Yiddish  is 
'the  Esperanto  of  revolutionists.'  All 
Jews,  we  are  assured,  are  anti-French 
and  pro-German;  they  are  Freemasons, 
and  enemies  of  Roman  Catholicism. 
Are  not  ninety-five  per  cent  of  the  So- 
viet chieftains  Jews?  Is  not  Viennese 
Socialism  Jewish  and  pro-German? 
Are  not  the  Jews  in  Upper  Silesia  work- 
ing exclusively  for  Germany?  It  was 
a  telegram  from  the  Jewish  financiers 
of  America,  dated  May  29,  1919,  and 
signed  by  that  'high  priest  of  Israel,' 
Jacob  Schiff  (born  at  Frankfort),  which 
steeled  Wilson  to  force  concessions  from 


France  on  five  vital  points,  —  the 
Saar  Basin,  Upper  Silesia,  Dantzig, 
Fiume,  and  reparations,  —  or,  at  least, 
so  Maurras  writes.  This  same  Schiff, 
points  out  Roger  Lambelin,  founded 
the  New  York  Jewish  Theological 
Seminary,  and  the  Semitic  Museum  at 
Harvard;  and  while  he,  in  the  interests 
of  Kuhn,  Loeb  &  Co.,  fostered  pro- 
German  sentiment  during  the  war,  his 
partner  Otto  Kahn  (born  at  Mann- 
heim) fostered  pro-Ally  sentiment ;  thus 
an  iron  was  kept  hot  in  both  fires.  As 
for  'the  pro-Jew,  Woodrow  Wilson,' 
pursues  Lambelin,  instead  of  flaying 
the  massacres  instigated  by  Bela  Kun, 
the  threatened  Russian  invasion  of 
Poland,  and  the  eviction  of  innocent 
Moslems  in  Palestine,  he  contented 
himself,  at  the  time  of  the  Peace  Con- 
ference, with  writing  a  letter  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  Eastern  European  Jews 
to  Rabbi  Stephen  Wise. 

In  Eastern  Europe,  the  sentiment  of 
anti-Semitism  is  not,  as  in  Western 
Europe,  confined  chiefly  to  conserva- 
tives and  chauvinists,  but  impregnates 
even  the  masses.  The  Magyar  peasants 
are  bitter  against  the  town-dwelling 
'(Communist '  Jews;  and  in  spite  of  all  the 
Budapest  police  can  do,  bands  of  infu- 
riated Magyars  make  a  grim  pastime 
of  beating  an  occasional  son  of  Israel 
whom  they  catch  in  the  street  after 
nightfall.  In  Poland,  the  Ukraine,  and, 
to  a  less  extent,  in  Roumania,  the  medi- 
aeval legend  of  the  ritual  murder,  for 
which  the  Jews  are  supposed  to  take 
the  blood  of  a  Christian  babe  at  each 
Passover,  has  been  revived;  and  all 
Eastern  European  Jews  are  suspected, 
by  their  Christian  neighbors,  of  Com- 
munism. The  Ukrainian  Nationalist 
bands  have  apparently  been  guilty  of 
serious  and  repeated  pogroms.  The 
Poles  are  unanimous  in  their  ardent  and 
patriotic  hostility  to  the  four  or  five 
million  Jews  included  within  their  fron- 
tiers. All  Jews,  they  firmly  believe,  are 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


103 


born  Bolsheviki.  In  the  Polish  army, 
ghastly  stories  of  Jew-Bolshevist  atro- 
cities are  current.  I  was  shown  a  photo- 
graph, found  in  Kief  by  the  Poles,  of  a 
large  room,  on  the  floor  of  which  lay  the 
naked  and  mutilated  bodies  of  some 
fifty  Russians,  who  had  been  executed, 
it  was  said,  by  the  Red  troops,  after 
the  mutilations  had  been  perpetrated, 
with  ceremonial  orgies,  'by  a  fanatical 
sect  of  young  Jewesses'! 

n 

I  repeat  this  welter  of  fantasy,  stray 
fact,  and  superstition  to  indicate  that 
anti-Semitism  has,  indeed,  once  more 
become  a  true  movement  of  opinion, 
which,  far  from  succumbing  at  the  scoff 
of  incredulity,  is  making  converts  al- 
most daily,  and  demands  from  the  stu- 
dent of  social  phenomena  that  careful 
analysis  which  alone  can  discover  both 
its  cause  and  its  cure. 

For  there  is  a  cause.  There  is  really  a 
Jewish  problem,  and  it  is  as  old  as  the 
dispersion  of  the  Jews.  Anti-Semitism 
is  even  older  than  the  dispersion.  It  is 
as  old  as  the  captivities.  Wherever  the 
Jews  have  lived  among  6ther  peoples, 
either  perforce  or  of  their  own  will,  and 
whether  before  or  after  the  Christian 
era,  it  has  flourished.  One  may  there- 
fore well  conclude,  with  that  sincere  and 
able  Jewish  scholar,  Bernard  Lazare, 
that  an  opinion  of  such  enduring  prev- 
alence 'could  not  be  the  result  of  fancy 
and  of  a  perpetual  caprice,'  but  that 
'there  must  be  profound  and  serious 
reasons  both  for  its  beginning  and  its 
persistence.'  The  truth  is  that  the  anti- 
Semitism  of  Berlin  and  Paris  is  of  one 
piece  with  the  anti-Semitism  of  Antioch 
and  Alexandria;  the  angry  alarm  of 
Henry  Ford  concords  strangely  with 
the  grim  fury  of  the  Hetman  Chmiel- 
nicki;  and  if  the  outward  form  assumed 
by  popular  sentiment  against  the  Jews 
varies  somewhat  in  accordance  with 


differences  of  tune  and  place,  in  its  one 
essential  cause  it  remains  ever  the  same. 

This  cause  is  neither  religious,  as  is 
often  averred,  nor  economic,  as  many 
believe;  it  is  political.  It  is  based  on 
the  observation  that  the  Jews,  through 
innumerable  transmutations  of  time 
and  place,  not  only  have  kept  their 
identity  as  a  people,  but  have  opposed 
a  vigorous,  if  passive,  resistance  to  most 
attempts  at  assimilation.  The  Jew,  in 
short,  is  regarded  as  a  foreigner,  whose 
'  laws  are  diverse  from  all  people ' ;  and  as 
such,  he  is  considered  to  be  an  enemy 
to  the  state. 

The  underlying  reason  for  Jewish 
exclusiveness  is,  perhaps,  the  law  of 
Moses.  The  sole  object  of  life,  accord- 
ing to  the  teachings  of  the  rabbis,  is 
the  knowledge  and  the  practice  of  the 
law,  for  'without  the  law,  without  Is- 
rael to  practise  it,  the  world  would  not 
be.  God  would  resolve  it  into  chaos. 
And  the  world  will  know  happiness  only 
when  it  submits  to  the  universal  em- 
pire of  the  law,  that  is  to  say,  to  the 
empire  of  the  Jews.  In  consequence, 
the  Jewish  people  is  the  people  chosen 
by  God  as  the  depository  of  his  will  and 
his  desires.'  This  strong  and  narrow 
spirit,  instead  of  diminishing  with  the 
lapse  of  time,  seemed  only  to  increase; 
until,  with  the  victory  of  the  rabbis 
over  the  more  liberal  Jewish  schisma- 
tists,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the  doc- 
tors of  the  synagogue,  says  Bernard 
Lazare,  'had  reached  their  end.  They 
had  cut  off  Israel  from  the  community 
of  peoples;  they  had  made  of  it  a  being 
fierce  and  solitary,  rebellious  to  all  law, 
hostile  to  all  fraternity,  closed  to  all 
beautiful,  noble  or  generous  ideas;  they 
had  made  of  it  a  nation  small  and  mis- 
erable, soured  by  isolation,  stupefied  by 
a  narrow  education,  demoralized  and 
corrupted  by  an  unjustifiable  pride.' 

It  is  well  to  remember  that,  although 
the  Jews  of  Western  Europe  and  Amer- 
ica have  at  present  pretty  well  freed 


104 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


themselves  from  these  heavy  intellec- 
tual and  spiritual  shackles,  the  Jews  of 
Eastern  Europe  still  live,  for  the  most 
part,  in  strict  accordance  with  the  letter 
of  the  Thorah  and  the  Talmud. 

The  law  of  Moses  being  not  only  the- 
ological and  moral,  but  agrarian,  civil, 
and  hygienic  as  well,  no  sooner  did  the 
Jews  begin  to  live  abroad  than  it  be- 
came necessary  for  them,  if  they  would 
avoid  contamination,  to  draw  together 
in  intimate  communities,  and  to  beg 
from  the  authorities,  in  the  name  of 
their  religion,  certain  exceptions  and 
privileges,  just  as  they  are  demanding 
them  to-day,  under  the  rubric  of  'mi- 
nority rights,'  in  Poland  and  Roumania. 
Thus,  in  Rome  they  could  not  be  haled 
into  court  on  a  Saturday;  in  Alexandria 
they  were  not  subject  to  the  common 
municipal  regulations,  but  had  their  own 
senate,  courts,  and  mayors. 

Antiquity  was  tolerant;  but  not  so 
the  Middle  Ages.  There  came  a  time 
when,  with  the  slow  dissolution  of  feud- 
alism, the  various  peoples  of  Europe, 
under  the  influence  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church,  began  to  cohere  into  na- 
tionalities. All  over  Europe  the  question 
of  nationality  was  identified  with  the 
question  of  religion,  as  it  still  is  in  East- 
ern Europe  and  the  Balkans.  If  you 
did  not  belong  to  the  Church,  you  were 
necessarily  an  enemy  of  the  State.  Ob- 
serving among  them  a  people  who 
dressed,  spoke,  and  behaved  differently 
from  themselves,  who  claimed  privi- 
leges and  exemptions,  and  desired  to  live 
apart,  the  followers  of  the  Church  vin- 
dictively decreed  that  the  Jews  hence- 
forth should  be  obliged  to  dress  differ- 
ently and  to  live  apart;  and  instead 
of  having  privileges  granted  to  them, 
they  were  placed  under  a  regime  of  spe- 
cial restrictions.  The  Ghetto,  which  the 
Jews  had  formed  of  their  own  free  will, 
was  now  imposed  on  them  by  force. 
From  the  eleventh  to  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Jews,  like  all  heretical  sects, 


were  persecuted,  tortured,  burned,  kill- 
ed, expelled;  and  in  their  bitter  misery, 
drawing  together  more  closely  than  ever, 
they  gradually  forged  that  profound 
sense  of  solidarity  which  is  still,  perhaps, 
their  greatest  source  of  strength. 

The  Protestants  of  the  Reformation, 
after  trying  vainly  to  convert  the  Jews, 
turned  angrily  against  them,  'The  Jews 
are  brutes,'  cried  Luther,  in  a  passion. 
'Their  synagogues  are  pig-styes;  they 
must  be  burned,  for  Moses  would  do  so 
if  he  came  back  to  the  world.  They 
drag  the  divine  word  in  the  mud;  they 
live  by  rapine  and  evil,  they  are  wicked 
beasts  who  ought  to  be  driven  out  like 
mad  dogs.' 

But  the  religious  wars  had  now  fairly 
begun,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  struggle 
between  Catholic  and  Protestant,  the 
Jews,  greatly  to  their  good,  were  well- 
nigh  forgotten.  For  them,  the  worst 
was  over.  In  the  seventeenth  century, 
though  a  number  of  onerous  restrictions 
were  put  back  into  effect  by  the  Church, 
the  return  of  the  Jews  within  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  so  long  desired,  was  confi- 
dently, though  vainly,  expected. 

The  eighteenth  century,  like  anti- 
quity, was  tolerant.  In  Holland  and 
England,  no  less  than  in  Turkey  itself, 
the  Jews  were  happy  and  prosperous. 
In  1791,  the  French  Constituent  As- 
sembly voted  full  rights  of  citizenship 
to  the  Jews.  It  was  the  first  act  of  the 
emancipation,  which  was  now  to  follow 
rapidly  in  Central  as  well  as  in  Western 
Europe.  Napoleon,  at  the  head  of  his 
armies,  freed  the  Jews  of  Italy  and 
Germany.  The  Jewish  cult  was  written 
into  the  French  budget  in  1830.  The 
emancipation  was  completed  in  Aus- 
tria, Germany,  Sweden,  Denmark,  and 
Greece  by  the  Revolution  of  1848;  it 
was  completed  in  England  in  1860,  and 
in  Hungary  in  1867.  The  last  Western 
European  Ghetto  was  abolished  in  1870, 
with  the  fall  of  the  Pope's  temporal 
power. 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


105 


III 

But  though  many  Western  European 
Jews  have  been  more  or  less  assimila- 
ted during  the  last  hundred  years,  there 
are  still  many  others  who,  though  eman- 
cipated so  far  as  external  restrictions 
are  concerned,  have  not  desired,  or  have 
been  unable,  to  shake  off  the  clannish- 
ness,  the  peculiar  mentality,  inbred  by 
twenty  or  thirty  centuries  of  almost 
unbroken  tradition;  they  may  not  go 
to  synagogue,  or  even  to  the  reformed 
tabernacle,  but  they  would  be  repelled 
at  the  idea  of  marrying  outside  the  race, 
and  they  preserve  a  special  and  seem- 
ingly ineradicable  tenderness  for  their 
fellow  Israelites,  of  no  matter  what  so- 
cial stratum,  or  what  geographical  sub- 
division. Their  inner  emancipation, 
their  emancipation  from  the  history  and 
customs  of  Israel,  is  still  to  be  effected. 
There  can  be  no  true  assimilation  so 
long  as  there  is  not  free  intermarriage; 
and  until  there  is  evidence  of  a  rapid- 
ly increasing  assimilation,  the  Jewish 
question,  with  its  attendant  fervor  of 
anti-Semitism,  will  continue  to  occupy 
men's  minds. 

A  sharp  distinction  must  be  drawn  at 
the  present  time  between  this  question 
as  it  presents  itself  hi  Western  Europe 
and  the  United  States,  where  the  Jews 
are  externally  emancipated,  and  as  it 
presents  itself  in  Eastern  Europe,  where 
the  Jews  still  live  medisevally  to  them- 
selves, and  where  there  is  a  tendency 
on  the  part  of  the  prevailing  govern- 
ments to  restrict  them  in  various  ways. 
The  cleavage  is  somewhat  blurred  by 
the  fact  that  hordes  of  Eastern  Euro- 
pean Jews  are  still  pouring  annually 
into  Western  Europe;  nevertheless,  gen- 
erally speaking,  the  distinction  can  be 
maintained.  As  the  arguments  which 
are  brought  against  the  Jews  in  the 
East  include  and  elaborate  those  ad- 
duced in  the  West,  it  will  simplify  mat- 
ters if  the  latter  be  considered  first. 


Of  the  serious  arguments  of  West- 
ern anti-Semitism,  two  are  political,  and 
one  —  the  least  important,  but  perhaps 
the  commonest  —  is  economic.  Briefly 
stated,  the  economic  argument  is  that 
the  Jew  is  congenitally  a  non-producer, 
a  parasite,  living  only  in  the  cities, 
trading  and  lending  money,  swelling 
the  army  of  profit-devouring  middle- 
men. Historically,  this  contention  can- 
not be  sustained.  The  tribesmen  of 
Israel  were,  originally,  not  traders,  but 
farmers  and  shepherds.  As  speculators 
and  traders,  they  were  far  surpassed  in 
antiquity,  first  by  the  Phoenicians  and 
Carthaginians,  and  later  by  the  Greeks 
and  Romans.  It  was  only  after  the  dis- 
persion that  their  mercantile  propen- 
sities began  to  develop.  The  sudden 
cessation  of  all  their  former  activities 
as  husbandmen  was  due  in  the  begin- 
ning to  their  religion,  which,  on  the  one 
hand,  forced  them  to  gather  hi  commun- 
ities so  as  to  be  able  to  escape  the  con- 
tamination of  foreign  ways  and  peoples, 
and,  on  the  other,  taught  them  that  they 
must  keep  themselves  pure  for  the  even- 
tual return  to  Jerusalem,  and  that  hi 
ploughing  any  soil  save  that  of  Pales- 
tine, a  Jew  would  defile  himself.  All  ex- 
iled Jews  were  thus  constrained  to  be- 
come city-dwellers,  and  city-dwellers  or 
town-dwellers  they  have  since  remained, 
until  they  have  indeed,  at  last,  become 
almost  total  strangers  to  the  life  of  the 
fields. 

As  city-dwellers,  they  were  naturally 
forced  into  commerce,  in  order  to  live. 
At  a  time  when  other  peoples  were  less 
well  organized,  the  Jewish  communities 
established  in  every  considerable  town 
of  the  Mediterranean  countries,  and  in 
constant  communication  and  sympa- 
thy, provided  an  unparalleled  system  of 
commercial  agencies  to  the  Jewish  trad- 
ers, who,  in  consequence,  soon  began 
to  prosper  greatly.  It  was  only  in  the 
Middle  Ages  that  the  Jews  began  to  spe- 
cialize in  money-lending  and  the  gold 


106 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


traffic.1  This,  again,  was  forced  upon 
them  rather  than  of  their  own  seeking; 
but  as  in  periods  of  recurrent  wars,  bad 
crops,  and  famine  the  need  for  loans 
and  credit  was  very  great,  it  was  gen- 
erally agreed  that  the  necessary  bank- 
ing business  should  be  turned  over  to 
the  Jews.  Not  infrequently,  the  Jewish 
money-lender  was  merely  the  agent  of 
some  Christian  merchant  or  noble,  who 
did  not  dare  lend  money  in  person,  for 
fear  of  excommunication.  At  the  same 
time,  the  growing  power  of  the  guilds, 
each  with  its  patron  saint,  began,  on 
religious  grounds,  to  force  the  exclusion 
of  the  Jews  from  most  of  the  principal 
branches  of  trade  and  commerce.  The 
second-hand  trade  and  the  banking 
business  were  about  all  that  remained. 
The  latter,  moreover,  was  congenial  to 
the  Jews;  for  in  that  day  of  persecution 
and  expulsion  they  were  very  glad  to  be 
able  to  keep  their  wealth  in  a  compact, 
easily  hidden,  and  easily  transportable 
form. 

If,  therefore,  in  modern  times,  the 
Jews  appear  to  be  a  people  of  town- 
dwellers,  practising,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  social  scale,  peddling,  petty-retail- 
ing, pawnbrokerage,  the  poorer  trades, 
and,  at  the  top  of  the  scale,  banking  and 
corporate  commerce,  the  cause,  evident- 
ly, is  less  innate  than  historic.  Even 
the  remarkable  success  of  individual 
Jews  in  modern  finance  can  perhaps  be 
attributed  less  to  any  special  racial  fit- 
ness than  to  a  business  tradition,  to  a 
freedom  from  local  prejudice,  and  to  the 
spirit  of  cooperation  clearly  visible  be- 
tween scattered  Jewish  individuals  and 
communities  —  a  cooperation  which 
other  peoples  have  not  as  yet  been  able 
to  attain  in  anything  like  the  same  de- 
gree. I  myself  am  inclined  to  subordi- 
nate economic  anti-Semitism  to  politi- 

1  Their  first  real  specialty  was  that  of  slave- 
dealers,  in  which  they  were  greatly  encouraged 
both  v  by  Charlemagne  and  by  the  Caliphs. — 
THE  AUTHOB. 


cal  anti-Semitism ;  for,  if  the  latter  were 
unsustained,  the  former,  I  feel  sure, 
would  soon  cease  to  exist. 

The  political  argument  against  the 
Jews  is  that  they  are  an  '  international 
nation,'  more  attached  to  the  Jewish 
cause,  in  whatever  part  of  the  world, 
than  to  the  ideals  and  interests  of  the 
country  in  which  they  live,  and  from 
which  they  claim  the  privileges  of  pro- 
tection without  according  in  return 
their  political  allegiance.  To  this  is  now 
frequently  added,  as  a  corollary,  that 
the  Jew  is  a  'born  revolutionist.'  We 
are  here,  as  I  have  already  indicated,  at 
the  very  heart  of  the  Jewish  question; 
for  there  is  no  state,  there  is  no  people, 
so  good-natured  and  so  confident  of  its 
own  strength,  that  it  will  unprotesting- 
ly  tolerate  in  its  midst  a  body  persis- 
tently and  willfully  foreign,  especially 
when  this  body  at  the  same  time  as- 
pires to  take  a  leading  part  in  the  na- 
tional economic  or  political  life.  That 
the  Jews,  after  their  dispersion,  were 
originally  such  a  tenaciously  foreign 
body,  in  every  community  where  they 
settled,  is  beyond  dispute.  That  they 
remained  so,  partly  of  their  own  will, 
partly  under  compulsion,  up  to  the 
time  of  the  emancipation,  fifty  or  a 
hundred  years  ago,  is  equally  incon- 
testable. The  point  that  remains  to 
be  determined  is,  to  what  extent,  since 
the  emancipation,  a  true  assimilation 
of  the  Jews  has  been  effected  in  the 
United  States  and  in  the  various  coun- 
tries of  Western  Europe.  To  this  point 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  return  present- 
ly. Meanwhile,  the  corollary,  that  the 
Jew  is  a  'born  revolutionist,'  is  worthy 
of  careful  consideration. 

Abstractly,  there  is  certainly  some- 
thing in  this  assertion — something  pro- 
found, which  reaches  to  the  very  centre 
of  the  ancient  Hebraic  religious  concep- 
tion. The  sturdy  monotheism  of  Israel, 
teaching  that  man  shall  obey  Jehovah 
alone,  carries  by  implication  the  idea 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


107 


that  all  merely  human  authority  is  un- 
justified and  therefore  negligible.  This 
independence  of  conscience  and  reason 
is  probably  developed  further  hi  Juda- 
ism than  in  any  other  religion,  for  it  is 
considered  as  binding  even  on  Jehovah 
himself.  The  Talmud  relates  how,  in  a 
dispute  between  rabbis  over  a  point  of 
doctrine,  the  voice  of  Jehovah  inter- 
vened from  the  void;  but  no  sooner  was 
this  divine  voice  heard  to  pronounce 
in  favor  of  Rabbi  Eliezir,  than  Rabbi 
Josua  protested,  saying:  'It  is  not  mys- 
terious voices,  it  is  the  majority  of  the 
sages,  who  should  henceforth  decide 
questions  of  doctrine.  Reason  is  no 
longer  hidden  away  in  heaven,  the  Law 
is  no  longer  in  heaven;  it  has  been  given 
to  the  earth,  and  it  is  for  human  reason 
to  understand  and  explain  it.' 

Moreover,  implicit  in  Judaism,  is  a 
sentiment,  quite  different  from  the  res- 
ignation of  Christianity  and  of  Moham- 
medanism, that  the  joy  and  satisfaction 
which  are  the  birthright  of  every  man 
who  keeps  the  Law  should  be  forthcom- 
ing, not  in  some  future  existence,  but 
here  on  earth.  Even  after  they  have 
forsworn  their  religion  completely,  a 
tendency  has  been  remarked  among 
the  Jews  to  cling  to  the  idea,  not  only 
that  all  men  are  entitled  to  be  happy 
even  in  this  life,  but  that  all  men  are 
equal  before  God,  and  that  none  can  be 
held  responsible  save  to  his  own  mind 
and  conscience.  A  poor  man,  imbued 
with  this  spirit,  and  looking  about  him 
upon  the  present  world,  is  inevitably  ex- 
posed to  the  temptation  of  becoming  a 
malcontent,  or  even  an  agitator.  More 
important,  however,  than  this  vague 
traditional  predilection  for  revolution- 
ary doctrines  is  the  fact  that  the  Jewish 
people,  for  more  than  twenty  centu- 
ries, has  been  cosmopolitan,  bound  to 
no  country  and  to  no  lasting  patriot- 
ism save  that  of  Israel.  It  is  no  more 
than  natural  that  the  emancipation 
should  have  left  a  large  number  of  them 


internationalists,  in  the  literal  sense 
of  the  word.  If  it  were  not  for  this  cos- 
mopolitan character  of  the  people  as  a 
whole,  the  revolutionary  proclivities  of 
a  few  individuals  would  perhaps  have 
passed  almost  unnoticed.  Once  more, 
we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
conclusion  that  the  Jewish  problem  is, 
above  all,  a  problem  of  assimilation. 

The  belief  that  the  Jews  are  involved 
in  a  definite  conspiracy  for  world-revo- 
lution arose  at  the  time  of  the  French 
Revolution,  simultaneously  with  the 
emancipation  of  the  French  Jews  by 
the  Constituent  Assembly.  An  intimate 
relation  between  the  Kabbala  and  Free- 
masonry had  long  been  suspected;  and 
now  the  Catholic  Royalists  were  able 
to  remark  that  not  a  few  Jews  seemed 
to  be  active  members  of  the  various 
lodges  —  Masons,  Illuminists,  Rosicru- 
cians,  Martinists — in  whose  secret  con- 
claves the  revolution  was  supposed  to 
have  been  planned.  The  influence  of 
Jewish  agitators  was  again  remarked 
in  the  uprisings  of  1830  and  1848. 

But  the  great  reproach  that  Euro- 
pean conservatives  hold  against  the 
sons  of  Israel  is  that  Karl  Marx  and  Fer- 
dinand Lassalle,  the  founders  of  modern 
Socialism,  were  both  of  Jewish  origin. 
'This  descendant  of  a  line  of  rabbis 
and  doctors,'  writes  Lazare,  of  Marx, 
'inherited  all  the  force  of  logic  of  his 
ancestors;  he  was  a  clear-headed  and 
lucid  Talmudist  ...  a  Talmudist  who 
went  in  for  sociology,  and  who  applied 
his  native  qualities  of  exegesis  to  a 
critique  of  political  economy.  He  was 
animated  by  the  old  Hebraic  material- 
ism, which  dreamed  perpetually  of  an 
earthly  paradise  ...  he  was  also  a 
rebel,  an  agitator,  a  bitter  polemist,  and 
he  got  his  gift  of  sarcasm  and  invective 
from  the  same  Jewish  sources  as  Heine.' 

The  famous  Manifesto  of  1847  was 
drawn  up  jointly  by  Marx  and  Engels. 
The  meeting  of  1864,  which  founded  the 
Internationale,  was  inspired  by  Marx; 


108 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


and  in  the  general  council,  Karl  Marx 
was  secretary  for  Germany  and  Russia, 
and  James  Cohen  was  secretary  for 
Denmark. 

The  work  of  Jewish  agitators  in  the 
Paris  Commune  was  the  subject  of  much 
comment.  Among  the  leaders  of  mod- 
ern Socialism  were  not  only  Marx 
and  Lassalle  in  Germany,  but  the  Jews 
Adler  and  Libermann  in  Austria,  and 
Dobrojanu  Gherea  in  Roumania;  while 
the  role  of  the  Russian  Jews  in  the  re- 
cent Russian  Revolution  is  known  to 
everyone.  All  these  facts  have  tended 
to  keep  alive  the  old  yarn  of  a  Jewish 
'  world-conspiracy.' 

IV 

Exact  statistics  are,  of  course,  un- 
available; but  there  are  supposed  to  be 
in  the  world,  at  the  present  time,  from 
twelve  to  fourteen  million  Jews,  of 
whom  about  a  fourth  are  in  the  United 
States,  a  fourth  scattered  in  various 
countries,  east,  west,  north,  and  south, 
while  the  remaining  half  are  concen- 
trated in  Eastern  Europe,  or,  more 
specifically,  in  Poland,  Bessarabia,  and 
the  Ukraine.  Poland  alone  is  believed 
to  have  four  or  five  million  Jews,  and 
thus  becomes  by  far  the  greatest  Jewish 
state  of  the  day.  It  is  precisely  in  East- 
ern Europe,  moreover,  that  the  Jewish 
nationality  is  to  be  observed  in  its  pur- 
est form,  for  here  there  is  scarcely  so 
much  as  the  beginning  of  even  a  politi- 
cal assimilation;  though  indigenous  for 
centuries,  the  children  of  Israel  still 
form  a  large  and  entirely  distinct  for- 
eign minority.  The  fact  that,  in  East- 
ern Europe,  religion  and  nationality  — 
as  in  mediaeval  times  throughout  the 
whole  of  Europe  —  are  still  regarded  as 
practically  inseparable,  is  not  a  suffi- 
cient explanation  of  this  phenomenon. 
The  restrictive  measures  of  the  prevail- 
ing governments  have  merely  served 
to  accentuate  a  distinction  ardently 


desired  by  the  Jews  themselves,  whose 
devotion  to  both  the  civil  and  religious 
aspects  of  the  Jewish  Law  is  here  as 
fervent  as  it  is  complete.  The  net  result 
is  that  the  typical  Polish  Jew,  like  the 
Lithuanian,  Bessarabian,  and  Ukrain- 
ian Jew,  is  a  being  absolutely  apart  from 
his  Christian  neighbors.  The  reader 
should  peruse,  in  this  connection,  the 
remarkably  intimate  and  sympathetic 
studies  of  Jewish  life  recently  published 
in  Paris  by  Jean  and  Jerome  Tharaud, 
which  will  unveil  to  his  occidental  vi- 
sion a  world  undreamed  of.  When  to 
these  vivid  distinctions  are  added  the 
economic  and  racial  differences,  which 
have  already  been  described  in  discuss- 
ing the  more  or  less  assimilated  West- 
ern European  Jews,  it  is  difficult  to  find 
a  single  remaining  trait  wherein  the 
Eastern  Jews  may  be  said  to  resemble 
the  Christian  Pole,  Lithuanian,  Rus- 
sian, or  Roumanian.  Those  who  have 
not  seen  this  community  cleavage  for 
themselves  can  scarcely  imagine  how 
thorough  it  is,  or  what  profound  anti- 
pathy it  instinctively  engenders. 


So  much  having  been  said,  a  specific 
explanation  of  the  present  revival  of 
anti-Semitism  is  almost  superfluous.  In 
Russia  the  majority  of  Jews,  for  obvi- 
ous reasons,  have  rallied  to  the  Soviet 
government,  thus  exciting  against  them- 
selves the  always  latent  hatred  of  the 
anti-Bolshevist  parties.  The  Jews  of 
Poland  and  Roumania,  being  regarded, 
not  altogether  without  reason,  as  for- 
eigners inclining  to  sympathize  with 
the  enemy  (Soviet  Russia),  are  sub- 
jected to  all  the  consequences  that  a 
similar  situation  provoked  in  America, 
during  the  war,  between  Americans  and 
Germans.  As  for  the  half-assimilated 
Jews  of  Hungary,  they  earned  the  last- 
ing enmity  of  the  peasants  and  the 
administrative  caste  by  flocking  in  far 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


109 


too  considerable  numbers  to  the  disas- 
trous red  banner  of  Bela  Kun,  in  the 
spring  of  1919.  In  Czechoslovakia,  the 
Jews  are  subjected  to  the  hatred  of  the 
otherwise  fairly  liberal  Czechs,  because 
they  are  suspected  of  being  pro-Ger- 
man and,  in  general,  anti-Slav. 

Coming  now  to  the  more  prosperous 
and  more  completely  assimilated  Jews 
of  Western  Europe  and  America,  one 
easily  perceives  that  the  feeling  against 
the  poor  ones  is  an  outgrowth  of  the 
fear  of  Bolshevism,  while  the  feeling 
against  the  rich  ones  is  a  part  of  the 
general  post-war  clamor  against  profit- 
eers —  the  feeling  in  both  cases  being 
greatly  intensified  by  the  popular  na- 
tionalistic suspicion  that  the  Jews  are 
willfully  resisting  assimilation. 

We  are  thus,  in  the  end,  brought 
squarely  back  again  to  the  surmise  from 
which  we  started,  namely,  that  the 
Jewish  question  is,  above  all,  political, 
and  may  indeed  be  reduced  to  this  one 
inquiry:  Is  it,  or  is  it  not,  possible  to 
assimilate  the  Jews?  If  it  is,  time,  and 
liberal  measures,  will  suffice;  if  it  is  not, 
then,  so  long  as  nations  continue  to  be 
nations,  and  to  abhor  the  presence  with- 
in themselves  of  indigestible  foreign 
bodies,  there  is  seemingly  no  solution. 

Some  anti-Semites  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  assert  that,  the  Jews  being  essen- 
tially a  race  apart,  assimilation  is  nei- 
ther possible  nor  desirable.  From  this 
view,  I  differ  completely.  In  the  first 
place,  the  Jews  are  not  essentially  a 
race  apart.  Ethnology  has  long  since 
established  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  '  pure  race/  Leaving  aside  the  per- 
tinent inquiry  as  to  whether  or  not  the 
twelve  tribes  were  themselves  racially 
pure,  it  is  clear  that,  from  the  time  of 
the  dispersion  down  to  about  the  six- 
teenth century,  the  Jews  were  exceed- 
ingly active  in  proselytizing,  and  made 
many  converts  in  Europe  and  the  Near 
East.  There  are  at  present  white  Jews 
in  India,  black  Jews  in  Cochin-China, 


and  yellow  Jews  in  China  proper,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  two  great  disparate 
branches  of  the  European  Jewish  fam- 
ily, —  the  Sephardic  and  the  Ashken- 
azic,  —  the  one  speaking  Spanish,  the 
other  Yiddish;  the  one  black-haired, 
the  other  predominantly  sandy;  the  one 
said  to  be  dolichocephalic,  the  other 
brachycephalic.  And  if,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  modern  Jew  is  indubitably 
of  conglomerate  origin,  on  the  other,  he 
has  sown  his  blood  profoundly  through 
other  races,  notably  in  Spain,  where 
the  conversions  of  Jews  to  Christian- 
ity were  so  numerous,  that  there  is 
now  said  to  be  scarcely  a  family  free 
from  the  Jewish  strain.  The  assimi- 
lation of  the  Jews  by  intermarriage  has 
madenoticeable  progress  also  in  France, 
England,  Germany,  America,  and  even 
Hungary. 

Obviously,  therefore  the  possibility  of 
assimilating  at  least  some  of  the  Jews 
is  beyond  challenge.  Indeed,  there  is 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  a  mixture  of 
the  so-called  Aryan  and  Semitic  races 
gives  a  result  which  is  other  than  excel- 
lent in  any  respect.  If  the  Jews  have 
not  heretofore  been  absorbed  more  rap- 
idly, the  causes  are  rather  religious, 
social,  and  political  than  racial. 

How  can  it  reasonably  be  said,  more- 
over, that  this  mixture  is  not  desirable? 
The  Jews  are  one  of  the  most  remark- 
ably gifted  peoples  of  all  time.  They 
have,  it  is  true,  the  defects  of  their  qual- 
ities, but  in  this  they  are  by  no  means 
unique.  The  Jews  are,  in  fact,  general- 
ly speaking,  sober,  adaptable,  industri- 
ous, and  intelligent.  For  centuries  cut 
off  from  most  forms  of  handicraft  and 
manual  labor,  they  have  been  exercis- 
ing their  minds  in  study  and  trade. 
Their  achievements  in  art,  letters,  and 
particularly  in  science  and  philosophy, 
if  not  preeminent,  are  at  least  notable. 
Why  any  nation  should  scorn  to  absorb 
an  element  so  endowed  is  difficult  to 
understand. 


110 


THE  ASSIMILATION  OF  ISRAEL 


There  is  a  class  of  Western  Jews,  how- 
ever, who,  while  approving  the  theory 
of  assimilation  in  the  abstract,  give  to 
the  word  a  meaning  quite  different  from 
that  generally  accepted.  In  the  minds 
of  these  Jews,  it  would  be  a  calamity 
if  Israel,  by  intermarrying  with  other 
nationalities,  should  lose  its  distinctive 
character.  They  assert,  therefore,  that 
it  is  entirely  possible  for  the  Jews  to 
remain  Jews  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
and  at  the  same  time  become  good 
Germans  or  Britons,  or  Frenchmen,  or 
Americans,  as  the  case  may  be.  Roman 
Catholics,  they  argue,  are  forbidden  to 
intermarry  with  Protestants;  why  must 
the  Jews  be  expected  to  intermarry 
with  peoples  of  other  religions? 

But  there  is  in  this  otherwise  fair- 
seeming  comparison  a  slight  miscon- 
ception. If  Israel  were  merely  a  reli- 
gion, then,  when  a  Jew  ceased  to  observe 
the  forms  of  this  religion,  he  would 
cease  to  be  a  Jew.  But  Israel  is  not 
merely  a  religion,  but  a  nationality  as 
well.  The  problem  of  assimilation  is  not 
a  religious  but  a  political  problem;  and 
to  shift  it  arbitrarily  to  the  religious 
ground  is  to  distort  it  from  its  true  re- 
lations. If  the  reply  be  made  that  the 
orthodox  Jews  are  absolutely  forbidden 
to  marry  outside  of  Israel,  I  would  re- 
join merely  that  this  fails  to  explain  why 
so  many  unorthodox  Jews  also  hold  in 
horror  the  idea  of  marrying  Gentiles. 

In  the  present  day  of  intense  nation- 
alism, when  the  forces  of  interior  cohe- 
sion are  engaged  in  a  silent  and  bitter 
struggle  with  the  forces  of  internation- 
al dissolution,  the  Jews,  who  by  their 
history  have  become  a  cosmopolitan 
race  in  everything  except  their  devotion 
to  Israel,  must  make  a  choice.  They 


cannot  give  political  allegiance  to  two 
banners,  even  though  this  double  alle- 
giance be  defended  in  the  name  of  re- 
ligion. The  official  anti-Semitism  of 
some  Eastern  European  countries  of 
course  makes  assimilation  impossible; 
but  in  Western  states,  where  the  Jews 
enjoy  the  same  privileges  with  every- 
one else,  they  must  expect  to  give  in 
return  the  same  undivided  loyalty. 

This  is  particularly  true  in  America, 
who  is  now  being  asked  to  accord 
her  hospitality  to  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  Israelites,  whose  emigration 
from  Eastern  Europe  is  being  encour- 
aged by  every  possible  means.  Over- 
burdened already  with  German-Amer- 
icans whose  hearts  are  in  Germany, 
with  Irish-Americans  whose  hearts  are 
in  Ireland,  and  with  numerous  other 
varieties  of  half-digested  foreigners,  she 
would  like  to  be  able  to  count  at  least 
on  the  full  allegiance  of  her  Jewish  citi- 
zens, whose  record  in  the  war  was  ex- 
cellent, and  to  feel  that,  however  much 
they  may  be  drawn  by  a  fellow  senti- 
ment with  distant  coreligionists,  their 
hearts,  nevertheless,  have  been  defi- 
nitely surrendered  to  the  land  of  their 
election,  even  to  the  point  —  when  no 
imperious  religious  reasons  intervene  — 
of  accepting  the  idea  of  marriage  with 
non-Jewish  fellow  citizens. 

I  myself  have  great  faith  in  the  loy- 
alty of  the  vast  majority  of  American 
Jews.  To  those  few  who  sincerely  scru- 
ple to  give  to  America,  or  to  any  other 
Gentile  state,  their  single  allegiance,  a 
more  generous  welcome  would  doubt- 
less be  extended  in  the  ports  of  Pales- 
tine, under  the  flag  of  Israel  itself,  than 
in  the  gateways  of  the  war-worn  West- 
ern world. 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  THE  FARMERS'  PROBLEMS 


BY  BERNARD   M.  BARUCH 


THE  whole  rural  world  is  in  a  ferment 
of  unrest,  and  there  is  an  unparalleled 
volume  and  intensity  of  determined,  if 
not  angry,  protest;  and  an  ominous 
swarming  of  occupational  conferences, 
interest  groupings,  political  move- 
ments, and  propaganda.  Such  a  tur- 
moil cannot  but  arrest  our  attention. 
Indeed,  it  demands  our  careful  study 
and  examination.  It  is  not  likely  that 
six  million  aloof  and  ruggedly  indepen- 
dent men  have  come  together  and 
banded  themselves  into  active  unions, 
societies,  farm  bureaus,  and  so  forth, 
for  no  sufficient  cause. 

Investigation  of  the  subject  conclu- 
sively proves  that,  while  there  is  much 
overstatement  of  grievances  and  mis- 
conception of  remedies,  the  farmers  are 
right  in  complaining  of  wrongs  long 
endured,  and  right  in  holding  that 
it  is  feasible  to  relieve  their  ills  with 
benefit  to  the  rest  of  the  community. 
This  being  the  case  of  an  industry  that 
contributes,  in  the  raw-material  form 
alone,  about  one  third  of  the  national 
annual  wealth-production  and  is  the 
means  of  livelihood  of  about  forty-nine 
per  cent  of  the  population,  it  is  obvious 
that  the  subject  is  one  of  grave  con- 
cern. Not  only  do  the  farmers  make 
up  one  half  of  the  nation,  but  the  well- 
being  of  the  other  half  depends  upon 
them. 

So  long  as  we  have  nations,  a  wise 
political  economy  will  aim  at  a  large 
degree  of  national  self-sufficiency  and 
self-containment.  Rome  fell  when  the 


food-supply  was  too  far  removed  from 
the  belly.  Like  her,  we  shall  destroy 
our  own  agriculture  and  extend  our 
sources  of  food  distantly  and  precari- 
ously, if  we  do  not  see  to  it  that  our 
farmers  are  well  and  fairly  paid  for 
their  services.  The  farm  gives  the  na- 
tion men  as  well  as  food.  Cities  derive 
their  vitality  and  are  forever  renewed 
from  the  country,  but  an  impoverished 
countryside  exports  intelligence  and 
retains  unintelligence.  Only  the  lower 
grades  of  mentality  and  character  will 
remain  on,  or  seek,  the  farm  unless 
agriculture  is  capable  of  being  pursued 
with  contentment  and  adequate  com- 
pensation. Hence,  to  embitter  and  im- 
poverish the  farmer  is  to  dry  up  and 
contaminate  the  vital  sources  of  the 
nation. 

The  war  showed  convincingly  how 
dependent  the  nation  is  on  the  full  pro- 
ductivity of  the  farms.  Despite  hercu- 
lean efforts,  agricultural  production 
kept  only  a  few  weeks  or  months  ahead 
of  consumption,  and  that  only  by  in- 
creasing the  acreage  of  certain  staple 
crops  at  the  cost  of  reducing  that  of 
others.  We  ought  not  to  forget  that 
lesson  when  we  ponder  on  the  farmer's 
problems.  They  are  truly  common 
problems,  and  there  should  be  no  at- 
tempt to  deal  with  them  as  if  they 
were  purely  the  selfish  demands  of  a 
clear-cut  group,  antagonistic  to  the 
rest  of  the  community.  Rather  should 
we  consider  agriculture  in  the  light  of 
broad  national  policy,  just  as  we  con- 
ill 


SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


sider  oil,  coal,  steel,  dye-stuffs,  and  so 
forth,  as  sinews  of  national  strength. 
Our  growing  population  and  a  higher 
standard  of  living  demand  increasing 
food-supplies,  and  more  wool,  cotton, 
hides,  and  the  rest.  With  the  disap- 
pearance of  free  or  cheap  fertile  land, 
additional  acreage  and  increased  yields 
can  come  only  from  costly  effort.  This 
we  need  not  expect  from  an  impover- 
ished or  unhappy  rural  population. 

It  will  not  do  to  take  a  narrow  view 
of  the  rural  discontent,  or  to  appraise 
it  from  the  standpoint  of  yesterday. 
This  is  peculiarly  an  age  of  flux  and 
change  and  new  deals.  Because  a  thing 
always  has  been  so  no  longer  means 
that  it  is  righteous,  or  always  shall  be 
so.  More,  perhaps,  than  ever  before, 
there  is  a  widespread  feeling  that  all 
human  relations  can  be  improved  by 
taking  thought,  and  that  it  is  not  be- 
coming for  the  reasoning  animal  to 
leave  his  destiny  largely  to  chance  and 
natural  incidence. 

Prudent  and  orderly  adjustment  of 
production  ancf  distribution  in  accord- 
ance with  consumption  is  recognized 
as  wise  management  in  every  business 
but  that  of  farming.  Yet,  I  venture  to 
say,  there  is  no  other  industry  in  which 
it  is  so  important  to  the  public  — 
to  the  city-dweller  —  that  production 
should  be  sure,  steady,  and  increasing, 
and  that  distribution  should  be  in  pro- 
portion to  the  need.  The  unorganized 
farmers  naturally  act  blindly  and  im- 
pulsively and,  in  consequence,  surfeit 
and  dearth,  accompanied  by  discon- 
certing price- variations,  harass  the  con- 
sumer. One  year  potatoes  rot  in  the 
fields  because  of  excess  production,  and 
there  is  a  scarcity  of  the  things  that 
have  been  displaced  to  make  way  for 
the  expansion  of  the  potato  acreage; 
next  year  the  punished  farmers  mass 
their  fields  on  some  other  crop,  and 
potatoes  enter  the  class  of  luxuries;  and 
so  on. 


Agriculture  is  the  greatest  and  funda- 
mentally the  most  important  of  our 
American  industries.  The  cities  are  but 
the  branches  of  the  tree  of  national  life, 
the  roots  of  which  go  deeply  into  the 
land.  We  all  flourish  or  decline  with 
the  farmer.  So,  when  we  of  the  cities 
read  of  the  present  universal  distress 
of  the  farmers,  of  a  slump  of  six  bil- 
lion dollars  in  the  farm-value  of  their 
crops  in  a  single  year,  of  their  inabil- 
ity to  meet  mortgages  or  to  pay  cur- 
rent bills,  and  how,  seeking  relief  from 
their  ills,  they  are  planning  to  form 
pools,  inaugurate  farmers'  strikes,  and 
demand  legislation  abolishing  grain  ex- 
changes, private  cattle  markets,  and  the 
like,  we  ought  not  hastily  to  brand 
them  as  economic  heretics  and  high- 
waymen, and  hurl  at  them  the  charge 
of  being  seekers  of  special  privilege. 
Rather,  we  should  ask  if  their  trouble 
is  not  ours,  and  see  what  can  be  done 
to  improve  the  situation.  Purely  from 
self-interest,  if  for  no  higher  motive,  we 
should  help  them.  All  of  us  want  to  get 
back  permanently  to  'normalcy';  but  is 
it  reasonable  to  hope  for  that  condition 
unless  our  greatest  and  most  basic 
industry  can  be  put  on  a  sound  and 
solid  permanent  foundation?  The  farm- 
ers are  not  entitled  to  special  privi- 
leges; but  are  they  not  right  in  demand- 
ing that  they  be  placed  on  an  equal 
footing  with  the  buyers  of  their  products 
and  with  other  industries? 

II 

Let  us,  then,  consider  some  of  the 
farmer's  grievances,  and  see  how  far 
they  are  real.  In  doing  so,  we  should 
remember  that,  while  there  have  been, 
and  still  are,  instances  of  purposeful 
abuse,  the  subject  should  not  be  ap- 
proached with  any  general  imputation 
to  existing  distributive  agencies  of  de- 
liberately intentional  oppression,  but 
rather  with  the  conception  that  the 


SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


113 


marketing  of  farm  products  has  not 
been  modernized. 

An  ancient  evil,  and  a  persistent  one, 
is  the  undergrading  of  farm  products, 
with  the  result  that  what  the  farmers 
sell  as  of  one  quality  is  resold  as  of  a 
higher.  That  this  sort  of  chicanery 
should  persist  on  any  important  scale  in 
these  days  of  business  integrity  would 
seem  almost  incredible,  but  there  is 
much  evidence  that  it  does  so  persist. 
Even  as  I  write,  the  newspapers  an- 
nounce the  suspension  of  several  firms 
from  the  New  York  Produce  Exchange 
for  exporting  to  Germany  as  No.  2 
wheat  a  whole  shipload  of  grossly  in- 
ferior wheat  mixed  with  oats,  chaff,  and 
the  like. 

Another  evil  is  that  of  inaccurate 
weighing  of  farm  products,  which,  it  is 
charged,  is  sometimes  a  matter  of  dis- 
honest intention  and  sometimes  of  pro- 
tective policy  on  the  part  of  the  local 
buyer,  who  fears  that  he  may  'weigh 
out'  more  than  he  'weighs  in.' 

A  greater  grievance  is  that  at  present 
the  field  farmer  has  little  or  no  control 
over  the  time  and  conditions  of  market- 
ing his  products,  with  the  result  that 
he  is  often  underpaid  for  his  products 
and  usually  overcharged  for  marketing 
service.  The  difference  between  what 
the  farmer  receives  and  what  the  con- 
sumer pays  often  exceeds  all  possibility 
of  justification.  To  cite  a  single  illustra- 
tion. Last  year,  according  to  figures  at- 
tested by  the  railways  and  the  growers, 
Georgia  watermelon-raisers  received  on 
the  average  7.5  cents  for  a  melon,  the 
railroads  got  12.7  cents  for  carrying  it 
to  Baltimore,  and  the  consumer  paid 
one  dollar;  leaving  79.8  cents  for  the 
service  of  marketing  and  its  risks,  as 
against  20.2  cents  for  growing  and 
transporting.  The  hard  annals  of  farm- 
life  are  replete  with  such  commentaries 
on  the  crudeness  of  present  practices. 

Nature  prescribes  that  the  farmer's 
'goods'  must  be  finished  within  two  or 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  1 
E 


three  months  of  the  year,  while  financial 
and  storage  limitations  generally  com- 
pel him  to  sell  them  at  the  same  time. 
As  a  rule,  other  industries  are  in  a  con- 
tinuous process  of  finishing  goods  for 
the  markets;  they  distribute  as  they 
produce,  and  they  can  curtail  produc- 
tion without  too  great  injury  to  them- 
selves or  the  community;  but  if  the 
farmer  restricts  his  output,  it  is  with 
disastrous  consequences,  both  to  him- 
self and  to  the  community. 

The  average  farmer  is  busy  with  pro- 
duction for  the  major  part  of  the  year, 
and  has  nothing  to  sell.  The  bulk  of  his 
output  comes  on  at  the  market  at  once. 
Because  of  lack  of  storage  facilities  and 
of  financial  support,  the  farmer  cannot 
carry  his  goods  through  the  year  and 
dispose  of  them  as  they  are  current- 
ly needed.  In  the  great  majority  of 
cases,  farmers  have  to  entrust  storage  — 
in  warehouses  and  elevators — and  the 
financial  carrying  of  their  products  to 
others. 

Farm  products  are  generally  market- 
ed at  a  tune  when  there  is  a  congestion 
of  both  transportation  and  finance  — 
when  cars  and  money  are  scarce.  The 
outcome,  in  many  instances,  is  that  the 
farmers  not  only  sell  under  pressure, 
and  therefore  at  a  disadvantage,  but  are 
compelled  to  take  further  reductions  in 
net  returns,  in  order  to  meet  the  charges 
for  the  services  of  storing,  transporting, 
financing,  and  ultimate  marketing  — 
which  charges,  they  claim,  are  often  ex- 
cessive, bear  heavily  on  both  consumer 
and  producer,  and  are  under  the  control 
of  those  performing  the  services.  It  is 
true  that  they  are  relieved  of  the  risks 
of  a  changing  market  by  selling  at  once; 
but  they  are  quite  willing  to  take  the  un- 
favorable chance,  if  the  favorable  one 
also  is  theirs  and  they  can  retain  for 
themselves  a  part  of  the  service  charges 
that  are  uniform,  hi  good  years  and  bad, 
with  high  prices  and  low. 

While,  in  the  mam,  the  farmer  must 


114  SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


sell,  regardless  of  market  conditions,  at 
the  time  of  the  maturity  of  crops,  he 
cannot  suspend  production  in  toio.  He 
must  go  on  producing  if  he  is  to  go  on 
living,  and  if  the  world  is  to  exist.  The 
most  he  can  do  is  to  curtail  production  a 
little,  or  alter  its  form,  and  that  —  be- 
cause he  is  in  the  dark  as  to  the  probable 
demand  for  his  goods  —  may  be  only  to 
jump  from  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire, 
taking  the  consumer  with  him. 

Even  the  dairy  farmers,  whose  out- 
put is  not  seasonal,  complain  that  they 
find  themselves  at  a  disadvantage  in  the 
marketing  of  their  productions,  espe- 
cially raw  milk,  because  of  the  high 
costs  of  distribution,  which  they  must 
ultimately  bear. 

in 

Now  that  the  farmers  are  stirring, 
thinking,  and  uniting  as  never  before 
to  eradicate  these  inequalities,  they  are 
subjected  to  stern  economic  lectures, 
and  are  met  with  the  accusation  that 
they  are  demanding,  and  are  the  recipi- 
ents of,  special  privileges.  Let  us  see 
what  privileges  the  government  has 
conferred  on  the  farmers.  Much  has 
been  made  of  Section  6  of  the  Clayton 
Anti-Trust  Act,  which  purported  to 
permit  them  to  combine  with  immun- 
ity, under  certain  conditions.  Admit- 
ting that,  nominally,  this  exemption  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  special  privilege,  — 
though  I  think  it  was  so  in  appearance 
rather  than  in  fact,  —  we  find  that  the 
courts  have  nullified  it  by  judicial  inter- 
pretation. Why  should  not  the  farmers 
be  permitted  to  accomplish  by  coopera- 
tive methods  what  other  businesses  are 
already  doing  by  cooperation  in  the 
form  of  incorporation?  If  it  be  proper 
for  men  to  form,  by  fusion  of  existing 
corporations  or  otherwise,  a  corpora- 
tion that  controls  the  entire  production 
of  a  commodity,  or  a  large  part  of  it, 
why  is  it  not  proper  for  a  group  of 


farmers  to  unite  for  the  marketing  of 
their  common  products,  either  in  one  or 
in  several  selling  agencies?  Why  should 
it  be  right  for  a  hundred  thousand  cor- 
porate shareholders  to  direct  25  or  30 
or  40  per  cent  of  an  industry,  and 
wrong  for  a  hundred  thousand  coopera- 
tive farmers  to  control  a  no  larger  pro- 
portion of  the  wheat  crop,  or  cotton,  or 
any  other  product? 

The  Department  of  Agriculture  is 
often  spoken  of  as  a  special  concession 
to  the  farmers,  but  in  its  commercial 
results,  it  is  of  as  much  benefit  to  the 
buyers  and  consumers  of  agricultural 
products  as  to  the  producers,  or  even 
more.  I  do  not  suppose  that  anyone 
opposes  the  benefits  that  the  farmers  de- 
rive from  the  educational  and  research 
work  of  the  Department,  or  the  help  that 
it  gives  them  in  working  out  improved 
cultural  methods  and  practices,  in  devel- 
oping better-yielding  varieties  through 
breeding  and  selection,  in  introducing 
new  varieties  from  remote  parts  of  the 
world  and  adapting  them  to  our  climate 
and  economic  condition,  and  in  devising 
practical  measures  for  the  elimination 
or  control  of  dangerous  and  destructive 
animal  and  plant  diseases,  insect  pests, 
and  the  like.  All  these  things  manifestly 
tend  to  stimulate  and  enlarge  produc- 
tion, and  their  general  beneficial  effects 
are  obvious. 

It  is  complained  that,  whereas  the 
law  restricts  Federal  Reserve  banks  to 
three  months'  time  for  commercial 
paper,  the  farmer  is  allowed  six  months 
on  his  notes.  This  is  not  a  special  priv- 
ilege, but  merely  such  a  recognition  of 
business  conditions  as  makes  it  possible 
for  country  banks  to  do  business  with 
country  people.  The  crop-farmer  has 
only  one  turn-over  a  year,  while  the 
merchant  and  manufacturer  have  many. 
Incidentally,  I  note  that  the  Federal 
Reserve  Board  has  just  authorized  the 
Federal  Reserve  banks  to  discount  ex- 
port paper  for  a  period  of  six  months, 


SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


115 


to  conform  to  the  nature  of  the  business. 

The  Farm  Loan  banks  are  pointed  to 
as  an  instance  of  special  government 
favor  for  farmers.  Are  they  not  rather 
the  outcome  of  laudable  efforts  to  equal- 
ize rural  and  urban  conditions?  And 
about  all  the  government  does  there  is 
to  help  set  up  an  administrative  organ- 
ization and  lend  a  little  credit  at  the 
start.  Eventually  the  farmers  will  pro- 
vide all  the  capital  and  carry  all  the 
liabilities  themselves.  It  is  true  that 
Farm  Loan  bonds  are  tax-exempt;  but 
so  are  bonds  of  municipal  light  and 
traction  plants,  and  new  housing  is  to 
be  exempt  from  taxation,  in  New 
York,  for  ten  years. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  farmer  reads 
of  plans  for  municipal  housing  projects 
that  run  into  the  billions,  of  hundreds 
of  millions  annually  spent  on  the  mer- 
chant marine;  he  reads  that  the  railways 
are  being  favored  with  increased  rates 
and  virtual  guaranties  of  earnings  by 
the  government,  with  the  result  to  him 
of  an  increased  toll  on  all  that  he  sells 
and  all  that  he  buys.  He  hears  of  many 
manifestations  of  governmental  con- 
cern for  particular  industries  and  inter- 
ests. Rescuing  the  railways  from  insol- 
vency is  undoubtedly  for  the  benefit  of 
the  country  as  a  whole,  but  what  can  be 
of  more  general  benefit  than  encourage- 
ment of  ample  production  of  the  prin- 
cipal necessaries  of  life  and  their  even 
flow  from  contented  producers  to  satis- 
fied consumers? 

While  it  may  be  conceded  that  special 
governmental  aid  may  be  necessary  in 
the  general  interest,  we  must  all  agree 
that  it  is  difficult  to  see  why  agriculture 
and  the  production  and  distribution  of 
farm  products  are  not  accorded  the 
same  opportunities  that  are  provided 
for  other  businesses;  especially  as  the 
enjoyment  by  the  farmer  of  such  oppor- 
tunities would  appear  to  be  even  more 
contributory  to  the  general  good  than 
in  the  case  of  other  industries.  The 


spirit  of  American  democracy  is  unal- 
terably opposed,  alike  to  enacted  spe- 
cial privilege  and  to  the  special  privilege 
of  unequal  opportunity  that  arises  auto- 
matically from  the  failure  to  correct  glar- 
ing economic  inequalities.  I  am  opposed 
to  the  injection  of  government  into  bus- 
iness, but  I  do  believe  that  it  is  an  essen- 
tial .function  of  democratic  government 
to  equalize  opportunity  so  far  as  it  is 
within  its  power  to  do  so,  whether  by 
the  repeal  of  archaic  statutes  or  the  en- 
actment of  modern  ones.  If  the  anti- 
trust laws  keep  the  farmers  from  en- 
deavoring scientifically  to  integrate  their 
industry,  while  other  industries  find  a 
way  to  meet  modern  conditions  without 
violating  such  statutes,  then  it  would 
seem  reasonable  to  find  a  way  for  the 
farmers  to  meet  them  under  the  same 
conditions.  The  law  should  operate 
equally  in  fact.  Repairing  the  economic 
structure  on  one  side  is  no  injustice  to 
the  other  side,  which  is  in  good  repair. 

We  have  traveled  a  long  way  from 
the  old  conception  of  government  as 
merely  a  defensive  and  policing  agency; 
and  regulative,  corrective,  or  equalizing 
legislation,  which  apparently  is  of  a  spe- 
cial nature,  is  often  of  the  most  general 
beneficial  consequences.  Even  the  First 
Congress  passed  a  tariff  act  that  was 
avowedly  for  the  protection  of  manu- 
factures; but  a  protective  tariff  always 
has  been  defended  as  a  means  of  pro- 
moting the  general  good  through  a  par- 
ticular approach;  and  the  statute  books 
are  filled  with  acts  for  the  benefit  of 
shipping,  commerce,  and  labor. 

IV 

Now,  what  is  the  farmer  asking? 
Without  trying  to  catalogue  the  reme- 
dial measures  that  have  been  suggested 
in  his  behalf,  the  principal  proposals 
that  bear  directly  on  the  improvement 
of  his  distributing  and  marketing  rela- 
tions may  be  summarized  as  follows:  — 


116 


SOME   ASPECTS   OF  THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


First:  storage  warehouses  for  cotton, 
wool,  and  tobacco,  and  elevators  for 
grain,  of  sufficient  capacity  to  meet  the 
maximum  demand  on  them  at  the  peak 
of  the  marketing  period.  The  farmer 
thinks  that  either  private  capital  must 
furnish  these  facilities,  or  the  state  must 
erect  and  own  the  elevators  and  ware- 
houses. 

Second :  weighing  and  grading  of  agri- 
cultural products,  and  certification 
thereof,  to  be  done  by  impartial  and  dis- 
interested public  inspectors  (this  is  al- 
ready accomplished  to  some  extent  by 
the  federal  licensing  of  weighers  and 
graders)  ,to  eliminate  underpaying,  over- 
charging, and  unfair  grading,  and  to 
facilitate  the  utilization  of  the  stored 
products  as  the  basis  of  credit. 

Third :  a  certainty  of  credit  sufficient 
to  enable  the  marketing  of  products  in 
an  orderly  manner. 

Fourth:  the  Department  of  Agricul- 
ture should  collect,  tabulate,  summar- 
ize, and  regularly  and  frequently  pub- 
lish and  distribute  to  the  farmers,  full 
information  from  all  the  markets  of  the 
world,  so  that  they  shall  be  as  well  in- 
formed of  their  selling  position  as  buy- 
ers now  are  of  their  buying  position. 

Fifth :  freedom  to  integrate  the  busi- 
ness of  agriculture  by  means  of  consol- 
idated selling  agencies,  coordinating 
and  cooperating  in  such  way  as  to  put 
the  farmer  on  an  equal  footing  with  the 
large  buyers  of  his  products  and  with 
commercial  relations  in  other  industries. 

When  a  business  requires  specialized 
talent,  it  has  to  buy  it.  So  will  the 
farmers;  and  perhaps  the  best  way  for 
them  to  get  it  would  be  to  utilize  some 
of  the  present  machinery  of  the  largest 
established  agencies  dealing  in  farm 
products.  Of  course,  if  he  wishes,  the 
farmer  may  go  further  and  engage  in 
flour-milling  and  other  manufactures 
of  food  products.  In  my  opinion,  how- 
ever, he  would  be  wise  to  stop  short  of 
that.  Public  interest  may  be  opposed 


to  all  great  integrations;  but,  in  justice, 
should  they  be  forbidden  to  the  farmer 
and  permitted  to  others?  The  corporate 
form  of  association  cannot  now  be  whol- 
ly adapted  to  his  objects  and  condi- 
tions. The  looser  cooperative  form 
seems  more  generally  suitable.  There- 
fore, he  wishes  to  be  free,  if  he  finds  it 
desirable  and  feasible,  to  resort  to  co- 
operation with  his  fellows  and  neigh- 
bors, without  running  afoul  of  the  law. 
To  urge  that  the  farmers  should  have 
the  same  liberty  to  consolidate  and  co- 
ordinate their  peculiar  economic  func- 
tions, which  other  industries  in  their 
fields  enjoy,  is  not,  however,  to  concede 
that  any  business  integration  should 
have  legislative  sanction  to  exercise 
monopolistic  power.  The  American  peo- 
ple are  as  firmly  opposed  to  industrial 
as  to  political  autocracy,  whether  at- 
tempted by  rural  or  by  urban  industry. 

For  lack  of  united  effort  the  farmers, 
as  a  whole,  are  still  marketing  their 
crops  by  antiquated  methods,  or  by  no 
methods  at  all;  but  they  are  surrounded 
by  a  business  world  that  has  been  mod- 
ernized to  the  last  minute  and  is  tire- 
lessly striving  for  efficiency.  This  ef- 
ficiency is  due  in  large  measure  to  big 
business,  to  united  business,  to  inte- 
grated business.  The  farmers  now  seek 
the  benefits  of  such  largeness,  union, 
and  integration. 

The  American  farmer  is  a  modern  of 
the  moderns  in  the  use  of  labor-saving 
machinery,  and  he  has  made  vast  strides 
in  recent  years  in  scientific  tillage  and 
efficient  farm  management;  but  as  a 
business  in  contact  with  other  busi- 
nesses, agriculture  is  a  'one-horse  shay' 
in  competition  with  high-power  auto- 
mobiles. The  American  farmer  is  the 
greatest  and  most  intractable  of  indi- 
vidualists. While  industrial  production 
and  all  phases  of  the  huge  commercial 
mechanism  and  its  myriad  accessories 
have  articulated  and  coordinated  them- 
selves, all  the  way  from  natural  raw 


SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


117 


materials  to  retail  sales,  the  business  of 
agriculture  has  gone  on  in  much  the 
one-man  fashion  of  the  backwoods  of 
the  first  part  of  the  nineteenth  century, ' 
when  the  farmer  was  self-sufficient  and 
did  not  depend  upon,  or  care  very 
much,  what  the  great  world  was  doing. 
The  result  is  that  the  agricultural  group 
is  almost  as  much  at  a  disadvantage  in 
dealing  with  other  economic  groups  as 
the  jay  farmer  of  the  funny  pages  in  the 
hands  of  sleek  urban  confidence  men, 
who  sell  him  acreage  in  Central  Park 
or  the  Chicago  City  Hall.  The  leaders 
of  the  farmers  thoroughly  understand 
this,  and  they  are  intelligently  striv- 
ing to  integrate  their  industry  so  that  it 
will  be  on  an  equal  footing  with  other 
businesses. 

As  an  example  of  integration,  take 
the  steel  industry,  in  which  the  model 
is  the  United  States  Steel  Corporation, 
with  its  iron  mines,  its  coal  mines,  its 
lake  and  rail  transportation,  its  ocean 
vessels,  its  by-product  coke  ovens,  its 
blast  furnances,  its  open  hearth  and 
Bessemer  furnaces,  its  rolling  mills,  its 
tube  mills,  and  other  manufacturing 
processes  that  are  carried  to  the  highest 
degree  of  finished  production  compati- 
ble with  the  large  trade  it  has  built  up. 
All  this  is  generally  conceded  to  be  to 
the  advantage  of  the  consumer.  Nor 
does  the  Steel  Corporation  inconsider- 
ately dump  its  products  on  the  market. 
On  the  contrary,  it  so  acts  that  it  is 
frequently  a  stabilizing  influence,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  other  large  organi- 
zations. It  is  master  of  its  distribution 
as  well  as  of  its  production.  If  prices 
are  not  satisfactory,  the  products  are 
held  back,  or  production  is  reduced  or 
suspended.  It  is  not  compelled  to  send 
a  year's  work  to  the  market  at  one  time 
and  take  whatever  it  can  get  under  such 
circumstances.  It  has  one  selling  policy, 
and  its  own  export  department.  Neither 
are  the  grades  and  qualities  of  steel  de- 
termined at  the  caprice  of  the  buyer; 


nor  does  the  latter  hold  the  scales.  In 
this  single  integration  of  the  Steel  Cor- 
poration is  represented  about  40  per 
cent  of  the  steel  production  of  America. 
The  rest  is  mostly  in  the  hands  of  a  few 
large  companies.  In  ordinary  times  the 
Steel  Corporation,  by  example,  stabil- 
izes all  steel  prices.  If  this  is  permissible 
(it  is  even  desirable,  because  stable  and 
fair  prices  are  essential  to  solid  and  con- 
tinued prosperity),  why  would  it  be 
wrong  for  the  farmers  to  utilize  central 
agencies  that  would  have  similar  effects 
on  agricultural  products?  Something 
like  that  is  what  they  are  aiming  at. 

Some  farmers,  favored  by  regional 
compactness  and  contiguity,  such  as 
the  citrus-fruit-raisers  of  California, 
already  have  found  a  way  legally  to 
merge  and  sell  their  products  integrally 
and  in  accordance  with  seasonal  and 
local  demand,  thus  improving  their  po- 
sition and  rendering  the  consumer  a  re- 
liable service  of  ensured  quality,  certain 
supply,  and  reasonable  and  relatively 
steady  prices.  They  have  not  found  it 
necessary  to  resort  to  any  special  priv- 
ilege, or  to  claim  any  exemption  under 
the  anti-trust  legislation  of  the  state  or 
nation.  Without  removing  local  con- 
trol, they  have  built  up  a  very  efficient 
marketing  agency.  The  grain,  cotton, 
and  tobacco  farmers,  and  the  producers 
of  hides  and  wool,  because  of  their  num- 
bers and  the  vastness  of  their  regions, 
and  for  other  reasons,  have  found  inte- 
gration a  more  difficult  task;  though 
there  are  now  some  thousands  of  farm- 
er's cooperative  elevators,  warehouses, 
creameries,  and  other  enterprises  of 
one  sort  and  another,  with  a  turn-over 
of  a  billion  dollars  a  year.  They  are 
giving  the  farmers  business  experience 
and  training,  and,  so  far  as  they  go, 
they  meet  the  need  of  honest  weighing 
and  fair  grading;  but  they  do  not  meet 
the  requirements  of  rationally  adjusted 
marketing  in  any  large  and  fundament- 
al way. 


118          SOME   ASPECTS   OF   THE   FARMERS'   PROBLEMS 


The  next  step,  which  will  be  a  pattern 
for  other  groups,  is  now  being  prepared 
by  the  grain-raisers  through  the  estab- 
lishment of  sales  media  which  shall 
handle  grain  separately  or  collectively, 
as  the  individual  farmer  may  elect.  It 
is  this  step  —  the  plan  of  the  Commit- 
tee of  Seventeen  —  which  has  created 
so  much  opposition  and  is  thought  by 
some  to  be  in  conflict  with  the  anti- 
trust laws.  Though  there  is  now  before 
Congress  a  measure  designed  to  clear 
up  doubt  on  this  point,  the  grain-pro- 
ducers are  not  relying  on  any  immunity 
from  anti-trust  legislation.  They  de- 
sire, and  they  are  entitled,  to  coordi- 
nate their  efforts  just  as  effectively  as 
the  large  business  interests  of  the  coun- 
try have  done.  In  connection  with  the 
selling  organizations,  the  United  States 
Grain  Growers  Incorporated  is  draft- 
ing a  scheme  of  financing  instrumentali- 
ties and  auxiliary  agencies  which  are  in- 
dispensable to  the  successful  utilization 
of  modern  business  methods. 

It  is  essential  that  the  farmers  should 
proceed  gradually  with  these  plans,  and 
aim  to  avoid  the  error  of  scrapping  the 
existing  marketing  machinery,  which 
has  been  so  laboriously  built  up  by  long 
experience,  before  they  have  a  tried  and 
proved  substitute  or  supplementary 
mechanism.  They  must  be  careful  not 
to  become  enmeshed  in  their  own  re- 
forms and  lose  the  perspective  of  their 
place  in  the  national  system.  They 
must  guard  against  fanatical  devotion 
to  new  doctrines,  and  should  seek  ar- 
ticulation with  the  general  economic 
system  rather  than  its  reckless  destruc- 
tion as  it  relates  to  them. 


To  take  a  tolerant  and  sympathetic 
view  of  the  farmers'  strivings  for  better 
things  is  not  to  give  a  blanket  indorse- 
ment to  any  specific  plan,  and  still  less 
to  applaud  the  vagaries  of  some  of 


their  leaders  and  groups.  Neither 
should  we,  on  the  other  hand,  allow  the 
froth  of  bitter  agitation,  false  econom- 
ics, and  mistaken  radicalism  to  conceal 
the  facts  of  the  farmers'  disadvantages, 
and  the  practicability  of  eliminating 
them  by  well-considered  measures.  It 
may  be  that  the  farmers  will  not  show 
the  business  sagacity  and  develop  the 
wise  leadership  to  carry  through  sound 
plans;  but  that  possibility  does  not  jus- 
tify the  obstruction  of  their  upward  ef- 
forts. We,  as  city  people,  see  in  high 
and  speculatively  manipulated  prices, 
spoilage,  waste,  scarcity,  the  results  of 
defective  distribution  of  farm  products. 
Should  it  not  occur  to  us  that  we  have  a 
common  interest  with  the  farmer  in  his 
attempts  to  attain  a  degree  of  efficiency 
in  distribution  corresponding  to  his 
efficiency  in  production?  Do  not  the 
recent  fluctuations  in  the  May  wheat 
option,  apparently  unrelated  to  normal 
interaction  of  supply  and  demand,  offer 
a  timely  proof  of  the  need  of  some  such 
stabilizing  agency  as  the  grain-growers 
have  in  contemplation? 

It  is  contended  that,  if  their  proposed 
organizations  be  perfected  and  oper- 
ated, the  farmers  will  have  in  their 
hands  an  instrument  that  will  be  ca- 
pable of  dangerous  abuse.  We  are  told 
that  it  will  be  possible  to  pervert  it  to 
arbitrary  and  oppressive  price-fixing 
from  its  legitimate  use  of  ordering  and 
stabilizing  the  flow  of  farm  products  to 
the  market,  to  the  mutual  benefit  of 
producer  and  consumer.  I  have  no  ap- 
prehensions on  this  point. 

In  the  first  place,  a  loose  organiza- 
tion, such  as  any  union  of  farmers  must 
be  at  best,  cannot  be  so  arbitrarily  and 
promptly  controlled  as  a  great  corpora- 
tion. The  one  is  a  lumbering  democracy 
and  the  other  an  agile  autocracy.  In 
the  second  place,  with  all  possible  power 
of  organization,  the  farmers  cannot  suc- 
ceed to  any  great  extent,  or  for  any  con- 
siderable length  of  time,  in  fixing  prices. 


SOME   ASPECTS  OF  THE  FARMERS'  PROBLEMS 


119 


The  great  law  of  supply  and  demand 
works  in  various  and  surprising  ways,  to 
the  undoing  of  the  best-laid  plans  that 
attempt  to  foil  it.  In  the  third  place, 
their  power  will  avail  the  farmers  noth- 
ing if  it  be  abused.  In  our  time  and 
country  power  is  of  value  to  its  possessor 
only  so  long  as  it  is  not  abused.  It  is 
fair  to  say  that  I  have  seen  no  signs  in 
responsible  quarters  of  a  disposition  to 
dictate  prices.  There  seems,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  be  a  commonly  beneficial  pur- 
pose to  realize  a  stability  that  will  give 
an  orderly  and  abundant  flow  of  farm 
products  to  the  consumer  and  ensure 
reasonable  and  dependable  returns  to 
the  producer. 

In  view  of  the  supreme  importance 
to  the  national  well-being  of  a  prosper- 
ous and  contented  agricultural  popula- 
tion, we  should  be  prepared  to  go  a  long 
way  in  assisting  the  farmers  to  get  an 
equitable  share  of  the  wealth  they  pro- 
duce, through  the  inauguration  of  re- 
forms that  will  procure  a  continuous 
and  increasing  stream  of  farm  products. 
They  are  far  from  getting  a  fair  share 
now.  Considering  his  capital  and  the 
long  hours  of  labor  put  in  by  the  average 
farmer  and  his  family,  he  is  remuner- 
ated less  than  any  other  occupational 
class,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
teachers,  religious  and  lay.  Though  we 
know  that  the  present  general  distress 
of  the  farmers  is  exceptional  and  is 
linked  with  the  inevitable  economic 
readjustment  following  the  war,  it 
must  be  remembered  that,  although 
representing  one  third  of  the  industrial 
product  and  half  the  total  population 
of  the  nation,  the  rural  communities 
ordinarily  enjoy  but  a  fifth  to  a  quarter 
of  the  net  annual  national  gain.  Not- 
withstanding the  taste  of  prosperity 
that  the  farmers  had  during  the  war, 
there  is  to-day  a  lower  standard  of  liv- 
ing among  the  cotton  farmers  of  the 
South  than  in  any  other  pursuit  in  the 
country. 


In  conclusion,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
farmers  are  chiefly  striving  for  a  gener- 
ally beneficial  integration  of  their  busi- 
ness, of  the  same  kind  and  character 
that  other  business  enjoys.  If  it  should 
be  found,  on  examination,  that  the  at- 
tainment of  this  end  requires  methods 
different  from  those  which  other  activi- 
ties have  followed  for  the  same  purpose, 
should  we  not  sympathetically  consider 
the  plea  for  the  right  to  cooperate,  if 
only  from  our  own  enlightened  self- 
interest,  in  obtaining  an  abundant  and 
steady  flow  of  farm  products? 

In  examining  the  agricultural  situa- 
tion with  a  view  to  its  improvement, 
we  shall  be  most  helpful  if  we  maintain 
a  detached  and  judicial  viewpoint,  re- 
membering that  existing  wrongs  may 
be  chiefly  an  accident  of  unsym  metrical 
economic  growth,  instead  of  a  creation 
of  malevolent  design  and  conspiracy. 
We  Americans  are  prone,  as  Professor 
David  Friday  well  says  in  his  admirable 
book,  Profits,  Wages  and  Prices,  to  seek 
a  '  criminal  intent  behind  every  difficult 
and  undesirable  economic  situation.'  I 
can  positively  assert,  from  my  contact 
with  men  of  large  affairs,  including 
bankers,  that,  as  a  whole,  they  are  en- 
deavoring to  fulfill,  as  they  see  them, 
the  obligations  that  go  with  their  power. 
Preoccupied  with  the  grave  problems 
and  heavy  tasks  of  their  own  immediate 
affairs,  they  have  not  turned  their 
thoughtful  personal  attention  or  their 
constructive  abilities  to  the  deficiencies 
of  agricultural  business  organization. 
Agriculture,  it  may  be  said,  suffers 
from  their  preoccupation  and  neglect 
rather  than  from  any  purposeful  exploi- 
tation by  them.  They  ought  now  to  be- 
gin to  respond  to  the  farmers'  difficul- 
ties, which  they  must  realize  are  their 
own. 

On  the  other  hand,  my  contacts  with 
the  farmers  have  filled  me  with  respect 
for  them  —  for  their  sanity,  their  pa- 
tience, their  balance.  Within  the  last 


120 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


year  —  and  particularly  at  a  meeting 
called  by  the  Kansas  State  Board  of 
Agriculture  and  at  another  called  by 
the  Committee  of  Seventeen  —  I  have 
met  many  of  the  leaders  of  the  new 
farm  movement,  and  I  testify,  in  all  sin- 
cerity, that  they  are  endeavoring  to  deal 
with  their  problems,  not  as  promoters 


of  a  narrow  class-interest,  not  as  ex- 
ploiters of  the  hapless  consumer,  not  as 
merciless  monopolists,  but  as  honest 
men  bent  on  the  improvement  of  the 
common  weal. 

We  can  and  must  meet  such  men  and 
such  a  cause  half-way.  Their  business 
is  our  business  —  the  nation's  business. 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


BY  HERBERT  SIDEBOTHAM 


IT  is  more  than  eighteen  months 
since  the  writer  described  in  these  pages 
naval  competition  between  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain  as  the  great- 
est danger  that  threatened  civilization. 
We  were  then  in  the  first  enthusiasm  of 
our  relief  from  war,  and  hope  ran  high 
that  the  United  States,  within  or  with- 
out the  League  of  Nations,  would  help 
the  Old  World  to  nurse  the  ideal  of 
peace  through  freedom  for  which  the 
war  had  been  fought;  and  the  danger  of 
naval  rivalry  between  us  was  then  only 
just  visible.  But  in  the  disappoint- 
ments of  the  past  year  it  has  gathered 
form  and  body,  and  it  is  now  no  longer 
a  vague  apprehension  but  a  rapidly  ma- 
turing problem,  with  well-marked  polit- 
ical lineaments.  Unfortunately,  there 
is  reason  to  fear  that  our  two  govern- 
ments (as  is  the  way  with  all  govern- 
ments, if  they  are  left  alone),  instead 
of  going  to  meet  it,  may  wait  until  it  is 
on  their  backs.  We  are  told  that  we 
must  not  hurry  or  unduly  press  pro- 
jects of  appeasement;  but  if  precipitate 
action  is  to  be  feared,  what  other  insur- 


ance can  we  have  against  that  than 
timely  discussion? 

Our  discussion  must  be  frank  and 
practical,  for  this  problem  is  not  one  to 
be  solved  along  the  lines  of  revivalist 
agitation.  There  are  forces  —  stronger 
in  America  than  in  Great  Britain  — 
that  are  working  for  the  estrangement 
of  the  two  countries;  but  in  both  there 
is  an  immense  preponderance  of  good- 
will capable  of  removing  mountains,  if 
only  some  convenient  fulcrum  for  its 
activity  can  be  devised.  What  holds  us 
back  is  not  the  want  of  a  wholesome 
sentiment,  but  the  fact  that,  in  our  mo- 
tions toward  each  other  and  toward 
service  to  the  general  good,  our  feet  are 
held  in  snares  from  which  they  must  be 
freed  before  we  can  accomplish  the  un- 
doubted will  of  the  vast  majority  in 
both  countries. 

One  of  these  snares  is  the  natural  ap- 
prehension that  the  United  States  has 
on  the  side  of  Japan.  The  causes  of  the 
differences  between  them  need  not  be 
discussed  here;  Englishmen  know  and 
appreciate  them,  from  the  Australian 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


121 


if  not  from  the  American  side.  As  the 
programmes  now  stand,  the  United 
States  will  have  eighteen  post-Jutland 
capital  ships  in  1925,  against  Japan's 
eleven.  It  will  be  a  fair  numerical  pre- 
ponderance, and  not  more  than  Great 
Britain  had  over  Germany  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war.  But  whereas  England 
had,  by  reason  of  her  geographical  posi- 
tion, lying  as  she  does  like  a  huge  break- 
water between  the  German  ports  and 
the  seas  outside,  the  strategic  advan- 
tage in  the  Atlantic,  the  strategic  ad- 
vantage in  the  Pacific  is  with  Japan 
rather  than  with  the  United  States. 
The  United  States  has  two  sea-fronts 
to  defend  —  a  strategical  embarrass- 
ment with  which  we  can  sympathize; 
for,  in  the  days  when  the  old  Dual  Alli- 
ance of  France  and  Russia  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  enemy,  the  writers  on 
naval  policy  were  always  worrying 
about  the  danger  of  naval  defeat,  with 
half  the  British  fleet  in  the  Channel  and 
half  in  the  Mediterranean,  should  its 
enemies  succeed  in  concentrating  their 
whole  force  against  either.  It  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  Japan,  in  the  event  of 
war,  would  try  to  invade  the  American 
continent;  but  her  fleets,  if  victorious, 
would  sweep  American  commerce  off 
the  seas.  And  there  is  the  danger,  too, 
of  a  sudden  attack  on  the  Philippines, 
which,  if  it  were  successful,  would  leave 
the  United  States  without  a  naval  base 
in  Eastern  waters,  unless  Japan,  by  at- 
tacking China,  were  to  give  the  United 
States  an  opportunity  to  use  Chinese 
ports. 

And  where,  in  the  event  of  war  in 
these  Eastern  waters,  would  American 
ships  refit?  The  disadvantages  of  fight- 
ing thousands  of  miles  away  from  home 
ports  are  hardly  to  be  measured.  No 
one  who  has  given  serious  thought  to 
the  problems  of  a  naval  war  between 
the  United  States  and  Japan  would 
maintain  that  the  superiority  of  eight- 
een ships  to  eleven  gives  an  extrava- 


gant margin ;  and  one  can  readily  under- 
stand those  who  are  responsible  for 
American  defense  at  sea  insisting  that 
this  margin  is  the  minimum. 

Unfortunately,  this  increase  of  Amer- 
ican shipbuilding  has  an  automatic 
effect  on  the  British  programme.  Great 
Britain  ceased  building  capital  ships  in 
1917,  and  has  only  one  ship,  the  Hood, 
which  can  be  said  to  embody  the  lessons 
of  Jutland  —  whatever  these  may  be. 
In  this  year's  programme  four  such 
ships  are  sanctioned ;  but  they  will  not 
be  begun  till  next  year,  and  not  finished, 
in  all  probability,  till  1924.  It  follows 
that,  in  order  to  attain  an  equality  with 
Japan  in  these  new  ships  in  1925, 
Great  Britain  will  have  to  lay  down  six 
ships  next  year;  and  equality  with  the 
United  States  will  demand  an  even 
greater  effort  next  year  than  ever  was 
made  in  one  year  during  the  competi- 
tion with  Germany. 

Thus,  with  the  best  good-will  in  the 
world  and  many  protestations  of  mu- 
tual regard,  we  are  drifting  helplessly 
into  a  meaningless  rivalry,  which  could 
not  be  worse  in  its  effects  on  the  welfare 
of  the  people  if  our  two  countries  were 
enemies.  And  worse  even  than  its  ef- 
fects on  material  prosperity  would  be 
the  by-products  of  this  rivalry  in  po- 
litical discord,  and  even,  it  might  be, 
in  active  enmity.  The  government,  in 
introducing  its  naval  estimates,  had  to 
face  a  great  deal  of  criticism  because 
its  shipbuilding  estimate  was  so  small; 
and  this  came,  not  from  political  mis- 
chief-makers, but  from  many  moderate 
men.  Take  the  following  passage  from 
the  speech  on  this  year's  estimates  of 
Mr.  Prettyman,  a  former  Secretary  of 
the  Admiralty,  and  a  man  who  speaks 
with  care  and  exactness :  — 

'Everyone  will  agree  that  agree- 
ment and  international  arrangement 
are  far  better  than  building  one  against 
another.  The  practical  question  that 
we  have  to  consider  on  this  estimate 


122 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


is,  can  we  afford,  even  when  that  is  our 
opinion,  even  when  the  world  knows  it 
is  our  opinion,  even  when  we  wish  the 
world  to  know  it  is  our  opinion,  —  can 
we  afford  to  allow  any  single  power 
however  friendly,  however  much  we  de- 
sire to  maintain  its  friendship  and  even 
affection,  even  if  it  is  of  our  own  blood, 
— can  we  afford  to  be  in  a  position  where 
another  nation  in  the  world  will  have  a 
navy  definitely  more  powerful  than  our 
own  navy?  Is  there  any  honorable 
member  who  will  accept  that  position? 
That  drives  us  to  the  one-power  stand- 
ard, not  in  the  sense  of  desiring  to 
build  against  any  other  power,  or  to 
select  any  single  navy  and  to  say  we  are 
building  to  maintain  one  equal  or  great- 
er than  that,  but  simply  from  the  pure- 
ly defensive  point  of  view.  ...  If  the 
United  States  and  the  government  of 
this  country  can  come  to  any  arrange- 
ment by  which  competition  can  be 
avoided,  it  will  be  not  only  unopposed 
but  most  heartily  welcomed  in  every 
quarter  of  this  House.  But  if  such  an 
arrangement  is  impossible,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  us  to  say,  simply  because  we 
trust  and  believe  in  the  continued 
friendship  of  the  United  States  or  any 
other  country,  that  we  can  allow  them 
to  have  a  navy  to  which  our  navy 
would  be  manifestly  inferior.' 

All  sorts  of  holes  can  be  picked  in  this 
passage,  but  no  honest  man  would  deny 
that  it  represents  the  views  of  ninety- 
nine  Englishmen  out  of  a  hundred;  and 
it  may  be  taken  as  representing  the  per- 
manent mind  of  the  country.  It  is  the 
basis  of  the  'one-power  standard'  now 
formally  adopted  by  the  British  Govern- 
ment. Mr.  Long,  ex-First  Lord  of  the 
Admiralty,  on  March  16,  declared  that 
equality  with  any  other  power  at  sea  is 
a  claim  that  England  never  would  ac- 
cept 'save  in  connection  with  a  great 
English-speaking  nation  that  sprang 
from  our  loins  and  must  ever  hold  a 
special  place  in  our  regard  and  confi- 


dence.' And  Mr.  Long  is  a  friend  both  of 
the  United  States  and  of  a  reduction  of 
armaments.  '  If  there  is  to  be  emulation 
between,  for  instance,  the  United  States 
of  America  and  ourselves,'  he  said  in 
March,  1920,  'let  it  be  in  the  direction 
of  reducing  the  ample  margin  of  strength 
which  we  each  possess  over  all  other 
nations.'  If  he  had  said  'which  we  to- 
gether possess,'  his  remarks  would  ap- 
ply, not  only  now,  but  in  1925,  when  the 
balance  of  naval  power  will  be  rather 
different. 

The  issues,  therefore,  are  plain.  With 
an  agreement  between  us,  the  formula 
of  equality  on  the  seas  —  a  great  thing, 
as  Mr.  Long  said,  for  Britain  to  con- 
cede —  might  develop  into  a  naval  con- 
sortium and  a  drastic  reduction  of  arm- 
aments. Without  an  agreement,  this 
formula  will  lead  to  competitive  build- 
ing, and  that,  in  its  turn,  to  political 
friction,  and,  it  may  be,  even  to  rup- 
ture. It  is  well  to  speak  quite  plainly. 
If  we  rely  on  the  unmobilized  mass  of 
friendship  between  the  two  countries, 
we  shall  drift  into  serious  trouble;  and 
the  first  object  of  those  who  believe 
with  the  writer,  that  the  future  of  the 
world  depends  on  the  free  cooperation 
of  both  countries  to  further  our  com- 
mon ideals,  must  be  to  mobilize  that 
friendship  in  the  cadres  of  definite  and 
concrete  proposals.  To  that  end  it  is 
the  object  of  this  article  to  contribute. 

II 

The  writer  is  among  those  who  be- 
lieve that  capital  ships  are  no  longer  the 
chief  repositories  of  naval  power;  and 
this  belief  at  one  time  seemed  to  offer 
a  means  of  escape  from  the  more  costly 
forms  of  naval  competition.  Supposing 
that  it  could  be  established  that,  for 
the  defense  of  shores  from  invasion, 
mines  and  submarines  were  sufficient, 
there  would  belittle  left  to  build  for 
but  the  defense  of  commerce  on  the 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


123 


high  seas.  That  being  so,  would  it  not 
be  possible  to  internationalize  the  high 
seas  outside  territorial  waters,  which 
for  this  purpose  might  be  extended 
from  the  three-mile  limit  to  one  of  ten, 
or  even  twenty  miles,  except  in  straits 
that  are  too  narrow  to  admit  of  this  ex- 
tension? And  might  not  all  the  Great 
Powers  agree  to  police  the  international 
sea-common  thus  created,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  code  of  law  mutually  agreed 
upon? 

If  such  a  plan  had  been  practicable, 
it  is  obvious  that  the  immediate  result 
would  have  been  a  great  reduction  of 
naval  armaments  and  the  removal  of 
three  fourths  of  the  earth's  surface  from 
the  clash  of  national  rivalries  and  jeal- 
ousies. But  there  were  two  great  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  such  a  scheme.  In 
the  first  place,  the  majority  of  expert 
opinion,  both  in  Great  Britain  and  in 
America,  still  believes  in  the  capital 
ship.  And,  secondly,  the  United  States 
is  not  a  member  of  the  League  of  Na- 
tions, under  whose  authority  and  flag 
the  new  international  naval  police 
would  have  to  administer  the  laws  of  the 
sea-common.  Clearly,  in  existing  con- 
ditions, it  is  necessary  to  approach  the 
problem  from  a  different  angle. 

Both  in  Great  Britain  and  in  Amer- 
ica official  spokesmen  have  indicated 
their  willingness  to  enter  an  interna- 
tional conference  on  disarmament;  and 
if  the  project  has  got  no  further,  it  is 
because  of  the  frightful  difficulty  of 
arranging  a  basis  for  general  discussion. 
Quot  gentes,  tot  sentential.  All  similar 
attempts  in  the  past  have  failed,  and 
before  making  another  attempt,  the 
nation  that  makes  a  move  wants  to  be 
assured  of  a  better  prospect  of  success, 
and  in  the  absence  of  such  assurance 
the  habitual  procrastination  of  all  gov- 
ernments gets  its  way.  The  theory  of 
reduction  has,  in  the  past,  usually  been 
that  of  simple  division.  You  start  on 
the  assumption  that  the  relative  power 


must  not  be  altered,  and  you  begin  the 
search  for  a  common  divisor.  Suppos- 
ing that  the  ratios  of  naval  power  pos- 
sessed by  the  leaders  are  as  18  to  12 
and  6  —  you  can  divide  by  2  or  by  3 
or  by  6  and  still  leave  the  relative 
power  unchanged.  It  all  sounds  so  sim- 
ple. But  in  fact,  the  common  denomi- 
nator has  always  eluded  definition;  for 
it  is  not  only  the  number  of  capital  and 
other  ships  that  constitutes  naval  pow- 
er, but  a  host  of  naval  imponderabilia, 
which  defy  expression  in  numbers  that 
can  be  divided. 

A  still  more  important  reason  for 
past  failures  is  that  the  causes  of  the 
unstable  equilibrium  that  make  for 
naval  rivalry  are  political,  and  cannot 
be  discussed  in  any  general  conference 
with  the  remotest  chance  of  coming  to 
an  agreement  within  a  reasonable  time. 
This  has  been  the  unvarying  history 
of  all  previous  attempts  to  legislate 
for  a  reduction  of  armaments  by  a  gen- 
eral international  agreement.  The  in- 
dispensable conditions  of  success,  which 
have  never  yet  been  fulfilled,  are  these. 
First,  two  powers  should  hold  a  pre- 
liminary conference  and  submit  their 
agreement  to  a  general  conference;  they 
should  be  two  powers  whose  views  are 
sufficiently  close  to  promise  agreement, 
and  who  together  exercise  a  prepon- 
derant influence  in  the  world's  councils 
on  the  subject  under  discussion.  Second- 
ly, these  two  powers  should  not  confine 
their  discussion  to  the  purely  technical 
aspects  of  disarmament,  but  should  be 
authorized  to  take  into  consideration 
the  political  questions  that  may  be 
relevant. 

The  only  two  powers  that  could  pos- 
sibly satisfy  these  conditions  are  the 
United  States  and  Great  Britain;  and 
it  is  therefore  suggested,  as  the  pre- 
liminary which  alone  promises  any 
chance  of  success,  that  there  should 
first  be  a  conference  between  repre- 
sentatives of  Britain  and  America, 


124 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


empowered  to  discuss  all  the  questions 
bearing  on  disarmament,  to  make  a 
report  to  their  governments,  and,  if  it 
is  approved,  to  submit  that,  as  a  draft 
basis  for  discussion,  to  any  further  con- 
ference for  which  invitations  might  be 
issued  to  other  powers.  If  Britain  and 
America  cannot  agree,  neither  can  any 
larger  conference;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
we  can  and  do  agree,  we  can  play  a  tune 
to  which  all  the  rest  of  the  world  will 
dance. 

It  may  be  that  the  Anglo-American 
conference,  when  it  meets,  might  think 
it  desirable  to  limit  its  discussions  to 
what  is  called  the  problem  of  the  Pa- 
cific; and  that  the  general  conference, 
which  should  be  summoned  later  to  dis- 
cuss its  draft  proposals  and  probably  to 
ratify  them,  should  be  restricted  to  the 
powers  that  border  on  the  Pacific  —  the 
United  States,  England,  Canada,  and 
Australia,  Japan,  China,  and  Siam, 
Russia,  France,  and  the  Pacific  States 
of  South  America.  If  so  restricted,  the 
problem  would  be  more  manageable 
and  the  ratification  of  any  agreement 
that  Great  Britain  and  America  might 
reach  would  be  much  easier.  This,  at 
any  rate,  one  is  convinced,  should  be 
the  first  step  to  disarmament. 

The  question  then  arises,  what  the 
programme  of  this  preliminary  Anglo- 
American  conference  should  be.  Nei- 
ther of  these  powers  would  wish  to  be 
advised  how  to  defend  its  own  coasts 
against  invasion,  and  therefore  the 
principal  subject  that  suggests  itself 
for  discussion  is,  how  they  should  pro- 
tect their  communications  overseas. 
Now,  on  this  question  there  is  a  long 
history  of  controversy  between  Great 
Britain  and  the  United  States.  Where- 
as the  former  has  always  stood  out  for 
the  exercise  of  extreme  belligerent 
rights  on  the  high  seas,  the  United 
States,  in  theory  if  not  in  practice,  has 
always  argued  for  the  milder  practice 
of  respecting  the  rights  of  neutrals  and 


the  private  trading  of  the  belligerent 
nations  with  neutrals.  This  contro- 
versy goes  back  to  the  very  foundations 
of  the  American  Republic,  for  Ben- 
jamin Franklin  was  one  of  the  first 
champions  of  the  exemption  of  private 
property  at  sea  from  the  operations  of 
war;  and  it  will  not  have  been  forgotten 
that  one  of  the  arguments  that  Count 
Bernstorff  was  fondest  of,  in  the  trou- 
bled months  before  America  came  into 
the  war,  was  that  she  and  Prussia  had 
once  concluded  a  treaty  embodying  this 
principle  against  what  he  called  the 
'navalism'  (a  word  formed  on  the  anal- 
ogy of  'militarism')  of  Great  Britain. 

The  suggestion  of  the  writer  is  that 
this  old  controversy  should  be  resolved 
in  a  sense  favorable  to  the  American 
view,  and  that  the  conference  should, 
as  its  first  business,  draft  a  resolution 
declaring  that  in  the  event  of  war  the 
non-contraband  commerce  of  neutrals 
and  of  belligerents,  and,  generally,  all 
private  property  on  the  high  seas, 
should  be  exempt  from  capture  or 
destruction.  That  Would  prohibit,  not 
only  a  submarine  war  on  commerce, 
but  also  a  cruiser  guerre  a  la  course  on 
the  high  seas.  It  would  deprive  bellig- 
erents of  the  excuse  that  great  fleets 
are  necessary  for  the  protection  of  their 
sea-borne  commerce  and  of  their  ship- 
ping in  war-time. 

Those  who  know  the  long  history 
of  the  controversy  between  England 
and  America  on  this  subject  will  appre- 
ciate how  great  the  sentimental  signifi- 
cance of  a  concession  by  Britain  on 
this  question  would  be.  Its  effect  would 
be  that  American  commerce  would 
continue  free  from  molestation  even  in 
the  event  of  war  —  a  tremendous  relief 
from  the  anxieties  of  the  American 
Admiralty.  The  losses  of  the  German 
submarine  campaign  have  gone  some 
way  toward  convincing  Great  Britain 
that  a  reform  in  the  law  of  capture, 
which  she  has  always  resisted,  is  in 


A  PROJECT, OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


125 


her  Interest;  but  if  the  operation  of  the 
rule  were,  at  any  rate  in  the  first 
instance,  confined  to  war  in  the  Pacific, 
her  acquiescence  in  the  change  of  the 
law  would  be  certain.  For  a  country 
like  America,  separated  by  the  width 
of  the  Pacific  from  the  attacks  of  ene- 
mies (how  different  from  the  position 
of  Great  Britain,  with  her  thin  silver 
streak  alone  separating  her  from  the 
cockpit  of  Europe!),  such  a  reform 
would  rob  war  at  sea  of  the  greater 
part  of  its  perils. 

But  we  should  be  disposed  to  go  fur- 
ther, and  here  would  be  the  great 
advantage  of  associating  in  our  pre- 
liminary conference  men  of  politics 
with  the  naval  technicians.  If  Great 
Britain  and  America  agreed  to  such  a 
reform,  they  should  also  agree  that,  in 
the  event  of  its  validity  being  disputed 
in  war,  they  would  make  common 
cause  in  order  to  enforce  it,  and  in  any 
general  conference  of  Pacific  powers 
they  would  command  a  majority  of 
adherents,  and  would  be  strong  enough 
to  enunciate  it  as  a  law  that  they  meant 
to  enforce  against  any  malignant.  It 
would  follow,  as  a  matter  of  course,  al- 
most, that  in  any  war  in  which  this 
principle  was  involved,  and  in  which 
America  was  concerned  to  maintain 
it,  we  should  play  the  part  of  a  good 
ally.  One  condition  of  that  would  be 
that  we  should  relieve  America  of  all 
responsibility  for  her  communications 
from  the  Atlantic  sea-board,  and  so 
enable  her  to  concentrate  her  navy  in 
the  Pacific,  thereby  (apart  from  any 
closer  return  that  we  could  make  to 
her  for  her  naval  help  in  the  late  war) 
increasing  her  effective  naval  strength 
by  perhaps  a  third. 

m 

Two  objections  are  always  raised  to 
the  reform  that  we  have  in  mind.  In 
the  event  of  some  such  declaration  as 


this  being  reached  at  the  preliminary 
conference  between  Great  Britain  and 
America,  —  that  every  neutral  ship  and 
belligerent  merchantman  engaged  in 
lawful  commerce  shall  have  the  free 
use  of  the  high  seas  without  molesta- 
tion, —  who  is  to  decide  what  is  law- 
ful commerce  and  what  is  not?  In  other 
words,  what  is  contraband?  That  ques- 
tion we  should  leave  to  be  determined 
either  by  the  legal  council  of  the  League 
of  Nations  or  by  some  analogue  of  the 
League  drawn  from  the  border  states  of 
the  Pacific. 

A  second  and  more  awkward  ques- 
tion is,  what  would  become  of  blockade. 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  two  pow- 
ers separated  by  the  whole  width  of 
the  Pacific  could  institute  anything  ap- 
proaching an  effective  blockade  of  each 
other;  but,  that  difficulty  surmounted, 
one  would  reply  unhesitatingly  that 
commercial  blockade  should  be  pro- 
hibited under  our  proposed  rules,  and 
only  military  blockade  —  that  is,  block- 
ade of  naval  bases  and  places  d'armes  — 
recognized,  if  it  could  be  made  effective. 

A  final  difficulty  arises  as  to  the 
transport  of  troops  across  the  Pacific; 
but  this,  one  imagines,  would  in  any 
case  be  subject  to  the  full  force  of  the 
operations  of  war. 

It  is  probable  that  this  naval  agree- 
ment would  have  to  be  supplemented 
by  one  of  a  political  character.  For 
example,  it  might  be  necessary  for 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States, 
after  discussing  all  the  aspects  of  the 
Pacific  problem,  to  agree  to  guarantee 
the  political  status  quo  of  the  border 
states  of  the  Pacific,  and  to  make 
common  cause  against  anyone  who 
attacked  it.  But  this  is  no  more  than 
the  Anglo-Japanese  alliance  does,  so 
far  as  China  is  concerned;  and  it  is 
understood  that  whatever  was  decided 
at  the  preliminary  conference  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States 
would  be  submitted  for  ratification  at 


126 


A  PROJECT  OF  NAVAL  DISARMAMENT 


a  general  conference  later.  There 
would  be  no  exclusive  alliance,  but  a 
declaration  of  agreed  principles,  to 
which  other  powers,  including  Japan, 
would  be  invited  to  subscribe.  But  if 
they  did  not,  it  would  be  a  warning  to 
the  rest  of  us  to  prepare,  and  we  should 
do  so. 

The  whole  matter  may  be  put  still 
more  simply.  Two  things  have  kept 
the  American  continent,  so  far,  clean 
from  the  curse  of  militarism,  which  has 
brought  Europe  to  its  present  plight. 
One  is  the  Monroe  Doctrine.  In  effect, 
what  is  now  proposed  is  an  extension 
of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  so  as  to  include 
the  eastern  as  well  as  the  western 
shore  of  the  Pacific.  In  Canning's  and 
Monroe's  days,  the  danger  threatened 
from  Europe;  now  the  danger  threat- 
ens from  Japan ;  but  the  Doctrine  in  its 
enlarged  form  would  still  apply,  at  any 
rate  so  far  as  America's  commitments 
in  the  islands  of  the  Pacific  or  even  on 
the  mainland  of  Eastern  Asia  were 
concerned.  As  surely  as  she  went  to 
war  with  Germany  to  prevent  France 
from  being  overwhelmed,  or  England 
from  being  reduced  to  the  position  of 
a  satellite  of  Germany  (as  she  would 
have  been  had  France  been  defeated), 
so  surely  must  she  go  to  war  with  Ja- 
pan to  prevent  China  from  becoming  a 
Japanese  province.  That  may  seem  a 
crude  way  of  putting  it,  with  the  din 
of  the  European  war  still  in  our  ears; 
but  if  we  had  spoken  with  the  same 
plainness  to  Germany  before  the  war, 
perhaps  there  would  have  been  no  war 
at  all.  And  so  with  Japan  in  the  hemi- 
sphere of  the  Pacific. 

The  other  thing  that  has  kept  the 
American  continent  free  of  militarism  is 
the  neutralization  of  the  Great  Lakes. 
What  in  effect  is  proposed  by  the  sug- 
gested changes  in  the  naval  law  of  war 
is  the  neutralization  of  the  Pacific. 
Backed  by  the  combined  will  of  Great 
Britain  and  the  United  States,  this  can 


be  achieved,  but  in  no  other  way.  The 
policy  thai  is  now  proposed  is  there- 
fore no  innovation,  but  only  an  adap- 
tation to  the  times  of  the  old  Monroe 
Doctrine  and  of  the  neutralization  of 
the  Great  Lakes,  which  have  done  such 
enormous  services  to  the  liberty  of  the 
New  World  in  the  past. 

Moreover,  vague  as  the  President's 
indications  of  his  policy  have  been  up 
to  the  present,  what  he  has  said  is  cer- 
tainly not  inconsistent  with  the  policy 
that  is  here  suggested.  In  his  first 
Presidential  Message  he  declared  that 
he  was  willing  'to  recommend  a  way 
to  approximate  disarmament,'  and  also 
*  to  join  in  writing  the  laws  of  interna- 
tional relationship.'  His  opposition  is 
confined  to  proposals  that  would  make 
over  any  part  of  American  sovereignty 
to  an  international  council,  or  in  any 
way  hamper  the  free  determination 
of  American  policy  by  the  American 
people. 

This  objection  does  not  hold  against 
the  free  association  of  concordant 
wills  that  is  proposed  in  this  article. 
It  is  one  thing  to  ask  the  American 
people  to  commit  themselves  before- 
hand to  resolutions  of  uncertain  import 
and  unlimited  responsibility  that  may 
be  passed  by  a  body  in  which  their  will 
may  be  in  a  small  minority.  It  is  a 
totally  different  thing  to  ask  America 
(as  is  done  here)  to  join  in  a  league 
based  on  ancient  traditions  of  American 
policy,  and  embodying  what  is  the  per- 
manent will  of  the  people. 

Nor,  again,  is  the  suggestion  here 
made  open  to  the  opposite  reproach  of 
Imperialism,  for  the  intention  is,  not  to 
set  up  an  exclusive  alliance,  but  rather 
to  lay  down  ideas  to  which  all  who  will 
may  accede.  Does  it  not  rather  harmo- 
nize with  the  President's  policy  of  find- 
ing a  way  to  disarmament  by  writing 
in  conference  the  laws  of  international 
relationship?  'Suppose,'  an  English 
writer  commented  on  the  President's 


THE  WORLD  FROM  CORSICA 


127 


Message,  '  that  some  of  these  laws  were 
written  to  America's  satisfaction,  would 
she  join  a  league  for  their  enforcement? 
Supposing,  further,  that  this  project 
could  be  coupled  with  a  scheme  of 
naval  disarmament,  would  that  influ- 
ence her  decision?'  The  suggestions 
made  in  these  pages,  it  is  submitted, 
satisfy  both  these  tests. 

It  may  be  objected  that  the  proposal 
does  not  directly  bring  about  disarma- 
ment. It  does  more,  for  it  removes  the 
causes,  both  political  and  naval,  that 
make  for  ruinous  competition.  It  cre- 
ates an  alliance  based,  not  on  selfish 
interests,  but  on  permanent  principles 
of  policy,  and  independent  of  the  gusts 
of  popular  passion;  and  it  enlists  in 
support  of  this  policy  such  reserves  of 
strength  that  no  one  would  dare  to 
challenge  it.  And  incidentally,  without 
encroaching  on  the  liberty  of  either,  it 
forms  between  the  United  States  and 


Great  Britain  an  association  which 
may  under  favorable  conditions  devel- 
op into  the  keenest-tempered  instru- 
ment of  service  to  humanity  that  the 
world  has  ever  known. 

'We  two  nations,'  said  an  English 
writer  recently,  hi  regard  to  these  hopes 
of  closer  association,  'have  a  common 
idiom  on  all  these  mixed  questions  of 
law  and  politics.  On  the  law  of  the  sea 
we  have  behind  us  a  long  controversy, 
which  can  now  safely  be  resolved. 
Each  has  something  to  give  the  other 
and  something  to  receive,  and  both 
together  could  set  an  example  that 
others  could  not  but  follow.  Both  of 
us  wrant  to  keep  the  weapon  of  sea- 
power  bright  for  service  in  the  cause 
of  liberty;  both  would  wish  to  keep  it 
in  its  scabbard  in  any  less  holy  and 
compelling  cause;  and  both  try  to  inter- 
pret our  duty  to  our  peoples  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  same  ideals.' 


THE  WORLD  FROM  CORSICA 


BY  ANNE  O'HAEE  McCORMICK 


ON  the  night  of  President  Harding's 
inauguration,  on  the  top-deck  of  a  little 
steamer  bound  for  Corsica,  two  Britons, 
a  Frenchman,  and  an  American  were 
discussing  the  new  President  and  the  old, 
and  the  American  attitude,  in  general, 
in  regard  to  international  politics. 

A  few  hours  before,  the  American 
had  been  standing  with  a  French  crowd 
on  the  Avenue  de  la  Victoire  in  Nice, 
in  front  of  the  bulletin  boards,  which 
announced  that  the  London  Repara- 
tions Conference  had  decided  to  let 
Germany  feel  the  pinch  of  the  sanctions 


for  the  enforcement  of  the  peace  treaty. 
There  had  been  tension  in  that  crowd. 
It  was  evident  that  the  thoughts  of  the 
solemn  Frenchmen,  who  were  so  gravely 
reading  the  synopsis  of  the  ultimatum 
to  the  German  delegation,  were  being 
jerked  back  into  the  old  war-channels. 
The  constant  French  contention  that 
the  struggle  was  not  over  made  them 
ready  for  the  news.  Their  universal 
determination  that  Germany  should 
pay  up  made  them  satisfied.  But  they 
were  worried.  The  threat  of  marching 
armies  stirred  up  too  many  familiar 


128 


THE  WORLD  FROM  CORSICA 


apprehensions  and  unburied  memories. 

The  tension  touched  even  the  four 
travelers  escaping  from  the  troubled 
European  mainland  to  a  half-forgotten 
French  outpost  in  the  Mediterranean. 
On  that  dark  little  platform  on  the 
tranquil  and  careless  sea  were  reitera- 
ted the  same  arguments,  complaints, 
national  irritations  and  dissatisfactions 
that  the  American  had  heard  over  and 
over  again  in  France  and  England.  The 
Frenchman  and  the  Englishman  might 
have  been  echoes  of  the  querulous 
voices  of  their  countries.  The  English- 
woman was  more  than  that.  A  hint  of 
the  public  manner  made  evident  before 
she  admitted  it  that  she  was  a  leader  in 
what  she  called  the  constitutional  wing 
of  the  woman's  movement,  and  she 
therefore  expressed  a  point  of  view 
more  international  than  the  men. 

The  talk,  like  all  talk  of  American 
politics  abroad,  was  more  concerned 
with  the  old  President  than  the  new. 
Mr.  Wilson  is  as  cordially  hated  by 
many  Europeans  as  any  of  their  own 
statesmen  —  which  is  saying  a  good 
deal!  He  is  more  extravagantly  ad- 
mired by  many  others  than  any  world- 
figure  except  Marshal  Foch.  But 
damned  or  canonized,  the  ex-President 
even  now  is  to  Europeans  by  far  the 
most  interesting  American.  Everybody 
who  talks  about  America  at  all  talks 
about  Wilson.  He  is  a  sign  of  contra- 
diction and  of  controversy  —  a  prophet 
or  a  quack,  an  autocrat  or  a  dupe,  ac- 
cording to  the  point  of  view;  but  it  is  as 
impossible  to  escape  him  as  the  text  of 
political  debate  in  Europe  as  it  was  to 
avoid  making  him  the  issue  of  the  pre- 
sidential campaign  at  home. 

The  Britishers,  representing  the  Wil- 
sonian  school  of  thought,  discussed  the 
retiring  President  more  sympathetically 
than  would  any  but  his  most  devoted 
adherents  in  America.  They  were  not 
much  interested  in  Mr.  Harding,  who  is 
still  a  nebulous  figure  in  Europe,  mak- 


ing no  appeal  to  the  popular  imagina- 
tion and  confusing  the  politicians  by 
his  attitude  toward  European  affairs. 
The  Frenchman  did  not  agree  with 
what  he  called  'Wilson's  impossible 
phantasm  of  an  impossible  world,'  and 
he  dismissed  Mr.  Harding  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders,  as  one  'who  appears 
from  his  speeches  not  to  know  any 
world,  possible  or  impossible.'  The 
only  point  on  which  the  three  agreed 
was  in  blaming  all  their  troubles  on  the 
American.  That  is  Europe's  favorite 
method  just  now  of  fixing  responsibility 
for  her  political  and  economic  woes.  If 
America  were  only  with  them,  is  the 
constant  cry,  they  could  have  peace; 
Germany  would  know  she  was  beaten; 
and  every  malcontent  would  not  have 
an  American  text  for  his  agitation. 
Above  all,  —  and  that  is  the  real  head 
and  front  of  all  our  offending,  —  they 
could  stabilize  the  exchange! 

'America  has  been  Germany's  tacit 
ally  since  the  end  of  the  war,'  was  the 
bitter  complaint  of  the  Englishman,  a 
ship-builder  from  the  Tyne.  'I  am  not 
talking  so  much  about  the  encourage- 
ment she  has  given  to  all  the  forces  of 
disintegration  and  discontent  by  failing 
to  back  the  peace.  My  chief  grievance 
is  that  she  has  abandoned  Europe  to 
the  European  politicians.' 

'Wilson  was  the  one  hope  we  had,' 
added  the  Englishwoman.  'He  cleared 
the  air  for  us  all.  He  was  able  to  express 
what  the  English  people,  what  all  the 
confused  and  suffering  peoples  over 
here,  were  really  fighting  for.  But  it 
was  not  what  our  government,  or  any 
other  government,  was  fighting  for. 
And  then,  when  we  thought  we'd  won, 
America  repudiated  Wilson  and  all  his 
promises,  and  left  us  to  the  mercy  of 
the  old  bargainers.' 

'  Consider  how  he  misled  us,'  said  the 
Frenchman.  'We  let  him  rebuke  us  in 
his  doctrinaire  fashion  for  trying  to 
look  out  for  ourselves.  We  let  him  call 


THE  WORLD  FROM  CORSICA 


129 


us  militarist  and  imperialist.  And  now 
look  at  his  own  country!  It  is  of  an 
irony.' 

'But  he  was  right,  you  know,'  inter- 
posed the  Englishwoman.  The  Amer- 
ican, mostly  an  interested  listener  to  the 
discussion  of  her  country,  was  amused 
to  feel  the  ground  shifting.  'To-day 
France  must  strike  any  observer  as 
both  militarist  and  imperialist.  Why 
otherwise  should  you  have  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  you  need  productive  labor 
more  than  anything  else,  a  million  un- 
demobilized  fighting  men,  not  counting 
the  classes  in  military  training?  Any 
traveler  can  see  that  France  is  full  of 
soldiers.  The  only  building  going  on  is 
the  construction  of  military  barracks, 
which  are  everywhere  being  vastly  en- 
larged, rebuilt,  or  renovated.' 

The  Frenchman  admitted  the  truth 
of  the  observation  and  justified  the 
policy.  He  wanted  to  know  who  else 
lived  next  door  to  an  enemy  already 
talking  of  revenge,  and  suggested  pleas- 
antly that,  in  the  event  of  another  at- 
tack, France  would  rather  be  prepared 
for  a  possible  wait  of  two  years  before 
anybody  was  ready  to  help  her.  'As 
for  imperialism,  I  don't  think  it  is  for 
the  English  to  taunt  us  with  that!' 

The  Britons  admitted  that,  too.  It 
was  an  exceedingly  frank  international 
dialogue. 

'It  is  perfectly  evident  that  the 
French  people  dislike  us,'  said  the  Eng- 
lishman, 'whatever  may  be  the  fulsome 
exchanges  between  the  governments  at 
this  moment.  One  reason  I  left  the 
Riviera  was  that  I  was  really  made  un- 
comfortable by  the  hostile  attitude, 
veiled  or  open,  of  the  French  toward 
the  English.  They  can't  disguise  it  even 
for  the  sake  of  our  value  in  revenue. 
Why  is  it?' 

'  I  suppose  it  is  because  we  all  have  a 
feeling  that  you  gave  less  to  the  war 
than  we  did,  and  got  so  much  more  out 
of  it,'  the  Frenchman  answered. 

VOL.  128— NO.  1 


'But  what  else  did  you  expect?' 
asked  the  Englishwoman.  'Did  you 
ever  know  England  to  put  her  hand  in 
any  fire  without  pulling  out  most  of  the 
chestnuts?  And  since  the  war,  the  Brit- 
ish conscience  is  quite  dead.  We  have 
n't  a  spark  of  feeling  left,  not  even  for 
Ireland.  We  are  perfectly  represented 
by  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  able  to  out-argue 
and  out-manoeuvre  everybody,  and 
without  a  principle  in  the  world.' 

When  the  American  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  the  British  premier's  ability 
to  hold  his  party  and  the  people  in  line 
under  the  fearful  assaults  of  a  disillu- 
sionment that  had  unseated  every  oth- 
er Allied  leader  must  be  a  sign  of  great 
popular  confidence,  as  well  as  an  amaz- 
ing feat  of  statesmanship,  the  English- 
woman retorted  that  that  proved  her 
point. 

'  One  of  his  party  is  an  intimate  friend 
of  ours,  a  well-known  Coalition  member 
from  the  North.  He  told  us  just  the 
other  day  that  Lloyd  George  holds  the 
curious  position  of  being  personally  the 
best-liked  and  politically  the  least  re- 
spected and  trusted  British  premier  in 
history.  I  tell  you  he  proves  that  the 
British  conscience  is  dead!' 

That  dialogue,  reported  here  as  typi- 
cal of  all  one  hears  in  Europe,  was  inter- 
esting as  a  Corsican  overture,  because  it 
carried  to  the  very  shore  of  the  island 
the  atmosphere  of  distrust,  recrimina- 
tion, suspicion,  and  bitterness  which  is 
the  miasmic  air  that  every  European 
breathes  to-day.  It  sharpened  the  con- 
trast between  that  pursuing  clamor  of 
opinion  and  the  silence  of  the  dawn  in 
which  the  little  ship  slid  softly  into  an 
empty  port.  The  first  sight  of  Corsica 
makes  you  feel  that  you  are  somewhere 
near  the  starry  end  of  the  telescope; 
and  the  longer  you  stay  there,  the  more 
you  get  the  islander's  sense  that  the 
mainlands  of  the  earth  are  agitated  by 
a  good  many  unnecessary  troubles. 


130 


THE   WORLD   FROM  CORSICA 


Corsica  is  not  troubled  by  any  dis- 
content, industrial,  political,  or  eco- 
nomic. It  is  quite  as  indifferent  to  Eu- 
ropean, as  the  rest  of  Europe  is  to 
American,  affairs.  Yet  twice  in  Corsica 
I  heard  shrewd  native  judgments  of 
the  ex-President  of  the  United  States. 
Once  was  when  I  had  lost  my  way  in 
the  hills  behind  Ajaccio,  and  asked  a 
direction  of  two  pedestrians,  in  a  stony 
lane  far  from  any  house  or  landmark. 
They  wore  capes  and  slouch  hats,  were 
armed  with  guns,  and  might  have 
served  as  the  brigands  of  the  story  if  it 
had  only  occurred  to  them  to  act  the 
part  they  looked.  Instead,  they  turned 
from  their  rabbit  hunt  to  walk  part  of 
the  way  down  the  hill,  to  be  sure  that  I 
was  headed  toward  the  town. 

'You  come  from  the  country  of  Pre- 
sident Wilson,'  one  of  them  guessed. 
'A  good  man,  but  simple.  When  my 
son  here  talks  about  going  to  Paris,  I 
always  tell  him  that  even  a  man  of  in- 
telligence like  your  President  cannot  go 
to  a  place  like  that  without  having  his 
head  turned  or  his  neck  twisted.' 

The  other  time  was  at  Calvi,  a  town 
out  of  a  mediaeval  canvas  for  color  and 
picturesqueness,  its  squalor  guarded  by 
a  fortress  as  formidable  as  Verdun. 
Under  the  fort,  in  the  newer  town,  near 
the  harbor  where  Casabianca  made  his 
famous  stand  against  the  naval  power 
of  Britain,  I  noticed  that  the  main 
street  was  named  Boulevard  President 
Wilson.  It  is  a  sequestered  little  thor- 
oughfare, with  the  sea  at  each  end;  as 
out  of  the  world  as  a  street  in  a  picture- 
book,  or  Corsica  itself. 

I  was  looking  up  at  the  name  with 
some  thought  of  the  curious  power  of 
personified  ideas  to  penetrate  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  when  I  was  joined  by  a 
townsman,  to  whom  I  made  my  Amer- 
ican acknowledgment  of  the  honor  done 
by  Calvi  to  an  American. 

'In  Corsica,'  he  assured  me  with  a 
flourishing  bow,  'we  understand  Amer- 


ica better  than  they  do  in  France.  We 
admire  Wilson.  We  like  Don  Quixotes. 
You  know  we  have  a  claim  to  Christo- 
pher Columbus.  Go  up  the  hill,  and 
they  will  show  you  the  ruins  of  the 
house  where  we  think  he  was  born.  Of 
course,  Genoa  disputes  it.  But  wher- 
ever he  came  from,  he  was  once  here, 
and  he  discovered  America.  So  Calvi 
feels  an  interest  in  America.' 

He  said  it  with  an  air,  that  smiling 
survivor  in  a  fading  village  on  a  for- 
gotten strand,  the  air  of  a  grand  duke 
toward  one  of  his  colonies,  rather  stag- 
gering even  to  a  traveler  accustomed  to 
getting  strange  views  of  her  country 
through  foreign  eyes. 

'As  to  Mr.  Wilson,'  he  went  on,  'I 
think  he  made  some  discoveries  in  Eu- 
rope, too.  He  did  n't  accomplish  very 
much,  when  all  is  said;  but  the  things 
he  could  n't  do  —  well,  they  made  a 
good  many  people  over  there,'  with  a 
gesture  toward  the  mainland,  '  begin  to 
think.  He  did  not  come  for  nothing, 
but  he  should  have  come  to  Corsica.  It 
is  a  very  good  place  to  study  history,  to 
see  what  happens  to  heroes,  and  to 
learn  that  everything  takes  time.' 

To  enter  Corsica,  on  the  very  first  day 
of  President  Harding's  administration, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  an  Anglo- 
French  discussion  of  President  Wilson, 
and  to  leave  it,  a  week  later,  to  the  echo 
of  a  Corsican  contribution  to  the  same 
discussion,  is  an  experience  not  with- 
out amusement  and  significance.  There 
was  a  world  between  the  two  points  of 
view;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  the  gen- 
tleman of  leisure  who  did  the  honors 
of  the  Boulevard  President  Wilson  in 
the  town  of  Calvi,  in  an  island  so  work- 
less,  strikeless,  newsless,  moneyless, 
and  generally  idyllic,  as  Corsica,  did 
not  occupy  a  better  post  for  observa- 
tion than  those  commentators  who  live 
amid  the  confusion  of  events  and  the 
conflict  of  reports. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


SHELL-SHOCK  IN  A    SHOESHOP 

THIS  small  exposition  of  a  social  phe- 
nomenon is  presented  to  the  sorority  of 
shoestore  sufferers  merely  in  the  hope 
that  it  will  be  diagnosed  as  correct,  and 
not  condemned  as  another  extravagance 
of  an  embittered  shopper. 

Things  are  seldom  what  they  seem. 
The  other  day  I  went  to  what  I  sup- 
posed to  be  a  mark-down  sale  of  boots 
and  shoes,  but  found  instead  that  I  was 
attending  a  reception;  or  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  correct  to  call  the  social 
function  at  which  I  found  myself  a  leap- 
year  party,  because,  in  a  shoestore,  it  is 
apparently  always  leap  year. 

Women  in  bevies  were  crowding  and 
jostling  each  other  just  inside  the  en- 
trance, shrilly  demanding  some  partic- 
ular clerk,  the  name  of  the  coveted 
salesman  rising  above  the  steady  stream 
of  feminine  chatter  with  flattering  in- 
sistence. I  was  deafened  by  the  Babel 
of  tongues  among  which  various  phrases 
crashed  through  into  my  consciousness. 

'Where  is  Mr.  Johnson?  I  must  have 
Mr.  Johnson.  He's  the  only  man  that 
knows  just  what  I  want.' 

'Is  Mr.  Jackson  here?  Say,  Edna,  do 
you  mind  just  catching  hold  of  that 
gentleman  that's  talking  to  the  fleshy 
woman  in  blue?  He's  my  special  friend. 
All  the  others  make  me  get  shoes  that 
are  too  big  for  me.' 

'Oh,  Mr.  Sampson,  here  I  am!  You 
know  you  told  me  to  be  sure  and  always 
ask  for  you.' 

'Good  morning,  Mr.  Benson.  How 
are  you  this  morning?  Popular  as  ever, 
I  see!  I  want  you  to  show  me  the  very 
latest  thing  in  tango-slippers.  I  think 
everything  of  Mr.  Benson,'  the  speaker 


then  announced  to  all  whom  it  might 
concern.  And  the  mountain  of  flesh  from 
whom  this  flattering  declaration  ema- 
nated forced  her  way  toward  her  cov- 
eted idol,  Mahomet  being  utterly  unable 
to  go  to  the  mountain. 

I  looked  around  me  in  despair.  Each 
clerk  was  either  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  ladies,  or  having  a  confidential  chat 
with  one  alone  on  some  cushioned  sofa. 
Broken  bits  of  conversation  continued 
to  assail  my  ears;  sometimes  the  sub- 
ject-matter was  such  as  would  be  toss- 
ed to  and  fro  between  any  two  people 
meeting  at  an  afternoon  tea;  sometimes 
there  was  an  interchange  of  personal 
gossip  concerning  the  large  world  of 
society  in  which  the  majority  of  the 
shoe-purchasing  and  shoe-selling  world 
seemed  to  move  side  by  side.  The 
feminine  confidences  to  which  I  found 
myself  listening  were  the  more  astound- 
ing in  their  intimacy  from  the  fact  that 
often  they  were  evidently  being  poured 
into  the  ear  of  a  total  stranger.  A  young 
girl  in  fur  coat  and  pearl  necklace  bent 
confidentially  toward  a  swain  in  whose 
blacking-stained  palm  her  silk-stocking- 
ed foot  was  temporarily  reposing,  and 
exchanged  ballroom  badinage.  Stout  ma- 
trons repeated  the  latest  mots  of  their 
grandchildren,  or  deplored  the  manners 
of  the  new  generation,  sure  of  a  sympa- 
thetic listener  at  their  feet.  Somehow 
the  intimacy  implied  by  an  appeal  for 
sympathy  always  seems  of  the  closest 
possible  brand. 

Among  the  confusion  of  faces,  I  sud- 
denly detected  the  puzzled  one  of  a 
rather  deaf  contemporary  of  my  own. 
I  made  my  way  to  her  side,  and  indica- 
ting a  confidential  confessional  that  was 
in  progress  at  a  little  distance,!  shouted, 

131 


132 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


*  Don't  you  admire  shoe-men's  sym- 
pathy?' 

She  looked  alarmed  for  my  reason. 
'Schumann's  Symphony?'  she  mur- 
mured vaguely.  '  Why,  yes,  I  think  it 's 
beautiful,  if  you  mean  the  one  in  D 
minor.' 

This  would  never  do.  'It's  no  use 
trying  to  talk  in  a  shoeshop,'  I  yelled, 
backing  away. 

'Did  you  say  you  had  shell-shock?' 
my  deaf  friend  inquired  again. 

I  nodded  violently  and  withdrew  to 
continue  my  observations. 

'Is  this  the  new  democracy?'  I  asked 
myself  in  a  daze.  But  no.  I  had  been 
to  other  mark-down  sales.  I  have  trav- 
eled from  automatic  attics  to  bargain 
basements,  and  everywhere  the  old  or- 
der prevailed  to  the  extent  of  the  pur- 
chaser and  the  dispenser  of  wares  being 
separated  by  that  imaginary  equator 
which  divides  the  seller  and  the  sold. 
Perhaps  the  absence  of  that  symbol  of 
separation,  the  counter,  explains  the 
greater  freedom  of  intercourse  in  the 
shoestore.  But  as  I  had  come  to  buy 
boots  and  not  to  moralize,  I  decided  to 
be  very  up-to-date  and, 'cut  in'  on  some 
confidential  couple.  Accordingly  I  bold- 
ly placed  myself  beside  a  seal-skinned  si- 
ren who  was  discussing  with  her  chosen 
partner  a  movie  she  had  seen  the  night 
before,  and  said  firmly, '  I  have  come  to 
buy  some  boots.  Will  you  please  wait 
on  me  when  you  are  quite  through  talk- 
ing to  this  lady?' 

My  sarcasm  passed  unheeded.  With- 
out glancing  my  way,  the  clerk  merely 
pointed  to  a  distant  corner  and  replied, 
'I  am  busy.  Perhaps  one  of  those  other 
gentlemen  can  attend  to  you.' 

It  was  in  that  corner,  neglected  and 
alone,  that  I  evolved  the  theory  that 
the  shoeman  is  as  yet  in  a  state  of  trans- 
ition. He  is  an  unclassified  animal, 
a  sort  of  social  Soko,  or  missing  link. 
Perhaps  eventually  he  will  arise  from 
his  'probably  arboreal'  crouch,  and  will 


stand  upright  on  two  legs  and  proclaim 
himself  either  a  man  or  a  gentleman! 
Perhaps  he  will  have  a  consulting  par- 
lor, in  which  ladies  may  lay  bare  their 
souls  (I  repudiate  the  obvious  pun)  less 
publicly  than  at  present.  But  for  the 
moment  the  shoe-specialist  is  certainly 
in  an  anomalous  position,  into  which  he 
has  been  pushed  by  the  incredible  in- 
timacy of  his  rich  and  common  lady- 
patronesses.  Perhaps  there  is  some  psy- 
chological reason  why,  in  removing  the 
shoe,  one  removes  also  a  shell  of  reserve 
(perhaps  shell-shocked  sensibilities  have 
caused  it  to  disintegrate)  while  a  new 
sole-protector  is  being  tested. 

It  always  establishes  a  pleasantly 
cordial  relation  to  find  one's  self  hand 
and  glove  with  a  courteous  clerk  on  the 
other  side  of  the  counter;  but  it  is  al- 
most startling  to  find  one's  self  foot  and 
boot  —  so  to  speak  —  with  an  impas- 
sioned salesman  kneeling  at  one's  feet! 

THE   HIGH   COST   OF   TALKING 

Speech  lightens  toil,  and  soothes  the  arduous  day 
With  pleasant  converse  all  along  the  way; 
Some  talk  all  day;  and  others  take  delight 
To  keep  on  talking  in  their  sleep  all  night. 

ANON. 

It  is  a  difficult  problem,  but  if  the 
cost  of  labor  continues  to  increase,  a 
point  will  be  reached  at  which  the  em- 
ployer must  seriously  consider  how 
much  irrelevant  conversation  between 
employees,  or  between  an  employee  and 
friends  or  acquaintances  who  share  his 
society  but  not  his  toil,  he  can  afford  to 
pay  for;  and,  having  so  decided,  he 
must  find  a  way  to  make  his  decision 
operative.  Already,  for  example,  it  is 
with  an  indescribable  emotion  that  the 
smaller  employers  of  labor  —  we  who 
need  the  carpenter,  the  plumber,  the 
man-who-takes-care-of-the-lawn,  the 
scrub-lady,  or  other  members  of  the 
newest  new  rich  —  listen  to  the  conver- 
sation of  our  nominal  hirelings,  and  fig- 
ure in  our  troubled  minds  how  much 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


133 


it  is  costing  us  a  minute.  We  are  not 
mean :  we  are  desperate  —  and  the  fact 
that  we,  too,  are  now  and  again  insidi- 
ously lured  into  conversation  with  these 
nominal  hirelings  makes  us  more  so. 
Labor  is  scarce;  the  deaf  and  dumb 
unobtainable,  —  even  if  we  employed 
them  they  would  stop  work  and  talk 
with  their  fingers,  —  and  the  habit  of 
speech,  as  we  cannot  but  recognize  in 
ourselves  as  well  as  in  others,  is  older  in 
history,  far  more  widely  practised,  and 
far  more  difficult  for  the  victim  to  get 
rid  of,  than  any  other. 

Many  thousand  years  ago  this  was  a 
dumb  world  —  a  world  that  we  may 
only  faintly  picture  by  trying  to  imagine 
ourselves  living  naked  in  trees.  Judged 
by  all  modern  standards,  it  must  have 
been  an  odd  life;  but  it  had  its  pleasures, 
it  was  not  dull.  Primeval  man  (so  I 
read  in  my  Science  History  of  the  Uni- 
verse) 'romped  and  frolicked  with  his 
fellows.'  '  There  were  rhythmic  beatings 
of  the  hands  and  arms,  and  some  ap- 
proach to  song ' ;  but  it  would  have  been 
a  song  without  words,  and  what  you  or 
I,  good  reader,  might  have  thought  we 
were  trying  to  sing  about,  even  the  Sci- 
ence History  of  the  Universe  does  not 
know.  The  wisest  of  us,  I  judge,  would 
have  been  mentally  inferior  to  the  aver- 
age modern  baby;  but  this  is  perhaps 
unjust  to  the  sage;  for  whereas  the  baby 
learns  to  talk  in  an  environment  already 
provided  with  teachers,  a  vocabulary, 
and  topics  of  conversation,  this  worthy 
fellow  in  the  tree  had  to  start  with  a 
single  word  of  his  own  making,  and 
could  talk  about  nothing  whatever  until 
he  had  invented  a  name  for  it. 

The  idea  staggers  imagination,  but  so 
it  was.  Out  of  these  rompings  and  frol- 
ickings,  these  mad,  glad  games  of  tag 
and  hidey-go  and  leap-frog  in  the  sun- 
flecked  glades  of  prehistoric  forests  now 
turned  to  coal,  came  the  first  words. 
Thus  it  may  have  happened  that  one 
of  us  sometimes  got,  as  we  now  say,  too 


'gay'  with  another;  a  friendly  tussle 
became  too  strenuous,  and  a  protest- 
ing squeak  meaning  'Don't  bite  my 
ear '  came  by  repetition  to  be  generally 
recognized  as  definite  speech,  meaning, 
as  the  Dictionary  now  says,  'the  appar- 
atus of  audition,'  not  intended  for  bit- 
ing. And  having  thus  named  his  e-e-e- 
e-e-e-yah!  primeval  man  went  bravely  on 
and  tried  to  name  everything  else  —  a 
tremendous  task  not  yet  completed. 

Nor,  for  that  matter,  have  his  de- 
scendants done  much  to  perfect  the  in- 
strument of  communication  which  he 
thus  sketchily  invented,  and  which  still 
remains  sadly  limited.  'Many  words,' 
said  Stevenson,  'are  often  necessary  to 
convey  a  very  simple  statement;  for  in 
this  sort  of  exercise  we  never  hit  the 
gold;  the  most  we  can  hope  for  is  by 
many  arrows,  more  or  less  off  on  differ- 
ent sides,  to  indicate,  in  the  course  of 
time,  for  what  target  we  are  aiming,  and 
after  an  hour's  talk,  back  and  forward, 
to  convey  the  purport  of  a  single  prin- 
ciple or  a  single  thought.' 

Yet  it  is  something  if  the  arrows  thus 
indicate  the  target;  for  so  dependent  is 
speech  upon  the  receptivity  and  state 
of  mind  of  the  hearer,  that  many  an 
honest  sentence  fails  to  describe  its 
meaning,  and  many  an  honest  thought 
gets  distorted  in  the  hearing  beyond  the 
subsequent  recognition  of  the  mind  that 
thought  it.  Here,  indeed,  is  a  cumula- 
tive tragedy,  the  incalculable  total  of 
countless  human  misunderstandings, 
for  which  our  ancestor  prepared  the 
way  when  he  named  his  ear.  And  wheth- 
er or  not  it  would  have  been  better  if 
his  ear  had  remained  nameless  is  a  ques- 
tion for  individuals  to  answer  according 
to  their  faith  in  the  ultimate  intention 
of  evolution. 

However  it  started,  and  to  whatever 
humanly  incomprehensible  purpose, 
the  practice  of  speech  and  the  pursuit 
of  labor  have  long  been  inseparable:  one 
may  even  argue  that,  with  the  develop- 


134 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


ment  of  self-consciousness  and  conven- 
tions, speech  has  taken  the  place  of 
romping  and  frolicking  whenever  two 
or  more  human  beings  get  together. 
The  literary-minded  reader  will  recall 
the  poet  Thompson's  fine  pastoral:  — 

Soon  as  the  Morning  trembles  o'er  the  sky. 

And,  unperceived,  unfolds  the  spreading  day; 

Before  the  ripened  fields  the  Reapers  stand, 

In  fair  array,  each  by  the  lass  he  loves, 

To  bear  the  rougher  part,  and  mitigate, 

By  countless  gentle  offices,  her  toil. 

At  once  they  stoop  and  swell  the  lusty  sheaves; 

While  through  their  cheerful  band  the  rural  talk. 

The  rural  scandal  and  the  rural  jest, 

Fly  harmless,  to  deceive  the  tedious  time, 

And  steal  unfelt  the  sultry  hours  away. 

And  although  the  poet  was  thinking  of 
agriculture  in  a  coeducational  phase 
that  is  no  longer  common,  the  most  cas- 
ual observation  must  realize  that  urban 
and  suburban  scandal  equally  well  de- 
ceive the  tedious  time,  that  reaping  is 
here  symbolic  of  many  another  occupa- 
tion, and  that  neither  sex  is  reduced  to 
noticeable  taciturnity  by  the  absence  of 
the  other.  I  have  seen,  and  heard,  ten 
or  a  dozen  men,  nominally  busy  at 
mending  a  highway  outside  my  window; 
and,  although  neither  the  so-called  gen- 
tler sex  nor  the  social  beverage  was  pres- 
ent, the  affair  sounded,  and  was  in  effect, 
very  much  like  a  tea-party  —  except 
that  now  and  again  one  of  the  guests 
stopped  talking,  and  scattered  a  shovel- 
ful of  gravel,  with  a  free,  graceful,  and 
generous  gesture,  over  the  roadbed. 
This  they  did  in  rotation,  so  that  usu- 
ally one  guest  was  scattering  gravel, 
and  the  function  was  progressive.  It 
came  leisurely  into  view  far  down  the 
road  to  the  east;  it  went  leisurely  out  of 
sight  far  down  the  road  to  the  west, 
leaving  a  pleasant  impression  of  human 
companionship,  though  less  romantic 
than  the  reapers  made  on  Thompson. 
It  may  yet  happen,  as  things  are  go- 
ing, that  such  toil  as  this  will  become 
coeducational  also,  that  towns  will  re- 
cruit their  street  departments  impar- 


tially from  the  new  electorate,  and  that 
these  sturdy  highwaymen,  each  by  the 
lass  he  loves,  will  bear  the  rougher  part 
and  mitigate  her  toil.  There  were,  to  be 
sure,  contingencies  that  did  not  occur 
to  the  superficially  observant  poet :  one 
member  of  the  cheerful  band  might 
have  set  himself  to  mitigate  the  toil  of 
a  lass  whom  some  other  member  loved, 
and  then,  as  Mr.  Thompson  might 
(more  ably)  have  put  it,  — 

Across  the  ripened  field  the  Reaper  leaps, 
With  bloodshot  eyes,  and  tears  the  lass  he  loves 
From  him  who  would  her  labor  mitigate; 
And  e'er  that  other  can  defend  himself, 
With  jealous  sickle  reaps  his  hated  life. 

This,  however,  would  be  an  extreme 
case,  and  fruitless  efforts  to  kill  with  a 
pointed  look  would  be  more  likely. 

Under  conditions  that  are  still  with 
wistful  optimism  referred  to  as '  normal,' 
no  essayist  with  a  heart  could  have 
wished  to  change  an  industrial  conven- 
tion by  which  conversation  has  been 
accepted  (and  paid  for)  as  the  compan- 
ion of  toil.  It  has  been  taken  for 
granted  that  carpenters  on  a  roof  or 
plumbers  in  a  cellar  would  deceive  the 
tedious  time,  that  the  man-who-takes- 
care-of-the-lawn  would  hold  informal 
receptions  for  all  passing  friends  and 
acquaintances,  and  so  on  through  vari- 
ous employments,  male,  female,  and 
mixed.  The  tongue  of  man  and  the  tail 
of  dog,  it  has  been  tacitly  agreed,  have 
this  in  common  —  each  wags  when  the 
owner  is  happy;  and  well  it  would  be  if 
the  tongue,  like  the  tail,  ceased  wagging 
under  other  temperamental  conditions. 
Talk  and  toil,  it  has  been  held,  go  to- 
gether, separate  yet  inseparable,  like 
the  Siamese  twins;  nor  is  it  remarkable 
that  this  phenomenon  should  have  been 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course;  for  each  hu- 
man repeats  in  his  or  her  own  personal 
experience  the  history  of  humanity,  is 
born  speechless,  discovers  with  surprise 
and  wonder  the  pleasure  of  conversa- 
tion, and  never  wearies  of  practising  it; 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


135 


Words,  moreover,  are  the  only  currency 
in  which  the  poorest  can  afford  to  be 
extravagant:  each  has  a  Fortunatus's 
purse,  and,  however  he  plays  the  spend- 
thrift, the  purse  is  as  full  as  ever. 

Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  wid- 
ower who  does  not  dance,  though  he 
may  with  equanimity  once  a  year  pur- 
chase a  ticket  for  himself  and  wife  to 
the  Policeman's  Ball,  would  be  dis- 
turbed if  policemen,  summoned  at  night 
to  capture  a  burglar  in  the  second  story, 
stopped  on  the  way  for  an  informal 
dance  in  the  dining-room.  The  case  is 
not  so  radically  different  from  that  of 
carpenters  who  pause  in  their  carpen- 
tering for  a  pleasant  chat,  or  of  the  man- 
who-takes-care-of-the-lawn  who  uses 
his  rake  to  lean  on  while  he  discusses 
the  political  situation  with  the  ashman. 
In  all  justice  it  becomes  more  and  more 
evident  that  only  the  industrial  occupa- 
tion of  his  premises  should  be  paid  for 
by  an  employer,  and  that  the  social  oc- 
cupation should  be  paid  for  by  the  em- 
ployee. In  the  case  of  the  highwaymen's 
party  that  I  have  mentioned,  a  distinc- 
tion should  be  made  between  gossiping 
and  graveling.  But  unfortunately  this 
sound  truth  is  not  likely  to  be  recog- 
nized by  the  conversationalists  in  soviet. 

NEW   LIGHTS   ON   BROADWAY 

It  is  queer  how  you  can  meet  old 
familiar  wayside  acquaintances  day 
after  day,  for  weeks  at  a  time,  and  then, 
suddenly,  some  little  incident  will  pop 
out  of  the  unexpected  and  reveal  to  you 
their  whole  personalities,  setting,  and 
responsibility  to  the  universe. 

I  went  down  to  mail  a  letter  and  get 
a  paper,  and  walked  back  through  the 
woods.  I  turned  off  the  lane  at  a  place 
that  is  n't  usual,  going  over  the  wall 
instead  of  through  the  legitimate  gap 
and  walking  through  wet  wild  asters 
and  poison  ivy,  and  by  way  of  various 
outcroppings  of  rock,  on  which  I  sat 


down  experimentally  from  time  to  time, 
to  open  my  paper,  combat  the  mos- 
quitoes briefly,  and  withdraw.  This 
departure  from  the  path  may  have 
been  the  reason  for  the  general  change 
in  the  face  of  things,  although  I  came 
back  before  long  to  the  usual  open  spot, 
and  found  the  usual  two  horses  grazing 
there,  went  up  the  little  hill  past  them 
and  through  the  usual  sagged  place  in 
their  wire-fence.  On  the  edge  of  the 
sunny  open  space  on  top  of  the  hill,  in 
the  fringy  edge  of  the  sumach  and  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  with  goldenrod  adorn- 
ing the  prospect,  I  recognized  the  des- 
tined ledge  of  rock  on  which  to  read  my 
paper;  so  I  sat  down  to  consider  Cox 
and  Harding  in  parallel  columns. 

Other  voices  not  political  began  to 
get  my  attention,  but  I  did  n't  listen 
much.  They  were  well  away  on  the 
other  side  of  the  trees,  and  it  was  n't 
my  business.  After  a  while  the  two 
horses  came  plunging  out  of  the  thicket 
and  across  the  lower  edge  of  the  grassy 
space  and  into  the  thicket  on  the  other 
side,  shouts  pursuing;  and  then  a  man 
in  a  whitish  shirt  and  no-colored  trou- 
sers, with  a  long  stick  in  his  hand,  came 
after.  He  'd  been  '  chasing  those  horses 
all  morning,  lady,'  he  explained  as  he 
went  by.  'It's  hard  to  catch  horses. 
You  think  you  have  them  cornered  and 
they  get  away  from  you.' 

I  wished  him  success  this  time,  and 
thought  he  had  it;  but  he  had  n't.  Then 
another  man  appeared  —  a  long,  lean 
man  who  left  an  impression  of  blue 
gingham  shirt  in  the  general  color-effect 
of  the  landscape  as  he  went  across  it. 
Had  the  horses  gone  up  by  here?  he 
wanted  to  know.  No,  not  up  by  here; 
they  had  gone  down  by  here,  I  told  him, 
with  the  other  man  after  them,  but 
they  had  n't  passed  again.  So  he  went 
off  to  beat  the  woods. 

From  that  time  my  reading-room 
was  the  scene  of  crossings  and  recross- 
ings,  of  pursuit,  escape,  bewilderment, 


136 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


of  explosions  of  baffled  wrath  from  the 
White  Shirt  and  mild  perplexity  from 
the  Blue  Gingham.  They  ran  across  it, 
shouting;  they  walked  across  it,  puz- 
zled. They  collapsed  on  it,  to  pant  and 
rest.  They  called  across  it  from  oppo- 
site thickets  to  each  other,  to  ask  what 
luck.  They  stood  in  the  middle  of  it 
and  scratched  their  heads.  And  once  in 
a  long  while,  the  horses  crossed  it — now 
a  brown  streak  moving  above  the  green 
leafage  where  the  bushes  were  low,  now 
cantering  into  the  open,  flicking  their 
tails  and  having  a  very  happy  time. 

They  were  n't  his  horses,  said  the 
Blue  Gingham.  They  were  the  other 
man's.  He  just  thought  he'd  give  him 
a  hand.  The  White  Shirt  had  a  great 
deal  more  to  say.  Not  that  he  loitered 
to  say  it  —  in  fact,  he  was  generally 
running  all  the  way  across.  But  he 
somehow  managed  in  passing  to  convey 
a  great  deal.  He'd  been  after  those 
horses  since  eight  o'clock  this  morning, 
lady.  He  was  tired  out,  running.  He 
did  n't  know  when  he'd  been  so  tired. 
He  was  winded.  He'd  like  to  know 
where  the  devil  those  horses  went.  He 
was  to  bring  them  in  this  morning,  and 
here  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  his  folks  * 
were  moving  to-day  and  he  had  to 
go  home.  He  did  n't  know  what  he 
was  going  to  do.  Those  horses  were 
foxy.  They  were  the  coach-horses,  and 
they'd  always  been  here  and  knew  ev- 
ery lane. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  me  before  to 
think  of  those  horses  as  belonging  to 
anyone.  I  had  just  thought  of  them  as 
independent  personalities  roaming  the 
woods  at  will  —  within  the  limitation 
of  certain  fences,  perhaps;  we  all  have 
our  barriers  somewhere.  And  here  they 
were  flooded  with  a  whole  new  light, 
creatures  of  duties,  subject  to  a  fore- 
man, a  boss  —  to  who  knows  what  hier- 
archy of  authority?  —  maybe  to  Her 
in  the  end.  Here  they  were  shown  as 
unreliable,  sly,  selfish,  lazy  —  no  con- 


sideration for  anybody's  comfort  —  no 
reasonableness  —  no  gratitude — out  on 
strike  at  present,  for  shorter  hours  and 
more  time  to  eat,  and  who  cares  what 
becomes  of  the  established  social  sys- 
tem! How  little  you  really  know  the 
people  you  meet  every  day! 

Well,  White  Shirt  was  winded.  As  he 
said,  he'd  been  at  it  since  eight  o'clock 
this  morning,  and  he  was  tired  running 
all  the  time.  He  dropped  on  a  stone 
under  a  tree.  He  mopped  his  face  and 
his  wide-open  neck  and  chest.  '  They  've 
nothing  to  do  but  run  and  eat,'  he  said. 
'On  our  place  you  just  hold  out  an  ap- 
ple and  the  horses  '11  come  right  to  you. 
We  don't  ever  tie  the  cows.  Don't  have 
to.  Milk  them  right  out  in  the  open 
field,  and  they'll  stand.  Come  right  to 
you  when  you  call  them,  and  let  down 
their  milk.  They  know  when  it 's  milk- 
ing-time.  If  they  were  my  horses,'  said 
White  Shirt  vindictively,  'I'd  put  them 
to  the  plough.  I'd  work  some  of  the 
fat  off  'em.  Work  'em  eight  hours  a 
day.  Then  I  guess  they  would  n't  run! 
Keep  'em  at  it  about  two  weeks!' 

Once,  for  a  long  time,  there  was  quiet, 
and  I  supposed  the  wicked  were  caught. 
But  they  were  n't.  White  Shirt  reap- 
peared with  a  paper-bag  under  his  arm 
and  a  hunk  of  bread  and  an  apple  in  one 
hand.  I  supposed  it  was  lure,  but  it  was 
really  lunch. 

'It's  hard  to  have  to  eat  while  you 
run,'  he  said.  'Have  those  horses  been 
by?' 

No,  they  had  n't  been  by. 

'I'm  going  down  that  way,'  he  said. 
'If  they  come  along,  will  you  just  let 
me  know,  please?' 

I  would,  willingly.  But  this  time 
White  Shirt  did  loiter.  With  one  foot 
on  my  rock  just  above  where  it  slanted 
out  of  the  grass,  he  hung,  poised,  and 
we  exchanged  the  stories  of  our  lives. 
All  the  while  he  fancied  himself  gone 
down  that  way,  hotfoot  after  his  horses 
—  mopped  his  brow  at  intervals  and 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


137 


scarcely  noticed  that  he  was  n't  run- 
ning and  winded.  He  offered  me  his  ap- 
ple, but  I  was  afraid  there  was  only  one. 
I  accepted  the  hospitality,  but  not  the 
apple  —  and  that  was  very  noble  of 
me,  too,  because  it  looked  like  a  good 
one. 

It  was  in  Illinois  that  the  farm  was 
where  the  cows  stood  to  be  milked,  and 
all  you  had  to  do  was  to  hold  out  an  ap- 
ple and  the  horses  would  come.  That 
was  where  he  grew  up. 

'They  found  us  in  the  city,'  he  said; 
'took  us  out  there.  I  was  seven  years 
old,  and  there  was  my  brother  and  my 
sister  younger.  Found  us  in  New  York 
City!  My  father  and  mother  aban- 
doned us. — No,  never  heard  anything 
about  them.  Don't  know  what  became 
of  them,  or  anything.  I  used  to  think 
—  could  n't  go  to  sleep  at  night.  Up  to 
the  time  I  was  married  —  up  to  the 
time  I  was  thirty  years  old  —  I  used  to 
stay  awake  at  nights  wondering  if  I'd 
ever  see  my  parents,  and  wishing  I  knew 
who  they  was  and  what  they  was  like 
and  what  became  of  them.  My  brother 
done  me  out  of  three  hundred  dollars. 
That  was  eighteen  years  ago.  I  never 
saw  him  since.  Yes,  I  often  wished  I 
knew  about  my  father  and  my  mother. 
Fifty  years  ago.  Left  us  here  in  this 
city.' 

Again  he  asked  me  to  let  him  know, 
please,  if  the  horses  passed  this  way, 
and  again  imagined  himself  gone.  He 
was  pretty  tired  running  after  those 
horses.  He'd  been  weeding  the  grass 
this  morning  and  hurt  his  finger.  ' See! ' 
Mathematics  applied  to  his  story  would 
seem  to  make  him  out  fifty-seven,  but 
he  might  have  been  five  when  he  held 
out  his  grubby  forefinger  to  show  me 
the  long  red  cut  across  it. 

'Cut  it  on  a  piece  of  wiregrass.  It 
would  n't  be  so  bad,  but  the  place  all 
seems  so  run  down  —  lots  of  weeds  and 
everything.  I've  only  been  on  the 
place  a  week.' 


He  keeps  acquainted  with  his  sister. 
She  never  done  him  out  of  anything,  I 
judge.  She  has  a  big  farm  in  Illinois.  It 
is  the  next  farm  to  the  one  they  grew  up 
on,  where  the  cows  stand  and  the  horses 
are  friendly  and  acquainted.  I  suppose 
she  had  married  the  farm,  but  did  n't 
learn  that,  because  he  got  interested  in 
telling  me  about  the  butter. 

He  knows  how  to  make  butter  with- 
out any  buttermilk.  There's  a  little 
whey,  but  not  any  buttermilk  at  all. 
He  made  fifteen  dollars  once.  Some 
people  said  he  could  n't  do  it,  and  he 
said  he'd  show  them,  and  they  put  up 
fifteen  dollars,  and  he  did  do  it.  It 's  his 
receipt.  Usually  you  take  a  pound  of 
cream  and  you  don't  get  a  pound  of  but- 
ter out  of  it;  but  his  way  you  get  more 
than  a  pound.  He  knows  all  about  rais- 
ing vegetables  —  beans  and  tomatoes 
and  corn  and  all  the  vegetables.  You 
put  in  so  much  seed,  and  you  get  so 
many  bushels  back,  and  so  many  to- 
matoes to  the  plant;  and  so  much 
money  it's  worth  and  so  much  to  the 
acre.  Of  course,  he  was  n't  indefinite 
like  that.  He  talked  in  figures;  but  I'm 
not  an  intelligent  farmer  as  he  is,  so  I 
don't  remember.  But  he  does  n't  forget 
it  —  not  any  of  it.  Twenty  years  ago, 
and  he  goes  over  it  in  his  mind  now  — 
it 's  like  going  to  school  again.  He  does 
n't  forget  a  thing  about  it. 

He  can  make  maple  syrup,  too. 
That's  another  of  his  receipts.  You  put 
it  on  your  cakes,  and  you'd  say  it  was 
Vermont  maple  syrup.  He'd  give  any 
man  five  dollars  who  could  tell  the  dif- 
ference. Nothing  in  it  that  would  hurt 
you.  It's  one  kind  of  bark  —  he  does 
n't  know  whether  it  grows  in  these 
woods  or  not,  but  it's  a  tree  that  grows 
back  there.  I  took  it  that  meant  Illi- 
nois. You  boil  it  in  water  and  put  in  a 
chemical,  and  pebbles  —  that  is,  you 
strain  it  through  pebbles  and  charcoal, 
and  put  in  so  much  sugar  to  so  much 
liquor,  and  when  you  get  it  the  same 


138 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


color  as  the  maple  syrup  —  well  — 
he'd  give  any  man  five  dollars. 

As  I  was  going  home,  I  met  him  down 
where  the  path  goes  over  the  wall.  He 
called  to  me  as  soon  as  I  came  in  sight, 
to  know  whether  they'd  been  up  there 
in  my  direction;  but  they  had  n't. 
He  'd  mended  the  fence  down  here,  and 
he  did  n't  believe  they  could  have  got 
over  —  he  wondered  if  they  could.  I 
did  n't  believe  they  could,  either,  for 
the  low  place  in  the  wall  was  so  built  up 
that  I  did  n't  recognize  it,  and  there  are 
new  barbed  wires  across,  besides. 

And  all  this  in  New  York  City,  just 
off  Broadway,  and  three  blocks  from 
the  subway  station! 

ASTRONOMY 

After  the  sun  has  gone  to  bed, 
The  stars  come  out.  All  overhead 
I  Ve  seen  them  twinkling.   It  was  late, 
For  sometimes  I  stay  up  till  eight. 

If  I  stayed  up  till  half-past  ten, 
I  could  n't  count  them,  even  then. 
'  But  when  the  moon  is  shining  bright, 
Most  of  the  stars  keep  out  of  sight. 

And  one  night,  when  the  moon  was 

gone, 

I  thought  I  saw  them  on  the  lawn, 
As  if  from  out  my  window  I 
Was  looking  right  down  at  the  sky. 

But  that  was  ignorant  of  me: 
They  were  not  stars  at  all,  you  see, 
But  little  flies  that  fly  at  night, 
Each  carrying  a  tiny  light. 

A  QUEER   THING 

I  Ve  got  a  shadow  —  and  I  think 
It  looks  like  when  I  spilled  the  ink, 
And  made  a  spot  upon  the  floor 
That  won't  come  off  forevermore. 

The  first  time  that  I  noticed  it, 
I  was  astonished,  I  admit. 


I  wondered  what  that  thing  could  be 
That  went  along  in  front  of  me! 

They  tell  me  that  because  the  sun 
Can't  shine  through  me,  or  anyone, 
I  make  this  shadow  on  the  land. 
But  how,  I  do  not  understand. 

So  when  the  sun  is  shining  clear, 

My  shadow's  always  somewhere  near; 

And  every  little  thing  I  do 

My  shadow  goes  and  does  it  too. 

And  if  my  shadow's  not  in  sight, 
In  front  of  me,  or  left,  or  right, 
I  quickly  turn  about  and  find 
My  shadow  tagging  on  behind. 

And  sometimes  it  is  thin  and  tall 
Along  the  grass  or  on  the  wall. 
And  sometimes  it  is  short  and  fat; 
And  always  it  is  very  flat. 

It  never  makes  the  slightest  sound 
To  let  me  know  that  it  is  round ; 
And  cloudy  days  I  look  in  vain 
For  it.  I  guess  it  fears  the  rain. 

JOHN 

On  January  13,  1820,  Keats  wrote  to 
his  sister-in-law,  in  America,  'If  you 
should  have  a  boy,  do  not  christen  him 
John,  and  persuade  George  not  to  let 
his  partiality  for  me  come  across.  'T  is 
a  bad  name,  and  goes  against  a  man.  If 
my  name  had  been  Edmund,  I  should 
have  been  more  fortunate.' 

Whether  or  not  this  was  true  about 
John  Keats,  the  principle  is  true  about 
many  other  names  foisted  upon  de- 
fenseless children,  who  grow  up  embit- 
tered by  a  real  malediction,  a  name  dis- 
liked. We  can  learn  to  endure  our  own 
features  and  our  other  limitations,  but 
a  name  cannot  be  lived  down,  it  is  al- 
ways being  spoken  or  written.  Who  can 
say  what  an  incentive  there  might  be  in 
Edmund?  Who  knows  what  elements 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


139 


of  harmony  contributed  to  make  cer- 
tain names  famous?  Possibly  the  sound 
of  the  author's  name,  rather  than  his 
merit,  has  won  fame  for  many  a  writer. 
Coleridge  insisted  that  a  woman's 
name  should  be  a  trochee.  Is  it,  per- 
haps, by  trochees  that  we  measure  the 
fame  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  Edmund 
Spenser,  William  Shakespeare,  Walter 
Raleigh,  Philip  Sidney,  Francis  Bacon, 
Robert  Herrick,  Isaak  Walton,  William 
Wordsworth,  Percy  Shelley,  Robert 
Browning,  Walter  Pater,  and  many 
others?  A  man  or  woman  named  in 
trochaic  dimeter  will 

Climb  the  hill  that  braves  the  stars. 

Why  did  Keats  long  to  be  Edmund? 
There  seems  to  be  no  special  tradition 
of  literary  fortune  among  Edmunds. 
Edmund  Spenser,  of  course,  was  the 
poet  who  gave  Keats  his  first  inspi- 
ration to  achievement,  and  Edmund 
Kean  aroused  Keats  to  a  profounder 
sense  of  Shakespearean  tragedy.  It 
would  be  easier  to  explain  a  preference 
for  William.  It  seems  to  be  an  axiom 
that  a  boy  named  William  will  succeed 
in  literature.  Will  was  the  name  for  a 
poet,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  as  Bayard 
was  the  name  for  a  horse.  In  a  rapid 
glance  over  the  annals  of  English  litera- 
ture I  have  found  twenty-seven  Wil- 
liams who  have  won  lasting  fame. 

Keats  said:  'We  hate  poetry  that  has 
a  palpable  design  upon  us.'  With  this 
quotation  in  mind  let  us  consider  the 
precedent  of  John  in  English  literature. 

John  Gower  was  the  great  pedantic 
moralist;  John  Wyclif,  the  controversial 
first  Protestant;  John  Skelton  was  tutor 
to  Henry  VIII;  John  Lyly  launched 
Euphuistic  platitudes;  John  Milton 
wrote  Paradise  Lost;  John  Bunyan, 
imprisoned,  wrote  an  allegory  (match- 
less, to  be  sure) ;  John  Dryden  wrote  two 
of  the  most  childishly  vapid  odes  in  lit- 
erature, for,  in  his  own  language,  he  was 

sequacious  of  the  lyre; 


John   Locke   pried   into   the   Human 
Understanding. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  Keats  did  not 
care  to  be  listed  with  the  Johns. 

His  friends  called  him,  affectionately, 
'Junkets';  and  in  this  year  of  the  cen- 
tenary of  his  death,  critics,  interpreters, 
and  readers  have  made  amends  for  his 
John,  for  they  have  'call'd  him  soft 
names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme.' 

There  are,  however,  cases  of  real 
hardship  in  names.  I  fear  for  the  future 
of  a  beautiful  child  named  Jabez.  What- 
ever he  does,  he  deserves  forgiveness. 
Harsh  unmelodious  names  ought  to 
be  taboo.  No  human  being  should  be 
compelled  to  wear,  not  only  inherited 
features  and  tendencies,  but  also  in- 
herited names.  Here  in  New  England 
many  a  disposition  is  wrecked  by  the 
possession  of  some  such  Biblical  ances- 
tral name. 

And  then  there  are  the  classical 
names.  Why  torment  a  boy  by  call- 
ing him  Achilles,  or  a  girl  by  naming 
her  Calliope?  There  are  tragedies  and 
comedies  of  names  Proper,  or  otherwise. 
Think  of  being  called,  aloud, '  Poe,'  and 
think  of  surmounting  this  affliction  by 
writing  beautiful  poems!  Names  have 
some  occult  influence  over  destiny. 

Why  did  Cowley  ruminate  in  the  pas- 
toral strain,  in  many  of  his  writings? 
Was  it  not  because  he  was  Phineas,  that 
Fletcher  wrote  his  Piscatory  Dialogues? 
What  made  Gay  and  Swift  the  fast 
friends  of  the  Wicked  W^asp  of  Twicken- 
ham ?  Is  there  a  reasonable  doubt  of  the 
suitability  of  the  publication  of  Swin- 
burne's poems  by  Chatto  and  Windus? 
Why  was  '  Fiona  Macleod '  preferred  by 
the  man  who  wielded  a  critical  Sharp 
pen? 

The  moral  is  clear.  Even  if  a  last 
name  is  unchangeable,  a  first  name  may 
be  bestowed  wisely.  Give  a  boy  a  name 
that  has  no  predetermined  character, 
no  conspicuousness;  let  him  make  it 
have  individuality  —  call  him  John. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


When  the  World  War  broke  out,  Paul 
Dukes  was  living  in  Petrograd.  Unable  to 
pass  the  physical  examination  required  by 
the  army,  he  took  advantage  of  his  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  Russian  language  and  peo- 
ple, and  volunteered  for  the  British  Secret 
Service.  He  was  assigned  to  the  place  of  a 
valuable  agent  recently  murdered  by  the 
Bolsheviki,  and  for  the  better  part  of  a  year 
lived  a  life  such  as  any  master  of  detective 
fiction  might  profit  by.  Dukes  served  in  a 
munition  factory,  and  subsequently  was 
drafted  into  the  Red  army  itself.  He  organ- 
ized an  extensive  courier  service  and  sent 
out  information  of  great  value.  Subsequent- 
ly he  was  knighted  for  his  services.  This 
Atlantic  article  describes  in  detail  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  his  extraordinary  adventures. 
Dallas  Lore  Sharp  is  Professor  of  English 
at  Boston  University.  Katharine  Fullerton 
Gerould  is,  fortunately,  a  frequent  contrib- 
utor to  these  pages.  Jean  Kenyon  Macken- 
zie is  the  well-loved  author  of  Black  Sheep, 
and  the  more  recent  Fortunate  Youth,  which 
we  never  cease  from  recommending  to  every 

Atlantic  reader. 

*  *  * 

Laura  Spencer  Portor  (Mrs.  Francis 
Pope)  is  connected  with  a  leading  women's 
journal  of  New  York.  L.  Adams  Beck  is  an 
English  scholar  and  traveler,  now  living  in 
the  Canadian  West.  William  Beebe  has  re- 
turned from  one  of  his  most  profitable  so- 
journs at  the  Jungle  Laboratory  in  Kartabo. 
The  Atlantic  is  glad  to  announce  that  the 
second  of  the  four  gorgeous  volumes  of  his 
monograph  on  the  pheasant  is  now  off  the 
press.  We  call  them  'gorgeous'  advisedly, 
for  there  is,  perhaps,  no  more  intense  beau- 
ty in  nature  than  a  pheasant's  plumage;  and 
in  both  text  and  pictures  that  beauty  is 
caught  and  held  to  an  extent  which,  to  us, 
at  any  rate,  seems  quite  incredible.  Alfred 
G.  Rolfe  is  senior  master  at  the  Hill  School, 
Pottstown,  Pennsylvania. 
*  *  * 

Belle  Skinner,  who  has '  adopted '  the  vil- 
lage of  Hattonchatel,  is  an  American  who 
140 


has  done  much  generous  and  self-sacrificing 
work  in  France.  Harry  Hubert  Field  is  a 
young  Englishman,  who  went  from  the  pub- 
lic school  into  service  hi  1914,  and  served 
with  distinction  and  continuously  until  his 
demobilization  in  April,  1919.  After  the 
appearance  of  the  American  divisions  in 
France,  he  happened  to  be  assigned  as  '  ob- 
server' to  one  after  another  of  the  succes- 
sive detachments  of  raw  troops.  A  friend  of 
Captain  Field  writes  to  the  editor:  — 

His  mental  attitude  toward  America  from 
1914  till  April,  1917,  was  the  attitude  that  'the 
thin  red  line  could  scarcely  escape.  .  .  .  [But] 
it  was  the  acquaintance  thus  made  with  Amer- 
icans in  the  flesh  —  coupled  with  the  deepened 
and  sober  thoughts  that  four  and  three  quarters 
years  of  war  so  extraordinarily  developed  in  that 
remnant  of  England's  best  that  yet  lives  —  that 
brought  home  to  him  personally  the  real  signi- 
ficance of  the  Anglo-American  relation.  So,  no 
sooner  was  he  demobilized  than,  with  a  directness 
of  action  that  showed  the  fundamental  sincerity 
of  the  thought,  he  got  straight  to  the  job  as  he 
saw  it:  pushed  aside  any  idea  of  a  period  of  rest, 
came  directly  to  America,  and  with  a  notion  that 
the  understratum  of  our  structure  might  be  the 
one  to  learn  first,  went  to  work  as  a  day-laborer  in 
one  of  the  big  factories  in  Buffalo.  Day-work  and 
piece-work  among  the  common  run  of  Poles, 
Hungarians,  negroes,  and  what  not  —  he  stuck  it 
out  for  seven  months:  learned,  by  sharing,  the 
conditions  under  which  the  men  lived  and  worked, 
visited  their  homes  as  one  of  them  —  and  was  ac- 
cepted by  them  as  a  comrade.  All  this,  not  from 
the  point  of  view  of  an  'uplifter,'  or  a  'muck- 
raker,'  or  a  Socialist,  but  from  that  of  an  English 
gentleman,  anxious  to  learn  our  domestic  con- 
ditions and  difficulties  in  order  that  he  might 
sympathetically  interpret,  in  some  later  time  of 
need,  America  to  England.  Personally  I  think 
that  I  have  rarely  heard  of  any  more  unselfish 
and  high-minded  bit  of  service,  or  of  one  more 
difficult.  .  .  .  The  name  [Paul  Zonbor]  is  the 
only  bit  of  fiction  in  the  narrative. 
*  *  * 

Grover  Clark  was  born  in  Japan  of  Amer- 
ican parents.  He  was  educated  in  America, 
and  is  a  graduate  of  Oberlin  and  Chicago 
universities.  For  the  last  three  years  he  has 
been  hi  Japan  and  China,  engaged  in  teach- 
ing and  research  work  along  sociological  and 
political  lines.  He  now  holds  a  chair  in 
Government  at  the  University  of  Peking. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


Christopher  Morley  is  the  happy '  columnist ' 
of  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  Nicholai 
Velimirovic  was  born  at  Valjevo,  Serbia,  the 
son  of  a  Serbian  peasant.  He  was  educated 
in  Serbian  schools  and  the  College  of  Bel- 
grade, and  studied  also  in  Switzerland, 
France,  England,  Germany,  and  Russia.  He 
became  Professor  of  Theology  at  Belgrade, 
and  chaplain  to  the  court;  in  1919  he  was 
elected  Bishop  of  Chachak,  and  in  Novem- 
ber, 1920,  Bishop  of  Ochrida.  In  the  re- 
construction work  now  going  on  in  Serbia, 
he  has  a  leading  part.  He  is  President  of 
the  Serbian  Child- Welfare  Association  of 
America,  which,  in  cooperation  with  the 
Serbian  government,  is  carrying  out  a  most 
advanced  and  constructive  programme  of 
public  health  and  child  welfare.  In  1915 
he  was  sent  to  the  United  States,  to  recall 
Serbians  living  here  to  the  defense  of  their 
country.  At  that  time  he  made  addresses  in 
many  cities  of  the  United  States  and  Canada, 
and  left  behind  him  a  profound  impression. 
Bishop  Nicholai  is  at  present  making  a  sec- 
ond visit  to  America  in  the  interest  of  his 
country  and  her  people. 

*  *  * 

Gertrude  Henderson  sends  her  first  con- 
tribution to  the  Atlantic  from  New  York 
City.  Theodore  M.  Knappen  is  connected 
with  the  Washington  bureau  of  the  New 
York  Tribune.  Frances  Lester  Warner, 
Assistant  Professor  of  English  at  Wellesley 
College,  is  about  to  join  the  Atlantic's  per- 
manent staff.  Paul  Scott  Mowrer  is  the 
representative  in  Paris  of  the  Chicago 
Daily  News. 

*  *  * 

The  country-wide  interest  roused  by  the 
publication  of  Mr.  Alger's  paper  on  the 
'New  Privilege'  sought  by  American  farm- 
ers led  the  Atlantic  to  invite  Mr.  Bernard 
M.  Baruch  to  write  an  article  representing 
the  farmer's  point  of  view.  Though  not  a 
farmer  himself,  Mr.  Baruch's  broad  experi- 
ence, his  recognized  sympathy  and  public 
spirit,  make  him  an  admirable  spokesman 
for  'the  largest  business  in  the  United 
States.'  Everybody  knows,  of  course,  of  his 
services  as  Chairman  of  the  War  Industries 
Board;  but  everybody,  perhaps,  has  not 
read  the  informing  and  very  useful  report 
that  he  sent  in  answer  to  the  request  of  the 


141 

Kansas  State  Board  of  Agriculture  for  his 
opinion  on  cooperative  buying.  Herbert 
Sidebotham,  for  many  years  an  important 
member  of  the  staff  of  the  Manchester 
Guardian,  became  a  '  student  of  war '  in  the 
service  of  that  paper.  The  keenness  and 
comprehension  of  his  articles  brought  him 
wide  reputation,  and  hi  1918  he  joined  the 
Times,  in  direct  succession  to  its  military 
correspondent,  the  famous  Colonel  Reping- 
ton.  At  present  he  is  a ' student  of  polities' 
on  the  Times  staff.  Anne  O'Hare  McCor- 
mick,  of  Dayton,  Ohio,  sends  this  informing 
little  contribution  from  abroad. 
*  *  * 

It  is  the  Atlantic's  oft-expressed  opinion 
that  many  of  the  'roads  to  Americanization' 
lead  to  something  both  different  and  unde- 
sirable. Contrast,  please,  these  two  descrip- 
tions. 

This  from  Springfield,  Massachusetts:  — 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Every  fair-minded  person  will  admit  that  the 
United  States  government  has  provided  laws 
which,  consistent  with  the  safety  of  the  nation, 
aid  the  alien  to  become  a  full-fledged  citizen,  with 
the  rights,  duties,  and  responsibilities  —  save  only 
eligibility  to  the  office  of  president  —  of  the  na- 
tive born.  .  .  . 

It  is  unfortunate,  therefore,  when  the  execu- 
tion of  these  laws  is  entrusted  ...  to  judges 
who,  by  their  treatment  .  .  .  breed  in  the  heart 
and  mind  of  a  petitioner,  not  affection  for  this 
country,  but  fear  and  distrust. 

For  instance,  thirty  alien  men  and  I  went  to  the 
Court  to  take  out  our  Declaration  of  Intention  to 
become  citizens.  We  had  been  led  to  take  this  step 
through  daily  contact  with  men  and  women  who 
had  typified  to  us  the  fine  qualities  of  true,  loyal 
Americans.  We  were  conducted  immediately  to 
the  office,  where  the  fee  was  collected.  This  was 
only  a  trivial  matter,  but  I  know  that  it  impressed 
me  with  the  idea  that ' pay  as  you  enter'  could  ap- 
ply to  more  than  street-cars.  However,  after  this 
introduction,  we  were  ushered  into  the  presence 
of  the  judge  before  whom  we  were  to  be  sworn  in, 
and  from  whom  we  were  to  receive  our  certifi  cates. 

Surely,  this  ceremony  would  be  impressive,  I 
thought.  But,  no,  we  were  only  foreigners  to  the 
judge,  who  evidently  thought  that  since  the  ma- 
jority knew  little  English,  they  required  but  little 
courtesy.  We  stood  before  the  bar,  for  there  were 
no  seats  on  our  side  of  it,  for  over  an  hour,  while 
the  judge,  with  his  feet  on  his  desk,  smoked,  and 
talked  casually  to  other  men  in  the  office.  No  ex- 
planation was  vouchsafed  to  us  for  the  delay.  We 
simply  stood,  and  waited  his  pleasure.  After  an 
hour  had  elapsed,  I  asked  a  nearby  clerk  if  he 
could  tell  me  the  cause  of  the  delay.  This  was  his 
answer:  'Oh,  you'll  have  to  wait  till  the  judge 
gets  ready.' 


142 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


The  judge  finally  decided  that  he  was  too  busy 
to  attend  to  us  and  turned  the  affair  over  to  his 
deputy.  This  was  the  impressive  ceremony  I 
heard:  the  deputy  read  my  name,  —  which  for- 
tunately for  me  was  the  first  on  the  list,  —  said, 
'  Hold  up  your  right  hand,'  read  the  Oath  of  Alle- 
giance, which  he  mispronounced  and  mumbled  so 
that  I  had  difficulty  in  recognizing  it,  handed  me 
my  'First  Paper,'  and  said,  'Next.' 

The  undue  haste  in  administering  the  oath,  the 
discourtesy  shown  to  us  because  we  were  foreign- 
born,  imbued  me,  not  with  respect  for  the  court,  but 
with  relief  that  the  transaction  was  over,  and  indig- 
nation that  one  man  had  misrepresented  to  thirty- 
one  potential  citizens  the  ideals  and  traditions  of 
true  Americanism. 

DORA  M.  BBIGGS. 

And  this  other  from  Nashville,  Tennessee. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

You  may  be  interested  in  an  account  of  the  wel- 
come given  sixteen  new  citizens  last  week  in  Nash- 
ville, Tennessee. 

The  social  took  place  in  the  assembly  hall  of 
Watkins's  Free  Night  School,  where  there  was  an 
audience  of  over  500,  mostly  foreign-born. 

Addresses  were  made  by  the  judge,  who  had 
granted  citizenship  papers,  the  mayor  of  the  city, 
an  immigrant  of  many  years  standing,  and  one  of 
the  new  Americans. 

After  the  four  addresses  the  band  played  the 
National  airs  of  all  the  countries  represented,  while 
the  audience  visited  the  booths  along  the  side  of 
the  wall,  where  French,  Austrians,  Roumanians, 
Russians,  Italians,  Swiss,  Syrians,  and  Hungari- 
ans, dressed  in  the  national  costumes,  served  their 
native  dishes  and  greeted  us  in  their  mother 
tongues. 

This  unique  gathering  was  the  work  of  the  local 
Chapter  of  Colonial  Dames,  the  Council  of  Jewish 
Women,  and  the  Bertha  Fensterwald  Settlement. 
Yours  very  truly. 


With  even-handed  justice,  we  print  the 
following:  — 

SOUTH  HADLEY,  MASS. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

Since  you  have  gone  into  the  advertising  busi- 
ness with  such  happy  results  for  the  spinster  who 
wished  a  ready-made,  self-supporting  family,  do 
you  think  you  can  conscientiously  refuse  other 
applications  of  a  soul-stirring  description? 

As  expressing,  perhaps,  the  suppressed  desires 
of  a  majority  of  your  readers,  I  would  like  to  sug- 
gest the  following  advertisements  which  might 
result  in  untold  happiness  for  so  many. 

I.  I  am  an  earnest  student,  who  has  completed 
all  the  work  which  can  be  done  in  my  line  in  this 
country.  I  have  always  wanted  to  travel,  and  as 
no  institution  seems  eager  to  give  me  a  fellowship 
for  foreign  research,  I  am  anxious  to  find  someone 
who  will  supply  the  financial  backing  and  permit 
me  to  go  to  Europe  for  an  indefinite  time.  A  regu- 
lar income  during  my  absence  would  be  necessary. 

II.  I  am  a  young  woman,  thirty  years  of  age, 


who  has  grown  tired  of  wearing  her  suits  for  years 
and  years  and  years,  and  mending  and  patching 
her  clothes.  I  am  very  good-looking  and  feel  that 
a  suitable  setting  for  my  beauty  should  be  pro- 
vided before  it  fades  away.  Will  you  put  me  in 
touch  with  a  woman  whose  jewels  and  clothes  are 
no  longer  a  shrine  for  beauty. 

III.  I  am  a  poet  whose  poems  have  been  ac- 
cepted by  the  leading  magazines,  but  poems  en 
masse  are  repellent  to  my  sensitive  spirit,  and  I 
fear  the  effect  on  my  genius.  There  must  be  some- 
one who,  if  my  plight  were  known,  would  gladly 
give,  that  my  poems  might  be  privately  printed, 
de  luxe. 

IV.  Well-educated  college  professor  (with  the 
usual  salary),  devoted  reader  of  the  Atlantic,  takes 
special  pleasure  in  an  uninterrupted  evening's 
browsing.   Lacking  the  subscription  price  of  his 
favorite  periodical,  a  walk  to  the  College  Library 
is  now  necessary,  in  order  to  procure  the  mental 
stimulation  at  the  price  of  breaking  up  the  eve- 
ning. Will  some  kind  person  supply  the  home  need  ? 

Very  truly  yours, 

CATHARINE  W.  PIERCE. 


We  are  glad  to  give  space  to  this  forceful 
communication  from  one  of  our  recent  fel- 
low citizens  who  happens  to  disagree  with 
the  statements  of  a  contributor.  We  quote 
litteratim  from  this  '  American's '  letter. 

CHICAGO,  ILL.  May  16, 1921. 
THE  EDITOR,  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  :  — 

Inclosed  you'll  find  a  page  from  the  Czecho- 
slovak Renew  exposing  your  lying  statements  in 
your  magazine. 

Liers  are  the  greatest  danger  to  the  prosperity 
of  the  world  and  you  are  one  of  them  liars 

I  hope  you  '11  die  like  a  dirty  dog  for  being  a  liar. 
Yours  truly 

a  American 
of  Czechoslovak  extraction. 


Regarding  the  prejudice  against  Jews,  so 
sensibly  discussed  by  Mr.  Boas  in  a  recent 
Atlantic,  many  Americans  of  Anglo-Saxon 
origin  may  listen  with  profit  to  this  roll  of 
the  Captains  of  Israel,  called  in  a  very  in- 
teresting letter  from  E.  J.  Doering,  Lt.  Col. 
M.  R.  C.,  United  States  Army. 

...  It  seems  our  narrow-minded  coreligion- 
ists have  forgotten  the  Jewish  saints,  the  founders 
of  the  Christian  religion.  They  probably  never 
heard  of  Sir  William  Herschel,  H.  Goldschmidt, 
and  W.  Meyerbeer,  the  astronomers;  of  Lassar 
Cohn  and  Victor  Meyer,  the  chemists;  of  David 
Ricardo  and  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  the  economists; 
of  Geiger  and  Sir  Francis  Cohn  Palgrave,  the  his- 
torians; of  Ezekiel,  Israels,  and  Epstein,  the  sculp- 
tors; of  Madame  Rachel,  Edmund  Kean,  War- 
field,  and  Sarah  Bernhardt,  the  dramatists;  of  Sir 
George  Jessel  and  Asser,  the  jurists;  of  Georg 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


143 


Brandes  and  Max  Nordau,  of  literary  fame;  of 
Cohnheim,  Gruber,  Strieker,  Traube,  Abraham 
Jacobi,  the  great  physicians;  of  Jacobi  and  Ein- 
stein, the  mathematicians;  of  Mendelssohn,  Mey- 
erbeer, Joachim,  Rubinstein,  the  musicians;  of 
Spinoza  and  Moses  Mendelssohn,  the  philosophers; 
of  Disraeli,  Sir  Matthew  Nathan,  Bernard  Abra- 
ham, the  statesmen;  of  Baron  de  Hirsch  and  Pro- 
fessor Morris  Loeb,  the  philanthropists;  nor  of 
Lord  Reading,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England; 
Louis  D.  Brandeis  of  the  United  States  Su- 
preme Court;  Nathan  Strauss,  Julius  Rosen- 
wald,  of  the  Council  of  National  Defense;  Jacques 
Loeb,  the  biologist;  Professor  Hollander,  the  econ- 
omist of  Johns  Hopkins;  Felix  M.  Warburg,  the 
financier;  Simon  Flexner,  of  the  Rockefeller 
Foundation,  and  hosts  of  others. 

It  is  our  plain  duty  to  fight  all  alienism  in  this 
country,  and  work  for  Simon-pure,  unadulter- 
ated, true  Americanism. 

*  *  * 

One  more  echo  of  'Plantation  Pictures,' 
but  one  well  worth  listening  to,  comes  from 
Mississippi. 

There  must  be  an  awakening,  and  as  the  ed- 
itor of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  says,  'There  must 
be  schools  and  more  schools';  but  to  add  —  in 
Mississippi  —  there  must  be  SCHOOLS.  The 
pulpit,  the  pew  and  the  press  of  the  State  must 
awake.  There  must  be  an  understanding  between 
the  better  class  of  whites  and  the  better  class  of 
colored.  This  is  not  a  one-man  problem,  nor  even 
a  race-problem  —  but  a  human  problem.  There 
is  not  as  much  need  for  sympathy  as  there  is  for 
a  straightforward,  candid  relationship  between 
landlord  and  tenant,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  the 
white  man's  civilization  mixed  in,  as  Mr.  Snyder 
says  they  possess. 

If  there  is  any  section  of  our  glorious  Democrat- 
ic America  where  any  class  of  people  is  so  filthy, 
so  barbarously  ignorant,  so  indifferent  to  life,  so 
forgetful  of  his  loved  and  lost,  as  those  described 
in  '  Plantation  Pictures,'  not  only  Central  Missis- 
sippi, not  only  all  of  Mississippi,  but  in  a  measure 
all  America,  in  the  great  chain  of  circumstance, 
must  be  the  sufferer.  —  But  back  to  Charles 
Dickens  and  his  Bleak  House:  — 

'There  is  not  one  atom  of  Tom's  slime,  not  a 
cubic  inch  of  any  pestilential  gas  in  which  he  lives, 
not  an  obscenity  or  degradation  about  him,  not 
an  ignorance,  not  a  wickedness,  not  a  brutality  of 
his  committing,  but  shall  work  its  retribution 
through  every  order  of  society  up  to  the  proudest 
of  the  proud  and  to  the  highest  of  the  high.' 

*  *  * 

The  Poet  answers  to  the  Poet's  call.  A 
distinguished  officer  of  the  American  Navy 
writes  in  response  to  Mr.  Eddy's  poetic 
query  in  the  April  Atlantic. 

The  reason  why  it  pays  to  publish  the  letters  of 
William  and  Henry  James,  but  would  not  pay  to 
publish  the  sentences  of  Frank  and  Jesse,  is  that, 
while  thousands  hang  upon  the  sentences  of  Wil- 


liam and  Henry,  only  Frank  and  Jesse  James 
themselves  ever  hung  upon  their  own  sentences. 
(As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jesse  was  killed  by  a  Ford  — 
Bob,  not  Henry.) 
In  other  words:  — 

THE  REASON  WHY 

The  reason  why  it  would  not  pay 

To  print  the  sentences  imposed 
On  Frank  and  Jesse  James  that  day 

Is  very  readily  disclosed. 

Uncounted  thousands  hang  upon 
The  sentences  of  William  James, 

And  Henry  is  another  son 
A  host  adoring  still  acclaims. 

The  sentences  of  Frank  and  Jesse 

Were  those  on  which  they  both  were  hung, 

And  since  they  ceased  to  be  'in  esse,' 
Then-  sentences  are  best  unsung. 

S.  E.  M. 


This  comment  on  the  'new  schools,'  by  a 
conservative,  voices  the  natural  doubts  of 
many  teachers  and  parents. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

The  articles  in  the  Atlantic  have  interested  me. 
I  have  a  desire  to  ask  questions.  We  hear  much 
about  fitting  the  boys  and  girls  for  life.  That 
means,  or  should  mean,  fitting  them  to  become 
good  citizens  of  a  great  country.  Will  these  pro- 
gressive schools  do  that?  What  are  some  of  the 
fundamental  lessons  children  should  learn?  What 
does  a  schoolroom  need  for  effective  work? 

The  most  important  lesson  is  that  of  obedience. 
If  not  learned  in  childhood,  like  some  diseases  of 
children  it  comes  hard  later  in  life.  American 
children  of  the  present  day  are  not  famed  for  their 
respect  for  authority.  Will  these  methods  de- 
velop that  quality?  If  so,  welcome  freedom  in  the 
classroom,  socialized  recitation,  student  govern- 
ment, and  all  the  rest. 

A  second  lesson  is  perseverance  —  the  doing  of 
a  task  whether  we  feel  like  doing  it  or  not.  We 
cannot  go  far  in  life  without  coming  right  up 
against  that  necessity.  Here  is  something  to  be 
done.  The  child  dislikes  to  do  it.  Devices  to 
arouse  interest  fail,  as  they  sometimes  will.  What 
then?  Does  this  continual  appeal  to  the  interest 
of  the  child  develop  and  strengthen  the  right  kind 
of  fibre  in  his  character?  Is  'the  irksomeness  of 
the  steady  grind'  altogether  to  be  deplored? 
•  The  musician  knows  what  the  steady  grind 
means  early  in  life.  The  hours  at  the  piano  or 
violin  are  a  strain  upon  muscles  and  nerves.  Is  it 
physically  more  harmful  for  a  child  to  sit  on  a 
chair  adjusted  to  his  needs  and  give  courteous  at- 
tention to  class  recitations  and  discussions.' 
writer  of  one  article  speaks  of  the  temperamental 
child  who  suffered  so  much  under  this  strain  that 
he  jumped  out  of  the  window  and  went  home.  Is 
it  not  possible  that  there  may  be  children  who  wiU 
be  disturbed  by  the  noise  of  the  carpentry  bencn 


144 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


in  the  corner  of  the  room,  '  to  which  the  boy  may 
repair  when  tired  of  mental  work? ' 

Not  only  the  musician,  but  the  artist,  the  arti- 
san, the  scientist,  the  athlete,  the  farmer,  and  the 
home-keeper  know  the  weariness  of  routine.  They 
know,  too,  that  the  world's  business  must  be  done, 
and  they  set  themselves  to  the  task.  Is  that  not 
the  attitude  of  a  good  citizen? 

And  now,  what  about  the  schoolroom?  What 
is  needed  there?  Ah-  and  sunlight,  certainly,  but 
why  luxury?  An  artist's  studio  is  not  a  place  of 
ease  and  luxury;  it  is  a  place  suited  to  his  work. 
The  laboratory  of  a  scientist  may  not  be  beauti- 
ful: it  is  a  workshop.  A  glance  at  either  of  these 
places  shows  the  nature  of  the  work  done  there. 

A  schoolroom  is  a  place  where  the  child  learns 
to  do  things,  where  he  discovers  things  by  his  own 
thinking  and  experimenting,  and  where  —  after 
some  patient  drudgery,  it  may  be  —  he  experi- 
ences the  joy  of  accomplishment.  Does  it  need  to 
suggest  the  luxury  of  a  cultured  home,  so  that 
some  children '  need  not  step  down  when  they  leave 
their  homes  for  school'?  If  they  do  'step  down' 
from  these  homes,  and  touch  elbows  with  others 
who  step  up  when  they  enter  the  school,  it  seems 
to  me  a  wholesome  preparation  for  citizenship. 

Too  conservative?  Perhaps  so;  though  pro- 
jects and  motivation  are  a  part  of  my  creed.  But 
has  not  the  educational  pendulum  swung  far 
enough  in  this  direction?  M.  T.  H. 


of  Bostonians  by  the  operation  of  the  law  of  nat- 
ural selection  or  the  survival  of  the  fittest.   Tht 
unfit  are  either  in  jail  —  or  Heaven. 
Very  truly  yours, 

CHARLES  L.  DIBBLE. 


'From  Missouri'  comes  this  pointed  con- 
tribution to  a  current  discussion. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

What  do  teachers  know? 

One  of  them  who  is  taking  an  extension  course 
in  English  asked  me  not  long  ago  for  some  infor- 
mation regarding  modern  poets.  I  am  not  an 
authority,  but  I  gave  her  a  few  names,  while  she 
took  notes  industriously. 

'Grace  Fallow  Norton,'  I  said,  'occasionally 
has  a  poem  in  the  Atlantic.' 

She  carefully  put  down,  'Norton  —  Atlantic' 

I  would  n't  have  spoiled  that  for  the  world,  so  1 
went  on  hastily,  though  somewhat  chokingly,  to 
say  that  Amy  Lowell  is  perhaps  at  the  head  of  the 
school  of  free  verse  in  this  country. 

She  was  very  businesslike.  'Amy  Lowell,'  she 
jotted  down,  'school  of  free  verse.'  Then  she 
looked  up,  pencil  poised,  —  'And  where  is  this 
school  located? '  she  asked. 

Sincerely, 

MARY  F.  ROBINSON. 


English  as  she  is  spoke  in  Boston,  we  have 
fully  discussed;  but  of  English  as  Boston 
writes  her,  the  publication  of  the  following 
example  may  be  of  educational  interest  to 
Chicago  and  way  stations. 

KALAMAZOO,  MICHIGAN. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

The  wonderful  tales  which  have  been  related 
by  your  correspondents  concerning  the  super-ed- 
ucated proletariat  of  Boston  are  by  no  means  in- 
credible to  me.  Of  course  Bostonians  are  expert 
linguists  —  they  have  to  be,  in  order  to  get  about 
their  city  and  keep  out  of  jail. 

For  example,  on  a  visit  to  your  city,  my  eye 
lighted  on  this  sign : '  Smoking  allowed  on  this  car 
only  when  weather  permits  running  cars  with 
windows  open,  and  then  only  back  of  cross  seats, 
when  at  least  four  windows  on  each  side,  includ- 
ing windows  back  of  cross  seats,  are  open.' 

I  repressed  my  desire.  But  suppose  some  un- 
fortunate, more  venturesome  than  I,  had  decided 
to  take  a  chance.  Suppose  that,  after  reading  this 
sign  carefully,  he  had  taken  his  place  as  directed, 
back  of  the  cross  seats,  and  that  the  four  win- 
dows on  each  side  were  open,  including  the  win- 
dows back  of  the  cross  seats.  But  suppose  that, 
having  only  a  single-track  mind,  he  had  failed  to 
note  that  it  was  raining  outside,  and  hence,  al- 
though the  windows  were  open,  the  weather 
really  would  not  permit  running  the  cars  with 
windows  open.  He  would  of  course  be  violating 
the  regulation  by  smoking,  and  the  poor  devU 
would  be  liable  to  fine  or  imprisonment.  Per- 
sonally I  am  inclined  to  account  for  the  culture 


And  while  we  are  on  the  subject  of  teach- 
ing, perhaps  it  is  appropriate  to  notice  a 
certain  attitude  toward  it  on  the  part  of 
some  parents.  We  print  this  remarkable 
example  sent  us  from  a  famous  school. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Behold  the  trials  of  the  secondary  school  which 
endeavors  to  teach  the  youth  of  to-day  the  art  of 
English  Composition.  The  paragraph  below  is 
the  reaction,  in  part,  of  a  lawyer  of  New  York 
City  whose  son  had  failed  to  meet  the  require- 
ments. The  name  of  the  boy  and  of  the  school  are 
changed,  the  rest  is  an  exact  transcript. 

'Just  how  a  boy  can  fail  in  the  subject  of  Eng- 
lish, even  I  today  with  my  own  experience,  can- 
not see  or  understand,  and  without  hesitation  or 
fear  of  possible  successful  contradiction  I  assert 
that  no  man  lives  today  who  could  mark  a  pupil 
as  having  failed  or  succeeded  in  English,  except 
on  possibly  definitions  or  lack  of  committing 
something  to  memory;  the  subject  of  English  is 
too  broad  to  be  marked  down  that  way  to  a  day, 
one  might  be  very  learned  in  English  along  one 
line  and  be  utterly  dumb  about  another,  who  then 
could  say  failure,  it  seems  incredible  to  be  argued 
even,  but  for  fear  you  may  not  understand  me  I 
wish  to  say  definitely  that  I  am  raising  no  issue 
with  you  or  Kensington.  I  do  not  occupy  any 
position  to  do  that,  but  it  is  such  an  all  important 
element  to  all  growing  young  men  that  good  views 
of  any  person  might  be  valuable  even  to  Kensing- 
ton when  submitted  by  fair  impartial  men  and  I 
am  trying  to  do  that,  notwithstanding  John  is 
involved.' 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


AUGUST,  1921 


ECONOMIC  ASPECTS  OF  DISARMAMENT 


BY  FRANK  L   COBB 


IN  1910  David  Lloyd  George,  then 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  in  the  As- 
quith  Cabinet,  estimated  that  the  di- 
rect war  expenditures  of  '  the  countries 
of  the  world '  were  at  that  time  no  less 
than  $2,250,000,000  a  year,  and  were 
increasing  at  a  rate  that  would  double 
this  sum  by  1920.  He  then  predicted 
that  the  economic  life  of  the  nations 
could  not  long  endure  the  strain;  and  it 
did  not  long  endure  the  strain.  Within 
four  years  Europe  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  disastrous  war  yet  recorded 
in  the  annals  of  the  human  race. 

By  common  consent  Germany  has 
been  held  responsible  for  this  conflict, 
and  this  responsibility  is  formally  ac- 
knowledged in  the  Treaty  of  Versailles. 
But  when  we  say  that  Germany  was  re- 
sponsible, we  do  not  mean  that  Ger- 
many alone  created  the  conditions  that 
brought  about  the  war,  and  that  Ger- 
many alone  shaped  the  issues  that  in- 
spired the  appeal  to  arms.  The  record 
of  Germany's  guilt  is,  in  the  main,  the 
record  of  the  Imperial  Government  in 
the  latter  part  of  July,  1914,  after  Lord 
Grey,  then  Sir  Edward  Grey,  the  British 
Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs, 
had  made  an  appeal  for  a  four-power 
conference,  to  adjust  the  situation  that 
had  grown  out  of  the  assassinations  at 
Serajevo. 

VOL.  128— NO.  a 

A 


Speaking  recently  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  British  Prime  Minister, 
in  referring  to  the  origin  of  the  war, 
said,  — 

'The  more  one  reads  the  memoirs 
and  books  written  in  the  different  coun- 
tries upon  what  happened  before  Au- 
gust 1, 1914,  the  more  one  realizes  that 
no  one  at  the  head  of  affairs  quite 
meant  war  at  that  stage.  It  was  some- 
thing towards  which  they  glided,  or 
rather  staggered  and  stumbled,  perhaps 
through  folly.' 

President  Wilson  was  savagely  cen- 
sured in  1916  for  a  speech  in  which  he 
said  that  he  did  not  know  just  what  the 
war  was  about,  and  had  never  been  able 
to  find  anybody  who  could  tell  him. 
To  his  exasperated  critics  there  was  no 
mystery  whatever  about  it.  Europe  was 
at  war  because  the  Germans  were  a 
wicked  and  depraved  folk,  who  had 
taken  diabolical  advantage  of  the  un- 
suspecting innocence  of  the  Russians, 
the  French,  and  the  British.  An  opin- 
ion of  that  sort  does  well  enough  for  the 
temporary  purposes  of  propaganda,  but 
it  hardly  serves  the  ends  of  history;  and 
curiously  enough  we  are  still  without 
authentic  information  as  to  the  final  ar- 
gument that  swung  the  Imperial  Gov- 
ernment to  one  of  the  most  reckless  and 
disastrous  decisions  in  all  history.  All 


146 


ECONOMIC  ASPECTS  OF  DISARMAMENT 


the  German  war  memoirs,  biographies, 
and  recollections  that  have  appeared 
since  the  war  are  strangely  vague  when 
they  arrive  at  that  fateful  moment 
when  the  sword  was  thrown  into  the 
balance.  They  do  not  tell  us  precisely 
who  was  in  favor  of  and  who  was  op- 
posed to  war,  and  what  the  final  argu- 
ment was  that  determined  the  course 
of  the  Government. 

Yet  it  is  possible  to  piece  together 
certain  scraps  of  information  that  are 
available,  and  arrive  at  a  fairly  satis- 
factory conclusion.  In  order  to  sustain 
its  enlarged  military  establishment,  the 
German  Government  had  been  com- 
pelled to  impose  what  was  equivalent  to 
a  tax  on  capital.  This  tax  was  most  bur- 
densome to  German  commerce  and  in- 
dustry under  the  intensive  competition 
to  which  they  were  subjected.  Not  only 
were  the  Social  Democrats,  the  most 
numerous  party  in  the  Empire,  prepar- 
ing to  resist  the  renewal  of  the  military 
estimates,  but  German  business  was  in- 
creasingly restive  under  its  load  of  taxa- 
tion. To  the  Junker  mind,  there  was 
no  solution  of  the  problem  short  of  war. 
To  diminish  the  military  establishment 
was  unthinkable.  To  make  the  political 
concessions  necessary  to  appease  the 
Social  Democrats  and  obtain  their  sup- 
port for  the  army  programme  was  like- 
wise unthinkable.  The  overhead  had 
become  too  great  for  the  Imperial  sys- 
tem. Then  came  the  murder  of  the  heir- 
apparent  to  the  throne  of  Austria-Hun- 
gary, and  the  General  Staff  instantly 
reverted  to  the  ancient  precept  of  im- 
perialism, —  not  merely  German  im- 
perialism, but  all  imperialism,  — ••  which 
is  that  a  successful  foreign  war  is  the 
best  means  of  averting  a  domestic  crisis. 
And  so  Europe  was  plunged  in  blood  in 
consequence  of  a  military  panic  that 
had  its  origin  in  an  economic  emergency, 
which  in  turn  was  produced  by  com- 
petitive armament.  The  Lloyd  George 
prediction  of  1920  was  fulfilled. 


When  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer made  the  speech  referred  to, 
the  $2,250,000,000  which  the  nations 
were  spending  every  year  for  past  and 
future  wars  represented  $50,000,000,- 
000  of  wealth,  on  a  basis  of  five  per  cent. 
In  other  words,  $50,000,000,000  of  the 
world's  assets  were  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses segregated  and  devoted  to  the 
task  of  earning  income  to  be  devoted 
exclusively  to  supporting  military  ad- 
ventures of  one  kind  or  another. 

After  a  war  that  cost  approximately 
$348,000,000,000  in  property  and  pro- 
duction, nobody  quite  knows  the  ag- 
gregate war  budget  of  the  nations.  It 
has  been  variously  estimated  at  from 
eight  to  ten  billion  dollars  a  year.  If  we 
take  the  smaller  figure  and  capitalize 
it  at  the  modest  rate  of  five  percent, 
the  amount  is  $160,000,000,000  - 
which  means  that,  after  extinguishing 
$348,000,000,000  of  the  world's  wealth, 
$160,000,000,000  of  what  is  left  is  now 
set  aside  to  pay  the  reckoning  and  make 
ready  for  new  wars. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  labor  and 
industry  cannot  carry  that  burden,  and 
when  government  attempts  to  sweat 
them  to  that  extent,  it  is  defeating  the 
very  ends  of  national  defense  which  it 
professes  to  serve.  War  is  no  longer  a 
conflict  between  uniformed  forces  of 
professional  combatants.  It  is  a  con- 
flict of  all  the  resources  of  the  belliger- 
ents, of  whatsoever  kind  and  nature. 
What  ended  this  war  was  the  over- 
whelming economic  force  of  the  United 
States.  What  enabled  Germany  to 
fight  all  Europe  to  a  standstill  on  two 
fronts  was,  not  its  superior  military  es- 
tablishment, but  its  superior  economic 
system. 

The  German  army  was  undoubtedly 
the  most  perfect  military  machine  ever 
constructed  by  the  genius  of  man,  but 
it  ditched  itself  within  six  weeks  after 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  All  the  elab- 
orately contrived  plans  of  the  General 


ECONOMIC  ASPECTS  OF  DISARMAMENT 


147 


Staff  were  frustrated  at  the  battle  of 
the  Marne,  after  von  Kluck  had  out- 
marched his  communications.  The 
remainder  of  the  war  was  a  series  of 
desperate  attempts  on  the  part  of  the 
German  high  command  to  adjust  it- 
self to  conditions  that  it  had  never  con- 
templated; and  in  the  end  it  was  the 
economic  collapse  of  internal  Germany 
which  left  LudendorfFs  armies  a  defense- 
less shell.  So  much  for  military  pre- 
paredness at  its  best  and  its  worst. 

While  military  experts  are  acrimoni- 
ously discussing  the  lessons  of  the  war, 
the  most  important  lesson  attracts  prac- 
tically no  attention  on  their  part.  It  is 
the  lesson  that  was  demonstrated  in  its 
most  dramatic  form  by  the  American 
intervention  —  that  is,  that  economic 
resources  can  be  easily  and  quickly 
translated  into  military  resources;  that 
a  sound  economic  system  is  the  essen- 
tial element  in  any  extensive  military 
undertaking.  But  these  resources  are 
not  interchangeable.  Economic  energy 
can  be  speedily  converted  into  military 
energy,  but  military  energy  is  not  re- 
controvertible  into  economic  energy. 
Like  the  radiated  heat  of  the  sun,  it  is 
lost.  It  can  never  be  reassembled  and 
welded  into  another  sun. 

The  white  man's  civilization  is  an 
economic  civilization.  It  is  sustained 
by  economic  supremacy,  and  by  that 
alone.  It  is  that  which  has  given  to  the 
so-called  Nordic  races  their  dominion 
over  land  and  sea.  In  point  of  numbers 
they  are  inferior  to  the  brown  and  yel- 
low races.  In  point  of  physical  courage 
they  are  likewise  inferior,  for  the  Orien- 
tal faces  both  torture  and  death  with  a 
resignation  and  a  fatalism  that  the  white 
man  either  had  never  attained  or  has 
long  ago  lost.  In  ability  to  endure  hard- 
ship, to  exist  on  a  minimum  of  nour- 
ishment, and  to  survive  in  the  midst 
of  an  evil  environment,  the  swarming 
millions  of  Asia  are  superior  to  the 
European  or  the  American,  As  for  in- 


tellectual power,  dismissing  the  uses  to 
which  that  power  is  applied,  the  East- 
ern mind  has  attained  a  discipline  and  a 
subtlety  of  reasoning  that  the  Western 
mind  has  never  yet  achieved.  It  is  the 
white  man's  economic  accomplishments 
which  have  been  the  magic  carpet  that 
transported  him  everywhere,  and  the 
armor  that  none  could  penetrate.  WTiile 
this  economic  supremacy  exists,  no  oth- 
er race  can  challenge  the  white  man's 
civilization.  Whenever  that  supremacy 
has  been  weakened,  the  white  man's 
civilization  has  been  menaced.  It  is 
again  in  peril. 

Three  great  military  empires  were 
extinguished  in  the  war,  but  three  great 
economic  empires  were  wrecked,  as 
well.  Russia  has  been  rightly  described 
as  an  'economic  vacuum.'  Austria- 
Hungary  is  practically  in  ruins;  and 
whether  the  great  German  economic 
machine  will  ever  be  permitted  to  func- 
tion freely  again  is  still  a  matter  of 
speculation.  We  are  only  beginning  to 
comprehend  the  terrific  impact  of  the 
blow  that  the  war  dealt  to  the  economic 
structure  of  Europe;  and  from  the  day 
the  Armistice  was  signed,  conditions 
have  grown  steadily  worse.  It  must  be 
apparent  to  anybody  who  will  examine 
the  situation  dispassionately  that,  un- 
less this  economic  fabric  can  be  speed- 
ily restored,  modern  civilization  may 
slowly  disintegrate,  to  its  utter  ruin,  as 
preceding  civilizations  have  disinte- 
grated. V, 

Obviously  the  place  to  begin  the  work 
of  reconstruction,  so  far  as  the  govern- 
ment is  concerned,  is  with  the  burden 
of  taxation  under  which  all  the  great 
nations  are  groaning.  The  one  point  at 
which  an  extensive  reduction  of  taxa- 
tion can  be  made,  which  reduction  will 
have  an  instantaneous  economic  effect, 
is  military  expenditure. 

The  United  States  is  spending  on  fu- 
ture wars  alone  more  than  the  entire 
net  expenses  of  the  Federal  govern- 


148 


ECONOMIC  ASPECTS  OF  DISARMAMENT 


ment  five  years  ago.  It  is  spending  as 
much  as  the  aggregate  net  earnings  of 
all  the  railroads  of  the  country  in  their 
most  prosperous  year.  Nobody  has  yet 
shown  wherein  there  is  a  shadow  of  an 
excuse  for  this  exhausting  strain  on  the 
nation's  economic  resources,  or  what 
peril  or  policy  of  government  can  war- 
rant such  expenditure.  To  say  that  it  is 
done  for  the  national  defense  is  silly. 
The  national  defense  is  weakened,  not 
strengthened,  by  this  excessive  drain. 

Of  all  the  nonsense  that  is  talked 
about  preparedness,  no  other  nonsense 
quite  touches  the  depths  of  imbecility 
which  are  reached  by  the  prattle  about 
nations  that  are  'rich  but  defenseless.' 
Nations  that  are  rich  are  not  defense- 
less. They  contain  in  themselves  all  the 
elements  for  defense.  They  may  have 
been  defenseless  in  times  when  war  was 
the  exclusive  business  of  professional 
soldiers,  but  all  that  has  been  changed. 
The  elements  of  national  defense  are 
now  the  sum  total  of  all  the  economic 
resources  of  the  country  plus  all  the  man 
power.  In  time  of  imminent  danger, 
the  mobilization  of  a  thousand  chemists 
might  be  infinitely  more  important  than 
the  mobilization  of  a  million  troops. 

The  conventional  argument  that 
armament  is  a  form  of  national  insur- 
ance is  one  that  is  not  highly  impressive 
in  the  circumstances.  Insurance  does 
not  run  parallel  with  competitive  ar- 
mament, and  it  is  with  competitive  ar- 
mament that  the  world  is  dealing.  No 
property-owner  feels  compelled  to  take 
out  new  policies  because  a  business  rival 
has  increased  his  insurance.  Nor  does 
he  ever  feel  impelled  to  establish  a  two- 
policy  or  three-policy  standard  in  re- 
spect to  other  property  owners,  or  sol- 
emnly to  announce  as  a  measure  of  life 
or  death  that,  come  what  may,  his  in- 
surance must  equal  that  of  any  of  his 
competitors,  whether  he  occupies  a  fire- 
proof building  or  not. 

Moreover,  if  a  manufacturer  devoted 


eighty  per  cent  of  his  total  income,  as 
the  United  States  government  is  do- 
ing, to  paying  insurance  premiums,  his 
creditors  would  soon  intervene,  and  his 
case  would  also  receive  the  careful  at- 
tention of  an  expert  alienist.  He  might 
be  solvent,  and  he  might  be  sane,  but 
neither  his  solvency  nor  his  sanity  would 
be  taken  for  granted.  What  an  individ- 
ual could  not  do  without  subjecting 
himself  to  court  proceeding  is  what  ev- 
ery government  is  doing  in  the  name  of 
national  defense. 

No  nation  can  be  asked  to  strip  itself 
of  all  defense  —  that  is  beyond  the 
bounds  of  reason;  but  the  system  of 
competitive  armament  has  nothing  to 
sustain  it  except  the  incompetency  of 
statesmanship.  Most  wars  are  made 
by  politicians  engaged  in  capitalizing 
race-prejudices  and  international  rival- 
ries for  their  own  advantage.  Wars 
that  spring  from  the  people  themselves 
are  few,  indeed;  and  most  of  the  money 
that  is  now  spent  in  preparing  for  an- 
other war  among  the  white  races  is 
doubly  wasted.  If  there  is  such  a  war 
during  the  lifetime  of  the  next  genera- 
tion, on  a  scale  equal  to  that  of  the  re- 
cent war,  it  makes  no  difference  who 
triumphs  or  who  is  defeated.  Victor 
and  vanquished  alike  will  perish  in  the 
ruins  of  the  civilization  that  they  have 
destroyed. 

Spending  money  on  competitive  ar- 
mament at  this  time,  under  the  pretext 
of  providing  for  national  defense,  is  like 
drawing  blood  from  a  patient  who  is 
suffering  from  pernicious  anaemia.  The 
disease  may  not  be  fatal  in  itself,  but 
the  remedy  is  sure  to  be.  Whether  Eu- 
rope can  recover  from  the  effects  of  this 
inconceivably  disastrous  war  is  still  a 
debatable  question.  No  person  even 
reasonably  familiar  with  the  situation 
in  which  mankind  finds  itself  would  ven- 
ture to  predict  the  general  state  of  civ- 
ilization five  years  hence.  The  issue  is 
still  hanging  in  the  balance. 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON                                 149 

The  old  Prussian  doctrine  of  Welt-  petition  of  armament  that  has  been 

macht  oder  Niedergang  has  taken  on  as-  stimulated  beyond  the  wildest  dreams 

pects  that  were  never  dreamed  of  by  of  ante-bellum  imperialism.  Unless  the 

Bernhardi  or  the  General  Staff.  It  has  statesmanship  of  the  world   can   be 

extended  itself  to  all  Western  civiliza-  brought  to  a  realization  of  the  impera- 

tion  —  the  Weltmacht  that  comes  from  tive  necessity  of  economic  rehabilita- 

continued  economic  development,  or  the  tion  and  of  the  immediate  need  of  sacri- 

Niedergang  that  must  result  from  eco-  ficing  everything  that  stands  in  the  way 

nomic  exhaustion.  Collapse  is  inevitable  of  that  rehabilitation,  then  indeed  was 

if  the  impaired  resources  of  the  world  this  war  the  Gotterdammerung  —  the 

are  to  be  steadily  depleted  by  the  com-  twilight  of  the  white  man's  gods. 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 

BY  JOSEPH  FORT  NEWTON 


[From  1916  to  1920  the  writer  was  Minister  of  the  City  Temple,  in  London,  following  the 
Reverend  R.  J.  Campbell.  His  ministry  was  not  intended  to  be  permanent,  but  was  under- 
taken as  a  kind  of  unofficial  ambassadorship  of  good-will  from  the  churches  of  America  to 
the  churches  of  Britain,  and  as  an  adventure  in  Anglo-American  friendship.  It  was  a  great 
privilege  to  stand  at  the  cross-roads  of  the  centuries  at  such  a  time,  a  teacher  of  Christian 
faith  and  an  interpreter  of  the  spirit  and  genius  of  our  country  to  the  motherland.  The  fol- 
lowing pages,  from  a  diary  kept  during  those  years  of  the  great  war  and  the  little  peace, 
record  observations,  impressions,  and  reflections,  of  men,  women,  and  movements,  of 
actors  still  on  the  stage  of  affairs,  of  issues  still  unsettled,  and  events  that  seem  to 
have  more  than  a  passing  meaning,  and  of  beauty-spots  in  one  of  the  loveliest  lands  on  earth. 

Of  the  necessity  of  the  friendship  of  English-speaking  peoples  I  am  still  convinced;  but 
the  possibility  of  it  is  not  so  manifest  as  it  seemed  to  be.  Once  I  discussed  this  matter  with 
the  most  picturesque  statesman  of  England  over  the  tea-cups;  and  to  my  suggestion  that 
America  should  have  a  tea-hour  for  relaxation  from  the  strain  and  hurry  of  its  life,  he  re- 
plied: 'But,  remember:  we  offered  you  tea  once  and  you  would  not  take  it!'  His  thought 
was  that  what  Britons  and  Americans  need  is  'a  smoking-room  acquaintance ' — something 
to  break  the  stiffness  and  formality,  and  enable  them  to  mingle  in  freedom  and  fellowship. 
No  doubt;  but  great  nations  cannot  meet  in  a  smoking-room,  and  in  this  instance  their  ig- 
norance of  each  other  is  appalling.  Still,  if  each  one  who  journeys  from  one  country  to  the 
other  is  an  ambassador  of  good-will,  the  sum  of  our  efforts  will  be  felt  at  last. 

Once  more  I  wish  to  express  my  deep  gratitude  for  the  cordial  and  fraternal  reception 
everywhere  accorded  me  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales,  and  to  renew  the  hope  that, 
when  the  irritation  and  confusion  of  war  and  reaction  have  passed  away,  the  two  great 
English-speaking  peoples  may  be  drawn  into  an  intelligent  and  enduring  friendship.] 

May  17,  1917.  —  London!   If  I  had  all  things  turn  to  the  left,  as  they  do  in 

been  set  down  here  from  anywhere,  or  the  Inferno  of  Dante.   And  how  quiet, 

from  nowhere,  I  should  have  known  Compared  with  the  dm  of  New  York,  01 

that  it  is  'ye  olde  London  town,'  where  the  hideous  nightmare  of  the  Chicago 


150 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


loop,  London  is  as  quiet  as  a  country 
village.  There  are  no  sky-scrapers  to  be 
seen,  but  the  picture  spread  out  like 
a  panorama  from  Primrose  Hill  is  not 
to  be  forgotten.  Slowly  it  works  its 
ancient  spell,  —  equally  on  long  sun- 
drenched afternoons,  and  on  those 
pensive  evenings  of  not  insistent  rain, 
—  everywhere  the  hauntings  of  history, 
everywhere  the  stir  and  throb  of  his- 
tory in  the  making.  From  a  low,  dim 
sky  a  gentle  rain  was  falling  when  I  ar- 
rived, and  a  soft  wind,  burdened  with  a 
damp  fragrance,  came  as  a  delicate 
promise  of  the  purity  at  the  heart  of 
things.  Along  the  aloof  avenues  of  the 
rich,  and  the  drab  streets  of  the  poor, 
that  little  wind  wandered,  like  a  breath 
of  God  bringing  a  sudden  tenderness 
and  sad  beauty  to  an  imaginative  soul. 
At  such  times  the  essential  spirit  of 
London  is  revealed,  —  its  mysterious 
promise  of  half-hidden  things  becoming 
almost  palpable,  —  and  I  feel  strangely 
at  home  in  its  quiet  excitement,  its  vivid 
stimulations,  and  its  thousand  evoca- 
tive appeals.  London  has  seen  war  be- 
fore; it  is  a  very  old  city,  weary  with 
much  experience,  and  willing  to  forgive 
much  because  it  understands  much. 

Yes,  it  is  London;  but  the  question  is, 
Which  London  is  it?  For  there  are 
many  Londons  —  the  London  of  the 
Tower  and  the  Abbey,  of  Soho  and  the 
Strand,  of  Downing  Street  and  White- 
chapel,  of  Piccadilly  and  Leicester 
Square.  There  is  the  London  of  Whit- 
tington  and  his  Cat,  of  Goody  Two- 
shoes  and  the  Canterbury  Shades,  of 
Shakespeare  and  Chatterton,  of  Nell 
Gwynne  and  Dick  Steele  —  aye,  the 
London  of  all  that  is  bizarre  in  history 
and  strange  in  romance.  They  are  all 
here,  in  this  gigantic  medley  of  past  and 
present,  of  misery  and  magnificence. 
Sometimes,  for  me,  it  is  hard  to  know 
which  holds  closest,  the  London  of  fic- 
tion or  the  London  of  fact,  or  the  Lon- 
don of  literature,  which  is  a  blending  of 


both.  Anyway,  as  I  see  it,  Goldsmith 
carouses  with  Tom  Jones,  and  Harry 
Fielding  discusses  philosophy  with  the 
Vicar  of  Waken* eld;  Nicholas  Nickleby 
makes  bold  to  speak  to  Mr.  W.  M. 
Thackeray,  and  to  ask  his  favor  in  be- 
half of  a  poor  artist  of  the  name  of  Tur- 
ner; and  'Boz,'  as  he  passes  through 
Longacre,  is  tripped  up  by  the  Artful 
Dodger,  and  falls  into  the  arms  of  St. 
Charles  Lamb  on  his  way  to  call  on 
Lady  Beatrix  Esmond.  No  doubt  my 
London  is  in  large  part  a  dream,  but  it 
is  most  enchanting. 

May  20.  —  Attended  the  King's 
Weigh  House  Church  to-day,  —  made 
famous  by  Dr.  Binney,  —  and  heard 
Dr.  Orchard  preach.  He  is  an  extraor- 
dinary preacher,  of  vital  mind,  of  au- 
thentic insight,  and  of  challenging  per- 
sonality. From  an  advanced  liberal 
position  he  has  swung  toward  the  Free 
Catholicism,  and  by  an  elaborate  use  of 
symbols  is  seeking  to  lead  men  by  the 
sacramental  approach  to  the  mystical 
experience.  Only  a  tiny  wisp  of  a  man, 
seldom  have  I  heard  a  preacher  more 
searching,  more  aglow  with  the  divine 
passion.  He  does  not  simply  kindle  the 
imagination :  he  gives  one  a  vivid  sense 
of  reality.  He  has  a  dangerous  gift  of 
humor,  which  often  sharpens  into  satire, 
but  he  uses  it  as  a  whip  of  cords  to  drive 
sham  out  of  the  temple.  He  said  that 
preaching  in  the  Anglican  Church  'is 
really  worse  than  necessary/  and  he 
was  sure  that  in  reordination  it  is  not 
enough  for  the  bishop  to  lay  his  hands 
on  the  preacher;  the  servant-girl  and 
the  tram-driver  ought  also  to  add  their 
consecration.  With  his  face  alight  he 
cried,  'You  need  Christ,  and  I  can  give 
Him  to  you.'  Surely  that  is  the  ulti- 
mate grace  of  the  pulpit.  It  recalled 
the  oft-repeated  record  in  the  Journal 
of  Wesley,  in  respect  to  the  companies 
to  whom  he  preached:  'I  gave  them 
Christ.'  It  was  not  merely  an  offer:  it 
was  a  sacrament  of  communication. 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


151 


How  beautiful  is  the  spirit  of  rever- 
ence which  pervades  an  English  church 
service,  in  contrast  with  the  too  free 
and  informal  air  of  our  American  wor- 
ship. The  sense  of  awe,  of  quiet,  of 
yearning  prayer,  so  wistfully  poignant 
in  these  days,  makes  an  atmosphere 
most  favorable  to  inspiration  and  in- 
sight. It  makes  preaching  a  different 
thing.  In  intellectual  average  and  moral 
passion  there  is  little  difference  between 
English  and  American  preaching,  but 
the  emphasis  is  different.  The  English 
preacher  seeks  to  educate  and  edify  his 
people  in  the  fundamentals  of  their  faith 
and  duty;  the  American  preacher  is 
more  intent  upon  the  application  of  re- 
ligion to  the  affairs  of  the  moment.  The 
Englishman  goes  to  church,  as  to  a 
house  of  ancient  mystery,  to  forget  the 
turmoil  of  the  world,  to  be  refreshed  in 
spirit,  to  regain  the  great  backgrounds 
of  life,  against  which  to  see  the  prob- 
lems of  the  morrow.  It  has  been  said 
that  the  distinctive  note  of  the  Amer- 
ican pulpit  is  vitality;  of  the  English  pul- 
pit, serenity.  Perhaps  each  has  some- 
thing to  learn  from  the  other. 

May  27.  —  No  man  may  ever  hope 
to  receive  a  warmer  welcome  than  was 
accorded  me  upon  my  return  to  the  City 
Temple,  and  it  was  needed.  Something 
like  panic  seized  me,  perhaps  because  I 
did  not  realize  the  burden  I  was  asked 
to  bear  until  I  arrived  at  the  Temple. 
Putting  on  the  pulpit  gown  of  Joseph 
Parker  was  enough  to  make  a  young 
man  nervous,  but  I  made  the  mistake  of 
looking  through  a  peep-hole  which  he 
had  cut  in  the  vestry  door,  the  better 
to  see  the  size  of  his  audiences.  The 
Temple  was  full  clean  back  to  the 
'Rocky  Mountains,'  as  the  top  gallery 
is  called  —  a  sea  of  faces  in  the  area, 
and  clouds  of  faces  above.  It  was  ter- 
rifying. Pacing  the  vestry  floor  in  my 
distress,  I  thought  of  all  the  naughty 
things  the  English  people  are  wont  to 
say  about  American  speakers  —  how  we 


talk  through  the  nose,  and  the  like.  My 
sermon,  and  almost  my  wits,  began  to 
leave  me.  There  was  a  vase  of  flowers 
on  the  vestry  desk,  and  in  the  midst  of 
my  agony,  as  I  bent  over  it  to  enjoy  the 
fragrance,  I  saw  a  dainty  envelope  tuck- 
ed down  in  it.  Lifting  it  out,  I  saw  that 
it  was  addressed  to  me,  and,  opening  it, 
this  is  what  I  read :  — 

Welcome!  God  bless  you.  We  have 
not  come  to  criticize,  but  to  pray  for  you 
and  pray  with  you.  —  THE  CITY  TEM- 
PLE CHURCH. 

At  once  all  my  nervousness  was  for- 
gotten; and  if  that  day  was  a  victory,  it 
was  due,  not  to  myself,  but  to  those  who 
knew  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land,  and  whose  good-will  made  me  feel 
at  home  in  a  Temple  made  mellow  by  the 
richness  of  its  experience,  like  an  old 
violin  which  remembers  all  the  melo- 
dies it  has  heard. 

May  28.  —  Every  day,  almost  any- 
where, one  sees  a  little  tragedy  of  the 
war.  Here  is  an  example.  Scene  I:  a 
tube  train  standing  at  Blackfriars  Sta- 
tion. Enter  a  tired-looking  man  with  a 
'cello  in  its  cumbrous  case.  He  sinks 
heavily  into  a  seat  and  closes  his  eyes. 
People  passing  stumble  against  his  in- 
strument and  are,  in  about  equal  num- 
bers, apologetic,  annoyed,  and  indiffer- 
ent. Enter  a  tall  New  Zealander.  He 
sits  opposite  the  tired  'cellist,  and  looks 
lovingly  at  the  instrument.  Scene  H: 
the  same,  four  stations  west.  The  New 
Zealander  rises  to  leave  the  car.  The 
musician  looks  up,  and  his  eyes  meet 
those  of  the  soldier.  The  latter  smiles 
faintly,  trying  to  be  light-hearted,  and 
pointing  to  the  'cello-case,  says:  'No 
more  of  that  for  me.  It  was  my  favorite 
instrument.'  He  goes  out,  and  the  'cell- 
ist sees  that  his  right  sleeve  is  empty. 
He  flushes  slightly  and,  after  a  moment, 
blows  his  nose  defiantly,  looking  round 
furtively  to  see  if  anyone  has  had  the 
indecency  to  notice  his  emotion.  No 
one  has. 


152 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


June  4.  —  Went  down  to-day  to  see 
White  Horse  Hill,  near  Uffington,  and 
lay  for  hours  on  the  June  grass  near  the 
head  of  that  huge  horse  carved  in  the 
chalk.  What  a  superb  panorama  of 
Southern,  Western,  and  Midland  shires 
lay  spread  out,  with  the  Hampshire  and 
Wiltshire  downs  to  the  south,  clipped 
out  on  the  skyline.  Just  below  is  the 
vale  of  White  Horse,  which  Michael 
Drayton,  no  mean  judge  of  such  mat- 
ters, held  to  be  the  queen  of  English 
vales.  The  great  creating  tide  of  sum- 
mer is  nearing  its  zenith.  Everything 
is  brimming  over  with  sap,  scent,  and 
song.  Yet  one  is  conscious  of  the  infi- 
nitely old  all  around,  of  the  remote  and 
legendary.  The  Horse  himself,  for  in- 
stance —  who  cut  him  out  of  the  turf? 
When?  To  what  heroic  or  religious 
end?  There  is  nothing  to  tell  us.  How 
different  Nature  is  in  a  land  where  man 
has  mingled  his  being  with  hers  for 
countless  generations ;  where  every  field 
is  steeped  in  history  and  every  crag  is 
ivied  with  legend.  Such  places  give  me  a 
strange  sense  of  kinship  with  the  dead, 
who  were  not  as  we  are;  the  'long,  long 
dead,  the  men  who  knew  not  life  in 
towns,  and  felt  no  strangeness  in  sun 
and  wind  and  rain.'  Uffington  Castle, 
with  its  huge  earth  walls  and  ditches, 
is  near  by.  Perhaps  the  men  of  the 
Stone  Age  fortified  it.  Perhaps  King 
Alfred  fought  the  Danes  there.  Nobody 
knows,  and  a  day  in  June  is  no  time  to 
investigate.  But  what  is  that  faint, 
rhythmic  throb?  The  guns  in  France! 

June  9.  —  Spent  yesterday  afternoon 
and  evening  at  the  country  house  of 

Lord  and  Lady  M ,  with  an  oddly 

assorted  group  of  journalists,  labor 
leaders,  socialists,  radicals,  conserva- 
tives, moderates,  and  what  not.  It  was 
a  rainbow  club,  having  all  colors  of 
opinion,  and  yet,  as  Carlyle  said  of  his 
talk  with  Sterling,  'except  in  opinion 
not  disagreeing.'  They  discussed  many 
matters,  formally  on  the  lawn,  or 


informally  in  groups,  with  freedom, 
frankness,  and  thoroughness.  They 
were  not  afraid  of  names  or  labels. 
They  cracked  the  nut  of  every  kind  of 
idea  and  got  the  kernel.  The  war,  of 
course,  was  a  topic,  but  more  often 
the  background  of  other  topics,  in  the 
light  and  shadow  of  which  many  issues 
were  discussed,  such  as  Ireland,  Anglo- 
American  relations,  industrial  democ- 
racy, socialism,  religion,  and  the  like. 
The  Government  was  mercilessly  criti- 
cized —  not  merely  abused,  but  dealt 
with  intelligently,  with  constructive 
suggestion,  and  all  in  good  spirit.  Try 
to  imagine  such  discussions  at  a  dinner- 
table  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  me,  showing 
that  there  is  more  freedom  of  thought  in 
England  than  in  America.  Liberty,  in 
fact,  means  a  different  thing  in  England 
from  what  it  does  with  us.  In  England 
it  signifies  the  right  to  think,  feel,  and 
act  differently  from  other  people;  with 
us  it  is  the  right  to  develop  according  to 
a  standardized  attitude  of  thought  or 
conduct.  If  one  deviates  from  that 
standard,  he  is  scourged  into  line  by  the 
lash  of  opinion.  We  think  in  a  kind  of 
lock-step  movement.  Nor  is  this  con- 
formity imposed  from  without.  It  is  in- 
herent in  our  social  growth  and  habit. 
An  average  American  knows  tens  times 
as  many  people  as  the  average  English- 
man, and  talks  ten  times  as  much.  We 
are  gregarious;  we  gossip;  and  because 
everyone  knows  the  affairs  of  every- 
one else,  we  are  afraid  of  one  another. 
For  that  reason,  even  in  time  of  peace, 
public  opinion  moves  with  a  regiment- 
ed ruthlessness  unknown  in  England, 
where  the  majority  has  no  such  arrogant 
tyranny  as  it  has  with  us. 

June  11.  —  More  than  once  recently 
I  have  heard  Dr.  Forsyth  lecture,  and  I 
am  as  much  puzzled  by  his  speaking  as 
I  have  long  been  by  his  writing.  Each 
time  I  found  myself  interested  less  in 
his  thesis  than  in  the  curiously  involved 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


153 


processes  of  his  mind.  It  is  now  several 
years  since  I  read  his  famous  article  on 
'The  Lust  for  Lucidity,'  a  vice,  if  it  is 
a  vice,  of  which  his  worst  enemy,  if  he 
has  an  enemy,  would  never  think  of  ac- 
cusing him.  It  is  indeed  strange.  I  have 
read  everything  Dr.  Forsyth  has  writ- 
ten about  the  Cross,  and  yet  I  have  no 
idea  of  what  he  means  by  it.  As  was 
said  of  Newman,  his  single  sentences 
are  lucid,  often  luminous,  —  many  of 
them,  indeed,  glittering  epigrams,  — 
but  the  total  result  is  a  fog,  like  a  Scot- 
tish mist  hovering  over  Mount  Cal- 
vary. One  recalls  the  epigram  of  Eras- 
mus about  the  divines  of  his  day,  that 
'they  strike  the  fire  of  subtlety  from  the 
flint  of  obscurity.'  Just  when  one  ex- 
pects Dr.  Forsyth  to  extricate  his 
thought,  he  loses  himself  in  the  mystic 
void  of  evangelical  emotion.  But  per- 
haps it  is  my  fault.  When  he  writes  on 
other  subjects  —  on  literature  and  art, 
especially  —  he  is  as  inspiring  as  he  is 
winsome. 

June  14.  —  To-day  was  a  soft,  hazy 
day,  such  as  one  loves  in  London;  and 
suddenly,  at  noon,  there  was  a  rain  of 
air-raid  bombs.  The  explosions  were 
deafening.  Houses  trembled,  windows 
rattled  or  were  shattered  —  and  it  was 
all  over.  Throngs  of  people  soon  filled 
the  streets,  grave,  silent,  excited,  but 
with  no  signs  of  panic.  Quickly  ambu- 
lances were  moving  hither  and  yon. 
Not  far  from  the  City  Temple  I  saw  a 
cordon  formed  by  police  joining  hands 
at  the  doorway  of  a  shattered  house,  as 
the  dead  and  mutilated  —  one  little 
girl  with  her  leg  blown  off  —  were  being 
cared  for.  Calm  good-nature  prevailed. 
Officials  were  courteous  and  firm.  Ev- 
erybody was  kind,  helpful,  practical. 
Even  the  children,  darting  to  and  fro, 
seemed  not  to  be  flustered  at  all.  I  find 
it  difficult  to  describe,  much  less  to  ana- 
lyze, my  own  reaction.  I  seemed  to  be 
submerged  in  a  vast,  potent  tide  of  emo- 
tion, —  neither  fear,  nor  anger,  nor  ex- 


citement, —  in  which  my  will  floated 
like  a  tiny  boat  on  a  sea.  There  was  an 
unmistakable  current  of  thought,  how 
engendered  and  how  acting  I  know  not; 
but  I  was  inside  it  and  swept  along  by  it. 
While  my  mind  was  alert,  my  individu- 
ality seemed  to  abdicate  in  favor  of 
something  greater  than  itself.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  sense  of  unity  and  fu- 
sion of  purpose,  a  wave  of  common 
humanity,  which  drew  us  all  together 
in  a  trustful  and  direct  comradeship. 

June  18.  —  Met  H.  G.  Wells  at  lunch 
to-day,  his  invitation  being  a  response 
to  my  sermon  on  his  book,  God,  the  In- 
visible King.  He  entered  with  a  jigging 
sort  of  gait,  perspiring  profusely,  — 
in  fact,  doing  everything  profusely,  — 
all  fussed  up  about  the  heat,  saying  that 
he  feared  it  would  exterminate  him. 
In  personal  appearance  he  is  not  dis- 
tinguished, except  his  eyes,  where  one 
divines  the  strength  of  the  man.  Eager, 
friendly,  companionable,  his  talk,  thin- 
ly uttered,  is  not  unlike  his  writing  — 
vivid,  stimulating,  at  times  all-ques- 
tioning. Just  now  he  is  all  aglow  with 
his  discovery  of  God, '  the  happy  God  of 
the  heart,'  to  use  his  words.  He  looked 
surprised  when  I  suggested  that  he  had 
found  what  the  Bible  means  by  the 
Holy  Spirit,  as  if  he  had  thought  his  dis- 
covery entirely  new.  What  if  this  in- 
teresting man,  —  whose  genius  is  like  a 
magic  mirror  reflecting  what  is  in  the 
minds  of  men  before  they  are  aware  of 
it  themselves,  —  so  long  a  member  of 
the  Sect  of  Seekers,  should  join  the  Fel- 
lowship of  the  Finders.  Stranger  things 
have  happened,  but  his  rushing  into 
print  with  his  discovery  fills  me  with 
misgiving.  The  writing  man  is  an  odd 
species,  but  I  recall  the  saying  of  the 
Samoan  chief  to  the  missionary:  'We 
know  that  at  night  Some  One  goes  by 
among  the  trees,  but  we  never  speak  of 
it/  Anyway,  we  had  a  nutritious  time. 

Two  ministers  have  just  told  me  how, 
at  a  meeting  of  ministers  some  time  ago, 


154 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


which  they  attended,  a  resolution  was 
offered,  and  nearly  passed,  to  the  effect 
that  not  one  of  them  would  darken  the 
doors  of  the  City  Temple  during  my 
ministry.  My  visitors  told  it  with 
shame,  confessing  that  they,  too,  had 
been  prejudiced  against  me  as  an 
American.  It  recalled  how,  thirty 
years  ago,  when  Dr.  John  Hall  was 
called  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  Presbyterian 
Church,  New  York,  he  received  a  letter 
'  from  an  American  friend  saying,  'You 
will  find  a  prejudice  against  you  in  the 
minds  of  some  of  the  smaller  men  here. 
It  is  natural  that  they  should  feel  slight- 
ed by  a  call  being  given  to  you,  a  foreign- 
er, which  to  some  extent  will  be  strength- 
ened by  the  prejudice  against  Irishmen 
in  particular.'  Evidently  human  nature 
is  much  the  same  on  both  sides  of  the 
sea;  but  that  was  long  ago,  and  our  two 
countries  were  not  then  allies  in  the 
great  war.  I  do  not  recall  that  in  recent 
years  any  British  minister  working  in 
America  —  of  whom  there  are  many, 
but  not  half  enough  —  has  had  to  face 
such  a  feeling. 

July  18.  —  Joined  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don at  luncheon  with  the  Lord  Mayor 
at  the  Mansion  House,  and  he  was  much 
interested  in  the  ministry  of  my  col- 
league, Miss  Maude  Royden.  The  two 
grave  questions  in  his  mind  seemed  to 
be,  first,  does  she  actually  stand  in  the 
pulpit  where  I  stand  when  I  preach? 
second,  does  she  wear  a  hat?  If  I  had  to 
wear  the  gaiters  of  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don, I  should  be  concerned,  not  about 
Miss  Royden's  hat,  but  about  what  she 
is  doing  with  the  brains  under  her  hat. 
Like  John  Wesley,  she  may  remain  all 
her  days  in  the  Anglican  fold,  but  she 
will  be  there  only  in  her  private  capac- 
ity, and  her  influence  will  be  centrifugal. 
The  Bishop,  moreover,  though  his  fore- 
sight is  not  abnormal,  ought  to  suspect 
the  existence  of  the  forces  gathering 
about  the  greatest  woman  preacher  of 
our  generation  outside  his  jurisdiction. 


Had  he  been  wise,  instead  of  leaving  her 
to  consort  with  feminists,  intellectuals, 
and  social  revolutionaries  outside  the 
church,  he  would  have  set  her  the  task 
of  bringing  them  inside.  As  it  is,  the 
little  dark  woman  in  the  big  white  pul- 
pit is  a  note  of  interrogation  to  the  fu- 
ture of  the  Church  of  England,  and  the 
sign  of  its  failure  to  meet  a  great  move- 
ment; but  the  Bishop  can  see  nothing 
but  her  hat! 

Frail  of  figure,  slight  unspeakably, 
with  a  limp  in  her  gait,  as  a  speaker 
Miss  Royden  is  singularly  effective  in 
her  simplicity  and  directness.  There  is 
no  shrillness  in  her  eloquence,  no  im- 
pression of  strain.  In  style  conversa- 
tional rather  than  oratorical,  she  speaks 
with  the  inevitable  ease  of  long  practice. 
Some  of  her  epigrams  are  unforgettable 
in  their  quick-sighted  summing  up  of 
situations;  as  when  she  said  recently  in 
the  Royal  Albert  Hall:  'The  Church  of 
England  is  the  Conservative  Party  at 
prayer.'  She  is  an  authority  on  all  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  woman  and  child, 
holding  much  the  same  position  in  Eng- 
land that  Miss  Jane  Addams  has  long 
held  in  America.  Untrained  in  theol- 
ogy, —  which  some  hold  to  be  an  ad- 
vantage, —  she  deals  with  the  old  is- 
sues of  faith  as  an  educated,  spiritually 
minded  woman  in  sensitive  contact 
with  life,  albeit  casting  aside  the  '  muf- 
fled Christianity'  that  Wells  once  de- 
scribed as  the  religion  of  the  well-to-do 
classes.  Not  the  least  important  part  of 
her  work  is  what  I  call  her  '  clinic ' ;  her 
service  as  guide,  confidant,  and  friend 
to  hundreds  of  women,  and  as  confessor 
to  not  a  few.  Here  she  does  what  no 
man  may  ever  hope  to  do,  doubly  so  at 
a  time  when  England  is  a  world  of 
women  who  are  entering  upon  a  life 
new,  strange,  and  difficult.  As  she  re- 
mains a  loyal  Anglican,  at  least  we  are 
giving  an  example  of  that  Christian 
unity  of  which  we  hear  so  much  and  see 
so  little. 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


155 


July  20.  —  How  childish  people  can 
be,  especially  Britishers  and  Americans 
when  they  begin  to  compare  the  merits 
and  demerits  of  their  respective  lands. 
Each  contrasts  what  is  best  in  his  coun- 
try with  what  is  worst  in  the  other,  and 
both  proceed  upon  the  idea  that  differ- 
ence is  inferiority.  It  would  be  amusing, 
if  it  were  not  so  stupid.  One  sees  so 
much  of  it,  now  that  our  troops  are  be- 
ginning to  arrive  in  small  detachments, 
and  it  is  so  important  that  contacts 
should  be  happy.  As  it  is,  Americans  and 
Englishmen  look  at  each  other  askance, 
like  distant  cousins  who  have  a  dim 
memory  that  they  once  played  and 
fought  together,  and  are  not  sure  that 
they  are  going  to  be  friends.  Both  are 
thin-skinned,  but  their  skins  are  thick 
and  thin  in  different  spots,  and  it  takes 
time  and  tact  to  learn  the  spots.  Each 
says  the  wrong  thing  at  the  right  time. 
Our  men  are  puzzled  at  the  reticence  of 
the  English,  mistaking  it  for  snobbish- 
ness or  indifference.  The  English  are 
irritated  at  the  roars  of  laughter  that 
our  boys  emit  when  they  see  the  dimin- 
utive 'goods'  trains  and  locomotives, 
and  speak  of  England  as  if  they  were 
afraid  to  turn  around  lest  they  fall  into 
the  sea.  Among  the  early  arrivals  were 
a  few,  more  talkative  than  wise,  who 
said  that,  England  having  failed,  it  was 
'up  to  America  to  do  the  trick.'  They 
were  only  a  few,  but  they  did  harm. 
Alas,  all  of  us  will  be  wiser  before  the 
war  is  over.  If  only  we  can  keep  our 
senses,  especially  our  sense  of  humor. 
But  there  is  the  rub,  since  neither  un- 
derstands the  jokes  of  the  other,  re- 
garding them  as  insults.  Americans  and 
Scotchmen  understand  each  other  quick- 
ly and  completely,  no  doubt  because 
their  humor  is  more  alike.  We  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see. 

This  friction  and  criticism  actually 
extend  to  preaching.  The  other  day  I 
heard  an  American  preach  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  Scotchman  in  the  afternoon,  and 


an  Englishman  in  the  evening.  It  was 
most  interesting,  and  the  differences  of 
accent  and  emphasis  were  very  striking. 
The  American  was  topical  and  oratori- 
cal, the  Scotchman  expository  and  ana- 
lytical, the  Englishman  polished  and 
persuasive.  After  the  evening  service  a 
dear  old  Scotchman  confided  to  me  that 
no  Englishman  had  ever  preached  a  real 
sermon  in  his  life,  and  that  the  sermon 
to  which  we  had  just  listened  would  be 
resented  by  a  village  congregation  in 
Scotland.  On  my  objecting  that  there 
are  great  preachers  in  England,  he  in- 
sisted that '  an  Englishman  either  reads 
an  essay,  or  he  talks  nonsense;  and 
neither  of  these  is  preaching.'  As  a  rule, 
a  good  English  sermon  is,  if  not  an  es- 
say, at  least  of  the  essay  type;  but  the 
Scotchman  exaggerated.  When  I  made 
bold  to  ask  him  what  he  thought  of 
American  preaching,  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye  he  quoted  the  words  of  Herbert: 

'  Do  not  grudge 

To  pick  treasures  out  of  an  earthen  pot. 
The  worst  speaks  something  good:  if  all  want 

sense, 
God  takes  a  text,  and  preacheth  patience.' 

Not  wishing  to  tempt  providence,  I  did 
not  press  the  matter;  but  we  did  agree, 
diplomatically,  that  neither  type  of 
preaching  is  what  it  ought  to  be.  The 
people  are  not  astonished  at  the  teach- 
ing, as  of  old,  nor  do  the  rulers  tremble 
with  rage. 

July  24.  —  Had  a  delightful  chat  over 
a  chop  with  Sir  Gilbert  Parker,  and  a 
good  'row'  about  Henry  James.  When 
I  called  James's  renunciation  of  his 
American  for  British  citizenship  an 
apostasy,  my  host  was '  wicked '  enough 
to  describe  it  as  an  apotheosis.  It  was 
in  vain  that  I  argued  that  James  was 
not  a  true  cosmopolitan,  else  he  would 
have  been  at  home  anywhere,  even  in 
his  own  country.  The  talk  then  turned 
to  the  bad  manners  of  the  two  countries, 
ours  being  chiefly  diplomatic,  theirs 
literary.  Indeed,  if  one  takes  the  trouble 


156 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


to  read  what  Englishmen  have  written 
about  America,  —  from  the  days  long 
gone  when  they  used  to  venture  across 
the  Atlantic  to  enlighten  us  with  lec- 
tures in  words  of  one  syllable,  to  the 
days  of  Dickens,  and  how  Britishers 
have  gone  sniffing  their  way  through 
America,  finding  everything  wrong  be- 
cause un-English,  —  it  is  a  wonder  there 
has  not  been  war  every  five  years. 
This  attitude  of  supercilious  and  thinly 
veiled  contempt  has  continued  until  it 
has  hardened  into  a  habit.  Nor  could 
we  recall  any  books  written  in  America 
in  ridicule  of  England.  Meanwhile,  our 
diplomatic  atrocities  have  been  out- 
rageous. Such  antics  and  attitudes,  we 
agreed,  would  make  friendship  impos- 
sible between  individuals,  and  they  de- 
mand an  improvement  in  manners,  as 
well  as  in  morals,  on  both  sides.  In  the 
midst  of  the  question  whether  Watts- 
Dunton  saved  Swinburne  or  extin- 
guished him,  there  was  an  air-raid 
warning  —  and  so  we  reached  no  con- 
clusion. 

July  27.  —  Received  the  following 
letter  from  a  City  Temple  boy  in  the 
trenches:  — 

SOMEWHERE  IN  HELL,  July  16. 
DEAK  PBEACHER,  — 

The  luck  is  all  on  your  side;  you  still  be- 
lieve in  things.  Good  for  you.  It  is  topping, 
if  one  can  do  it.  But  war  is  such  a  devil's 
nursery.  I  got  knocked  over,  but  I  am  up 
and  at  it  again.  I'm  tough.  They  started 
toughening  me  the  first  day.  My  bayonet 
instructor  was  an  ex-pug,  just  the  man  to 
develop  one's  innate  chivalry.  They  hung 
out  the  bunting  and  gave  me  a  big  send-off, 
when  we  came  out  here  to  scatter  the  Hun's 
guts.  Forgive  me  writing  so.  I  know  you 
will  forgive  me,  but  who  will  forgive  God? 
Not  I  —  not  I!  This  war  makes  me  hate 
God.  I  don't  know  whether  He  is  the  God  of 
battles  and  enjoys  the  show,  as  He  is  said 
to  have  done  long  ago.  ...  If  so,  there  are 
smoking  holocausts  enough  to  please  Him  in 
No  Man's  Land.  But,  anyway,  He  let  it 
happen !  Omnipotent!  and  —  He  let  it  hap- 


pen! Omniscient!  Knew  it  in  advance,  and 
let  it  happen!  I  hate  Him.  You  are  kinder 
to  me  than  God  has  been.  Good-bye. 

The  religious  reactions  of  men  under 
the  pressure  and  horror  of  war  are  often 
terrifying.  The  general  rule  —  to  which, 
of  course,  there  are  many  exceptions 
both  ways  —  is  that  those  who  go  in 
pious,  with  a  kind  of  traditional  piety, 
come  out  hard  and  indifferent,  and  some- 
times militantly  skeptical;  while  those 
who  were  careless  emerge  deeply  seri- 
ous —  religious,  but  hardly  Christian, 
with  a  primitive  pantheism  mixed  with 
fatalism.  Many,  to  be  sure,  are  con- 
firmed in  a  mood  such  as  haunts  the 
stories  of  Conrad,  in  which  the  good  and 
bad  alike  sink  into  a '  vast  indifference,' 
or  the  mood  of  Hardy,  in  whom  pessi- 
mism is  mitigated  by  pity.  Others  fall 
back  upon  the  'hard,  unyielding  de- 
spair '  of  Russell,  and  their  heroism  fills 
me  with  awe.  Huxley,  I  know,  thought 
the  great  Force  that  rules  the  universe 
a  force  to  be  fought,  and  he  was  ready 
to  fight  it.  It  may  be  magnificent,  but 
it  is  not  war.  The  odds  are  so  uneven, 
the  fight  so  futile.  And  still  others  have 
learned,  at  last,  the  meaning  of  the 
Cross. 

(In  the  interval  between  these  two  en- 
tries, I  went  along  the  war-front,  as  a  guest 
of  the  British  Government;  and  after  spend- 
ing some  time  speaking  to  the  troops,  re- 
turned to  America.  I  discovered  an  amaz- 
ing America,  the  like  of  which  no  one  had 
ever  seen,  or  even  imagined,  before.  Every- 
where one  heard  the  sound  of  marching, 
marching,  marching;  and  I,  who  had  just 
seen  what  they  were  marching  into,  watched 
it  all  with  an  infinite  ache  in  my  heart. 
Hardly  less  terrifying  was  the  blend  of  alarm, 
anger,  hate,  knight-errantry,  hysteria,  ideal- 
ism, cynicism,  moralistic  fervor  and  plain 
bafflement,  which  made  up  the  war-mood 
of  America.  One  felt  the  altruism  and  in- 
humanity, the  sincerity  and  sheer  brutish- 
ness  lurking  under  all  our  law  and  order, 
long  sleeked  over  by  prosperity  and  ease, 
until  we  were  scarcely  aware  of  it.  From 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


157 


New  York  to  Iowa,  from  Texas  to  Boston  I 
went  to  and  fro,  telling  our  people  what  the 
war  was  like;  after  which  I  returned  to 
England.) 

October  24.  —  Joined  a  group  of  Free 
Church  ministers  at  a  private  breakfast 
given  by  the  Prime  Minister  at  No.  10 
Downing  Street.  It  was  the  most  ex- 
traordinary function  I  have  ever  at- 
tended, as  much  for  its  guests  as  for  its 
host.  Mr.  Lloyd  George  spoke  to  us  for 
more  than  an  hour,  and  we  saw  him  at 
close  quarters  in  the  intimacy  of  a  self- 
revelation  most  disarming.  What  a 
way  he  has  of  saying,  by  the  lifting  of 
an  eyebrow,  by  the  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, by  a  gesture  in  a  pause,  volumes 
more  than  his  words  tell.  He  feels  that 
his  Free  Church  brethren  are  estranged, 
and  he  wished  to  explain  matters  and 
set  himself  right.  His  address  was  very 
adroit,  but  one  felt  a  suggestion  of  cun- 
ning even  in  his  candor,  despite  a  win- 
ning smile.  He  talked  like  a  man  in  a 
cage,  telling  how  he  was  unable  to  do 
many  things  he  would  like  to  do.  As  he 
spoke,  one  realized  the  enormous  diffi- 
culties of  a  man  in  his  place,  —  the  pull 
and  tug  of  diverse  interests,  —  his  in- 
credible burdens,  and  the  vast  issues 
with  which  he  must  deal.  No  wonder 
time  has  powdered  his  hair  almost 
white,  and  cut  deep  lines  in  his  face. 
Behind  him  hung  a  full-length  painting 
of  Pitt,  and  I  thought  of  the  two  to- 
gether, each  leading  his  country  in  an 
hour  of  supreme  crisis.  I  thought  him 
worthy  of  such  company,  —  though 
hardly  in  the  Gladstone  tradition,  —  a 
man  of  ideas  rather  than  of  principles, 
with  more  of  the  mysterious  force  of 
genius  than  either  Pitt  or  Peel,  but  lack- 
ing something  of  the  eternal  fascina- 
tion of  Disraeli.  Such  men  are  usually 
regarded  as  half-charlatan  and  half- 
prophet,  and  the  Prime  Minister  does 
not  escape  that  estimate. 

At  the  close  of  the  address  there  was 
a  disposition  to  heckle  the  Prime  Min- 


ister, during  which  he  learned  that 
Nonconformity  had  been  estranged  to 
some  extent  —  and  he  also  learned  why. 
One  of  the  urgent  questions  before  the 
country  is  an  actual  choice  between 
Bread  and  Beer, -and  the  Government 
has  been  unable,  apparently,  to  decide. 
The  food-hogging  brewery  interests 
seem  to  be  sovereign,  and  the  Prime 
Minister  is  tied  —  too  willingly,  per- 
haps. When  asked  why,  unlike  Presi- 
dent Wilson,  he  avoids  the  use  of  the 
word  God  in  his  addresses,  I  thought 
his  reply  neat.  It  is  done  deliberately, 
he  said,  lest  he  seem  to  come  into  com- 
petition with  the  blasphemous  mouth- 
ings  of  the  German  Emperor.  His  final 
plea  was  that,  as  Britain  must  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  war  until  America  is  ready, 
—  as  Russia  bore  it  until  Britain  was 
ready,  —  she  must  muster  all  her  cour- 
age, her  patience,  and  her  moral  forti- 
tude. 

As  I  left  the  house,  a  group  of  lynx- 
eyed,  sleuth-like  press-men  —  good  fel- 
lows, all  —  waylaid  and  assailed  me  for 
some  hint  of  the  meaning  of  such  a  gath- 
ering; but  I  was  dumb.  They  were  dis- 
appointed, saying  that  'after  a  minister 
has  had  breakfast  with  the  Prime  Min- 
ister he  ought  to  be  a  well-primed  min- 
ister'; but  as  I  declined  to  be  pumped, 
they  let  me  go.  When  the  supply  of 
truth  is  not  equal  to  the  demand,  the 
temptation  is  to  manufacture,  and 
speculations  in  the  afternoon  papers  as 
to  the  significance  of  the  breakfast  were 
amazing.  It  was  called  'A  Parson's 
Peace,'  in  which  the  Prime  Minister 
had  called  a  prayer-meeting  to  patch  up 
a  peace  with  the  enemy  — which  i 
about  as  near  as  some  journals  ever 
arrive  at  the  truth. 

November  6.  — Under  cover  of  a 
dense  fog— a  dirty  apron  which  Mother 
Nature  flung  over  us  to  hide  us  from  the 
air-raiders  — I  went  down  last  night 
into  Essex,  to  preach  in  a  village  chapel 
for  a  brother  who  is  discouraged  in  his 


158 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


work.  I  found  the  chapel  hidden  away 
on  a  back  street,  telling  of  a  time  when 
these  little  altars  of  faith  and  liberty 
dared  not  show  themselves  on  the  main 
street  of  a  town.  It  was  named  Bethes- 
da,  bringing  to  mind  the  words  of  Dis- 
raeli, in  Sybil,  where  he  speaks  of '  little 
plain  buildings  of  pale  brick,  with 
names  painted  on  them  of  Zion,  Bethel, 
Bethesda;  names  of  a  distant  land,  and 
the  language  of  a  persecuted  and  ancient 
race;  yet  such  is  the  mysterious  power 
of  their  divine  quality,  breathing  con- 
solation in  the  nineteenth  century  to 
the  harassed  forms  and  harrowed  souls 
of  a  Saxon  peasantry.'  Nor  is  that  all. 
They  have  been  the  permanent  foun- 
tains of  religious  life  on  this  island;  and, 
in  any  grand  reunion  of  the  Church 
hereafter  to  be  realized,  their  faith, 
their  patience,  their  heroic  tenacity  to 
principle  must  be  conserved,  else  some- 
thing precious  will  perish.  Tribute  is 
paid  to  the  folk  of  the  Mayflower  for 
their  daring  of  adventure  in  facing  an 
unknown  continent  for  the  right  to 
worship;  but  no  less  heroic  were  the 
men  who  remained  in  the  homeland, 
fighting,  suffering,  and  waiting  for  the 
freedom  of  faith  and  the  liberty  of 
prayer. 

November  10.  —  So,  at  last,  it  is  de- 
cided that  we  are  to  be  rationed  as  to 
bread,  sugar,  and  fats  of  all  kinds,  and 
everybody  must  have  a  coupon.  It  is  a 
democratic  arrangement,  since  all  will 
share  equally  as  long  as  the  supply 
lasts.  Unfortunately  the  Truth  has 
been  rationed  for  a  long  time,  and  no 
coupons  are  to  be  had.  It  is  a  war  fought 
in  the  dark  by  a  people  fed^on  lies.  One 
recalls  the  line  in  the  Iliad,  which  might 
have  been  written  this  morning:  'We 
mortals  hear  only  the  news,  and  know 
nothing  at  all.'  No  one  wishes  to  pub- 
lish information  which  would  be  of  aid 
to  the  enemy;  but  that  obvious  precau- 
tion is  made  the  convenient  cover  of 
every  kind  of  stupidity  and  inefficiency. 


Propaganda  is  the  most  terrible  weapon 
so  far  developed  by  the  war.  It  is  worse 
than  poison  gas.  If  the  wind  is  in  the 
right  direction,  gas  may  kill  a  few  and 
injure  others;  but  the  possibilities  of 
manipulating  the  public  mind,  by  with- 
holding or  discoloring  the  facts,  are  ap- 
palling. One  is  so  helpless  in  face  of  it. 
No  one  can  think  intelligently  without 
knowing  the  facts;  and  if  the  facts  are 
controlled  by  interested  men,  the  very 
idea  of  democracy  is  destroyed  and  be- 
comes a  farce.  This,  and  the  prostitu- 
tion of  parliamentary  government  in 
every  democratic  land,  are  the  two 
dangers  of  a  political  kind  most  to  be 
dreaded. 

November  17.  —  Dean  Inge,  of  St. 
Paul's,  is  one  of  the  greatest  minds  on 
this  island,  and  an  effective  preacher  if 
one  forgets  the  manner  and  attends  to 
the  matter  of  his  discourse.  An  aris- 
tocrat by  temper,  he  is  a  pessimist  in 
philosophy  and  a  Christian  mystic  in 
faith  —  what  a  combination!  If  not 
actually  a  pessimist,  he  is  at  least  a  Cas- 
sandra, and  we  need  one  such  prophet, 
if  no  more,  in  every  generation.  No 
wonder  he  won  the  title  of  '  the  gloomy 
Dean.'  Without  wasting  a  word,  in  a 
style  as  incisive  as  his  thought,  —  clear, 
keen-cutting,  —  he  sets  forth  the  truth 
as  he  sees  it,  careless  as  to  whether  it  is 
received  or  not.  There  is  no  unction  in 
his  preaching;  no  pathos.  It  is  cold  in- 
tellect, with  never  a  touch  of  tender- 
ness. Nor  is  he  the  first  gloomy  Dean 
of  St.  Paul's.  There  was  Donne,  a 
mighty  preacher  in  his  day,  though 
known  now  chiefly  as  a  poet,  whom  Wal- 
ton described  as  'enticing  others  by  a 
sacred  art  and  courtship  to  amend  their 
lives.'  Yet  surely  the  theology  of 
Donne  was  terrifying  rather  than  en- 
ticing. There  is  very  little  of  the  poet  in 
Dean  Inge,  and  none  of  the  dismal 
theology  of  Donne,  who  was  haunted 
equally  by  the  terrors  of  hell  and  by  the 
horrors  of  physical  decay  in  death. 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


159 


December  I .  —  The  British  Army  is 
before  Jerusalem!  What  an  item  of 
news,  half  dream-like  in  its  remoteness, 
half  romantic  in  its  reality.  What 
echoes  it  awakens  in  our  hearts,  evoking 
we  know  not  how  many  memories  of 
the  old,  high,  holy  legend  of  the  world ! 
Often  captured,  often  destroyed,  that 
gray  old  city  still  stands,  like  the  faith 
of  which  it  is  the  emblem,  because  it  is 
founded  upon  a  rock.  If  Rome  is  the 
Eternal  City,  Jerusalem  is  the  City  of 
the  Eternal.  Four  cities  may  be  said  to 
stand  out  in  the  story  of  man  as  centres 
of  the  highest  life  of  the  race,  and  about 
them  are  gathered  the  vastest  accumu- 
lations of  history  and  of  legend :  Jerusa- 
lem, Athens,  Rome,  and  London!  But 


no  city  can  have  the  same  place  in  the 
spiritual  geography  of  mankind  that 
Jerusalem  has.  For  four  thousand  years 
it  has  been  an  altar  and  a  confessional 
of  the  race.  Religiously,  it  is  the  capital 
of  the  world,  if  only  because  Jesus  walked 
in  it  and  wept  over  it.  O  Jerusalem,  if 
we  forget  thee,  Athens  fails,  Rome  fails, 
London  fails!  Without  the  faith  and 
vision  that  burned  in  the  city  on  Mount 
Moriah,  our  race  will  lose  its  way  in  the 
dim  country  of  this  world.  Berlin  does 
not  mean  much.  Jerusalem  means 
everything.  If  only  we  could  agree  that, 
hereafter,  when  we  have  disagree- 
ments, we  will  make  our  way  to  the 
ancient  City  of  God,  and  arbitrate) 
them! 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


BY  HANS  COUDENHOVE 


OLD  PRESIDENT  KRUGER  is  reported 
to  have  said  that  the  white  man  who 
understands  a  native  has  not  yet  been 
born.  C.  J.  Rhodes  used  to  call  the  na- 
tives 'those  poor  children';  but  he  was 
not,  like  Kriiger,  born  and  brought  up 
among  them,  and  to  him,  on  his  tower- 
ing height,  .they  were,  no  doubt,  only 
those  poor  children.  To  one  who  is  in 
incessant  contact  with  them,  without 
being  officially  a  master,  they  will,  al- 
though often  reminding  him  of  children, 
appear  vastly  different  in  essence.  Na- 
tives are  often  childlike,  but  much  of- 
tener  childish,  in  the  expression  of  mer- 
riment and  in  their  entertainments;  and 
sometimes  they  appear  to  bring  into 


their  intercourse  with  the  white  man 
who  has  gained  —  or  thinks  he  has 
gained  —  their  confidence  the  trustful- 
ness of  children.  But  these  are  about 
all  the  points  of  resemblance  between 
the  two. 

There  are,  however,  a  great  many 
points  of  resemblance  between  natives 
and  Europeans,  irrespective  of  age;  and 
these  are  the  more  striking  by  contrast 
with  the  many  points  of  difference, 
But  it  is  in  the  character  of  the  native 
himself  that  the  greatest  contrasts 
occur.  As  regards  taste,  for  instance: 
one  and  the  same  individual  will  on  one 
occasion  show  remarkable  artistic  in- 
stinct, and  on  another  he  will  exhibit 


160 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


the  greatest  delight  in  things  which,  to  a 
white  man,  appear  both  inartistic  and 
ugly.  In  many  tribes  men  and  women 
are  fond  of  decorating  their  heads  with 
flowers,  and  in  doing  so  show  a  just  ap- 
preciation of  the  effects  of  form  and 
color.  And  yet  the  very  men  and  women 
who  display  exquisite  judgment  when 
they  adorn  themselves  with  the  means 
which  Nature  has  put  at  their  disposal, 
forfeit  all  their  artistic  sense  the  mo- 
ment they  come  in  touch  with  Euro- 
pean wearing  apparel,  and  walk  about, 
objects  of  abject  ridicule,  with  flayed 
tropical  helmets,  in  torn  coats  and 
trousers  either  three  times  too  large  or 
three  times  too  small  for  their  size. 
I  once  tore  off  the  worn  black-cloth 
cover  of  my  diary.  When  my  cook  ap- 
peared before  me  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, he  was  wearing  it  round  his  neck  as 
an  ornament. 

Years  ago,  when  I  was  living  in  Ta- 
veta,  in  British  East  Africa,  Malikanoi, 
one  of  the  two  paramount  chiefs  of  the 
Wataveta,  wore  a  shock  of  unusually 
long,  unkempt  hair.  He  was  supposed 
to  be  a  magician,  and  his  subjects  be- 
lieved that  his  occult  powers,  like  those 
of  Samson  as  an  athlete,  lay  in  his 
hair.  As  he  dressed,  besides,  in  non- 
descript old  discolored  European  gar- 
ments, his  appearance  could  not  be 
called  either  prepossessing  or  dignified. 
As  the  time  came  near  when  his  son  — 
a  splendid  lad,  who,  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, had  killed  a  lion  single-handed 
with  his  spear  —  was  to  come  of  age, 
Malikanoi  announced  that,  in  honor  of 
the  occasion,  he  would  shave  off  his 
hair. 

I  was  invited  to  the  festivities  as  a 
guest;  and,  in  consequence,  on  the  day 
appointed,  I  repaired  to  the  Taveta  for- 
est, where  the  dances  took  place.  There, 
sitting  on  an  old  deck-chair,  I  found  the 
chief;  and  my  surprise  was  as  great  as 
must  have  been,  in  Mr.  Locke's  novel, 
that  of  Ephraim's  guests,  when  Clemen- 


tina Wing  made  her  appearance  in  a 
hundred-guinea  gown  and  diamonds. 
His  head  and  face  were  clean-shaven, 
and  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  the 
Csesarean  outline  of  his  clear-cut  profile. 
He  was  wrapped  in  the  ample  folds  of  a 
toga,  dyed  the  color  of  amethyst,  and 
he  had  wound  round  his  bald  head  a  sin- 
gle string  of  glass  beads  of  the  same 
color  as  the  toga.  He  presented  a  per- 
fect picture,  and  I  said  to  myself  that 
the  mere  imagining  of  such  a  combina- 
tion as  the  toga  and  the  glass  beads  of 
one  and  the  same  color  indicated  pro- 
found artistic  feeling.  Yet  for  years 
that  man  had  walked  about  looking  like 
a  buffoon. 

II 

Another  field  where  the  contradic- 
tions in  a  negro's  aesthetic  notions  are 
very  apparent  is  that  of  the  dances. 
Some  are  very  beautiful,  and  others 
very  ugly ;  yet  the  performers  themselves 
do  not  appear  to  see  any  difference. 
The  Wakinga  of  the  Livingstone  Range, 
for  instance,  have  a  dance  with  solos 
which  might  have  been,  and  perhaps 
—  who  knows?  —  was  performed  be- 
fore the  shrine  of  some  Greek  deity  in 
the  days  of  Pericles.  Nothing  more 
beautiful,  from  a  choregraphic  point  of 
view,  could  be  imagined.  And  yet  these 
same  people  have  another  dance  —  I 
regret  to  say  it  is  the  more  popular  of 
the  two  —  which,  so  far  as  ugliness  goes, 
baffles  description.  After  a  time,  I  for- 
bade it  in  my  camp,  where  small  groups 
were  frequently  performing  it.  My 
wish  was  respected,  but,  ag  a  punish- 
ment, I  suppose,  for  my  want  of  taste, 
the  other,  the  beautiful  dance,  was  nev- 
er again  executed  in  my  presence,  al- 
though I  repeatedly  asked  for  it. 

It  is  the  same  with  their  songs.  Many 
natives,  as  is  well  known,  have  splendid 
voices,  mostly  baritone  and  tenor,  rare- 
ly bass.  Some  of  their  choruses  are  a 
pleasure  to  listen  to.  But  they  will,  in 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


161 


the  midst  of  their  songs,  no  matter 
whether  they  are  performing  singly  or 
with  others,  often  change,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, into  an  ear-rending  falsetto,  with- 
out apparently  feeling  conscious  of  any 
difference.  They  call  it  'singing  with 
the  small  voice,'  and  protests  are  re- 
ceived with  surprise. 

Nowhere,  however,  is  the  inconse- 
quential behavior  of  the  native  more 
glaring  than  where  his  cleanliness  is 
concerned.  Except  in  the  waterless 
plains,  and  where  they  are  in  the  habit 
of  coating  themselves  with  oil  and  red 
ochre,  —  the  one,  generally,  coincides 
with  the  other,  —  most  natives  are  ex- 
tremely fond  of  bathing.  This  is  espe- 
cially the  case  in  hilly  countries  tra- 
versed by  many  streams.  They  do  not 
appear  to  mind  the  cold  in  the  least, 
and  often  bathe  in  midwinter  before 
sunrise.  Certain  tribes,  like  that  of  the 
Wayao  of  Nyasaland,  might  be  said  to 
be  fanatically  fond  of  bathing.  They 
bathe  three  and  four  times  a  day,  and 
their  bath  is  as  great  a  necessity  to  them 
as  food  or  drink. 

A  curious  consequence  of  this  admir- 
able quality  has  been,  on  several  occa- 
sions, the  complete  failure  of  attempts 
on  my  part  to  cure  people  of  skin  dis- 
eases or  ulcers.  Patients  with  diseases 
which  necessitated  the  keeping  on  of  an 
ointment  for  several  consecutive  days 
would  persist  in  bathing  at  least  once  a 
day,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
getting  rid,  in  the  process,  of  all  the 
stuff  which  was  to  bring  them  health  or 
relief;  while  others  could  not  be  pre- 
vented from  taking  off,  while  bathing, 
bandages  which  had  been  carefully 
swathed  round  their  limbs  an  hour  or 
two  before.  And  yet  the  garments  of 
these  very  people  —  some  of  whom 
will  rather  suffer  disease  than  go,  for 
a  short  period,  without  their  daily  bath 
—  very  often,  particularly  when  they 
have  adopted  European  garb,  teem  with 
lice,  as  their  huts  swarm  with  bugs  and, 

VOL.  138— NO.  2 


too  often,  also,  with  the  dangerous  re- 
current fever-ticks. 

Besides  being,  to  all  appearance, 
quite  indifferent  to  vermin,  they  lack 
the  most  rudimentary  notions  of  hy- 
giene and  sanitation,  even  in  countries 
long  inhabited  by  white  men,  and  do 
not  seem  to  feel  the  slightest  disgust 
when  they  come  into  contact  with 
those  nameless  things  which  fill  every 
European  with  horror.  In  this  respect 
they  are  simply  exasperating:  to  treat 
people  with  ulcers,  a  duty  which,  now 
and  then,  falls  to  the  lot  of  every 
traveler  in  Tropical  Africa,  is  a  most 
thankless  task.  They  will  drop  the 
soiled  cotton- wool  just  detached  from 
their  sores  anywhere  near,  and  put 
their  hands  or  their  feet  in  it  with  the 
greatest  unconcern.  Once  I  actually 
found  a  man,  a  Ngoni,  washing  his 
soiled  bandage  in  his  cooking-pot,  with 
the  stream  running  past  not  a  hundred 
yards  away. 

The  mention  of  this  incident  reminds 
me  of  a  native  peculiarity  against 
which  every  traveler  and  every  settler 
in  Tropical  Africa  has  been  fighting 
from  time  immemorial,  and  will  prob- 
ably go  on  fighting  until  the  end  of 
tune.  No  matter  how  near  to  the  camp- 
ing-place or  to  the  house  the  stream 
passes,  the  servants  will  never  carry  the 
cups,  pots,  and  plates  to  it,  in  order  to 
wash  them  in  the  running  water:  they 
will,  instead,  carry  a  bucket  with  water 
to  the  kitchen  or  to  the  cooking-place, 
and  here  wash  everything  in  the  same 
water. 

The  single  inland  tribe  of  my  ac- 
quaintance that  forms  an  exception 
to  this  general  rule  of  indifference  to 
the  cleanliness  of  their  surroundings  is 
the  Wasokiri  to  the  north  of  Lake 
Nyasa.  They  might  have  been  to  school 
in  Holland. 

It  is  often  mentioned,  as  a  proof  of 
the  native's  tacit  admission  of  the  white 
man's  superiority,  that  he  will  always, 


162 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


when  he  has  the  choice,  come  to  the 
latter  for  cure  of  disease,  in  preference 
to  his  own  doctors.  But  his  ineradicable 
objection  to  hospitals,  where  such  exist, 
does  not  support  this  opinion.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that  many  natives  share 
with  a  considerable  number  of  the  poor 
classes  among  white  people  the  idea 
that,  in  hospital,  they  are  being  experi- 
mented upon;  while  others  are  con- 
vinced that  a  stay  in  the  hospital  in- 
evitably means  the  loss  of  a  limb.  I 
have  known  many  cases  of  natives  who, 
rather  than  agree  to  being  taken  into 
hospital,  would  resign  themselves  to  the 
prospect  of  endless  suffering  or  death; 
and  many  more  where  the  patients, 
after  being  told  that  they  would  be  sent 
to  the  hospital,  simply  vanished. 

On  closer  examination,  this  apparent 
preference  of  the  native  for  European 
remedies,  where  their  use  does  not  im- 
ply a  visit  to  the  hospital,  reduces  itself, 
like  most  native  questions,  to  one  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  Europe- 
ans generally  charge  nothing  at  all,  or 
only  nominally,  for  their  assistance, 
while  native  doctors  are  very  expensive, 
comparatively  speaking.  The  fees  vary 
from  three  to  fifteen  shillings  and  more; 
or,  where  coin  is  not  yet  in  general  use, 
the  equivalent  in  goods.  In  Nyasaland 
the  fee  for  curing  an  ulcer  is  three  shil- 
lings; for  relieving  an  impaired  diges- 
tion, six;  for  more  dangerous  diseases, 
fifteen.  This  fee  is  never  paid  in  ad- 
vance, and  —  a  detail  which  rnight  be 
recommended  for  adoption  in  civilized 
communities  —  only  when  the  cure  has 
been  a  total  success.  When  natives  are 
asked  what  would  happen  if  they  did 
not  pay  up  after  being  cured,  they  de- 
clare that  the  cured  patient  would  im- 
mediately fall  ill  again,  and,  if  he  per- 
sisted in  his  refusal,  die. 

Many  writers  on  African  affairs,  and 
the  majority  of  settlers,  are  of  opinion 
that  the  marked  changes  that  appear  in 
the  general  behavior  of  male  African 


negroes  when  they  first  start  courting 
are  of  a  pathological  nature;  and  for 
many  years  I  shared  this  view.  But  of 
late  I  have  come  to  ask  myself  whether 
these  changes  are  not  simply  the  effect 
of  various  drugs,  to  the  use  of  which,  at 
that  particular  period  of  their  existence, 
natives  are  much  addicted,  and  of  which 
they  partake  with  that  absence  of  mod- 
eration which  characterizes  them  when- 
ever it  is  a  question  of  gratifying  the 
senses. 

Several  of  these  elixirs  are  in  use  in 
that  country;  the  one  reputed  to  have 
the  most  effect  is  made  by  boiling  the 
inner  bark  of  a  tree  which  is  conspicu- 
ous, where  it  occurs,  by  the  dark  color 
of  its  small  leaves,  in  contrast  with  the 
lighter  green  of  the  Myombo  forest  in 
general. 

I  have  had  occasion  to  observe  the 
effects  of  this  drug,  almost  day  by  day, 
on  a  young  fellow  in  my  service,  a  Yao, 
who  had  resolved  to  marry,  native  fash- 
ion, a  pretty  young  widow,  who  was 
somewhat  older  than  he.  Arvad  would, 
of  course,  never  have  told  me  that  he 
was  drugging  himself,  but  he  was  be- 
trayed to  me  by  the  man  who  was  pro- 
viding him  with  the  stuff.  The  effects 
of  the  drug  on  the  lad  were  remarkable 
indeed.  For  several  days  he  appeared 
to  be  in  a  kind  of  waking  trance,  like 
Mrs.  Gamp,  walking  about  with  a  stiff, 
extended  neck,  a  fixed  stare,  and  utter- 
ing a  kind  of  sotto-voce  recitative.  This 
state  was  interrupted  from  time  to 
time  by  intermezzos  of  buoyant  gayety ! 
After  about  a  week,  he  completely  lost 
his  memory :  when  I  sent  him  to  deliver 
a  message,  he  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
house;  and,  when  I  followed  him  there 
about  half  an  hour  later,  he  had  deliv- 
ered no  message,  totally  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  the  person  to  whom  the 
message  was  sent  sat  not  five  yards  away 
from  him.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
it.  Shortly  afterward  we  parted  com- 
pany, by  mutual  consent. 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


163 


III 


The  native  pharmacopoeia,  though 
mixed  with  superstitious  practices,  com- 
prises many  efficacious  remedies  for  all 
kinds  of  diseases;  and  when  the  time 
comes  for  it  to  be  investigated  thorough- 
ly and  extensively,  it  will  probably  add 
some  invaluable  and  quite  unforeseen 
data  to  our  own  store  of  medical  know- 
ledge. Native  doctors  are  notoriously 
reticent.  For  years,  in  German  East 
Africa,  Europeans  have  tried  in  vain 
to  find  out  the  cure  of  the  Wahehe 
tribe  against  syphilis  —  a  cure  which,  at 
least  as  far  as  all  outward  symptoms 
are  concerned,  is  wonderfully  effective. 
Doubtless  there  exist,  among  native 
tribes,  secret  medicines  about  which  we 
know  nothing  at  all.  Occasionally,  and 
by  chance,  one  hears  hints  which  give 
much  food  for  speculation. 

One  striking  instance  may  be  men- 
tioned. Speaking  about  the  spirillum 
fever-tick,  the  authors  of  The  Great  Pla- 
teau of  Northern  Rhodesia  say :  *  An  inter- 
esting point  —  though,  unfortunately, 
one  that  cannot  be  vouched  for — is  that 
some  of  the  Angoni  have,  by  repeated 
attacks  in  generation  after  generation, 
become  immune.  To  preserve  this  im- 
munity when  traveling,  and  with  the 
idea  of  imparting  immunity  to  their 
friends,  they  are  said  to  carry  these 
home-bred  ticks  with  them,  from  place 
to  place.'  This  statement,  to  which  the 
writers  themselves  do  not  appear  to 
give  too  much  credit,  apart  from  sound- 
ing fantastic,  is  also,  so  far  as  the  tame 
tick's  action  is  concerned,  rather  ob- 
scure. But  the  fact  of  domesticated 
ticks  being  taken  along  like  household 
pets  by  people  going  on  a  journey  finds 
an  interesting  confirmation,  unknown, 
I  think,  to  the  authors  just  quoted,  in 
a  book  which  was  written  in  the  Reign 
of  Queen  Anne,  the  Journal  of  Robert 
Drury,  the  Madagascar  slave,  attrib- 
uted by  some  to  Defoe.  He  tells  ex- 


actly the  same  story  about  one  of  the 
Madagascar  tribes  and  their  ticks  or 
bugs,  which  must  have  been  the  iden- 
tical spirillum  ticks. 

The  expression  'cowardly  native'  is  a 
household  word  among  Europeans  in 
Africa,  and  yet,  instances  of  courageous 
actions  of  natives,  such  as,  to  my  know- 
ledge, no  white  man  ever  performed,  are 
innumerable.  The  reason  for  this  entire- 
ly unmerited  reputation  probably  lies  in 
the  fact  that,  as  a  rule,  they  are  not  in 
the  least  ashamed  to  admit  that  they 
are,  or  that  they  have  been,  afraid, 
while  a  white  man,  unless  he  is  a  recog- 
nized hero,  will  die  rather  than  make 
such  an  avowal.  Another  reason,  no 
doubt,  lies  in  their  many  idiosyncrasies 
and  the  superstitious  awe  with  which 
perfectly  harmless  things  inspire  them. 
Almost  all  the  natives,  for  instance, 
from  the  Indian  Ocean  to  the  lakes, 
fear  chameleons  much  more  than  they 
fear  snakes. 

It  is  very  common  to  hear  travelers 
complain  about  the  cowardice  of  native 
followers,  who,  when  the  caravan  was 
charged  by  a  rhino,  threw  down  their 
loads  and  fled.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  else,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  they  ought  to  have  done  —  sat 
down  and  awaited  developments?  Na- 
tive experience  of  wild  animals  and  their 
ways  is  far  more  extensive  and  thorough 
than  ours,  and,  as  a  rule,  they  behave, 
in  an  emergency  brought  about  by  an 
encounter  with  wild  animals,  in  a  per- 
fectly rational  manner,  based  on  a  know- 
ledge of  that  particular  creature's  hab- 
its. They  will  run  away  from  a  rhino 
and  jump  aside,  well  aware  that  its  im- 
petus will  carry  it  past.  But  they  know 
better  than  to  run  away  from  elephants. 
I  have  seen  natives,  under  a  charge  of 
these,  lie  down  and  remain  motionless 
on  the  ground,  knowing  that  the  short- 
sighted giants  would  mistake  them  for 
logs  and  step  over  them.  I  have  seen 
Wataweta  killing  elephants  with  bows 


164 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


and  arrows.  There  were  a  lot  of  men, 
it  is  true;  still,  their  audacity  was  mar- 
velous; they  were  like  king  crows.  The 
same  people  also  hunt  elephants  by 
hamstringing  them  and  then  finishing 
them  off  with  spears. 

Not  many  years  ago,  an  English  of- 
ficer in  Uganda,  who  had  been  seized  by 
a  lion,  was  rescued  by  his  own  native 
servant,  who  beat  the  animal  off  with  a 
whip  of  hippo  hide;  and  a  little  later,  in 
German  East,  a  German  officer  whom  I 
personally  knew  was  saved  in  the  same 
way  by  an  Askari,  who,  afraid  to  shoot, 
drove  the  lion  away  with  the  butt-end 
of  his  rifle. 

A  missionary  told  me  how,  in  Konde- 
land,  an  unarmed  native  saved  a  little 
girl  who  had  been  seized  by  a  lion.  The 
latter  was  playing  with  the  child  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  carrying  her  in 
its  mouth  for  a  few  yards  without  hurt- 
ing her,  then  putting  her  down  and  mov- 
ing away  to  some  distance,  to  sit  down 
and  watch.  The  native  picked  up  the 
child  and  walked  slowly  backward, 
step  by  step,  stopping  dead  still  when- 
ever the  lion  made  a  rush,  and  so  at 
last  reached  a  place  of  safety.  I  know 
of  several  instances  when  natives  have 
beaten  off  adult  leopards  with  cudgels, 
and  in  the  great,  lion-infested  plains 
of  East  Africa,  the  killing  of  lions  with 
spears  by  natives,  as  was  done  by  Mali- 
kanoi's  young  son,  is  by  no  means  un- 
common. 

When  the  Masai,  bravest  and  most 
romantic  of  natives,  walk  through  the 
Nyika  alone  at  night,  and  become 
aware  that  lions  are  near,  they  sit  down 
and  pull  their  mantles  over  their  heads. 
They  assert  that  no  lion  in  the  open  at- 
tacks a  motionless  man  whose  face  he 
cannot  see.  The  hunting  offshoot  of  the 
Masai  people,  the  Wandorobbo,  who 
roam  through  the  Nyika  in  search  of 
game  as  the  Redskins  roamed  through 
the  American  prairie,  never  sleep  in 
their  huts,  —  temporary  shelters  meant 


to  last  but  a  few  days,  —  but  always  in 
the  open,  between  the  huts,  and  with- 
out fires.  They  pretend  that  no  wild 
beast  has  ever  carried  one  of  them 
away  at  night. 

Very  few  natives  fear  snakes,  that 
last  resource  of  the  adventureless  trav- 
eler, although,  as  a  rule,  they  kill  them, 
as  they  kill  lizards  or  rats.  In  certain 
tribes  natives  exist  who  have  been  for- 
bidden by  their  doctor,  after  a  success- 
ful cure,  not  necessarily  from  the  effects 
of  snake-bite,  never  again  to  kill  a  snake, 
and  they  religiously  obey  the  command. 
The  dreaded  puff-adder,  no  doubt  on  ac- 
count of  its  sluggishness,  is  everywhere 
treated  with  contempt.  This  snake  is  to 
some  a  fetish,  and  these  will  not  molest 
it,  even  if  it  chooses  to  take  up  its  tem- 
porary residence  in  one  of  their  huts.  I 
have  known  one  living  under  these  hap- 
py circumstances,  and  growing  fat  on 
the  ubiquitous  rat.  The  Wanyamwesi 
and  Warukuma,  born  snake-charmers, 
handle  puff-adders  without  the  slightest 
fear.  Many  of  these  people,  it  is  true, 
are,  or  believe  themselves  to  be,  immune 
against  snake  poison,  having  undergone, 
at  the  hand  of  their  medicine-men,  a  pro- 
longed and  dangerous  treatment  result- 
ing in  Mithradatism. 

Where  crocodiles  abound,  natives,  in 
accordance  with  the  saying  that  famil- 
iarity breeds  contempt,  grow  exasper- 
atingly  foolhardy,  women  as  well  as 
men,  and  frequently  have  to  pay  the 
penalty  of  their  imprudence.  Relations 
between  the  natives  and  the  crocodile, 
however,  are  of  a  complicated  and  even 
mysterious  nature.  Some  wear  charms 
against  the  monsters,  in  which  they 
implicitly  believe;  and  I  must  admit 
that  I  have  never  heard  of  any  one  of 
them  coming  to  grief.  Also,  there  un- 
doubtedly are  crocodiles  that  are  not 
man-eaters,  although  the  common  as- 
sertion that  crocodiles  that  get  plenty 
of  fish  will  not  eat  man  falls  flat  before 
the  many  casualties  on  the  great  lakes, 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


165 


which  teem  with  fish.  A  curious  phe- 
nomenon is,  that  there  are  well-defined 
stretches  in  several  East  African  rivers 
where  the  crocodiles  are  perfectly  harm- 
less, while  above  and  below  these  sanc- 
tuaries no  one,  except  the  above-men- 
tioned bearer  of  charms,  can  enter  the 
water  with  impunity. 

Some  fifteen  years  ago  I  accompanied 

Lieutenant  W ,  of  the  battalion  of 

the  King's  African  Rifles  stationed  in 
Jubaland,  on  a  trip  up  the  Juba  Riv- 
er, in  the  flat-bottomed  government 
steamer  which  was  then,  besides  native 
dugouts,  the  only  means  of  communica- 
tion on  that  river.  The  steamer  had  to 
be  made  fast  to  the  shore  every  night; 
and  one  morning  we  stopped  near  a 
village  called  Ali  Sungura  —  AH  the 
rabbit  —  after  its  chief.  There  was  at 
that  time  living  on  the  Juba  a  famous 
wizard,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort 
of  paramount  chief  of  all  the  crocodiles 
in  Jubaland,  the  which,  so  it  was  said, 
on  certain  nights  of  the  year,  repaired 
to  his  hut  en  masse,  to  hold  a  Baraza. 

On  the  morning  after  our  arrival  in 
Ali  Sungura,  we  walked  ashore,  where 
we  were  greeted  by  the  chief,  whom  we 
asked  if  the  wizard  was  there.  He  said 
that  he  was  not;  and,  pointing  to  a  man 
standing  near  him,  he  added,  'This  is 
his  son.' 

My  companion  asked  the  young  fel- 
low if  he,  too,  was  immune  against 
crocodiles. 

Thereupon  the  chief  pointed  to  a 
creek,  about  two  hundred  yards  in 
width,  and  extending  some  way  inland. 
'He  swims  through  here  every  day,'  he 
said.  '  He  works  on  the  other  side.' 

We  looked,  and  saw,  near  the  oppo- 
site shore,  the  eye-knobs  of  many  croco- 
diles protruding  from  the  water.  We 
then  asked  the  wizard's  son  himself  if 
the  chief  had  spoken  the  truth;  and,  on 
his  replying  in  the  affirmative,  we  asked 
him  further  if  he  would  swim  through 
aow,  for  a  rupee.  To  this  he  readily 


assented,  and  we  asked  Ali  Sungura  if  it 
was  really  safe. 

Ali  Sungura  laughed  and  declared 
that  there  was  not  the  slightest  danger. 
So  we  promised  the  man  his  rupee,  and 
he,  after  fastening  tight  around  his 
body  the  white  cloth  he  was  wearing, 
immediately  walked  into  the  water, 
while  Lieutenant  W cocked  his  ri- 
fle and  stood  ready  to  shoot. 

The  wizard's  son  soon  got  out  of  his 
depth  and  took  to  swimming.  He  swam 
toward  the  opposite  side,  deliberately, 
without  displaying  any  hurry  and  right 
across  the  school  of  crocs,  some,  but  not 
all,  of  which  dived  on  his  approach.  He 
scrambled  ashore,  and,  after  a  short 
rest,  came  back  the  same  way.  He  took 
his  rupee  with  obvious  pleasure. 

The  chief,  Ali  Sungura  himself,  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  mchawi,  or 
wizard,  specializing  as  a  werewolf.  Ac- 
cording to  rumor,  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  walking  about,  at  night,  in  the  shape 
of  a  wolf,  and  of  doing,  in  this  dis- 
guise, as  the  wolf  does.  The  old  su- 
perstition, that  certain  people  have  the 
power  to  assume  the  shape  of  some  ani- 
mal, is  as  widespread  in  Tropical  Africa, 
as  it  is  in  other  parts  of  the  world ;  and 
the  natives  of  a  village  can  be  very  posi- 
tive and  quite  convinced  when  they  as- 
sure you  that  such  and  such  a  lion,  or 
such  and  such  a  leopard,  is  not  really  an 
animal,  but  a  mchawi,  who  is  in  the 
habit  of  taking  its  shape. 

Not  long  ago,  in  Nyasaland,  I  asked 
an  old  Yao,  who  had  just  returned  from 
Fort  Johnston,  if  the  lions  had  made 
themselves  very  unpleasant  there  of 
late.  He  replied  that  only  one  had  com- 
mitted depredations,  and  even  killed 
people,  but  that  he  was  known  to  be  a 
mchawi.  He  added : '  They  have  caught 
the  man,  they  will  take  him  to  the  Res- 
ident.' f  t 

'And  what  will  happen  to  him?  I 
asked. 

'Oh,  nothing,'  he  replied  with  a  sigh, 


166 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


'they  will  do  nothing  to  him;  the  Eng- 
lish always  want  to  see  everything,'  put- 
ting the  emphasis  on  the  word  'see.' 

I  said  to  myself  that  it  was  rather  for- 
tunate for  that  were-lion  that  the  Eng- 
lish always  want  to  'see  everything.' 

IV 

That  there  exists,  principally  in  the 
region  of  the  great  lakes,  a  category,  or 
class,  or  sect,  of  people  who  habitually 
indulge  in  satisfying  a  perverse  inclina- 
tion to  feed  on  the  flesh  of  human 
corpses  is  an  indisputable  fact,  to  which 
several  administrators  and  explorers 
have  born  testimony.  I  need  mention 
here,  chosen  from  many  others,  only  Sir 
Harry  Johnston,  Mr.  J.  F.  Cunning- 
ham, and  Mr.  Dutkevich,  in  his  contri- 
bution to  Mr.  Peter  Macqueen's  book, 
In  Wildest  Africa.  The  best  known  are 
the  Bachichi,  an  organized  secret  soci- 
ety on  the  Sese  Islands  in  Lake  Victo- 
ria, who  have  for  many  years  occupied 
the  authorities.  But  they  are  by  no 
means  isolated.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  in  other  parts  of  Tropical  Africa, 
where  these  ghouls  occur,  they,  too, 
form  a  fraternity  among  themselves. 
This  is  undoubtedly  the  case  in  Buanji, 
at  the  northern  end  of  the  Livingstone 
Range,  where  they  are  known  as  Niam- 
buddas.  These,  however,  according  to 
native  report,  differ  from  their  col- 
leagues in  other  countries  by  the  sinister 
detail,  that  they  kill,  and  then  season 
in  a  pool  of  water,  those  whom  they 
have  selected  as  their  victims  and  de- 
coyed with  all  the  artifices  of  a  thug. 
In  Buanji,  no  man  dares,  at  night,  to 
go  however  short  a  distance  from  the 
camp  or  village  by  himself,  while  across 
the  boundary,  in  Ukinga,  the  same 
man  will  walk  about  alone,  at  night, 
with  as  little  fear  as  if  it  were  day. 

The  Bachichi  and  other  corpse-eaters 
dig  out  the  bodies  of  people  who  have 
died  a  natural  death,  and  then  eat 


them.    They  may,  otherwise,  be  per- 
fectly harmless  members  of  the  com- 
munity. In  Nyasaland  a  corpse-eater  is 
called  a  mchawi,  although  that  is  really 
the  Swahili  name  for  wizard.  Here,  un- 
less otherwise  explained,  the  first  inter- 
pretation is  always  that  of  corpse-eater. 
As  in  the  case  of  the  were-carnivores, 
so  in  this  latter  case,  —  but  here,  I  am 
afraid,  with  more  justification,  —  pub- 
lic opinion  always  pretends  to  be  accu- 
rately posted  concerning  the  identity  of 
the  mchawi.  Although  feared,  however, 
and  treated  with  a  measure  of  respect, 
they  are  not  always  demonstratively 
shunned.   I  know  of  one  case  in  which  a 
whole  village  transported  its  penates 
half  a  mile  away  from  the  hut  of  a 
mchawi,  after  it  had  burned  to  the 
ground  all  its  own  dwellings.   The  oc- 
currence that  gave  rise  to  this  whole- 
sale desertion  was,  so  I  was  told  by  the 
people  themselves,  that  some  time  after 
the  death  and  burial  of  one  of  the 
mchawi's  two  wives,  the  second  one  ran 
away,  giving  as  a  reason  that,  the  night 
before,  her  husband  had  brought  back 
into  the  hut  the  lifeless  body  of  the  de- 
ceased.   Perhaps  a  friendly  neighbor, 
who   did   not   weigh   overmuch,    had 
helped  in  a  stratagem  to  get  rid  of  the 
runaway.  But  the  man's  little  boy  also 
ran  away;  he  said  that  his  father  kept 
him  walking  about  all  night,  and  that  he 
could  not  stand  the  fatigue.   He  never 
went  back  to  his  old  home  to  stay.    I 
knew  the  whole  family,  and  met  them 
often.    The  mchawi  married  a  third 
wife,  who,  as  long  as  I  knew  her,  ap- 
peared  to   be   perfectly   content  and 
happy;  but  then,  people  say  that  she 
shares  her  husband's  tastes.     Be  all 
this  as  it  may,  Ndalawisi  —  such  is  the 
man's    name  —  had    undoubtedly    le 
physique  de  I'emploi:  bloodshot   eyes, 
lantern-jaws,  and  a  large  mouth  with 
protruding   yellow   fangs   and    visible 
gums. 
All  the  men  who  have  been  pointed 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


167 


out  to  me  as  corpse-eaters  have  the 
same  type  of  visage,  and  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  many  an  innocent  man  owes 
his  evil  reputation  only  to  the  fortui- 
tous shape  of  his  face. 

Weird  and  frightful  legends  have 
been  woven  by  folklore  around  these 
creatures.  One  thing,  however,  is  cer- 
tain: natives,  when  brought  in  con- 
tact with  corpses  and  putrefaction,  do 
not  feel  the  same  horror  that  we  do. 
A  bright,  intelligent  young  fellow  once 
asked  me,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  if 
I  had  never  tasted  a  corpse.  To  my 
indignant  protest,  'The  smell  alone  is 
sufficient  to  drive  a  man  away,'  he  re- 
plied, 'No,  the  smell  is  very  pleasant!' 
And  on  another  occasion  I  was  asked 
quite  seriously  if,  among  the  many 
'  tinned  stuffs '  brought  into  the  country 
by  Europeans,  there  is  not  also  tinned 
human  meat. 

This  total  indifference  to  the  smell  of 
putrefaction  and  the  contact  with  it 
had  fostered  awful  customs  among  the 
Sakalawas  on  the  southwest  coast  of 
Madagascar  before  the  French  govern- 
ment stopped,  or  tried  to  stop,  them  by 
legislation.  Corpses  were  kept  exposed 
For  weeks  above-ground  before  burial, 
the  length  of  the  period  of  exposure  de- 
pending upon  the  rank  of  the  individual. 
Even  when  you  were  camped  a  mile 
away  from  the  village,  the  odor,  when 
the  wind  blew  your  way,  made  a  con- 
tinued stay  impossible.  Dead  chiefs 
were  carried  in  state  from  village  to  vil- 
lage for  months,  and  in  each  village  were 
kept  exposed  for  weeks  on  a  wooden 
platform;  Bacchanalian  revelries  went 
on  as  long  as  the  visit  lasted,  and  it  was 
a  common  thing  for  the  young  men,  at 
the  height  of  the  festivities,  to  go  and 
stand  under  the  platform  and  rub  all 
over  their  bodies  the  liquid  matter  which 
oozed  from  the  corpse  and  trickled 
through  the  planks. 

Not  only  the  dead,  but  death  itself, 
seems  not  to  inspire  the  Sakalawas  with 


any  terror.  Their  burial  rites  are  of  the 
merriest,  and  anybody  unacquainted 
with  the  customs  of  that  nation  would 
be  convinced,  on  first  witnessing  the 
approach  of  a  funeral  cortege,  with  its 
gay  music,  its  bullock-cart  decorated 
with  bunting,  shining  pieces  of  metal, 
and  small  mirrors,  that  it  was  a  nup- 
tial party.  Again,  suicide  by  one  of 
the  many  deadly  poisons  that  abound 
in  every  thicket  of  that  island,  where,  as 
in  Ireland,  venomous  snakes  do  not  ex- 
ist, is  resorted  to  quite  as  a  matter  of 
course,  on  the  least  provocation,  even 
by  children  when  they  have  been  scold- 
ed by  their  parents. 

Nearly  all  natives,  including  most  of 
the  Mohammedan  tribes,  are,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Somali  and  the  warrior 
castes  of  the  Nilotic  tribes,  passionately 
addicted  to  drink.  There  is  much  truth 
in  what  has  been  written :  that  the  whole 
population  of  Tropical  and  Subtropical 
Africa  is  drunk  after  sunset.  Many 
kinds  of  fermented  liquor  exist,  some  of 
which  are  very  palatable,  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  honey-beer  of  the  Wataweta, 
or  a  kind  of  champagne  that  the  Wa- 
bena  produce  out  of  the  sap  of  a  bam- 
boo, which,  curiously  enough,  refuses  to 
yield  its  precious  liquid  when  it  is  trans- 
planted from  its  own  country.  At  the 
time  of  year  when  this  sap  is  collected, 
both  men  and  women  drink  it  to  excess, 
until  they  fall  down  senseless  near  their 
fires.  I  have  been  shown  in  Ubena 
many  little  children  who  had  been  badly 
burned  because  their  mothers  had  col- 
lapsed too  close  to  the  fire,  and  many 
grown-up  persons  who,  being  unable 
from  drunkenness  to  crawl  back  into 
their  huts,  had  been  shockingly  muti- 
lated by  hyenas. 

Pambe — beer  made  either  from  bana- 
nas or  from  maize  and  millet  —  is  the 
curse  of  the  African  native.  Entirely 
unable  as  he  is  by  constitution  to  resist 
temptation,  he  drinks  as  long  as  the 
state  of  his  finances  and  the  existing  pro- 


168 


AFRICAN   FOLK 


visions  permit.  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  as  if  the  effects  of  intoxication  on 
a  native  were  different  from  what  they 
are  on  a  European.  They  may  be  sim- 
ilar when  he  gets  hold  of  whiskey;  but 
they  undoubtedly  differ  in  cases  of 
drunkenness  produced  by  pombe.  In  a 
native  who  has  got  drunk  on  pombe,  the 
effect  is  none  the  less  violent  because  it 
is  less  apparent  in  the  beginning.  Its 
climax  is  reached  some  twenty-four  to 
thirty-six  hours  after  the  libation  has 
ceased,  and  manifests  itself  in  a  nervous 
irritability  which  often  leads  to  disas- 
trous consequences.  Some  individuals 
in  this  state,  although  sober  to  all  ap- 
pearances, become  a  grave  danger  to 
their  neighbors.  It  was  in  this  condi- 
tion, as  I  have  been  informed  on  good 
authority,  that  the  Police  Askaris  in  a 
certain  East  African  colony  committed 
all  those  wanton  acts  of  cruelty  which 
created  such  a  sensation  in  Europe  a 
few  years  before  the  war.  One  need 
not  go  very  far,  perhaps,  to  recover  the 
recipe  of  the  famous  drink  of  the 
Assassins. 

It  is  probable  that  the  shortness  of 
memory,  with  which  most  natives  are 
afflicted  to  quite  a  remarkable  degree 
as  regards  things  which  do  not  touch 
them  directly,  is  due  in  part  to  this 
racial  vice  and  in  part  to  the  abuse 
of  the  elixirs  mentioned  above.  This 
deficiency  of  memory  is  a  palpable  evil, 
not,  I  think,  sufficiently  recognized  as 
such  by  those  who  employ  natives,  and 
is  the  source  of  many  mistakes  and  acci- 
dents that  are  attributed  to  culpable 
neglect  or  evil  intent.  The  very  tone  of 
voice  in  which  a  native  says,  '  Nimesa- 
hau'  (I  have  forgotten),  implies  that, 
for  him  at  least,  to  forget  is  a  conclusive 
excuse,  which  precludes  all  possibility 
of  guilt  and  desert  of  reproach.  Very 
frequently  they  do  not  remember  what 
they  have  said  a  few  minutes  before; 
they  will  give  you  half  a  dozen  different 
names  in'succession  for  the  same  moun- 


tain or  river,  and  look  quite  surprised 
when,  glancing  at  your  notebook,  you 
tell  them  that  they  have  given  you  an 
entirely  different  name  a  little  earlier  in 
the  day.  This  weak  memory,  added 
to  the  difficulty  which,  like  Darwin's 
Aborigines  of  the  Terra  del  Fuego,  even 
comparatively  civilized  negroes  have  in 
'understanding  the  simplest  alterna- 
tive,' is  the  chief  obstacle  that  travelers 
encounter  to  getting  correct  informa- 
tion. And  yet,  —  another  anomaly,  — 
African  negroes  are  the  greatest  lin- 
guists on  earth. 

It  has  happened  to  me,  not  once  only, 
but  repeatedly,  that  I  have  come  among 
a  tribe  accompanied  by  men  who  had 
never  heard  its  idiom;  and,  before  a 
month  was  over,  they  were,  without  a 
single  exception,  able  to  converse  flu- 
ently with  the  inhabitants,  and  that 
even  when  that  particular  language 
differed  from  their  own  as  much  as  does 
English  from  Italian. 

But  not  that  only;  although  I  speak 
very  indifferent  Swahili,  —  a  language 
which  it  is  very  easy  to  learn  to  speak 
badly,  and  almost  impossible  for  a  Eu- 
ropean to  learn  to  speak  faultlessly,  — 
new  servants  who  entered  my  employ 
learned  to  speak  it  in  a  few  weeks  sim- 
ply by  my  talking  to  them.  That  they 
learned  it  from  me  was  quite  evident 
from  the  fact  that  they  acquired  all  my 
mistakes !  This  facility  in  learning  new 
languages  is,  perhaps,  connected  with 
the  extraordinary  mimetic  power  of 
natives,  which  Darwin  also  mentions 
with  regard  to  Kaffirs  as  well  as  Fue- 
gians  and  Australians. 

Besides  their  facility  in  learning  new 
languages,  negroes  also  have  a  remark- 
able gift  for  communicating  with  each 
other  by  signs.  I  have  often  been  as- 
tounded to  notice  how  all  the  inhabi- 
tants of  a  village,  including  the  children, 
were  able  to  converse  fluently  with  a 
deaf-mute.  A  few  signs  with  the  lips 
and  the  fingers  were  sufficient  to  convey 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


169 


the  meaning  of  a  long  sentence,  and  the 
mute  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  in- 
convenienced by  his  inability  to  enun- 
ciate words. 

It  would  appear  as  if,  in  the  different 
colonies  of  East  and  Central  Africa, 
very  few  natives  belonging  to  the  house- 
holds of  Europeans  speak  the  latter's 
language.  This  apparent  ignorance, 
however,  is  open  to  doubt.  It  seems  cu- 
rious that '  boys '  who  are  not  supposed 
to  understand  a  word  of  English  or 
Portuguese  should  constantly  be  caught 
listening  to  their  employers'  conversa- 
tion; and  that  vital  secrets,  exchanged 
between  two  Europeans,  in  the  presence 
of  natives  who,  when  addressed  directly 
in  their  master's  language,  reply  only 
with  a  vacant  stare,  should,  within 
twenty-four  hours,  inevitably  become 
public  property.  Natives  are  as  inquisi- 
tive as  they  are  incapable  of  keeping  a 
secret.  The  latter  is  a  fortunate  evil. 
Were  negroes  able  to  hold  their  tongues, 
there  would  not  be  a  white  man  alive  in 
Africa  to-day. 

Of  course,  the  inaccuracies  in  the 
statements  of  negroes  are,  in  the  ma- 
jority of  cases,  due  to  deliberate  lying. 
But  sometimes  they  are  unpremeditated 
and  unintentional. 

It  is  extremely  difficult  to  find,  in 
native  statements,  the  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  deliberate  falsehood,  lapse 
of  memory,  and  a  congenital  inability 
to  distinguish  accurately  between  the 
real  and  the  unreal.  They  all  lie,  all, 
without  a  single  exception,  though  in 
various  degrees,  and  they  themselves 
know  and  sometimes  admit  it;  and  I 
have  met  one,  at  least,  who  expressed 


they  could  find  a  measure  of  justifica- 
tion in  the  writings  of  more  than  one 
philosopher. 

For  their  lies,  they  have  the  funniest 
excuses.  Some  time  ago  I  missed  one 
of  my  men,  and  when  I  inquired  after 
him,  I  got,  from  a  lad  named  Moham- 
mad, the  answer:  'He  has  gone  into  the 
forest  to  dig  for  medicine.' 

'What  is  the  matter  with  him?'  I 
asked. 

'He  has  great  pains  in  his  head  and 
stomach.' 

Sometime  later,  Wasi  —  that  was 
the  absent  man's  name  —  came  back, 
carrying  firewood,  and  when  I  asked 
him  why  he  had  not  told  me  that  he 
was  ill,  he  was  very  much  surprised. 
There  was  absolutely  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  him.  I  then  soundly  rated  Mo- 
hammad for  telling  such  lies,  when  my 
head-boy  interfered  by  saying  in  a  con- 
ciliatory tone,  'He  did  not  lie,  master. 
He  said  it  only  to  make  conversation.' 

Native  logic  runs  in  grooves  different 
from  ours,  often  in  an  exactly  contrary 
direction.  When  I  listen  to  their  argu- 
ments, I  am  often  reminded  of  Leonard 
da  Vinci's  famous  reversed  drawing  of 
the  castle  of  Amboise.  On  one  occasion, 
one  of  my  boys  told  me  that  another 
boy  had  told  him  something,  which,  al- 
though a  matter  of  small  importance, 
he  was  not  supposed  to  communicate  to 
others.  I  taxed  this  other  boy  with  hav- 
ing betrayed  my  confidence,  but  he  flat- 
ly denied  having  spoken.  I  confronted 
them  both,  and  a  friendly  dispute  en- 
sued, which  led  to  no  result.  I  then 
said  to  the  boy  who,  according  to  the 
other,  had  spoken  without  leave,  'Why 


**«-*•  »   V      iX*V>  I,      VyiAV/j      C4,  ».        1  V  1 1  -^  I    ^         »?  11W       V^VLSI.  \^UUV^V*  ^  .  . 

to  me,  with  apparently  genuine  feeling,      are  you  not  angry  with  Sohman  for  tell- 
his  regret  for  this  hereditary  defect,     ing  such  a  lie  about  you?'  To  whi 


The  average  native  does  not  appear  to 
see  any  fundamental  difference  between 
reality  and  imagination  —  a  point  of 
view  for  which,  if  they  only  knew  it, 


smilingly  replied,  'No!  I  am  not  angry! 
Why  should  I  be  angry?  He  lied! 
had  spoken  the  truth,  then  I  should  be 
angry.' 


(A  further  paper  by  Mr.  Coudenhove  mil  appear  later.) 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


BY  WILLIAM  McFEE 


HE  came  out  of  the  Strada  Mezzodi 
running,  shoulders  back,  gloves  and 
cane  held  bosom-high  in  his  clenched 
fists,  like  an  athlete's  corks,  the  whole 
body  of  the  man  pulsing  and  glowing 
from  the  ascent  of  that  precipitous 
slot.  Came  out  into  the  Strada  Reale, 
and  brought  up  against  me  with  a 
squashing  thump  that  left  us  limp  and 
uncertain  of  the  future. 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  mopped  his 
swiftly  sloping  forehead  with  the  heel 
of  his  hand  —  an  original  and  unfor- 
gettable gesture.  There  he  was,  un- 
changed and  unchangeable,  a  knotty 
sliver  of  England,  exactly  the  same, 
save  for  the  Naval  Reserve  uniform, 
as  when,  some  nine  years  before,  I  had 
seen  him  barging  his  way  into  the  ship- 
ping office  in  North  Shields,  to  sign  off 
articles,  for  he  was  going  away  home 
to  Newcastle,  to  get  married. 

There  he  was,  ready-witted  as  ever, 
for  he  demanded  with  incredible  ra- 
pidity of  utterance  what  the  h I 

thought  I  was  doing,  and  recognized  me 
even  as  he  asked.  He  was,  for  all  his 
doeskin  uniform  and  characteristically 
shabby  lace  and  gloves,  the  same  scorn- 
ful, black-browed,  hook-nosed  trucu- 
lent personality.  Small,  yet  filling  the 
picture  like  bigger  men  by  reason  of 
his  plunging  restlessness,  his  discon- 
certing circumlocution  of  body,  he  vi- 
brated before  me,  even  now,  an  incar- 
nate figure  of  interrogation.  He  found 
breath  and  voice,  and  shook  my  hand 
in  a  limp,  lifeless  fashion  that  convey- 

170 


ed  an  uncanny  impression  of  its  being 
his  first  timorous  experiment  in  hand- 
shaking —  another  peculiar  and  para- 
doxical by-product  of  his  personality. 

He  turned  me  round  and  propelled 
me  back  along  the  Strada  Reale.  He 
said  the  man  I  wanted  to  see  at  the 
Base  Office  was  away  playing  polo,  and 
I  could  see  him  in  the  morning.  He 
asked  where  my  baggage  was;  and 
when  I  told  him,  he  said  the  Regina 
was  the  worst  hotel  in  town  and  there 
was  a  room  vacant  next  to  his  in  the 
Angleterre.  He  turned  me  suddenly 
into  the  entrance  hall  of  a  vast  struc- 
ture of  stone,  where  in  the  cool  dark- 
ness diminished  humans  sat  in  tiny 
chairs  and  read  the  news-telegrams  at 
microscopic  notice-boards.  An  ornate 
inscription  informed  me  that  this  place 
had  been  the  auberge  of  the  Knights 
of  the  Tongue  of  Provence;  but  he  said 
it  was  the  Union  Club.  He  examined 
a  row  of  pigeonholes  and  took  out  some 
letters. 

We  sallied  forth  into  the  afternoon 
sunlight  again,  and  he  hurried  me 
along  toward  the  Piazza  de  San  Gior- 
gio. A  captain  and  two  commanders 
passed,  and  I  saluted,  but  my  com- 
panion spun  round  a  corner  into  the 
declivity  called  the  Strada  San  Lucia, 
and  muttered  that  his  salutes  were  all 
over  and  done  with.  Scandalized,  yet 
suspecting  in  my  unregenerate  heart 
that  here  lay  a  tale  that  might  be  told 
in  the  twilight,  I  made  no  reply.  An- 
other turn  into  the  fitly  named  Strada 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


171 


Stretta,  no  more  than  a  congregation  of 
stone  staircases  largely  monopolized  by 
goats  with  colossal  udders  and  jingling 
bells,  and  we  hurtled  into  the  archway 
of  an  enormous  mediaeval  building  whose 
iron  gate  shut  upon  us  with  a  clang  like 
a  new-oiled  postern. 

And  as  we  ascended  the  winding 
stone  stairs  there  came  down  to  us  a 
medley  of  persons  and  impressions. 
There  were  far  gongs  and  musical  cries 
pierced  by  a  thin  continuous  whine. 
There  was  a  piratical  creature,  with 
fierce  eyes  and  an  alarming  shock  of 
upstanding  black  hair,  who  wielded  a 
mop  and  stared  with  voracious  curios- 
ity. There  came  bounding  down  upon 
us  a  boy  of  eleven  or  so,  with  brown 
hair,  a  freckled  nose,  and  beautiful  gray 
eyes.  There  descended  a  buxom  wom- 
an of  thirty,  modest  and  capable  to  the 
eye,  yet  with  a  sort  of  tarnish  of  sorrow- 
ful experience  in  her  demeanor.  And 
behind  her,  walking  abreast  and  in 
step,  three  astounding  apparitions,  — 
Russian  guardsmen,  —  in  complete  re- 
galia, blue  and  purple  and  bright  gold, 
so  fabulous  that  one  stumbled  and 
grew  afraid.  Mincingly  they  descend- 
ed, in  step,  their  close-shaven  polls 
glistening,  their  small  eyes  and  thin 
long  legs  giving  them  the  air  of  some- 
thing dreamed,  bizarre  adumbrations 
of  an  order  gone  down  in  ruin  and 
secret  butchery  to  a  strangled  silence. 

A  high,  deep,  narrow  gothic  doorway 
on  a  landing  stood  open,  and  we  edged 
through. 

I  had  many  questions  to  ask.  I  was 
reasonably  entitled  to  know,  for  exam- 
ple, the  charges  for  these  baronial  halls 
and  gigantic  refectories.  I  had  a  legiti- 
mate curiosity  concerning  the  superb 
beings  who  dwelt,  no  doubt,  in  media> 
val  throne-rooms  in  distant  wings  of 
the  chateau.  And  above  all  I  was  wish- 
ful to  learn  the  recent  history  of  Mr. 
!  Eustace  Heatly,  sometime  second  en- 
i  gineer  of  the  old  S,S,  Dolores,  late 


engineer  lieutenant,  and  now  before 
my  eyes  tearing  off  his  coat  and  vest 
and  pants,  and  bent  double  over  a  long 
black  coffin-like  steel  chest,  whence  he 
drew  a  suit  of  undeniable  tweeds.  But 
it  was  only  when  he  had  abolished  the 
last  remaining  trace  of  naval  garniture 
by  substituting  a  cerise  poplin  cravat 
for  the  black  affair  worn  in  memory  of 
the  late  Lord  Nelson,  and  a  pair  of 
brown  brogues  for  the  puritanical  mess- 
boots  of  recent  years,  that  Heatly  turned 
to  where  I  sat  on  the  bed  and  looked 
searchingly  at  me  from  under  his  high- 
arched,  semi-circular  black  eyebrows. 

He  was  extraordinarily  unlike  a  na- 
val officer  now.  Indeed,  he  was  un- 
like the  accepted  Englishman.  He  had 
one  of  those  perplexing  personalities 
that  are  as  indigenous  to  England  as 
the  Pennine  Range  and  the  Yorkshire 
Wolds,  as  authentic  as  Stonehenge; 
yet,  by  virtue  of  their  very  perplexity, 
have  a  difficulty  in  getting  into  litera- 
ture. There  was  nothing  of  the  tall, 
blond,  silent  Englishman  about  this 
man,  at  all.  Yet  there  was  probably  no 
mingling  of  foreign  blood  in  him  since 
Phoenician  times.  He  was  entirely  and 
utterly  English.  He  can  be  found  in 
no  other  land,  and  yet  is  to  be  found 
in  all  lands,  generally  with  a  concession 
from  the  government  and  a  turbulent 
band  of  assistants.  His  sloping  simian 
forehead  was  growing  bald,  and  it 
gleamed  as  he  came  over  to  where  I 
sat.  His  jaws,  blue  from  the  razor, 
creased  as  he  drew  back  his  chin  and 
began  his  inevitable  movement  of  the 
shoulders  that  preluded  speech.  He 
was  English,  and  was  about  to  prove 
his  racial  affinity  beyond  all  cavil. 

'But  why  get  yourself  demobilized 
out  here?'  I  demanded,  when  he  had 
explained.  'Is  there  a  job  to  be  had?' 

'Job!'  he  echoed,  eyebrows  raised, 
as  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  with 
apparent  animosity.  'Job!  There  's  a 
fortune  out  here!  See  this,' 


172 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


He  dived  over  the  bed  to  where  his 
uniform  lay,  and  extracted  from  the 
breast-pocket  a  folded  sheet  of  gray 
paper.  Inside  was  a  large  roughly  pen- 
ciled tracing  of  the  Eastern  Mediter- 
ranean. There  was  practically  no  no- 
menclature. An  empty  Italy  kicked  at 
an  equally  vacuous  Sicily.  Red  blots 
marked  ports.  The  seas  were  spattered 
with  figures,  as  in  a  chart,  marking 
soundings.  And  laid  out  in  straggling 
lines,  like  radiating  constellations,  were 
green  and  yellow  and  violet  crosses. 
From  Genoa  to  Marseilles,  from  Mar- 
seilles to  Oran,  from  Port  Said  and 
Alexandria  to  Cape  Bon,  from  Salonika 
to  Taranto,  those  polychromatic  clus- 
ters looped  and  clotted  in  the  sea-lanes, 
until  the  eye,  roving  at  last  toward  the 
intricate  configuration  of  the  Cyclades, 
caught  sight  of  the  Sea  of  Marmora, 
where  the  green  symbols  formed  a  close- 
ly woven  texture. 

'Where  did  you  get  this?'  I  asked, 
amazed;  and  Heatly  smoothed  the 
crackling  paper  as  it  lay  between  us  on 
the  bed.  His  shoulders  worked  and  his 
chin  drew  back,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
spring  upon  me. 

'That's  telling,'  he  grunted.  'The 
point  is,  do  you  want  to  come  in  on 
this?  These  green  ones,  y'  understand, 
are  soft  things,  in  less  'n  ten  fathom. 
The  yellows  are  deeper.  The  others 
are  too  big  or  too  deep  for  us.' 

'Who's  us?'  I  asked,  beginning  to 
feel  an  interest  beyond  his  own  person- 
ality. 

He  began  to  fold  up  the  chart,  which 
had  no  doubt  come  by  unfrequented 
ways  from  official  dossiers. 

'There's  the  skipper  and  the  mate 
and  meself,'  he  informed  me;  'but  we 
can  do  with  another  engineer.  —  Come 
in  with  us!'  he  ejaculated;  'it's  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime.  You  put  up  five 
hundred,  and  it 's  share  and  share  alike.' 

I  had  to  explain,  of  course,  that  what 
he  suggested  was  quite  impossible.  I 


was  not  demobilized.  I  had  to  join  a 
ship  in  dock-yard  hands.  Moreover,  I 
had  no  five  hundred  to  put  up. 

He  did  not  press  the  point.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  he  had  simply  been  the 
temporary  vehicle  of  an  obscure  wave 
of  sentiment.  We  had  been  shipmates 
in  the  old  days.  He  had  never  been  a 
friend  of  mine,  it  must  be  understood. 
We  had  wrangled  and  snarled  at  each 
other  over  hot  and  dirty  work,  and  had 
gone  our  separate  ways  ashore,  and  he 
had  rushed  from  the  shipping-office 
that  day  in  Shields  and  never  even  said 
good-bye  ere  he  caught  the  train  to 
Newcastle  and  matrimony.  Yet  here 
now,  after  nine  years,  he  abruptly 
offered  me  a  fortune!  The  slow  inexor- 
able passage  of  time  had  worn  away 
the  ephemeral  scoria  of  our  relations 
and  laid  bare  an  unexpected  vein  of 
durable  esteem.  Even  now,  as  I  say, 
he  did  not  press  the  point.  He  was 
loath  to  admit  any  emotion  beyond  a 
gruff  solicitude  for  my  financial  ag- 
grandizement. 

While  we  were  bickering  amiably 
on  these  lines,  the  high,  narrow  door 
opened,  and  the  buxom  woman  ap- 
peared with  a  tea-tray.  She  smiled  and 
went  over  to  the  embrasured  window, 
where  there  stood  a  table.  As  she  stood 
there,  in  her  neat  black  dress  and  white 
apron,  her  dark  hair  drawn  in  smooth 
convolutions  about  her  placid  brows, 
her  eyes  declined  upon  the  apparatus 
on  the  tray,  she  had  the  air  of  demure 
sophistication  and  sainted  worldliness 
to  be  found  in  lady  prioresses  and 
mother  superiors  when  dealing  with 
secular  aliens.  She  was  an  intriguing 
anomaly  in  this  stronghold  of  ancient 
and  militant  celibates.  The  glamour 
of  her  individual  illusion  survived  even 
the  introduction  that  followed. 

'This  is  Emma,'  said  Heatly,  as  if 
indicating  a  natural  but  amusing  fea- 
ture of  the  landscape;  'Emma,  an  old 
shipmate  o'  mine.  Let  him  have  that 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


room  next  to  this.    Anybody  been?' 

'Yes,'  said  Emma  in  a  soft,  gentle 
voice,  'Captain  Gosnell  rang  up.  He 
wants  to  see  you  at  the  usual  place.' 

'Then  I'll  be  going,'  said  Heatly, 
drinking  tea  standing,  a  trick  abhorred 
by  those  who  regard  tea  as  something 
of  a  ritual.  '  Lay  for  four  at  our  table 
to-night,  and  send  to  the  Regina  for 
my  friend's  gear.  And  mind,  no  games ! ' 

He  placed  his  arm  about  her  waist. 
Then,  seizing  a  rakish-looking  deer- 
stalker, he  made  for  the  door,  and 
halted  abruptly,  looking  back  upon  us 
with  apparent  malevolence.  Emma 
smiled  without  resigning  her  pose  of 
sorrowful  experience,  and  the  late  en- 
gineer lieutenant  slipped  through  the 
door  and  was  gone. 

So  there  were  to  be  no  games.  I 
looked  at  Emma,  and  stepped  over  to 
help  myself  to  tea.  There  were  to  be 
no  games.  Comely  as  she  was,  there 
was  no  more  likelihood  of  selecting  the 
cloistral  Emma  for  trivial  gallantry 
than  of  pulling  the  admiral's  nose.  I 
had  other  designs  on  Emma.  I  had 
noted  the  relations  of  those  two  with 
attention,  and  it  was  patent  to  me 
that  Emma  could  tell  me  a  good  deal 
more  about  Heatly  than  Heatly  knew 
about  himself.  Heatly  was  that  sort 
of  man.  He  would  be  a  problem  of 
enigmatic  opacity  to  men,  and  a  crystal- 
clear  solution  to  the  cool,  disillusioned 
matron. 

And  Emma  told.  Women  are  not 
only  implacable  realists,  they  are  un- 
conscious artists.  They  dwell  always 
in  the  Palace  of  Unpalatable  Truth, 
and  never  by  any  chance  is  there  a 
magic  talisman  to  save  them  from  their 
destiny.  Speech  is  their  ultimate  need. 
We  exist  for  them  only  in  so  far  as  we 
can  be  described.  As  the  incarnate 
travesties  of  a  mystical  ideal,  we  in- 
spire ecstasies  of  romantic  supposition. 
There  is  a  rapt  expression  on  the  fea- 
tures of  a  woman  telling  about  a  man. 


173 

Duty  and  pleasure  melt  into  one  suf- 
fusing emotion  and  earth  holds  for  her 
no  holier  achievement.  And  so,  as  the 
reader  is  ready  enough  to  believe,  there 
were  no  games.  Apart  from  her  com- 
mon urbane  humanity,  Emma's  lot  in 
life,  as  the  deserted  wife  of  a  Highland 
sergeant  deficient  in  emotional  stability, 
had  endowed  her  with  the  smooth  effi- 
ciency of  a  character  in  a  novel.  She 
credited  me  with  a  complete  inventory 
of  normal  virtues  and  experiences,  and 
proceeded  to  increase  my  knowledge 
of  life. 

H 

The  point  of  her  story,  as  I  gathered, 
was  this.  My  friend  Heatly,  in  the 
course  of  the  years,  had  completed  the 
cycle  of  existence  without  in  any  degree 
losing  the  interest  of  women.  I  knew 
he  was  married.  Emma  informed  me 
that  they  had  seven  children.  The 
youngest  had  been  born  six  months 
before.  Where?  Why,  in  the  house  in 
Gateshead,  of  course.  Did  I  know 
Gateshead?  I  did.  As  I  sat  in  that 
embrasured  window  and  looked  down 
the  thin,  deep  slit  of  the  Strada  Lucia, 
past  green  and  saffron  balconies  and 
jutting  shrines,  to  where  the  Harbor 
of  Marsamuscetto  showed  a  patch  of 
solid  dark  blue  below  the  distant  per- 
fection of  Sheina,  I  thought  of  Gates- 
head,  with  the  piercing  East  Coast 
wind  ravening  along  its  gray,  dirty 
streets,  with  its  frowsy  fringe  of  coal- 
staithes  standing  black  and  stark  above 
the  icy  river,  and  I  heard  the  grind  and 
yammer  of  the  grimy  street-cars  striv- 
ing to  drown  the  harsh  boom  and  crash 
from  the  great  yards  of  Elswick  on  the 
far  bank.  I  saw  myself  again  hurrying 
along  in  the  rain,  a  tired  young  man  in 
overalls,  making  hurried  purchases  of 
gear  and  tobacco  and  rough  gray  blank- 
ets, for  the  ship  was  to  sail  on  the  turn 
of  the  tide.  And  I  found  it  easy  to 
see  the  small  two-story  house  half-way 


174 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


down  one  of  those  incredibly  ignoble 
streets,  the  rain,  driven  by  the  cruel 
wind,  whipping  against  sidewalk  and 
window,  the  front  garden  a  mere  pud- 
dle of  mud,  and  indoors  a  harassed, 
dogged  woman  fighting  her  way  to 
the  day's  end,  while  a  horde  of  robust 
children  romped  and  gorged  and  blub- 
bered around  her. 

'Seven,'  I  murmured,  and  the  bells 
of  a  herd  of  goats  made  a  musical  com- 
motion in  the  street  below. 

'Seven,'  said  Emma,  refilling  my  cup. 

'And  he 's  not  going  home  yet,  even 
though  he  has  got  out  of  the  navy,'  I 
observed  with  tactful  abstraction. 

'That's  just  it,'  said  Emma,  'not 
going  home.  He's  gone  into  this  sal- 
vage business,  you  see.  I  believe  it's 
a  very  good  thing.' 

'Of  course  his  wife  gets  her  half-pay,' 
I  mused. 

'She  gets  all  his  pay,'  accented 
Emma.  'He  sends  it  all.  He  has  other 
ways  —  you  understand.  Resources. 
But  he  won't  go  home.  You  know, 
there's  somebody  here.' 

So  here  we  were  coming  to  it.  It 
had  been  dawning  on  me,  as  I  stared 
down  at  the  blue  of  the  Marsamuscet- 
to,  that  possibly  Heatly's  interest  for 
Emma  had  been  heightened  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  widower.  Nothing  so 
crude  as  that,  however.  Something 
much  more  interesting  to  the  high  gods. 
Between  maturity  and  second  child- 
hood, if  events  are  propitious,  men 
come  to  a  period  of  augmented  curios- 
ity fortified  by  a  vague  sense  of  duties 
accomplished.  They  acquire  a  convic- 
tion that,  beyond  the  comfortable  and 
humdrum  vales  of  domestic  felicity, 
where  they  have  lived  so  long,  there 
lie  peaks  of  ecstasy  and  mountain- 
ranges  of  perilous  dalliance.  I  roused 
suddenly. 

'But  now  he's  out  of  the  navy,'  I 
remarked. 

'You   mustn't   think   that,'   said 


Emma.    '  He  is  n't  that  sort  of  man. 
I  tell  you,  she's  all  right.' 

'  Who  ?   The  somebody  who 's  here  ? ' 

'No,  his  wife's  all  right  as  far  as 
money  goes.  But  there 's  no  sympathy 
between  them.  A  man  can't  go  on  all 
his  life  without  sympathy.' 

'What  is  she  like?'  I  asked,  not  so 
sure  of  this. 

'Oh,  I'm  not  defending  him,'  said 
Emma  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  sugar- 
bowl.  'Goodness  knows  /  've  no  reason 
to  think  well  of  men,  and  you're  all 
alike.  Only,  he's  throwing  himself 
away  on  a  —  Well,  never  mind.  You  '11 
see  her.  Here's  your  room.  You  can 
have  this  connecting  door  open  if  you 
like.' 

'Fine,'  I  said,  looking  round,  and 
then  walking  into  a  sort  of  vast  and 
comfortable  crypt.  The  walls,  five  feet 
thick,  were  pierced  on  opposite  sides 
as  for  cannon,  and  one  looked  instinc- 
tively for  the  inscriptions  by  prisoners 
and  ribald  witticisms  by  sentries.  There 
was  the  Strada  Lucia  again,  beyond  a 
delicious  green  railing;  and  behind  was 
another  recess,  from  whose  shuttered 
aperture  one  beheld  the  hotel  court- 
yard, with  a  giant  tree  swelling  up  and 
almost  touching  the  yellow  walls.  I 
looked  at  the  groined  roof,  the  distant 
white-curtained  bed,  the  cupboards  of 
black  wood,  the  tiled  floor  with  its  old, 
worn  mats.  I  looked  out  of  the  window 
into  the  street,  and  was  startled  by  an 
unexpectedly  near  view  of  a  saint  in  a 
blue  niche  by  the  window,  a  saint  with 
a  long  sneering  nose  and  a  supercilious 
expression  as  she  looked  down  with  her 
stony  eyes  on  the  Strada  Lucia.  I 
looked  across  the  Strada  Lucia,  and 
saw  dark  eyes  and  disdainful  features 
at  magic  casements.  And  I  told  Emma 
that  I  would  take  the  apartment. 

'You  '11  find  Mr.  Heatly  in  the  Cafe 
de   la  Reine,'   she   remarked   gently; 
'he's  there  with  Captain  Gosnell.' 
But  I  wanted  to  see  neither  Heatly 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


nor  Captain  Gosnell  just  yet.  I  said 
I  would  be  back  to  dinner,  and  took 
my  cap  and  cane. 

Ill 

After  wandering  about  the  town, 
gazing  upon  the  cosmopolitan  crowd 
that  thronged  the  streets,  and  musing 
upon  many  things,  —  upon  deserted 
wives  and  deserting  husbands,  and 
their  respective  fates,  —  I  approached 
the  Libreria,  and  saw  Heatly  seated  at 
a  table  with  two  other  men,  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  great  columns. 
Just  behind  him  a  young  Maltese 
kneeled  by  a  great  long-haired  goat, 
which  he  was  milking  swiftly  into  a 
glass  for  a  near-by  customer.  Heatly, 
however,  was  not  drinking  milk.  He 
was  talking.  There  were  three  of  them 
and  their  heads  were  together  over  the 
drinks  on  the  little  marble  table,  so 
absorbed  that  they  took  no  notice  at 
all  of  the  lively  scene  about  them. 

There  was  about  these  men  an  aura 
of  supreme  happiness.  In  the  light  of 
a  match-flare,  as  they  lit  fresh  ciga- 
rettes, their  features  showed  up  harsh 
and  masculine,  the  faces  of  men  who 
dealt  neither  in  ideas  nor  in  emotions, 
but  in  prejudices  and  instincts  and 
desires.  Then  Heatly  turned  and  saw 
me,  and  further  contemplation  was  out 
of  the  question. 

IV 

Of  that  evening  and  the  tale  they  told 
me,  there  is  no  record  by  the  alert 
psychologist.  There  is  a  roseate  glam- 
our over  a  confusion  of  memories. 
There  are  recollections  of  exalted  emo- 
i  tions  and  unparalleled  eloquence.  We 
traversed  vast  distances  and  returned 
safely,  arm  in  arm.  We  were  the  gen- 
erals of  famous  campaigns,  the  heroes 
i  of  colossal  achievements,  and  the  con- 
i  querors  of  proud  and  beautiful  women. 


175 

From  the  swaying  platforms  of  the 
Fourth  Dimension  we  caught  glimpses 
of  starry  destinies.  We  stood  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  lesser  gods,  to  see  our 
enemies  confounded.  And  out  of  the 
mist  and  fume  of  the  evening  emerges 
a  shadowy  legend  of  the  sea. 

By  a  legerdemain  which  seemed  timely 
and  agreeably  inexplicable,  the  marble 
table  under  the  arcade  of  the  Libreria 
became  a  linen-covered  table  in  an  im- 
mense and  lofty  chamber.  We  were  at 
dinner.  The  ceiling  was  a  gilded  frame- 
work of  paneled  paintings.  Looking 
down  upon  us  from  afar  were  well-fed 
anchorites  and  buxom  saints.  Their 
faces  gleamed  from  out  a  dark  and 
polished  obscurity,  and  their  ivory 
arms  emerged  from  the  convolutions 
of  ruby  and  turquoise-velvet  draperies. 
Tall  candelabra  supported  colored 
globes,  which  shed  a  mellow  radiance 
upon  the  glitter  of  silver  and  crystal. 
There  was  a  sound  of  music,  which 
rose  and  fell  as  some  distant  door 
swung  to  and  fro;  the  air  still  trembled 
with  the  pulsing  reverberations  of  a 
great  gong,  and  a  thin  whine,  which 
was  the  food-elevator  ascending  in  dry 
grooves  from  the  kitchen,  seemed  to 
spur  the  fleet-footed  waiters  to  a  frenzy 
of  service.  High  cabinets  of  dark  wood 
stood  between  tall  narrow  windows 
housing  collections  of  sumptuous  plates 
and  gilded  wares.  On  side  tables  heaps 
of  bread  and  fruit  made  great  masses 
of  solid  color,  of  gamboge,  saffron,  and 
tawny  orange.  Long-necked  bottles 
appeared  reclining  luxuriously  in  wick- 
er cradles,  like  philosophic  pagans  about 
to  bleed  to  death. 

At  a  table  by  the  distant  door  sits 
the  little  boy  with  the  freckled  nose 
and  beautiful  gray  eyes.  He  writes  in 
a  large  book  as  the  waiters  pause  on 
tip-toe,  dishes  held  as  if  in  votive  offer- 
ing to  a  .red  Chinese  dragon  on  the 
mantel  above-  the  boy's  head.  He 
writes,  and  looking  out  down  the  en- 


176 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


trance,  suddenly  laughs  in  glee.  From 
the  corridor  come  whoops  and  a  stac- 
cato cackle  of  laughter,  followed  by  a 
portentous  roll  of  thunder  from  the 
great  gong.  The  boy  puts  his  hand 
over  his  mouth  in  his  ecstasy,  the 
waiters  grin  as  they  hasten,  the  head 
waiter  moves  over  from  the  windows, 
thinking  seriously,  and  one  has  a  vision 
of  Emma,  mildly  distraught,  at  the 
door.  Captain  Gosnell,  holding  up  the 
corner  of  his  serviette,  remarks  that 
they  are  coming,  and  studies  the  wine- 
list. 

They  rush  in,  and  a  monocled  major 
at  a  near-by  table  pauses,  fork  in  air 
over  his  fried  sea-trout,  and  glares. 
In  the  forefront  of  the  bizarre  pro- 
cession comes  Heatly,  with  a  Russian 
guardsman  on  his  back.  The  other  two 
guardsmen  follow,  dancing  a  stately 
measure,  revolving  with  rhythmic 
gravity.  Behind,  waltzing  alone,  is 
Mr.  Marks,  the  mate.  Instantly,  how- 
ever, the  play  is  over.  They  break 
away,  the  guardsman  slips  to  the  floor, 
and  they  all  assume  a  demeanor  of 
impenetrable  reserve  as  they  walk  dec- 
orously toward  us.  They  sit,  and  be- 
come merged  in  the  collective  mood  of 
the  chamber.  Yet  one  has  a  distinct 
impression  of  a  sudden  glimpse  into 
another  world  —  as  if  the  thin  yet 
durable  membrane  of  existence  had 
split  open  a  little,  and  one  saw,  for  a 
single  moment,  men  as  they  really  are. 

And  while  I  am  preoccupied  with  this 
fancy,  which  is  mysteriously  collated 
in  the  mind  with  a  salmi  of  quails, 
Captain  Gosnell  becomes  articulate. 
He  is  explaining  something  to  me. 

It  is  time  Captain  Gosnell  should  be 
described.  He  sits  on  my  left,  a  portly, 
powerful  man,  with  a  large  red  nose 
and  great  baggy  pouches  under  his 
stern  eyes.  It  is  he  who  tells  the  story. 
I  watch  him  as  he  dissects  his  quail. 
Of  his  own  volition  he  tells  me  he  has 
twice  swallowed  the  anchor.  And  here 


he  is,  still  on  the  job.  Did  he  say  twice? 
Three  times,  counting  —  well,  it  was 
this  way. 

First  of  all,  an  aunt  left  him  a  little 
money  and  he  quit  a  second  mate's 
job  to  start  a  small  provision  store. 
Failed.  Had  to  go  to  sea  again.  Then 
he  married.  Wife  had  a  little  money, 
so  they  started  again.  Prospered.  Two 
stores,  both  doing  well.  Two  counters, 
I  am  to  understand.  Canned  goods, 
wines  and  spirits  on  one  side;  meats 
and  so  forth  on  the  other.  High-class 
clientele.  Wonderful  head  for  business, 
Mrs.  Gosnell's.  He  himself,  understand, 
not  so  dusty.  Had  a  way  with  custo- 
mers. Could  sell  pork  in  a  synagogue, 
as  the  saying  is. 

And  then  Mrs.  Gosnell  died.  Great 
shock  to  him,  of  course,  and  took  all 
the  heart  out  of  him.  Buried  her  and 
went  back  to  sea.  She  was  insured,  and 
later,  with  what  little  money  he  had, 
he  started  an  agency  for  carpet-sweep- 
ing machinery.  Found  it  difficult  to 
get  on  with  his  captain,  you  see,  being 
a  senior  man  in  a  junior  billet.  As  I 
very  likely  am  aware,  standing  rigging 
makes  poor  running  gear.  Was  doing 
a  very  decent  little .  business  too,  when 
—  the  war.  So  he  went  into  the  Naval 
Reserve.  That 's  how  it  all  came  about. 
Now,  his  idea  is  to  go  back,  with  the 
experience  he  has  gained,  and  start  a 
store  again — merchandising  in  his  opin- 
ion, is  the  thing  of  the  future.  With 
a  little  money,  the  thing  can  be  done. 
Well! 

But  it  was  necessary  to  have  a  little 
capital.  Say  five  thousand.  So  here 
we  were. 

A  bad  attack  of  pneumonia  with 
gastritis  finished  him  at  Dover.  Doc- 
tor said  if  he  got  away  to  a  warmer 
climate,  it  would  make  a  new  man  of 
him.  So  a  chat  with  a  surgeon-com- 
mander in  London  resulted  in  his  being 
appointed  to  a  mine-layer  bound  for 
the  Eastern  Mediterranean.  Perhaps  I 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


had  heard  of  her.  The  Ouzel.  Side- 
wheeler  built  for  the  excursionists. 
Started  away  from  Devonport  and 
took  her  to  Port  Said.  Imagine  it  I 
Think  of  her  bouncing  from  one  moun- 
tainous wave  to  another,  off  Finisterre. 
Think  of  her  turning  over  and  over, 
almost,  going  round  St.  Vincent.  Fine 
little  craft  for  all  that.  Heatly  here 
was  Chief.  Marks  here  was  Mate.  It 
was  a  serious  responsibility. 

And  when  they  reached  Port  Said, 
they  were  immediately  loaded  with 
mines  and  sent  straight  out  again  to 
join  the  others,  who  were  laying  a  com- 
plicated barrage  about  fifty  miles 
north.  Four  days  out,  one  day  in.  It 
was  n't  so  bad  at  first,  being  one  of  a 
company,  with  constant  signaling  and 
visits  in  fine  weather.  But  later,  when 
the  Ouzel  floated  alone  in  an  immense 
blue  circle  of  sea  and  sky,  they  began 
to  get  acquainted.  This  took  the  com- 
mon English  method  of  discovering, 
one  by  one,  each  other's  weaknesses, 
and  brooding  over  them  in  secret. 
What  held  them  together  most  firmly 
appears  to  have  been  a  sort  of  sophisti- 
cated avoidance  of  women.  Not  in  so 
many  words,  Captain  Gosnell  assures 
me,  but  taking  it  for  granted,  they 
found  a  common  ground  in  'Keeping 
in  the  fairway.'  Marks  was  a  bachelor, 
it  is  true,  but  Marks  had  no  intention 
of  being  anything  else.  Marks  had 
other  fish  to  fry,  I  am  to  understand. 

I  look  at  Marks,  who  sits  opposite  to 
me.  He  has  a  full  round  face,  clean- 
shaved,  and  flexible  as  an  actor's.  His 
rich  brown  hair,  a  thick,  solid-looking 
auburn  thatch,  suddenly  impresses  me 
with  its  extreme  incongruity.  As  I 
look  at  him,  he  puts  up  his  hand, 
pushes  his  hair  slowly  up  over  his  fore- 
head, like  a  cap,  revealing  a  pink  scalp, 
rolls  the  whole  contrivance  from  side  to 
side,  and  brings  it  back  to  its  normal 
position. 

More  for  comfort  than  anything  else, 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  2 
B 


177 

Captain  Gosnell  assures  me,  for  nobody 
is  deceived  by  a  wig  like  that.  What  is 
a  man  to  do  when  he  has  pretty  near 
the  whole  top  of  his  head  blown  off 
by  a  gasometer  exploding  on  the  West- 
ern Front?  There's  Marks,  minus  his 
hair  and  everything  else,  pretty  well 
buried  in  a  pit  of  loose  cinders.  Lamp- 
post blown  over,  lying  across  him. 
Marks  lay  quiet  enough,  thinking.  He 
was  n't  dead,  he  could  breathe,  and  one 
hand  moved  easily  in  the  cinders.  Be- 
gan to  paddle  with  that  hand.  Went  on 
thinking  and  paddling.  Soon  he  could 
move  the  other  hand.  Head  knock- 
ing against  the  lamp-post,  he  pad- 
dled downward.  Found  he  was  moving 
slowly  forward.  Head  clear  of  the  lamp- 
post. Gritty  work,  swimming,  as  it 
were,  in  loose  ashes.  Hands  in  shock- 
ing condition.  Scalp  painful.  Lost 
his  hair,  but  kept  his  head.  Suddenly 
his  industriously  paddling  hands  swirl- 
ed into  the  air,  jerking  legs  drove  him 
upward,  and  he  spewed  the  abrasive 
element  from  his  lips.  He  had  come 
back.  And  had  brought  an  idea  with 
him.  Before  he  went  into  the  army, 
Marks  was  second  officer  in  the  Mar- 
chioness Line,  afflicted  with  dreams  of 
inventing  unsinkable  ships  and  collap- 
sible life-boats.  Now  he  came  back  to 
life  with  a  brand-new  notion.  What  was 
it?  Well,  we  'd  be  having  a  run  over 
to  the  ship  bye-and-bye  and  I  would 
see  it.  It  could  do  everything  except 
sing  a  comic  song. 

'We  had  been  relieved  one  evening,' 
Captain  Gosnell  observes,  'and  were 
about  hull  down  and  under,  when  I 
ordered  dead  slow  for  a  few  hours. 
The  reason  for  this  was  that,  at  full 
^peed,  we  would  reach  Port  Said  about 
three  in  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  gen- 
erally advised  to  arrive  after  sunset,  or 
even  after  dark.  Besides  this,  I  set  a 
course  to  pass  round  to  the  east'ard  of 
a  field  we  had  laid  a  week  or  so  before, 
instead  of  to  the  west'ard.  This  is  a 


178 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


simple  enough  matter  of  running  off 
the  correct  distances,  for  the  current, 
if  anything,  increased  the  margin  of 
safety.  We  were  making  about  four 
knots,  with  the  mine-field  on  the  star- 
board bow,  as  I  calculated,  and  we 
were  enjoying  a  very  pleasant  supper 
in  my  cabin,  which  had  been  the  pas- 
senger saloon  in  the  Ouzel's  excursion 
days  —  a  fine  large  room  on  the  upper 
deck,  with  big  windows,  like  a  house 
ashore.  The  old  bus  was  chugging 
along,  and  from  my  table  you  could 
see  the  horizon  all  round,  except  just 
astern,  which  was  hid  by  the  funnel. 
Nothing  there,  however,  but  good  salt 
water,  and  the  Holy  Land  a  long  way 
behind.  It  was  like  sitting  in  a  conserv- 
atory. The  sea  was  as  smooth  as  glass, 
with  a  fine  haze  to  the  south'ard.  This 
haze,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  was  mov- 
ing north  at  about  the  same  speed  as 
we  were  going  south,  which  would 
make  it  eight  knots,  and  in  an  hour 
we  would  be  in  it.  I  mention  this  be- 
cause it  explains  why  the  three  of  us, 
sitting  in  a  cabin  on  an  upper  deck, 
saw  the  battleship  all  together,  all  at 
once,  and  quite  near.  We  all  went  on 
the  bridge. 

'Now  you  must  understand,'  went 
on  Captain  Gosnell,  'that  the  subject 
of  conversation  between  us  while  we 
were  at  supper  was  money.  We  were 
discussing  the  best  way  of  getting  hold 
of  money,  and  the  absolute  necessity 
of  capital  after  the  war,  if  we  were  to 
get  anywhere.  This  war,  you  know, 
has  been  a  three-ringed  circus  for  the 
young  fellows.  But  to  men  like  us  it 
has  n't  been  anything  of  the  sort.  We 
have  a  very  strong  conviction  that 
some  of  us  are  going  to  feel  the  draft. 
We  are  n't  so  young  as  we  used  to  be, 
and  a  little  money  would  be  a  bless- 
ing. Well,  we  were  talking  about  our 
chances  —  of  salvage,  prize-money, 
bonuses,  and  so  forth.  Our  principal 
notion,  if  I  remember,  that  evening, 


was  to  go  into  business  and  pool  our 
resources.  For  one  thing,  we  wanted 
to  keep  up  the  association.  And  then, 
out  of  the  Lord  knows  where,  came  this 
great  gray  warship  heading  straight  — 

Captain  Gosnell  paused  and  regard- 
ed me  with  an  austere  glance.  Mr. 
Marks  and  Heatly  were  listening  and 
looking  at  us  watchfully.  And  over 
Mr.  Marks's  shoulder  I  could  see  the 
three  officers  with  their  polychromatic 
uniforms  gleaming  in  the  soft  orange 
radiance  of  shaded  lamps. 

'You  understand  what  I  mean?' 
said  Captain  Gosnell.  'We  stood  on 
the  bridge  watching  that  ship  come  up 
on  us,  watching  her  through  our  glasses, 
and  we  did  not  attach  any  particular 
importance  to  her  appearance.  When 
we  saw  the  Russian  ensign  astern,  it 
did  not  mean  a  great  deal  to  us.  She 
was  as  much  an  anomaly  in  those  ter- 
rible waters  as  a  line-of-battle  ship  of 
Nelson's  day.  That  was  what  stag- 
gered us.  An  enormous  valuable  ship 
like  that  coming  out  into  such  a  sea. 
Suddenly  the  value  of  her,  the  money 
she  cost,  the  money  she  was  worth,  so 
near  and  yet  so  far,  came  home  to  us. 
I  had  an  imaginary  view  of  her,  you 
understand,  for  a  moment,  as  some- 
thing I  could  sell;  a  sort  of  fanciful 
picture  of  her  possibilities  in  the  junk 
line.  Think  of  the  brass  and  rubber 
alone,  in  a  ship  like  that!  And  then  we 
all  simultaneously  realized  just  what 
was  happening.  I  had  my  hand 
stretched  out  to  the  whistle-lanyard, 
when  there  was  a  heavy,  bubbling 
grunt,  and  she  rolled  over  toward  us 
as  if  some  invisible  hand  had  given  her 
a  push.  She  rolled  back  to  an  even  keel 
and  began  pitching  a  very  little.  This 
was  due,  I  believe,  to  the  sudden  going 
astern  of  her  engines,  coupled  with  the 
mine  throwing  her  over.  Pitched  a  lit- 
tle, and,  for  some  extraordinary  reason, 
her  forward  twelve-inch  guns  were 
rapidly  elevated  as  if  some  insane  gun- 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


ner  was  going  to  take  a  shot  at  the 
North  Star  before  going  down.  From 
what  we  gathered  later,  things  were 
going  on  inside  that  turret  which  are 
unpleasant  to  think  about.  There  was 
that  ship,  twenty-five  thousand  tons 
of  her,  going  through  a  number  of 
peculiar  evolutions.  Like  most  battle- 
ships, she  had  four  anchors  in  her  bows, 
and  suddenly  they  all  shot  out  of  their 
hawse-pipes  and  fell  into  the  sea,  while 
clouds  of  red  dust  came  away,  as  if 
she  was  breathing  fire  and  smoke  at  us 
through  her  nostrils.  And  then  she 
began  to  swing  round  on  them,  so  that, 
as  we  came  up  to  her,  she  showed  us 
her  great  rounded  armored  counter, 
with  its  captain's  gallery  and  a  little 
white  awning  to  keep  off  the  sun.  And 
what  we  saw  then  passed  anything  in 
my  experience  on  this  earth,  ashore  or 
afloat.  We  were  coming  up  on  her,  you 
know,  and  we  had  our  glasses  so  that, 
as  the  stern  swung  on  us,  we  had  a 
perfectly  close  view  of  that  gallery. 
There  were  two  bearded  men  sitting 
there,  in  uniforms  covered  with  gold 
lace  and  dangling  decorations,  smoking 
cigarettes,  each  in  a  large  wicker  chair 
on  either  side  of  a  table.  Behind  them 
the  big  armored  doors  were  open  and 
the  mahogany  slides  drawn  back,  and 
we  could  see  silver  and  china  and  very 
elaborate  electrical  fittings  shining  on 
the  table,  and  men  in  white  coats  walk- 
ing about  without  any  anxiety  at  all. 
On  the  stern  was  a  great  golden  two- 
headed  eagle,  and  a  name  in  their  pecu- 
liar wrong-way-round  lettering  which 
Serge  told  us  later  was  Fontanka.  And 
they  sat  there,  those  two  men  with 
gray  beards  on  their  breasts  like  large 
bibs,  smoking  and  chatting  and  point- 
ing out  the  Ouzel  to  each  other.  It  was 
incredible.  And  in  the  cabin  behind 
them  servants  went  round  and  round, 
and  a  lamp  was  burning  in  front  of  a 
i  large  picture  of  the  Virgin  in  a  glitter- 
i  ing  frame.  An  icon.  I  can  assure  you, 


179 

their  placid  demeanor  almost  paralyzed 
us.  We  began  to  wonder  if  we  had  n't 
dreamed  what  had  gone  before,  if  we 
were  n't  still  dreaming.  But  she  con- 
tinued to  swing  and  we  continued  to 
come  up  on  her,  so  that  soon  we  had 
a  view  along  her  decks  again,  and  we 
knew  well  enough  we  were  n't  dream- 
ing very  much. 

'Her  decks  were  alive  with  men. 
They  moved  continually,  replacing 
each  other  like  a  mass  of  insects  on  a 
beam.  It  appeared,  from  where  we 
were,  a  cable's  length  or  so,  like  an 
orderly  panic.  There  must  have  been 
five  or  six  hundred  of  them  climbing, 
running,  walking,  pushing,  pulling,  like 
one  of  those  football  matches  at  the 
big  schools,  where  everybody  plays  at 
once.  And  then  our  whistle  blew.  I 
give  you  my  word  I  did  it  quite  uncon- 
sciously, in  my  excitement.  If  it  had 
been  Gabriel's  trumpet,  it  could  not 
have  caused  greater  consternation.  I 
think  a  good  many  of  them  thought 
it  was  Gabriel's  trumpet.  It  amounted 
to  that  almost,  for  the  Fontanka  took 
a  sort  of  slide  forward  at  that  moment 
and  sank  several  feet  by  the  head.  All 
those  hundreds  of  men  mounted  the 
rails  and  put  up  their  hands  and  shout- 
ed. It  was  the  most  horrible  thing. 
They  stood  there  with  uplifted  hands 
and  their  boats  half-lowered,  and  shout- 
ed. I  believe  they  imagined  that  I 
was  going  alongside  to  take  them  off. 
But  I  had  no  such  intention.  The 
Ouzel's  sponsons  would  have  been 
smashed,  her  paddles  wrecked,  and 
we  would  probably  have  gone  to  the 
bottom  along  with  them.  We  looked 
at  each  other  and  shouted  in  sheer  fury 
at  their  folly.  We  bawled  and  made 
motions  to  lower  their  boats.  I  put 
the  helm  over  and  moved  off  a  little, 
and  ordered  our  own  boat  down.  The 
fog  was  coming  up  and  the  sun  was 
going  down.  The  only  thing  that  was 
calm  was  the  sea.  It  was  like  a  lake. 


180 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


Suddenly,  several  of  the  Fontanka's 
boats  almost  dropped  into  the  water, 
and  the  men  began  to  slide  down  the 
falls  like  strings  of  blue  and  white 
beads.  She  took  another  slide,  very 
slow  but  very  sickening  to  see. 

'I  fixed  my  glasses  on  the  super- 
structure between  the  funnels,  where 
a  large  steel  crane  curved  over  a  couple 
of  launches  with  polished  brass  funnels. 
And  I  was  simply  appalled  to  find  a 
woman  sitting  in  one  of  the  launches, 
with  her  arms  round  a  little  boy.  She 
was  quite  composed,  apparently,  and 
was  watching  three  men  who  were 
working  very  hard  about  the  crane. 
The  launch  began  to  rise  in  the  air, 
and  two  of  the  men  climbed  into  her. 
She  rose,  and  the  crane  swung  outward. 
We  cheered  like  maniacs  when  she 
floated.  In  a  flash  the  other  man  was 
climbing  up  the  curve  of  the  crane,  and 
we  saw  him  slide  down  the  wire  into 
the  launch. 

'  By  this  time,  you  must  understand, 
the  other  boats  were  full  of  men,  and 
one  of  them  was  cast  off  while  more 
men  were  sliding  down  the  falls.  They 
held  on  with  one  hand  and  waved  the 
other  at  the  men  above,  who  proceeded 
in  a  very  systematic  way  to  slide  on 
top  of  them,  and  then  the  whole  bunch 
would  carry  away  altogether  and  van- 
ish with  a  sort  of  compound  splash. 
And  then  men  began  to  come  out  of 
side-scuttles.  They  were  in  a  great 
hurry,  these  chaps.  A  head  would 
appear,  and  then  shoulders  and  arms 
working  violently.  The  man  would  be 
just  getting  his  knees  in  a  purchase  on 
the  scuttle  frame,  when  he  would  shoot 
out  clean  head-first  into  the  sea.  And 
another  head,  the  head  of  the  man  who 
had  pushed  him,  would  come  out. 

'But  don't  forget,'  warned  Captain 
Gosnell, '  that  all  these  things  were  hap- 
pening at  once.  Don't  forget  that  the 
Fontanka  was  still  swarming  with  men, 
that  the  sun  was  just  disappearing,  very 


red,  in  the  west,  that  the  ship's  bows 
were  about  level  with  the  water.  Don't 
forget  all  this,'  urged  Captain  Gosnell, 
'and  then,  when  you  've  got  that  all 
firmly  fixed  in  your  mind,  she  turns 
right  over,  shows  the  great  red  belly 
of  her  for  perhaps  twenty  seconds,  and 
sinks.' 

Captain  Gosnell  held  the  match  for 
a  moment  longer  to  his  cigar,  threw 
the  stick  on  the  floor,  and  strode  into 
the  room,  leaving  me  to  imagine  the 
thing  he  had  described. 

V 

And  these  three,  in  their  deftly  han- 
dled and  slow-moving  launch,  with  their 
incredible  passengers,  the  woman  with 
her  arms  round  a  little  boy,  were  the 
first  to  board  the  Ouzel.  Captain  Gos- 
nell had  stopped  his  engines,  for  the  sea 
was  thick  with  swimming  and  floating 
men.  They  explained  through  Serge, 
who  had  climbed  down  the  crane,  —  a 
man  of  extended  experience  in  polar 
regions,  —  that  they  were  officers  in 
the  Imperial  Russian  Army,  entrusted 
with  the  safe-conduct  of  the  lady  and 
her  child,  and  therefore  claimed  prece- 
dence over  naval  ratings. 

That  was  all  very  well,  of  course;  but 
the  naval  ratings  were  already  swarming 
up  the  low  fenders  of  the  Ouzel,  climb- 
ing the  paddle-boxes  and  making  excel- 
lent use  of  the  ropes  and  slings  flung  to 
them  by  the  Ouzel's  crew.  The  naval 
ratings  were  displaying  the  utmost  ac- 
tivity on  their  own  accounts;  they  im- 
mediately manned  the  launch,  and  set 
off  to  garner  the  occupants  of  rafts  and 
gratings.  Even  in  her  excursion  days, 
the  Ouzel  had  never  had  so  many  pas- 
sengers. Captain  Gosnell  would  never 
have  believed,  if  he  had  not  seen  it,  that 
five-hundred-odd  souls  could  have  found 
room  to  breathe  on  her  decks  and  in  her 
alleyways.  All'dripping  sea-water. 

Captain  Gosnell,  leaning  back  on  the 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


maroon-velvet  settee  and  drawing  at 
his  cigar,  nodded  toward  the  talented 
Serge,  who  was  now  playing  an  intri- 
cate version  of  'Tipperary,'  with  many 
arpeggios,  and  remarked  that  he  had  to 
use  him  as  an  interpreter.  The  senior 
naval  officer  saved  was  a  gentleman  who 
came  aboard  in  his  shirt  and  drawers 
and  a  gold  wrist-watch,  having  slipped 
off  his  clothes  on  the  bridge  before 
jumping;  but  he  spoke  no  English. 
Serge  spoke  'pretty  good  English.' 
Serge  interpreted  excellently.  Having 
seen  the  lady  and  her  little  boy,  who 
had  gray  eyes  and  a  freckled  nose,  in- 
stalled in  the  main  cabin,  he  drew  the 
captain  aside  and  explained  to  him  the 
supreme  importance  of  securing  the 
exact  position  of  the  foundered  ship; 
'in  case,'  he  said,  'it  was  found  pos- 
sible to  raise  her.' 

And  when  we  got  in,  and  transferred 
the  men  to  hospital,  and  I  had  made  my 
report,  they  gave  me  no  information  to 
speak  of  about  the  ship.  I  don't  think 
they  were  very  clear  themselves  what 
she  was  to  do,  beyond  making  for  the 
Adriatic.  As  for  the  passengers,  they 
never  mentioned  them  at  all,  so  of  course 

!  I  held  my  tongue  and  drew  my  conclu- 
sions. Serge  told  me  they  had  been 
bound  for  an  Italian  port,  whence  his 
party  was  to  proceed  to  Paris.  Now  he 

,  would  have  to  arrange  passages  to  Mar- 
seilles. He  took  suites  in  the  Marina 
Hotel,  interviewed  agents  and  banks, 
hired  a  motor-car,  and  had  uniforms 
made  by  the  best  Greek  tailor  in  the 

'town.  We  were  living  at  the  Marina 
while  ashore,  you  see,  and  so  it  was  easy 
for  us  to  get  very  friendly.  Heatly,  there, 
was  soon  very  friendly  with  the  lady. 
'No,'  said  Captain  Gosnell  with  per- 
Ifect  frankness  in  reply  to  my  look  of 
sophistication, '  not  in  the  very  slightest 
;  degree.  Nothing  of  that.  If  you  ask  me, 

:  I  should  call  it  a  sort  of  —  chivalry. 

:j Anybody  who  thinks  there  was  ever 
!  any  thing  —  er  —  what  you  suggest  — 


181 

has  no  conception  of  the  real  facts  of 
the  case.' 

This  was  surprising.  It  seemed  to 
put  Emma  in  an  equivocal  position, 
and  my  respect  for  that  woman  made 
me  reluctant  to  doubt  her  intelligence. 
But  Captain  Gosnell  was  in  a  better 
position  than  Emma  to  give  evidence. 
Captain  Gosnell  was  conscious  that  a 
man  can  run  right  through  the  hazards 
of  existence  and  come  out  on  the  other 
side  with  his  fundamental  virtues  unim- 
paired. They  all  shared  this  sentiment, 
I  gathered,  for  this  lovely  woman  with 
the  bronze  hair  and  gray  eyes;  but 
Heatly's  imagination  had  been  touched 
to  an  extraordinary  degree.  In  their  in- 
terminable discussions  concerning  their 
future  movements,  discussions  highly 
technical  in  their  nature,  because  inves- 
tigating a  sunken  armored  warship  is 
a  highly  technical  affair,  Heatly  would 
occasionally  interpret  a  word,  empha- 
sizing the  importance  of  giving  her  a 
fair  deal. 

'But  she  never  reached  Marseilles. 
They  were  two  days  off  Malta  when 
an  Austrian  submarine  torpedoed  the 
French  liner  and  sank  her.  They  did 
not  fire  on  the  boats.  And  our  lady 
friend  found  herself  being  rowed  slowly 
toward  a  place  of  which  she  had  no 
knowledge  whatever.  Serge  told  us 
they  were  pulling  for  eighteen  hours 
before  they  were  picked  up.' 

'And  she  is  here  now?'  I  asked  cau- 
tiously. 

'Here  now,'  said  Captain  Gosnell. 
'She  usually  comes  down  here  for  an 
hour  in  the  evening.  If  she's  here,  I'll 
introduce  you.' 

VI 

She  was  sitting  on  a  plush  lounge  at 
the  extreme  rear  of  the  cafe,  and  when 
I  first  set  eyes  on  her,  I  was  disappoint- 
ed. I  had  imagined  something  much 
more  magnificent,  more  alluring,  than 
this.  In  spite  of  Captain  Gosnell  s 


182 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


severely  prosaic  narrative  of  concrete 
facts,  he  had  been  unable  to  keep  from 
me  the  real  inspiration  of  the  whole  ad- 
venture. I  was  prepared  to  murmur, 
'Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a 
thousand  ships?'  and  so  on,  as  much  as 
I  could  remember  of  that  famous  bit  of 
rant.  One  gets  an  exalted  notion  of 
women  who  are  credited  with  such  pow- 
ers, who  preserve  some  vestige  of  the 
magic  that  can  make  men  'immortal 
with  a  kiss.'  Bionda,  in  a  large  fur  coat 
and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of  black  vel- 
vet, had  cloaked  her  divinity,  and  the 
first  impression  was  Christian  rather 
than  pagan.  'A  tired  saint,'  I  thought, 
as  I  sat  down  after  the  introduction  and 
looked  at  the  pale  bronze  hair  and  the 
intelligent  gray  eyes. 

She  had  a  very  subtle  and  pretty  way 
of  expressing  her  appreciation  of  the 
homage  rendered  by  these  diverse  mas- 
culine personalities.  Her  hands,  emerg- 
ing from  the  heavy  fur  sleeves,  were 
white  and  extremely  thin,  with  several 
large  rings.  She  had  nothing  to  say  to 
a  stranger,  which  was  natural  enough, 
and  I  sat  in  silence  watching  her.  She 
spoke  English  with  musical  delibera- 
tion, rolling  the  r's  and  hesitating  at 
times  in  a  choice  of  words,  so  that  one 
waited  with  pleasure  upon  her  pauses 
and  divined  the  rhythm  of  her  thoughts. 
She  preserved  in  all  its  admirable  com- 
pleteness that  mystery  concerning  their 
ultimate  purpose  in  the  world  which  is 
so  essential  to  women  in  the  society  of 
men.  And  it  was  therefore  with  some 
surprise  that  I  heard  her  enunciate  with 
intense  feeling,  'Oh,  never,  never,  nev- 
er!' There  was  an  expression  of  sad 
finality  about  it.  She  was  conveying  to 
them  her  fixed  resolve  never  to  board  a 
ship  again.  Ships  had  been  altogether 
too  much  for  her.  She  had  been  inland 
all  her  life,  and  her  recent  catastrophes 
had  robbed  her  of  her  reserves  of  forti- 
tude. She  would  remain  here -in  this 
Island.  She  sat  staring  at  the  marble 


table  as  if  she  saw  in  imagination  the  in- 
finite reaches  of  the  ocean,  blue,  green, 
gray,  or  black,  forever  fluid  and  treach- 
erous, a  sinister  superficies  beneath 
which  the  bodies  and  achievements  of 
men  disappeared  as  into  some  unknown 
lower  region. 

Women  have  many  valid  reasons  for 
hating  the  sea;  and  this  woman  seemed 
dimly  aware  of  a  certain  jealousy  of 
it  —  that  alluring  masculine  element 
which  destroys  men  without  any  aid 
from  women  at  all.  Her  faith  in  ships 
had  not  suffered  shipwreck,  so  much 
as  foundered. 

They  were  all  agreed.  Serge  was  of 
the  opinion  that,  if  they  recovered  a 
tenth  of  the  bullion  which  her  husband, 
who  had  a  platinum  concession  in  the 
Asiatic  Urals,  had  consigned  to  his  agent 
in  Paris,  there  would  be  enough  for 
all.  Serge,  in  short,  became  the  active 
spirit  of  the  enterprise.  He  knew  how 
to  obtain  funds  from  mysterious  firms 
who  had  quiet  offices  down  secluded  al- 
leys near  Copthall  Court  and  Great  St. 
Helens,  in  London.  He  made  sketches 
and  explained  where  the  stuff  was 
stowed,  and,  presuming  the  ship  to  be 
in  such  and  such  a  position,  what  bulk- 
heads had  to  be  penetrated  to  get  into 
her.  He  obtained  permission  to  accom- 
pany the  Ouzel  on  her  four-day  cruises, 
and  they  never  had  a  dull  moment.  He 
brought  water-colors  along,  purchased 
at  immense  expense  from  the  local  ex- 
tortioners, and  made  astonishing  draw- 
ings of  his  hosts  and  their  excursion 
steamer.  He  sang  songs  in  a  voice  like 
a  musical  snarl  —  songs  in  obscure  dia- 
lects, songs  in  indecent  French,  songs  in 
booming  Russian.  He  danced  native 
Russian  dances,  and  the  click  of  his 
heels  was  like  a  pneumatic  calking-tool 
at  work  on  a  rush  job.  His  large,  serious 
face,  with  the  long,  finely  formed  nose, 
the  sensitive  mouth,  the  sad  dark  eyes 
suddenly  illuminated  by  a  beautiful 
smile,  the  innumerable  tiny  criss-cross 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


183 


corrugations  above  the  cheek-bones 
which  are  the  marks  of  life  in  polar 
regions,  fascinated  the  Englishmen. 
Without  ever  admitting  it  in  so  many 
words,  they  knew  him  to  be  that  ex- 
tremely rare  phenomenon,  a  leader  of 
men  on  hazardous  and  lonely  quests. 
Without  being  at  all  certain  of  his  name, 
which  was  polysyllabic  and  rather  a 
burden  to  an  Anglo-Saxon  larynx,  they 
discovered  his  character  with  unerring 
accuracy.  From  the  very  first  they 
seem  to  have  been  conscious  of  the 
spiritual  aspect  of  the  adventure.  They 
listened  to  the  tittle-tattle  of  the  hotel 
bars  and  the  Casino  dances,  and  re- 
frained from  comment.  The  scheme 
grew  in  their  minds  and  preoccupied 
them.  Mr.  Marks  and  Heatly  spent 
days  and  nights  over  strange  designs, 
and  Heatly  himself  worked  at  the  bench 
in  the  port  alleyway,  between  the  pad- 
dle-box and  the  engine-room,  construct- 
ing mechanical  monstrosities. 

But  as  weeks  went  by  and  Serge  con- 
tinued to  communicate  with  Paris  and 
London,  it  became  clear  that  he  was 
not  at  all  easy  in  his  mind.  Some  people 
say,  of  course,  that  no  Russian  is  easy 
in  his  mind;  but  this  was  an  altruistic 
anxiety.  He  judged  that  it  would  be 
best  for  them  to  get  on  to  Paris,  where 
Bionda  had  relatives  and  he  himself 
could  resume  active  operations. 

And  so  they  started,  this  time  in  a 
French  mail-boat  bound  for  Marseilles. 
Our  three  mine-sweepers  saw  them  off. 
And  Captain  Gosnell,  as  we  walked  up 
the  Strada  Stretta  and  emerged  upon 
the  brilliant  Strada  Reale,  was  able  to 
convey  a  hint  of  the  actual  state  of 
affairs. 

'She  knew  nothing,'  he  said.  'She 
was  still  under  the  impression  that  there 
would  always  be  an  endless  stream  of 
money  coming  from  somebody  in  Paris 
or  London.  She  was,  if  you  can  excuse 
the  word,  like  a  child  empress.  But 
there  was  n't  any  such  stream.  Serge 


and  the  others  had  a  little  of  their  own; 
but  hers  was  mostly  in  an  ammunition 
chamber  on  B  deck  in  a  foundered  war- 
ship, along  with  the  bullion,  bound  to 
the  Siberian  Bank.  She  was  n't  worry- 
ing about  money  at  all.  She  was  wish- 
ing she  was  in  Marseilles,  for  her  experi- 
ences on  ships  had  n't  given  her  a  very 
strong  confidence  in  their  safety.  And 
Serge  was  anxious  to  get  her  to  Paris, 
to  her  relatives,  before  what  money  she 
had  ran  out.' 

Suddenly  she  gathered  up  her  gloves 
and  trinkets  and  said  she  must  be  going. 
She  had  worked  hard  that  day  and  was 
tired.  We  rose  and,  as  if  by  precon- 
certed arrangement,  divided  into  two 
parties.  It  was  the  general  rule,  I  gath- 
ered, that  the  gentlemen  who  had  acted 
as  her  bodyguard  for  so  long  should 
undertake  this  nightly  escort.  We  filed 
out  into  the  deserted  square,  and  the 
last  view  we  had  of  them  was  the  small 
fur-clad  figure  tripping  away  up  the 
empty  and  romantic  street,  while  over 
her  towered  the  three  tall  soldiers,  look- 
ing like  benevolent  brigands  in  their 
dark  cloaks. 

As  we  turned  toward  the  Grand 
Harbor,  Captain  Gosnell  remarked 
that,  if  I  cared  to  come,  they  could 
show  me  something  I  had  probably 
never  seen  before.  We  descended  the 
stone  stairs  leading  to  the  Custom 
House  Quay.  To  see  them  diving  with 
long  strides  down  those  broad,  shallow 
steps,  the  solitary  lamps,  burning  before 
dim  shrines  high  up,  lighting  their  forms 
as  for  some  religious  mystery,  they  ap- 
peared as  men  plunging  in  the  grip  of 
powerful  and  diverse  emotions.  The 
captain  was  plain  enough  to  any  intel- 
ligence. He  desired  money  that  he 
might  maintain  his  position  in  England 
—  a  country  where  it  is  almost  better 
to  lose  one's  soul  than  one's  position. 
Mr.  Marks,  beneath  the  genial  falsity 
of  a  wig,  concealed  an  implacable  fidel- 


184 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


ity  to  a  mechanical  ideal.  Heatly,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  not  so  easily  ana- 
lyzed as  Emma  had  suggested.  He  ap- 
peared the  inarticulate  victim  of  a  re- 
mote and  magnificent  devotion.  He 
gave  the  impression  of  a  sort  of  proud 
disgust  that  he  should  have  been  thus 
afflicted. 

So  we  came  down  to  the  water,  and 
walked  along  the  quay  until  we  hailed 
a  small,  broad-beamed  steamer,  very 
brightly  lighted  but  solitary,  so  that 
Captain  Gosnell  had  to  use  a  silver 
whistle  that  he  carried,  and  the  shrill 
blast  echoed  from  the  high  ramparts  of 
the  Castle  of  Sant'  Angelo. 

A  boat  came  slowly  toward  us,  and 
we  went  aboard .  She  was  a  strange  blend 
of  expensive  untidiness.  Great  pumps 
and  hoses,  costly  even  when  purchased 
second-hand,  lay  red  and  rusty  and 
slathered  with  dry  mud  about  her  decks. 
We  descended  a  foul  ladder  through  an 
iron  scuttle  leading  to  the  one  great 
hold  forward.  The  'tween-decks  were 
workshops,  with  lathes,  drills,  and  sav- 
age-looking torch-furnaces.  Things  that 
looked  like  lawn-mowers  afflicted  with 
elephantiasis  revealed  themselves  on  in- 
spection as  submersible  boring-heads 
and  cutters  that  went  down  into  inac- 
cessible places,  like  marine  ferrets,  and 
did  execution  there. 

In  the  centre,  however,  suspended 
from  a  beam,  was  the  masterpiece.  It 
would  be  vain  to  describe  the  indescrib- 
able. It  resembled  in  a  disturbing  way 
a  giant  spider  with  its  legs  curled  semi- 
circularly  about  its  body.  A  formidable 
domed  thing,  with  circular  glass  eyes 
set  in  it,  and  a  door  as  of  a  safe  or  the 
breech-block  of  a  gun.  From  this  pro- 
truded a  number  of  odd-looking  mech- 
anisms, and  below  it,  flanked  by  cat- 
erpillar belts,  on  which  the  contrivance 
walked  with  dignity  upon  the  bed  of  the 
ocean,  were  large,  sharp-bladed  cutters, 
like  steel  whorls. 

While  I  gazed  at  this,  endeavoring  to 


decide  how  much  was  reality  and  how 
much  merely  excited  imagination,  Mr. 
Marks  went  down  and  proceeded  to  set 
a  ladder  against  the  side  of  the  machine. 
He  grasped  wheels  and  levers,  he  spoke 
with  vehemence  to  Heatly,  who  ran  to 
a  switchboard  and  encased  his  head 
in  a  kind  of  listening  helmet.  Then 
Mr.  Marks  climbed  nimbly  through  the 
aperture  and  drew  the  door  to  with  a 
click.  A  light  appeared  within,  shining 
through  the  enormously  thick  glass, 
and  showing  a  fantastic  travesty  of  Mr. 
Marks  moving  about  in  his  steel  prison. 
Captain  Gosnell  indicated  the  triumph- 
ant perfection  of  this  thing.  They  were 
in  constant  telephonic  connection  with 
him.  He  could  direct  a  bright  beam  in 
any  direction,  and  he  could  animate  any 
one  or  all  of  the  extraordinary  limbs  of 
the  machine.  Suppose  a  ship  lay  in  sand 
shale,  mud,  or  gravel.  He  could  dig 
himself  under  her,  dragging  a  hawser 
which  could  be  made  fast  to  a  float  on 
each  side.  He  could  fasten  on  to  a  given 
portion  of  the  hull,  drill  it,  cut  it,  and  in 
time  crawl  inside  on  the  caterpillar  feet. 
He  had  food,  hot  and  cold  drinks,  and 
oxygen  for  two  days.  He  could  sit  and 
read  if  he  liked,  or  talk  to  the  people  on 
the  ship.  And  quite  safe,  no  matter 
how  deep.  Wonderful ! 

I  dare  say  it  was.  It  was  a  fabulous- 
looking  thing,  anyhow,  and  as  Mr. 
Marks,  moving  like  a  visible  brain  in  a 
transparent  skull,  started  and  stopped 
his  alarming  extremities,  it  struck  me 
that  humanity  was  in  danger  of  tran- 
scending itself  at  last.  It  was  soothing 
to  come  up  on  deck  again  and  see  Sant' 
Angelo  in  the  moonlight  like  the  back- 
cloth  of  an  Italian  opera.  It  was  a  com- 
fort to  hear  that  one  of  the  men,  who 
ought  to  have  been  on  duty,  was  drunk. 
Perhaps  he  had  found  the  machinery 
too  powerful  for  his  poor  weak  human 
soul  and  had  fled  ashore  to  drown  the 
nightmare  of  mechanism  in  liquor.  One 
could  imagine  the  men-at-arms,  whose 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


duty  it  was  to  watch  from  those  stone 
towers,  slipping  out  of  some  newly  in- 
vented corselet  with  a  jangle  and  clang, 
and  stealing  away  in  an  old  leather 
jerkin,  only  half  laced,  to  make  a  night 
of  it. 

Not  that  there  was  anything  funda- 
mentally at  odds  with  romance  in  this 
extraordinary  adventure  into  deep  wa- 
ters, I  mused,  as  I  lay  in  my  vast  cham- 
ber that  night.  Knights  in  armor,  releas- 
ing virgin  forces  of  wealth  buried  in  the 
ocean.  Heatly  was  moving  about  in  the 
next  room,  smoking  a  cigarette. 

'What  does  she  do  for  a  living?'  I 
asked. 

He  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
in  his  pajamas.  He  blew  a  thread  of 
tobacco  from  his  lips. 

'  She  keeps  a  tea-shop  near  the  Opera 
House/  he  said.  'We  don't  go  there; 
knowing  her  as  we  do,  it  would  n't  be 
the  right  thing.' 

'  But  I  can,  I  suppose,'  I  suggested. 

'Yes,  you  can,  I  suppose,'  he  as- 
sented from  somewhere  within  his  room. 

'You  don't  object,  of  course?'  I  went 
on. 

The  light  went  out. 

VII 

Wedged  in  between  Lanceolotte's 
music-shop  and  Marcus's  emporium  of 
Maltese  bijouterie  I  found  a  modest  door 
and  window.  In  the  latter  was  a  simple 
card  with  the  word  TEAS  in  large  print. 
Below  it  was  a  samovar,  and  a  couple 
of  table  centres  made  of  the  local  lace. 

'Can  I  go  upstairs?'  I  asked  the  little 
boy  with  the  gray  eyes  and  freckled 
nose;  and  he  smiled  and  nodded  with 
delightful  friendliness. 

'Then  I  will,'  I  said;  and  he  rushed 
up  in  front  of  me. 

There  was  nobody  there.  He  cleared 
a  table  by  the  low  window.  Across  the 
street  was  the  broad  and  beautiful  fa- 
cade of  the  Opera  House.  The  an- 


185 

nouncement  board  bore  the  legend  'To- 
night —  Faust.' 

'You  want  tea?'  said  the  boy,  with  a 
forward  dart  of  his  head,  like  an  in- 
quisitive bird. 

I  nodded. 

'Toast?' 

I  nodded  again.  'I  thought  you  were 
at  the  hotel,'  I  remarked. 

'Only  in  the  evenings,'  he  explained, 
lifting  his  tray.  'You  want  cakes,  too?' 

I  nodded  again,  and  he  seemed  to  ap- 
prove of  my  catholic  taste.  A  low  voice 
said, '  Karl ! '  and  he  hurried  down  out  of 
sight. 

I  was  sitting  there  munching  a  bun 
and  enjoying  some  really  well-made  tea 
(with  lemon),  and  watching  a  number  of 
cheerful  well-dressed  people  emerging 
from  the  theatre,  when  something  caus- 
ed me  to  look  round,  and  I  saw  the  face 
of  Bionda  just  above  the  floor.  She 
was  standing  at  a  turn  in  the  stair,  re- 
garding me  attentively.  I  rose,  and  she 
came  on  up. 

'I  thought,'  she  said  without  raising 
her  eyes,  'that  I  had  seen  you  before. 
Have  you  everything  you  wish?' 

'Everything  except  someone  to  talk 
to,'  I  said. 

She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  serious  ex- 
pression in  them.  'I  will  talk  if  you 
wish,'  she  said  gravely. 

'Do  sit  down,'  I  begged. 

I  wished  to  sit  down  myself,  for  the 
window  was  low.  She  complied. 

'I  am  a  friend  of  Mr.  Heatly,'  I  went 
on. 

Her  face  lighted  up.  'He  is  a  very 
nice  man,' she  said,  laughing.  'He  likes 
me  very  much.  He  told  me  he  was 
going  to  look  after  me  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.  He  makes  me  laugh  very 
much.  You  like  him?' 

'I  used  to  be  on  the  same  ship  with 
him,'  I  said;  'years  ago,  before  he  was 
married.' 

'Ah,  yes,  before  he  was  married.  1 
see.  Now  you  go  on  a  ship  again? ' 


186 


KNIGHTS  AND  TURCOPOLIERS 


'When  she  arrives  from  Odessa.' 

'From — '  She  looked  hard  at  me. 
'Perhaps  there  will  be  news,  if  she 
comes  from  Odessa.' 

'Maybe.'  (She  sighed.)  'You  have 
had  no  news,  then,  since  the  Revolu- 
tion?' 

'Nothing.  Not  one  single  word.  In 
there,  it  is  all  dark.  When  your  ship 
comes,  there  will  be  passengers,  no?' 

'Ah,  I  could  n't  say,'  I  replied.  'We 
must  wait.  If  there  are  any,  I  will  let 
you  know.' 

'Thank  you.'  Her  gaze  wandered 
across  the  street.  'They  have  finished 
the  play.  What  do  you  call  when  they 
sing  —  before?' 

'A  rehearsal,  you  mean.' 

'Yes.  Well,  they  have  finished.  There 
is  Mephistopheles  coming  out  now.' 
She  nodded  toward  a  tall  gentleman 
in  tweeds,  who  was  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  swinging  a  cane  on  the  upper  ter- 
race. 'He  waits  for  Margarita.  There 
she  is.' 

A  robust  creature  emerged,  putting 
on  long  gloves,  and  the  two  descended 
to  the  sidewalk.  Bionda  laughed. 

'Does  Margarita  usually  walk  out 
with  Mephisto?'  I  asked. 

'Oh,  they  are  married,'  she  informed 
me  with  a  whimsical  grimace, '  and  very 
happy.' 

'  What  are  you? '  I  demanded  abrupt- 
ly. 'Not  a  Slav,  I  am  sure.' 

'Me?  No,  I  am  a  Bohemian,'  she 
said. 

'How  appropriate!  How  exquisitely 
appropriate!'  I  murmured. 

'From  Prague,'  she  added,  sighing  a 
little. 

'An  enemy?'  (She  nodded.)  'But  if 
you  will  only  consider  yourself  Czecho- 
slovak —  '  I  suggested. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  dissent  and 
rose.  'Let  me  know  when  your  ship 
comes  in,'  she  said;  and  I  promised. 

Three  young  naval  lieutenants  in 
tennis  undress  came  up  the  stairs  and 


called  for  tea.  The  little  boy  came  up 
to  take  their  order,  and  I  paid  him  and 
went  out. 

Our  intimacy  increased,  of  course,  as 
the  days  passed,  and  I  began  to  won- 
der whether  or  not  I  too  was  about  to 
pass  under  the  spell  and  devote  my  life 
to  the  amelioration  of  her  destiny.  If 
my  ship  went  back  to  Odessa,  I  would 
be  the  bearer  of  messages,  an  agent  of 
inquiry  seeking  news  of  a  dim  conces- 
sionnaire  in  the  Asiatic  Urals.  I  made 
extensive  promises,  chiefly  because  I 
was  pretty  sure  my  ship  would  prob- 
ably go  somewhere  else  —  Bizerta  or 
Tunis. 

The  simple  sailor  man  in  time  devel- 
ops a  species  of  simple  cunning,  to  pro- 
tect himself  from  being  too  oppressively 
exploited.  But  it  is  practically  impos- 
sible to  rid  a  woman  of  the  illusion  that 
she  is  imposing  upon  a  man.  Even 
Emma  thought  it  well  to  warn  me  of 
my  danger.  She  heard  rumors  about 
that  woman.  Where  had  she  got  the 
money  to  start  her  tea-shop,  eh?  And 
when  all  the  officers  had  gone  home, 
where  would  she  get  customers?  And 
so  on. 

These  questions  did  not  preoccupy 
Bionda  herself,  however.  She  was  sad, 
but  her  sadness  was  the  inevitable  re- 
sult of  delightful  memories.  Her  life 
had  been  full  and  animated ;  and  it  was 
only  natural,  since  fate  had  left  her 
stranded  on  a  pleasant  island,  that  she 
should  indulge  her  desire  for  retrospect 
before  rousing  to  do  herself  full  justice 
in  the  new  environment.  The  possibil- 
ity of  regaining  the  wealth  that  had  been 
lost  did  not  seem  to  interest  her  at  all. 
She  never  spoke  of  the  expedition  of 
Captain  Gosnell  and  his  fellow  adven- 
turers. It  seemed  doubtful  at  times 
whether  she  understood  anything  at  all 
about  it.  A  shrug,  and  she  changed  the 
subject. 

And  then  one  day  I  was  stopped  by 
two  of  the  Russian  officers  as  they  came 


KNIGHTS  AND 

down  the  hotel  stairs,  and  they  told  me 
they  had  received  their  orders  at  last. 
They  were  to  report  at  Paris. 

'We  sail  to-morrow  for  Marseilles,' 
said  one;  and  his  great  spur  jingled  as 
he  stamped  his  foot  to  settle  it  in  the 
high  boot.  With  much  difficulty  he  made 
known  their  hope  that  I  would  give 
Madame  any  assistance  in  my  power 
when  her  other  friends  were  gone.  I 
agreed  to  this  with  alacrity,  since  I  my- 
self would  probably  be  a  thousand  miles 
away  in  a  few  weeks'  time.  And  the  little 
boy?  Yes,  I  would  look  after  him,  too. 

It  was  the  Saturday  night  before  my 
ship  arrived  (she  came  in  on  Monday,  I 
remember)  that  I  joined  Captain  Gosnell 
and  his  lieutenants  at  the  Cafe  de  la 
Reine.  They  were  exceedingly  yet  dec- 
orously drunk.  They  were  to  sail  the 
next  morning.  They  had  adjourned  to  a 
small  ante-room  of  the  cafe,  and  through 
a  closed  glass  door  an  amused  public 
could  obtain  glimpses  of  the  orgy. 
Captain  Gosnell's  austere  features  had 
grown  gradually  purple;  and  though  he 
never  became  incoherent,  or  even  noisy, 
it  was  obvious  that  he  had  reached  an- 
other psychic  plane.  And  so  there  may 
have  been  a  significance  in  the  grandi- 
ose gesture  with  which  he  raised  a  glass 
of  champagne  and  murmured,  — 

'To  Her,  whom  we  all  adore,  who 
awaits  —  awaits  our  return.  Our  mas- 
cot. May  she  bring  us  luck!' 

He  sat  down  and  looked  in  a  puzzled 
way  at  the  empty  glass.  He  gradually 
drank  himself  sober,  and  helped  me  to 
get  the  others  into  a  cab.  Mr.  Marks, 
his  wig  over  one  eye,  snored.  Heatly 
began  to  sing  in  the  clear  night,  — 

'Wide  as  the  world  is  her  Kingdom  of  power.' 

The  cab  started.  As  they  turned 
the  corner  I  heard  the  high,  windy 
voice  still  singing,  — 

'In  every  heart  she  hath  fashioned  her  throne; 
As  Queen  of  the  Earth,  she  reigneth  alone  '  — 

And  then  silence. 


187 

Next  morning,  after  Early  Mass,  as 
we  walked  slowly  up  the  rampe  and 
came  to  a  pause  on  the  ramparts  of  the 
I-ower  Barracca,  I  was  curious  to  dis- 
cover whether  this  departure  of  her 
champions  would  make  any  authentic 
impression  upon  her  spirits. 

'Suppose,'  I  was  saying,  'we  had  a 
message  from  Odessa,  that  your  hus- 
band had  arrived.  And  suppose  he  sent 
for  you?  Or  that  he  had  reached  Paris 
and  wanted  you  there?' 

'Oh,  I  should  go,  of  course.  It  would 
be  like  life  again,  after  being  dead.' 

Here  was  a  fine  state  of  affairs! 
We  were  all  ghosts  to  her,  phantoms 
inhabiting  another  shadowy  world,  cut 
off  from  life  by  an  immense,  pitiless  blue 
sea.  Compared  with  that  distant  and 
possibly  defunct  concessionnaire  in  the 
Asiatic  Urals,  we  were  all  impalpable 
spectres!  Our  benevolence  had  about 
as  much  conscious  significance  for  her 
as  the  sunlight  upon  a  plant.  I  did  not 
speak  again  until  the  little  steamer,  with 
a  croak  of  her  whistle,  passed  out  be- 
tween the  guns  of  the  harbor-mouth 
and  began  slowly  to  recede  across  the 
mighty  blue  floors,  a  great  quantity  of 
foul  smoke  belching  from  her  funnel 
and  drifting  across  the  rocks.  And  then 
i  I  mentioned  casually  what  was  hap- 
pening  —  that  those  men  were  bound 

•  upon  her  affairs,  seeking  treasure  at  the 

•  bottom  of  the  sea,  devoted  to  an  ex- 
travagant quest. 

:       She  made  no  reply.  The  steamer  re- 
;  ceded  yet  further.   It  became  a  black 
blob  on  the  blue  water,  a  blob  from 
•-  which  smoke  issued,  as  if  it  were  a  bomb 
I  which  might  explode  suddenly  with  a 
tremendous  detonation,  and  leave  no 
trace.  But  Bionda's  eyes  were  not  fixed 
upon  the  steamer.   She  was  gazing  mu- 
singly upon  the  great  cannon  frowning 
down  from  the  further  fortress.    And 
after  a  while  she  sighed. 

'  Like  life,  after  being  dead ! '  she  mur- 
mured again. 


188 


'SOMETIMES  WE  HARDLY  WANTED  YOU' 


It  was  as  if  she  had  forgotten  us.  She 
was  like  a  departed  spirit,  discontented 
with  the  conveniences  and  society  of 
paradise,  who  desires  to  return,  but 
dreads  the  journey.  And  it  became  an 
acute  question,  whether  at  any  time 
she  had  achieved  any  real  grasp  of  her 
position.  Had  she  ever  realized  how  she 
had  inspired  these  men  to  unsuspected 
sentiments  and  released  the  streams  of 
heroic  energy  imprisoned  in  their  hearts? 
Did  she  suspect  even  for  a  moment  how 


she  had  engaged  their  interest,  mo- 
nopolized their  time,  established  herself 
in  defiance  of  all  the  rules  of  life  in  the 
midst  of  their  alien  affection?  Did  she 
know  or  care  how  they  toiled  and  suf- 
fered, and  perhaps  sinned,  for  her?  Did 
she  ever  imagine  herself  as  she  was, 
not  resting  on  the  inert  earth,  but  re- 
clining in  comfort  on  the  taut  and 
anxious  bodies  of  men? 

Or  one  may  put  the  question  this 
way  —  Does  any  woman? 


' SOMETIMES  WE  HARDLY  WANTED  YOU' 


BY  FANNIE   STEARNS   GIFFORD 


SOMETIMES  we  hardly  wanted  you, 

Our  days  together  were  so  rare: 
Hill-tops,  brook-hollows,  and  the  blue 

Castles  of  windless  sunny  air; 
Camp-fires  by  certain  secret  springs, 

Green  trails  that  only  we  could  trace  — 
Love  made  us  misers  of  these  things. 

And  you,  still  wandering  in  space, 
Little  and  lone  and  undiscerned  — 

We  did  not  know  we  needed  you. 

Strange!  —  For  your  bright  warm  self  is  burned 

Into  our  hearts,  till  all  that  blue 
Of  morning,  and  pearl-mist  of  night, 

Wind,  water,  sun,  —  those  secret  ways,  — 
Mean  You;  our  youth  and  lovely  light, 

Our  laughter  and  our  length  of  days! 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LORD 


BY  MILTON  O.  NELSON 


MY  earliest  memories  go  back  to  the 
time  when  I  was  the  youngest  of  a  fam- 
ily of  six  in  an  unbroken  row  of  boys 
on  a  southern  Wisconsin  farm  a  mile 
and  a  half  long.  Father  was  a  man  of 
long  plans  and  wide  vision ;  and  in  that 
vision  was  a  group  of  six  farms  occupied 
by  thrifty  farmers,  all  bearing  his  sur- 
name, all  members  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  all  honoring  their  father  and 
their  mother,  each  an  honor  to  his 
church  and  a  blessing  to  the  land  which 
the  Lord  their  God  had  given  them. 
This  vision  accounts  in  part  for  the  size 
of  the  farm  on  which  I  was  born.  The 
family  was  later  increased  by  the  addi- 
tion of  three  daughters,  and  these  in 
their  measure  increased  the  size  of  the 
vision. 

Father  was  of  the  Pilgrim  Father 
type  as  nearly  as  American  conditions 
permitted  in  the  period  covered  by  his 
life  — 1817  to  1898.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  he  had  persuaded  his  father  to 
move  from  the  ancestral  farm  in  the 
Highlands  of  the  Hudson  out  into  the 
new  West.  This  migration  was  only  as 
far  as  Brockport,  New  York,  a  region 
then  considered  quite  westerly  by  peo- 
ple of  the  lower  Hudson.  But  seven 
years  later  father  gathered  together  the 
portion  of  the  family  goods  that  fell  to 
him,  and  took  his  journey  into  the  land 
of  his  own  great  dreams,  staking  out  a 
government  claim  in  the  big  timber 
near  the  little  town  of  Milwaukee. 
This  event  was  four  years  before  Wis- 
consin was  admitted  to  the  Union. 


Two  years  later,  to  his  cabin  and 
clearing  in  the  big  woods  he  brought 
as  his  bride  a  Rochester  schoolmistress 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  the  child  of 
Methodist  parents.  Nine  years  later, 
finding  themselves  in  a  community  un- 
congenial and  irreligious,  they,  with 
their  accumulated  substance  and  four 
little  sons,  migrated  again  —  this  time 
to  the  farm  where  I  was  born.  Their 
settling  here  was  largely  determined  by 
the  fact  that  not  far  away,  and  just 
across  the  Illinois  line,  was  a  Methodist 
society,  which  had  given  the  name 
of  'Christian  Hollow'  to  the  section 
about  it. 

This  church  being  too  far  away  for 
our  convenient  attendance,  Methodist 
preaching  service  was  set  up  in  father's 
cabin.  Here,  also,  the  first  public 
school  in  our  neighborhood  was  opened, 
with  mother  as  teacher.  When  the  pub- 
lic schoolhouse  was  built,  a  year  or  two 
later,  it  was  made  larger  by  a  few  square 
feet  than  the  community  thought  neces- 
sary, because  of  father's  offer  to  give 
$100  for  such  an  enlargement,  on  con- 
dition that  religious  meetings  be  per- 
mitted in  the  building. 

Wherever  father  halted  in  his  pil- 
grimages, 'there  builded  he  an  altar 
unto  the  Lord';  and  wherever  mother 
spread  the  table,  thither  came  presently 
the  Methodist  circuit-rider.  In  both  of 
father's  Wisconsin  homes  his  house  was 
the  first  Methodist  preaching-place  in 
the  community;  and  on  both  farms 
Methodist  camp-meetings  were  held,  to 

189 


190 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LORD 


which  both  father  and  mother  devoted 
unstinted  time  and  provision. 

Of  the  Methodist  society  in  our  neigh- 
borhood, father  was  made  class  leader, 
which  office  in  those  days  carried  with 
it  the  authority  and  responsibility  of 
vice-pastor.  He  also  was  superintend- 
ent of  the  Sunday  School.  These  being 
the  days  before  Sunday-School  helps, 
the  exercises  consisted  chiefly  of  com- 
mitting to  memory  Scripture  and  the 
Methodist  catechism.  I  have  but  the 
faintest  memory  of  father's  method  of 
officiating;  but  his  way  of  drilling  the 
Ten  Commandments  into  the  mind  of 
a  child  could  hardly  be  excelled.  It  ran 
like  this:  — 

'Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name,  thou 
shalt  not  take  the  name,  of  the  Lord 
thy  God  in  vain,  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in 
vain,  for  the  Lord  will  not  hold  him 
guiltless,  for  the  Lord  will  not  hold  him 
guiltless,  that  taketh  his  name  in  vain, 
that  taketh  his  name  in  vain.' 

The  commandment  given  for  the 
day's  advance  lesson  was  repeated  by 
the  school  in  concert,  and  the  drill  was 
made  cumulative,  the  school  reviewing 
each  Sunday,  in  this  double-barreled 
fashion,  all  the  commandments  previ- 
ously committed.  This  solemn  drum- 
ming, drumming  in  the  ears  of  the  child- 
ren added  not  a  little,  I  suppose,  to  the 
weight  and  authority  of  the  Scriptures : 
But  the  children  of  our  family  were 
more  impressed,  I  think,  by  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  worship  in  the  home. 
To  us  small  folk  on  this  large  farm,  the 
greatest  item  in  the  business  of  farming 
was  family  prayers.  At  least,  this  was 
the  only  portion  of  the  day's  programme 
that  might  not  be  omitted,  or  at  least 
shifted  about  to  suit  circumstances. 

This  service  consisted  of  a  chapter 
from  the  Bible  read  by  father,  two 
verses  of  a  hymn,  led  by  mother,  fol- 
lowed by  a  prayer  by  father.  Evening 
worship  consisted  of  a  hymn  led  by 
mother  and  a  prayer  by  mother.  We  all 


knelt  in  prayer.  No  meal  was  ever 
begun  without  a  blessing  being  asked. 
So,  according  to  this  programme,  the 
whole  family  came  together  formally 
into  the  presence  of  the  Almighty  five 
times  a  day.  Besides  this,  there  were 
the  individual  morning  and  evening 
prayers  at  the  bedside. 

Morning  worship  immediately  pre- 
ceded breakfast.  The  salt  pork  fried, 
the  gravy  made,  the  potatoes  drained, 
and  all  set  back  on  the  stove  to  keep 
warm;  the  big  stack  of  buckwheat  cakes 
on  the  hearth  covered  to  prevent  their 
cooling  off  —  these  are  a  well-defined 
memory  of  the  morning  programme. 
Then  father  sat  down  with  the  big 
Bible  in  his  lap,  and  mother  with  the 
baby  in  her  lap;  the  circle  of  children 
came  to  order,  and  worship  wholly  oc- 
cupied the  next  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
It  was  never  hurried  and  never  per- 
functorily done.  Though  father's  pray- 
ers were  much  the  same  from  day  to 
day,  they  were  not  seldom  varied  to 
cover  the  spiritual  needs  of  some  of  us 
delinquent  children,  particularly  the 
youngest  pair  of  boys  —  the  '  little 
boys,'  as  father  designated  us. 

The  chastening  rod  was  an  estab- 
lished institution  in  our  home.  It  was 
not  a  vulgar  gad,  but  a  sprout  of  that 
ancient  and  honorable  rod  spoken  of  in 
the  Scriptures  as  being  so  wholesome 
and  necessary  to  the  spiritual  upbring- 
ing of  the  children  of  Israel.  It  was 
rarely  applied  without  a  preparatory 
lecture,  in  which  father's  eyes  would 
usually  fill  with  tears,  or  threaten  to. 
But  whipping  was  not  so  dreaded  by  us 
two  small  offenders  as  the  process  of 
being  '  carried  to  a  throne  of  grace '  on 
the  wings  of  father's  petitions.  In  these 
pleadings  father's  voice  would  often 
tremble,  his  throat  choke,  and  pauses 
in  the  prayer,  painful  beyond  telling, 
would  occur.  It  did  sometimes  seem  to 
me  that  a  big  man  like  father  ought  not 
to  take  advantage  like  that  of  a  little 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LORD 


fellow,  right  in  the  presence  of  the 
whole  family  —  quite  an  audience  in 
our  home.  Our  whippings,  however, 
were  always  mercifully  private;  except 
that  brother  Willett  and  myself,  com- 
monly committing  our  sins  by  two  and 
two,  answered  for  them  in  pairs.  But 
these  devotional  floggings  did  have  their 
designed  and  desired  effect  on  our  daily 
behavior.  One  would  go  pretty  steadily 
for  a  few  days  on  the  strength  of  such  a 
holy  grilling. 

The  section  in  which  our  farm  lay 
was  then  a  region  of  'oak  openings,' 
about  equally  divided  between  woods, 
scrub  brush,  and  prairie  land — a  little 
too  rolling  for  the  best  farming,  but 
reasonably  fertile.  Our  section  faced 
toward  the  south  on  the  beautiful  roll- 
ing prairies  of  northern  Illinois;  and  to 
the  east  and  north  undulated  away  in 
scrub-covered  hills,  which  we  called 
'barrens,'  down  to  the  heavy  hardwood 
timber  that  spread  eastward  from  the 
valley  of  the .  Pecatonica  River  —  a 
muddy,  twisting,  sluggish  stream.  Much 
of  this  region,  being  not  yet  under 
plough,  offered  good  pasturage  in  the 
grazing  season  to  the  settlers'  small 
herds  of  cattle. 

After  the  morning  milking,  the  farm- 
ers turned  their  herds  into  the  fenced 
highway,  gave  them  a  run  in  the  de- 
sired direction  by  the  aid  of  dogs  or 
boys,  and  left  them  to  find  their  way  to 
the  'commons,'  as  we  called  these  un- 
fenced  lands.  There  the  cattle  kept 
together  fairly  well  in  the  lead  of  the 
bell  cow,  as  they  grazed  and  roamed 
throughout  the  day,  sometimes  joining 
with  one  or  more  of  the  neighbor  herds. 
In  the  evening,  children  from  each 
household  were  sent  to  find  and  fetch 
them  home. 

These  children  usually  fell  in  with 
each  other  and  hunted  in  groups, 
searching  this  way  or  that,  as  the  habit- 
ual movement  of  the  herds  at  the  time 
might  determine.  We  would  thus  trail 


191 

the  cattle  through  groves  and  brush- 
land,  looking  for  fresh  marks  in  the 
cowpaths,  stopping  to  listen  for  the 
bells,  and  determining  by  their  tone 
which  was  Crosby's,  which  La  Due's, 
which  Nelson's,  which  Beedy's,  and 
which  Ballinger's.  Sometimes  the  herd 
would  shift  their  feeding-grounds  for 
the  day  by  the  space  of  a  mile  or  more. 
Sometimes  the  cows,  well  fed,  and  not 
being  such  heavy  milkers  as  to  feel  an 
urge  toward  the  milking-yard,  would  be 
found  in  the  high  brush,  standing  stock- 
still,  with  mute  bells.  On  occasions  like 
these  the  children  would  often  wander 
till  nightfall,  coming  home  tired  and 
sleepy,  to  tired,  sleepy  men-folk,  forced 
to  sit  up  late  and  add  the  work  of  milk- 
ing to  an  already  overworked  day. 

Among  these  little  cow-hunters  were 
girls  of  nine  or  ten  years  and  boys  of 
four  or  five.  Rarely  did  children  above 
the  age  of  twelve  go  after  the  cows,  if 
there  were  younger  ones  to  send.  A 
child  old  enough  to  wear  shoes  in  sum- 
mer was  considered  rather  mature  to 
send  for  the  cows. 

These  herds  commonly  consisted  of 
not  more  than  a  dozen  cattle,  young 
and  old;  and,  fortunately  for  us,  each 
herd  separated  easily  from  the  flock  on 
the  way  home,  as  they  passed  the  cow- 
yards  where  they  belonged.  But  should 
an  animal  stray,  and  fail  to  come  up 
with  the  herd  at  night,  it  was  a  serious 
matter.  Not  seldom  it  happened  that 
it  was  never  seen  again.  It  was  there- 
fore one  of  our  greatest  cares  to  know 
that  the  herd  we  brought  home  was 
intact. 

Our  schoolhouse  stood  at  the  junc- 
tion of  two  roads,  in  an  acre  plot  set  off 
from  the  corner  of  a  cultivated  field. 
Here,  a  highway  running  east  and  west 
was  joined  by  one  running  south.  A 
half-mile  south  on  this  road  father  had 
built,  in  the  spring  of  1865,  a  temporary 
cow-pen  to  serve  as  a  milking-yard. 
Here  our  cattle  were  penned  at  night, 


192 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LORD 


and  from  here  driven,  after  the  morning 
milking,  to  the  schoolhouse  corner  and 
sent  running  east.  The  country  to  the 
west  was  more  difficult  ground  for  cow- 
hunting,  and  so  long  as  pasture  was 
good  to  the  east,  we  were  careful  to 
keep  our  cows  from  'going  west.' 

II 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  of  a  July 
afternoon,  I  being  then  aged  'five,  go- 
ing on  six/  that,  sitting  at  my  desk  in 
the  schoolhouse,  I  saw  through  the 
open  door,  a  red-roan  steer  come  trot- 
ting down  the  east  road  and  into  the 
schoolhouse  yard.  It  was  our  big  three- 
year-old.  My  hand  shot  up. 

'Teacher,'  I  said,  'it 's  our  steer. 
He's  strayed.  Can  me  and  Orill  be  ex- 
cused to  drive  him  home?' 

At  her  prompt  assent,  we  seized  our 
straw  hats  and  tin  lunch-pails,  and  ran 
out.  I  rushed  to  block  the  west  road, 
while  Orill  ran  to  the  east.  It  was  com- 
paratively easy  to  head  the  animal  into 
the  lane  going  south,  for  he  seemed 
himself  to  have  chosen  to  travel  that 
way. 

Now,  impounding  in  a  roadside  pen 
on  the  prairie  a  three-year-old  steer  of 
the  type  prevailing  in  Wisconsin  in  the 
year  1865,  gone  astray  from  his  herd 
and  nervous  with  nostalgia,  was  a  prob- 
lem serious  enough  for  a  cowboy  much 
beyond  five  years  of  age;  though  at  the 
time  I  was  not  aware  of  the  fact.  My 
plan  of  campaign  was  based  on  the  pre- 
sumption that,  reaching  the  yard,  the 
steer  would  go  directly  into  it.  Then  I 
would  rush  up  behind  him  and  put  up 
the  bars,  and  there  he  would  be  caught 
and  safely  held  till  we  should  bring  the 
rest  of  the  herd  from  the  commons  in 
the  evening.  In  the  event  that  the 
steer  ran  past  the  bars,  I  would  duck 
under  the  fence,  run  through  the  field 
on  the  east  of  the  road,  and  head  him 
off,  while  Orill,  with  lifted  club  and 


voice,  would  bar  his  retreat  to  the 
north.  Seeing  himself  thus  outwitted, 
and  fairly  trapped,  the  steer  would  lower 
his  horns  and  tail  and  enter  the  yard. 

Now,  though  I  must  at  this  time  have 
been  a  fairly  well-seasoned  cowboy,  with 
a  year  or  more  of  cow-punching  to  my 
credit,  this  was  the  first  major  opera- 
tion in  cowboy  strategy  of  which  I  had 
had  immediate  command.  I  knew 
enough  of  the  functioning  of  a  steer's 
brain  to  know  that  the  chances  of  yard- 
ing the  brute  were  at  least  not  all  in  my 
favor.  By  this  time  the  steer  was  trot- 
ting down  the  south  road,  and  we  had 
much  ado  to  keep  up  with  his  swift 
gait. 

Hot,  excited,  and  blown,  we  reached 
the  cow-pen,  the  bars  of  which  were  in- 
vitingly down.  But  the  steer  did  not 
see  the  yard  at  all.  He  ran  beyond  it, 
then  slowed  his  speed  a  little.  I  ducked 
into  the  cornfield  to  the  east  of  the 
road,  and,  by  hard  running,  overhauled 
and  headed  him  back.  -Back  he  ran, 
again  past  the  bars,  but  OrilPs  club  and 
cries  turned  him. 

Now  thoroughly  flustered  by  his  pre- 
dicament, the  steer  headed  at  me  on  the 
run,  while  I,  dancing,  yelling,  and  swing- 
ing my  dinner-pail,  halted  him  again. 
But  instead  of  charging  back  upon 
Orill,  he  wheeled  to  the  west  and,  rising, 
vaulted  the  old  rail-fence,  and  coming 
down  with  a  crash,  bounded  off  into 
a  forty-acre  field  of  green  and  waving 
wheat. 

As  he  came  down  on  the  broken 
fence,  I,  bursting  with  hot  and  baffled 
rage,  shouted,  'God  damn  you!' 

All  I  remember  further  as  to  that 
steer  is  how  he  looked  as  he  triumph- 
antly headed  westward,  trailing  down 
the  slope  through  the  waving  wheat, 
spoiling  valuable  grain. 

I  was  dazed,  terrified  at  what  I  had 
done.  I  had  said  the  very  wickedest 
possible  swear- word.  I  had  taken  the 
name  of  God  in  vain.  I  had  never  be- 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LORD 


fore  used  such  words,  or  even  enter- 
tained them  for  use.  No  one  of  our  fam- 
ily had  in  their  lives  done  so  wicked  a 
thing.  And  to  add  woe  to  wickedness, 
I  had  said  this  in  the  presence  of  Orill 
Huntley,  son  of  godless  parents.  I  re- 
member putting  my  head  down  on  a 
rail  of  the  fence  and  crying,  and  Orill's 
coming  up  to  comfort  me. 

'It  ain't  bad  to  say  it  just  once,'  he 
said.  '  It 's  when  you  say  it  all  the  time 
that's  wicked.' 

But  I  refused  to  be  comforted  by 
such  sophistry.  Father's  theology  con- 
tained no  such  modifying  clause.  It 
could  not  look  upon  sin  with  the  least 
degree  of  allowance.  I  believed  myself 
to  be  the  chief  of  sinners,  all  unaware 
that  this  untaught  lad  was  telling  me  a 
great  life-truth. 

When,  finally,  I  had  dried  my  eyes, 
I  solemnly  charged  Orill  never  to  tell 
on  me,  and  he  as  solemnly  promised. 
Thus  temporarily  calmed,  I  went  about 
the  day's  business  with  a  leaden  lump 
beneath  the  bosom  of  my  little  hickory 
shirt.  I  remember  no  more  of  the 
week's  occurrences  except  that  I  kept 
my  secret  well. 

But  Sunday  brought  torment.  I  rode 
in  the  farm  wagon  with  the  family  to 
the  Sunday  service,  as  a  condemned 
criminal  rides  on  his  coffin  to  the  gal- 
lows. I  had  pictured  to  myself  the 
scene  that  would  occur  in  Sunday 
School.  We  would  repeat  the  Third 
Commandment  in  concert:  'Thou  shalt 
not  take  the  name,  thou  shalt  not  take 
the  name,  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain, 
of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain' — and  at 
the  close  father  would  turn  to  me  and 
say, '  Did  you  ever  take  the  name  of  the 
Lord  thy  God  in  vain? '  and  I  had  fully 
I  determined  within  myself  to  answer  up 
with  what  promptness  and  firmness  I 
could  muster,  'No,  sir.' 

What  else  could  one  do?  Could  one 
|  say,  to  his  own  confusion,  before  the  as- 
i  sembled  congregation,  'Yes,  sir,  I  swore 

VOL.  138— NO.  % 


193 

at  the  "steer  when  he  jumped  over  the 
fence'?  Such  a  thing  was  unthinkable. 
There  was  but  one  way  of  escape  from 
the  dilemma,  and  that  was  boldly  to  lie 
my  way  out.  Nor  would  this  have  been 
the  first  time  I  had  found  a  lie  a  very 
present  help  in  trouble. 

Before  the  exercises  began,  as  I  was 
sitting  in  fear  and  trembling,  down  the 
east  road  came  a  wagon  with  the  whole 
Huntley  family  in  it.  They  were  com- 
ing to  Sunday  School.  Orill  would  be 
with  them,  of  course,  and  when  father 
would  put  his  awful  question,  'Did  you 
ever  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God 
in  vain?'  and  I  answered,  'No,  sir,' 
Orill  would  rise  and  in  a  loud  voice 
would  say,  'Yes,  you  did!  You  swore 
at  the  steer  when  he  jumped  over  the 
fence!' 

For  about  the  space  of  one  mortal, 
interminable  minute, '  the  fear  of  death 
encompassed  me  and  the  pains  of  hell 
gat  hold  upon  me.'  I  had  never  before, 
nor  have  I  since,  experienced  such  re- 
finement of  terror  as  I  suffered  then. 
Punishment  of  that  quality  after  death 
would  be  sufficient  penalty  for  any  mor- 
tal sin  in  the  category. 

But  the  wagon  passed.  It  was  not 
the  Huntleys'  wagon  at  all.  The  Hunt- 
leys  had  never  attended  our  Sunday 
School.  Father  did  not  ask  us  to  repeat 
any  of  the  commandments  that  day; 
nor,  of  course,  was  the  awful  question 
asked.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  then  that 
there  was  not  the  remotest  possibility 
that  father  would  ask  such  a  question. 
I  went  home  relieved  and  reprieved, 
but  not  pardoned.  I  carried  my  dark 
secret  safely  but  heavily  for  what  seem 
to  me  to  have  been  long  years,  during 
which  period  I  entertained  for  a  time 
the  fear  that  I  had  committed  the  'un- 
pardonable sin.' 

It  never  occurred  to  me  then  that  my 
determination  to  add  bold  and  willf 
lying  to  profanity  was  the  only  really 
wicked  act  of  the  whole  sad  affair.  But 


194 


THE  NAME   OF  THE  LORD 


had  I  known  it  well,  I  doubt  not -that  I 
should  have  been  willing  to  assume  the 
risk  of  lying  in  order  to  escape  the  pun- 
ishment that  would  probably  have  been 
meted  out  to  me,  had  my  fault  been  dis- 
covered. What  that  punishment  might 
have  been  I  had  reason  later  to  guess, 
from  the  ill  luck  that  befell  brother 
Willet  some  two  years  after. 

One  evening,  when  Willet,  coming 
from  school,  was  being  badgered  be- 
yond endurance  by  some  bullying 
neighbor  boy,  he  turned  on  his  tormen- 
tor and  told  him  to  'go  to  hell.'  The  re- 
port of  this  dreadful  lapse  flew  on  swift 
wings  to  our  parents'  ears.  Then  the 
wheels  of  industry  on  our  farm  stopped 
stock-still.  There  was  a  star-chamber 
session  in  the  West  Room  —  father  and 
mother  in  prayer  with  the  little  culprit, 
asking  God  for  mercy  and  pardon  for 
him;  and  following  this,  sentence 
passed  on  him  by  father,  without  mercy 
or  pardon.  One  of  the  items  of  the  sen- 
tence was  that  Willet  must  read  noth- 
ing for  two  weeks  but  the  Bible  and 
the  Methodist  hymn-book.  But  the 
peak  of  the  punishment  was  reserved 
for  the  class-meeting  on  the  following 
Sunday. 

At  these  class-meetings  the  lay  mem- 
bers were  waited  on  in  turn  by  the  class 
leader  and  asked  to  'testify.'  Each  rose 
in  his  seat  and  gave  his  religious  experi- 
ence for  the  week  last  past,  and  usually 
added  his  hopes  and  good  resolves  for 
the  week  to  come  —  all  spoken  in  a 
more  or  less  formal  and  solemn  way,  as 
if  a  punishment  were  being  endured  in 
the  process.  The  leader  advised,  com- 
mended, rebuked,  or  encouraged,  as  the 
case  might  require,  then  passed  on  to 
the  next  victim. 

When  father  came  to  his  little  shamed 
and  penitent  boy,  he  prefaced  his  call 
for  a  testimony  by  the  general  informa- 
tion to  the  house  that  Willet  had  been 


a  very  wicked  boy  that  week,  but  he 
hoped  he  had  asked  the  Lord  to  for- 
give him. 

Willet  did  not  respond  to  the  call  to 
testify,  but  hid  his  burning  face  in  his 
arms  on  the  school-desk  and  kept  si- 
lence. Willet  was  nine  years  old.  Mo- 
ther made  no  interference.  I  wonder 
she  did  not.  But  from  what  I  learned 
later  of  her  tender  heart,  she  must  have 
suffered  anguish  for  her  sinful  little  son 
during  this  inquisitional  torture;  and 
knowing  her,  later,  so  well,  I  wonder 
that  some  good  angel  had  not  sent 
blaspheming  me  to  her  on  that  ill- 
starred  summer  day,  to  weep  my  sin 
out  in  her  gentle  arms  instead  of  on  a 
fence-rail. 

The  terrible  conscientiousness  of  a 
parent,  which  could  stir  up  such  storm 
and  stress  of  soul  in  a  child's  young  life, 
may  seem  beyond  any  justification. 
But  looking  back  now  over  a  half-cen- 
tury of  the  world  as  it  is,  I  am  convinced 
that  freedom  from  the  habit  of  irrever- 
ence may  be  cheaply  bought,  even  at 
that.  Indeed,  I  came  to  that  conclusion 
before  I  was  a  grown  youth. 

Ten  years  or  so  after  my  adventure 
in  profanity,  I  was  sent  on  an  early 
morning  errand  to  the  house  of  a  neigh- 
boring farmer.  A  group  of  rough  young 
men  were  in  the  kitchen,  waiting  for 
breakfast.  It  was  the  very  hour  when 
father,  in  our  home,  was  praying  in  the 
midst  of  his  children.  One  of  the  men 
had  on  his  knee  a  prattling  child,  evi- 
dently struggling  with  his  first  coherent 
speech.  There  was  loud  laughter  and 
great  merriment  among  the  men.  A  girl 
of  about  fourteen  years  called  to  her 
mother  in  the  next  room,  — 

'Maw,  O  maw!  come  hear  baby!  Oh, 
ain't  he  cunnin'?' 

The  baby  was  practising  the  same 
high  explosive  I  had  used  when  the  steer 
jumped  over  the  fence. 


ITS  TWO  LITTLE  HORNS 


BY  FRANCES  THERESA  RUSSELL 


IF  a  dilemma  would  be  content  to 
wear  only  one  horn,  innocent  adven- 
turers into  the  field  of  debate  and  argu- 
ment would  be  less  dangerously  beset 
by  the  beast  of  embarrassing  alterna- 
tives. Then,  for  instance,  when  a  col- 
lege professor  catches  sight  of  a  fel- 
low traveler,  wantonly  strayed  from 
the  royal  road  of  reason  and  distress- 
ingly impaled  on  the  right  horn  of  a 
logical  dilemma,  —  labeled  '  What  Do 
Students  Know?'  —  he  will  not  feel 
called  upon  to  precipitate  himself,  as  a 
gratuitous  exercise  in  agility,  on  the 
left  horn,  inscribed  '  What  Do  Teachers 
Know?'  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  safe  ag- 
nostic front  between  these  two  perilous 
projections,  called  'What  Does  Any- 
body Know? '  But  that  is  a  place  of  un- 
profitable repose  and  affords  no  scope 
for  mental  gymnastics. 

Such  opportunity  was  offered,  how- 
ever, by  the  gyrations  of  Professor 
Boas,  for  the  play  of  the  intellectual 
muscles  of  a  certain  group  of  spectators, 
that  I  am  recording  this  latter  reaction 
for  the  entertainment  of  yet  other  be- 
holders who  may  be  interested. 

This  morning  I  carried  the  May  At- 
lantic into  my  classroom  and  read  to 
my  aspiring  essay-writers  this  accepted 
article,  as  a  sample  of  how  to  do  it. 
Quite  on  their  own  initiative,  the  young 
neophytes  discovered  that  in  many  re- 
spects it  was  rather  an  object-lesson  on 
pow  not  to  do  it.  So  promptly  was  the 
xme  of  contention  pounced  upon,  so 
:hick  and  fast  came  the  responses,  from 
sophomore  and  Senior,  from  lads  and 
assies,  that  my  position  demanded  all 


the  tact  of  the  Speaker  of  the  House. 
Perhaps  the  total  effect  can  best  be  con- 
veyed in  the  form  of  a  colloquy  by  the 
members  of  the  class,  with  the  author 
of  'What  Do  Teachers  Know?'  as  the 
object  of  the  inquiries.  The  general  im- 
pression was  somewhat  as  follows :  — 

Question.  '  The  writer  says,  "  The  an- 
cients were  interested  in  interpreting 
facts,  not  in  accumulating  them."  How 
could  they  interpret  what  they  had  not 
accumulated  and  therefore  did  not 
have?' 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question.  '  If  "  intelligence  is  insensi- 
tive to  mere  facts,  and  reacts  only  to 
ideas,"  where  does  it  get  the  ideas  to 
react  from?  What  is  an  idea  but  a  de- 
duction from  two  or  more  facts?' 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question.  'If  "artichokes  and  cha- 
meleons and  Yale  and  the  date  of  the 
battle  of  Lexington  have  very  little 
place  in  the  production  of  understand- 
ing and  intelligence  and  critical  power," 
what  has?' 

Answer.  'A  benevolent  and  human- 
istic skepticism,  and  a  willingness  to 
weigh  and  balance,  to  expound  and  elu- 
cidate, are  all  that  is  needed.' 

Question.  'But  what  is  there  to  be 
skeptical  about  but  facts?  What  is 
there  to  put  in  the  balance  and  weigh? 
What  to  expound  and  elucidate  about? 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question  (from  a  demure  maid  in  the 
back  row).  'Doesn't  Professor  Boas 
seem  to  have  a  good  many  facts  at  his 
command,  and  use  them  pretty  freely 
in  this  very  anathema  against  them/ 

195 


196 


ITS  TWO  LITTLE  HORNS 


Answer.  'They  speak  for  themselves/ 

Question.  'Socrates  is  eulogized  for 
his  "sublime  ignorance."  Was  it  hon- 
est-to-goodness  ignorance  or  a  sublime 
assumption  of  it?' 

Answer.  Silence  from  the  Oracle, 
broken  by  a  modest  voice  from  over  by 
the  window.  'Seems  to  me  I  read  some- 
where that  the  Socratic  method  was 
simply  the  wise  man's  pretense  of  an 
ignorance  that  longed  for  enlighten- 
ment, and  that  "on  this  baited  hook 
were  caught  the  unwary  whose  pretense 
was  to  a  wisdom  when  they  had  it  not." ' 

Question.  'In  what  "mysterious 
way"  does  information  come  when  it 
is  needed?' 

Answer  (from  a  sad  Sophomore). 
*  Sometimes,  in  my  case  anyhow,  through 
chagrin  and  bitterness,  by  first  having 
my  ignorance  exposed.' 

Question.  'The  Ph.D.  is  rebuked  for 
writing  a  treatise  on  something  that  no- 
body had  ever  thought  of  before.  What 
would  be  its  value  if  somebody  had 
thought  of  it  before  and  done  it?' 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question.  '  In  that  connection,  if  no- 
body ever  did  an  unthought-of  thing, 
what  would  become  of  pioneering  and 
progress?  Who  would  be  in  the  van  and 
blaze  the  trail?' 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question.  'When  did  the  Ph.D.  can- 
didate begin  being  ignorant  of  every- 
thing else  in  order  to  write  his  disserta- 
tion?' 

Answer  (from  an  irreverent  youth 
next  the  radiator) .  '  Since  no  credit  is 
given  him  for  the  eighteen  or  twenty 
years  of  education  from  the  kindergar- 
ten through  the  Master's  degree,  he 
must  have  risen  right  up  from  his  cradle 
to  "bore,  face  downward,  into  his  prob- 
lem, while  the  world  floated  by  in 
clouds,  and  he  as  unaware  as  a  lamprey 
of  logarithmic  functions."  He  could 
have  had  no  more  information  or  cul- 
ture to  start  in  with  than  a  Hottentot.' 


Question.  'Even  if  a  field  can  be 
"melancholy,"  by  permission  of  the 
pathetic  fallacy  and  in  spite  of  Ruskin, 
how  can  it  be  "evasive"?' 

Answer  (from  the  end-man).  'By 
disregarding  mere  facts.' 

Question.  'All  these  English  courses 
that  are  listed  as  a  waste  of  time  and 
money  —  does  any  one  student  have  to 
swallow  them  all?  And  if  anyone  did 
have  a  honing  to  know  about,  say,  the 
Bible,  or  Johnson  and  his  circle,  or  Cel- 
tic poetry,  or  the  American  Novel,  why 
should  it  be  forbidden  him?  Are  they 
not  all  honorable  subjects?  If  one  con- 
sumes his  beef  and  bread,  can't  he  add  a 
salad,  an  entree,  or  a  dessert?' 

Answer  (from  the  teacher).  'If  he 
has  a  good  digestion  and  a  sharp  appe- 
tite, he  may  go  right  through  the  whole 
menu,  with  impunity  and  profit,  from 
cocktail  to  cheese  and  coffee.  Nay,  for 
the  elect  there  are  still  cakes  and  ale, 
and  ginger  shall  be  hot  in  the  mouth.' 

Question.  '  If  to  one  who  has  been  in 
the  army  "the  university  seems  as  a 
kingdom  of  shadows  where  ghosts 
teach  living  men,"  do  the  professors 
who  were  in  the  army  seem  like  ghosts, 
and  the  students  who  never  left  home, 
like  living  men?' 

Answer.  Silence. 

Question  (from  a  Sophomore).  '  If  the 
cynical  Seniors  have  found  out  there  is 
"nothing  in  it,"  why  don't  they  pass 
the  word  down  and  stave  off  some  of 
this  stampede  toward  halls  of  learning? 
Most  failures  don't  keep  on  being  more 
and  more  popular,  as  the  colleges  seem 
to  be  doing.' 

Answer  (from  a  strangely  cheerful 
Senior).  'Pure  maliciousness.  They 
like  to  see  more  silly  flies  walk  into  the 
same  spider's  web. 

Question  (from  the  teacher).  'The 
grand  climax  of  the  wholesale  indict- 
ment before  us  is  one  on  which  you 
should  be  able  to  testify.  So  far  as  your 
own  experience  goes,  is  it  true  that "  the 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


Freshmen  are  keen,  eager,  and  hungry," 
and  "the  Seniors  disillusioned,  cynical, 
and  fed  up"?' 

Answer.  (Concourse  of  expressive 
grins  from  the  class;  remark  from  an  in- 
corrigibly joyous  Junior.)  '  When  I  was 
a  Freshman  and  herded  with  the  big 
first-year  classes,  my  hunger  was  main- 
ly for  my  dinner  or  a  fight,  and  I  was  as 
keen  and  eager  as  the  rest  of  the  bunch 
to  jump  at  the  sound  of  the  closing 
bell.  We  never  allowed  any  professor 
to  run  over  the  hour.' 

The  courteous  innuendo  of  his  con- 
clusion reminded  me  that  our  own  gong 
had  sounded  forty  seconds  before,  and 
I  speedily  turned  the  rascals  out,  com- 
mending them  to  the  next  dose  of 
frothy  and  venomous  facts  with  which 
they  were  being  fed  up  ad  nauseam. 
And  as  I  prepared  to  measure  out  an- 
other sickening  spoonful  for  my  own 
helpless  victims,  I  thought  of  Strun- 
sky's  fallacy-puncturing  observation  in 


197 

his  'The  Everlasting  Feminine,'  that 
any  statement  whatever  made  about 
Woman  is  true.  So  is  any  generaliza- 
tion about  students  and  professors. 
Some  Freshmen  are  indeed  wonderfully 
keen  and  eager;  others  are  an  incredible 
miracle  of  sodden  stupidity  and  indif- 
ference. Some  Seniors  are  flaccid  and 
unstrung;  others  are  just  being  keyed 
up  to  concert  pitch.  Some  teachers  are 
—  anything  you  like;  others  are  every- 
thing you  do  not  like.  Accordingly, 
when  it  comes  to  students  versus  teach- 
ers, or  facts  versus  ideas,  or  information 
versus  intelligence,  or  summer  versus 
winter,  or  food  versus  fresh  air,  the  dia- 
lectician may  well  take  a  cue  from  the 
canny  Ruggles  girl,  confronted  with  a 
choice  between  hard  versus  soft  sauce, 
and  take  'a  little  of  both,  please.' 

For  in  the  logical  realm  there  re- 
maineth  classification,  interpretation, 
and  discrimination,  of  parent  facts  and 
progeny  ideas;  and  the  greatest  of  these 
is  discrimination. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


BY  L.  P.  JACKS 


FOR  William  James  the '  facts '  of  chief 
importance  in  the  universe  were  per- 
sons. He  began  his  thinking  from  that 
end.  Among  those  who  have  earned 
the  name  of  philosopher  there  is  none 
whose  philosophy  is  a  more  sincere  and 
complete  expression  of  his  own  person- 
ality. The  kites  that  he  flew  were  all 
anchored  in  himself.  His  philosophy  is, 
in  fact,  himself  writ  large.  This  in  a 


sense  is  true  of  all  philosophers,  though 
they  are  not  always  aware  of  it;  but 
James  knew  it  and  accepted  it  as  one 
of  his  guides  to  the  meaning  of  Truth. 
His  'will  to  believe'  is  fundamentally 
nothing  else  than  the  right  to  be  your- 
self, and  to  express  yourself  in  your  own 
way,  without  entangling  your  freedom 
in  alliances  with  those  big  classifica- 
tions or  abstractions  which  reduce  man- 


198 


kind  to  the  dead  levels  of  thought,  ac- 
tion, and  character.  Or,  to  put  it  from 
the  other  side,  the  Universe  that  he  in- 
terprets is  just  the  same  kind  of  high- 
spirited,  restless,  inconsistent,  adven- 
turous, unaccountable  being  that  each 
man  who  has  attained  to  self-knowledge 
finds  within  his  own  breast.  Against 
the  idea  of  the  Universe  as  a  Big  Insti- 
tution, 'governed'  by  a  system  of  in- 
violable law,  —  the  idea  which  has  be- 
come so  dear  to  those  who  are  bewitched 
by  the  catchwords  of  modern  science, 
—  James  reacted  with  the  strongest 
aversion;  and  the  reason  for  the  reac- 
tion lay  in  his  temperamental  inability 
to  live  in  such  a  world  himself,  or  to 
conceive  that  any  free  spirit  would  be 
at  home  under  its  cast-iron  conditions. 
Writing  to  Theodore  Flournoy  in  1895, 
the  year  before  the  publication  of 
The  Will  to  Believe,  he  says, '  I  do  hope 
[your  daughters]  are  being  educated  in 
a  thoroughly  emancipated  way,  just  like 
true  American  girls,  with  no  laws  ex- 
cept those  imposed  by  their  own  sense 
of  fitness.'  There  are  those,  perhaps,  to 
whom  a  statement  such  as  this  will  ap- 
pear as  heralding  a  general  disrespect 
for  the  Ten  Commandments.  The  best 
answer  to  their  fears  is  the  picture  of 
James  revealed  in  these  letters.  It  is 
the  picture  of  a  very  perfect  gentleman, 
of  a  finely  tempered  ethical  nature,  of  a 
large  and  tender  heart,  and  of  personal 
loyalty  raised  to  the  highest  power. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  service  rendered 
by  James  to  the  spiritual  life  of  his  age 
is  that  he  makes  philosophy  interesting 
to  everybody.  Whatever  the  merits  of 
his  doctrine  may  be,  —  and  that  is  a 
question  into  which  the  present  writer 
does  not  propose  to  enter,  —  there  is 
not  a  doubt  that  philosophy  in  his 
hands  is  always  something  that '  makes 
a  difference,'  a  vitally  important  exer- 
cise, which  no  man  who  would  live  a  full 
life  can  afford  to  neglect.  Its  problems 
are  not  mere  themes  for  discussion,  but 


critical  points  in  the  battle  of  life.  His 
work,  in  consequence,  has  given  an  im- 
mense impetus  to  philosophic  study  all 
over  the  world.  What  the  number  of 
his  actual  disciples  may  be  cannot  of 
course  be  said,  though  it  is  probably 
very  large;  but  that  he  has  raised  phil- 
osophic study  to  a  higher  level  of  im- 
portance, increased  the  number  of 
those  who  pursue  it,  and  conferred  a 
new  zest  upon  the  pursuit,  is  beyond 
question.  There  are  few  professors  of 
the  subject  who  do  not  owe  him  a 
heavy  debt  for  redeeming  it  from  the 
dullness  and  futility  into  which  it  was 
otherwise  falling. 

And  the  secret  of  his  influence  is  un- 
mistakable. Long  before  these  letters 
appeared,  readers  of  his  works  were 
conscious  of  being  in  contact  with  a 
mind  whose  insight  was  the  direct  out- 
come of  the  breadth  and  depth  of  its 
human  sympathy.  That  impression  is 
now  confirmed.  Thanks  to  the  admir- 
able selection  that  has  been  made  of  the 
letters,  and  to  the  unobtrusive  skill 
with  which  they  have  been  woven  to- 
gether, the  reader  has  now  a  clear  ap- 
prehension of  the  man  whose  personal- 
ity he  had  dimly  felt  or  imagined  in  his 
published  works.  The  effect  is  almost 
as  if  James's  philosophy  had  been  visi- 
bly acted  on  the  stage.  We  see  how  in- 
separably connected  the  man  and  the 
doctrine  were.  The  only  doubt  that  re- 
mains is  as  to  which  is  the  text  and 
which  the  commentary. 
•  It  is  not  as  'a  disinterested  spectator 
of  the  universe'  that  James  addresses 
himself  to  the  great  problems  that  con- 
cern us  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  force 
of  his  appeal  springs  precisely  from  the 
profound  and  living  interest  that  he 
took  in  the  universe,  and  especially  in 
that  part  of  it  which  consists  of  his  fel- 
low men.  He  appears  before  us,  not  as 
a  'spectator'  at  all,  but  as  an  actor  in 
the  drama  of  life;  and  we  see  that  his 
philosophy  is  merely  his  'action'  con- 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


tinued  and  rounded  off  on  a  higher 
plane.  Disinterestedness  is  here  re- 
placed by  the  interest  which  not  only 
discovers  truth  but  embodies  it  in  per- 
sonality, thereby  endowing  it  with  a 
power  and  vitality  which  impartial 
cold-bloodedness  is  doomed  forever  to 
miss.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  All  doc- 
trines that  have  moved  the  world  have 
originated  in  the  same  way. 

II 

Philosophers  who  believe  they  can 
explain  the  universe  should  first  read 
these  letters,  and  then  ask  themselves 
if  they  can  explain  that  particular  item 
of  the  universe  which  went,  while  he 
lived  among  us,  and  which  still  lives  on, 
under  the  name  of  William  James.  Of 
course,  all  of  us  who  have  been  trained 
in  philosophy,  or  even  have  dabbled  in 
it,  think  we  can  explain  why  '  individu- 
als'  must  exist,  or  (to  use  a  phrase  of 
the  schools)  why  '  the  One  must  differ- 
entiate itself  into  a  Many.'  But  if  any- 
body asks  us  how  many  a  self-respecting 
One  should  differentiate  itself  into,  we 

'  are  sadly  at  a  loss.  For  some  reason 
that  is  very  obscure  to  us,  the  'One' 

i  that  is  revealed  in  human  life  has  dif- 
ferentiated itself  into  about  two  thou- 
sand million  individual  souls.  But  why 
so  many,  no  more  and  no  less?  Would 
not  the  One  have  got  through  this  busi- 
ness of  differentiating  itself  into  indi- 
vidual men  and  women  just  as  success- 
fully, if  the  number  of  them  had  been 
half  as  large,  or  even  if  there  had  been 
no  more  than  ten  or  a  dozen  of  us  all 
told?  Nor  would  our  difficulties  be  at 

Jan  end,  even  if  we  got  the  two  thousand 
,  millions  satisfactorily  accounted  for. 

^For  we  should  then  have  to  explain  why 
;  William  James  happened  to  be  one  of 
them.  Anybody  else  might  have  taken 
his  place  without  making  any  difference 
Ito  the  total,  or  to  the  theory.  But  a 
igreat  difference  would  have  been  made 


199 

to  the  world.  The  truth  is  that,  until 
we  have  explained  why  individuals  are 
who  they  are,  and  not  somebody  else, 
we  have  explained  nothing.  All  that 
we  can  say  of  each  is,  in  the  last  resort, 
'by  the  grace  of  God  he  is  what  he  is.' 
And  we  say  it  with  peculiar  emphasis 
and  fervor  when  William  James  is  the 
name  before  us. 

The  philosophy  of  William  James  took 
its  rise  in  the  question  raised  by  the 
last  paragraph.  He  was  himself,  if  one 
may  say  so,  flagrantly  unique,  and  his 
uniqueness  was  manifest  in  nothing  so 
much  as  in  the  power  he  possessed  of  dis- 
cerning the  disguised  or  hidden  unique- 
ness of  other  people,  and,  indeed,  of  ev- 
ery single  thing,  great  and  small,  which 
the  universe  contains.  He  was  intensely 
alive  to  the  queerness  of  things,  and  to 
those  inalienable  qualities  in  men  and 
women  which  make  each  one  of  them 
an  astonishment  and  a  portent.  Once, 
speaking  to  him  of  the  men  who  were 
going  into  a  certain  profession,  I  said, 
'They  all  appear  to  be  lopsided  men.' 
His  answer  was:  'My  dear  fellow,  did 
you  ever  meet  a  man  who  was  not  lop- 
sided?' This  uniqueness  of  the  man, 
displaying  itself  most  of  all  in  his  rec- 
ognition of  uniqueness  in  everybody 
else,  is  what  makes  these  letters  of 
James  an  admirable  introduction  to  his 
philosophy.  His  problem,  so  to  speak, 
is  incarnate  in  his  own  person,  and  it  is 
suggested  by  his  attitude  to  his  cor- 
respondents. 

Deeply  interesting  it  is  to  observe 
the  wide  variations  in  the  tone,  the 
style,  the  matter  of  the  letters,  accord- 
ing to  the  correspondent  whom  James 
is  addressing.  Among  collections  of 
letters  recently  published  several  could 
be  named  off-hand  which  serve  only  to 
reveal  the  uniformity  of  the  writers 
own  personality.  But  these  letters  re- 
veal also  the  personalities  of  those  t 
whom  they  are  addressed.  They  in- 
duce us  effectively,  not  only  to  William 


200 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


James,  but  to  his  circle  of  friends. 
After  a  little  practice  you  can  put  your 
hand  over  the  name  at  the  head  of  the 
letter  and,  reading  a  few  sentences, 
make  a  shrewd  guess  as  to  the  man, 
or  woman,  he  is  addressing.  And,  of 
course,  in  revealing  his  correspondent, 
James  reveals  himself  far  more  clearly 
than  if  he  wrote  from  the  egocentric 
position.  Unconsciously  he  acted  in  his 
correspondence  on  the  principle,  which 
is  the  rule  of  all  fine  and  chivalrous 
spirits,  of  'so  helping  others  to  affirm 
their  personalities  as  to  affirm  one's 
own  at  the  same  time.' 

In  this  way  the  letters  become  an 
introduction,  not  only  to  James's 
Pragmatism,  but  to  his  ethics  and  to  his 
religion:  for  in  spite  of  his  own  hesita- 
tions on  the  point,  or  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  them,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
save  to  those  whose  minds  are  obsessed 
by  narrow  definitions,  that  he  was  a 
profoundly  religious  man.  To  recognize 
the  uniqueness  of  one's  neighbor,  and 
to  concede  him  his  rights  as  a  unique 
individual,  is  at  the  same  time  to  pro- 
claim the  doctrine  of  Free  Will  by  put- 
ting it  into  action  as  the  law  of  our 
human  relationships  —  the  one  form  in 
which  freedom  can  never  be  over- 
thrown. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  not  without 
significance  that  one  of  the  closest 
friendships  revealed  by  these  letters  is 
that  which  subsisted  between  James  and 
the  most  formidable  of  his  philosoph- 
ical opponents  —  Josiah  Royce.  One 
has  only  to  look  at  the  photograph  in 
which  they  are  presented  together,  to 
realize  that  these  two  high-souled  an- 
tagonists welcomed  each  other's  pres- 
ence in  the  universe.  In  the  view  of 
James,  the  form  of  philosophy  was  es- 
sentially dramatic  —  no  monologue  of 
a  solitary  sage,  but  a  partnership  of 
reciprocally  interacting  minds,  each 
bringing  its  own  contribution  in  re- 
sponse to  some  definite  need  of  the  hu- 


man spirit,  and  deriving  enrichment  of 
meaning  from  its  contact  with  the 
others.  Behind  them  all  he  saw  the 
'will  to  believe,'  or  the  will  to  disbe- 
lieve, as  the  case  might  be;  and,  though 
his  perception  of  this  often  irritated  op- 
ponents in  their  attitude  toward  him, 
its  effect  upon  his  attitude  toward 
them  was  to  raise  his  toleration  to  the 
point  of  positive  sympathy. 

'It's  a  will-to-believe  on  both  sides,' 
he  wrote  to  Charles  H.  Strong  in  1907. 
'I  am  perfectly  willing  that  others 
should  disbelieve:  why  should  not  you 
be  tolerantly  interested  in  the  spectacle 
of  my  belief?  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  I  take 
delight,  or  shall  take  delight,  in  any  ef- 
forts you  may  make  to  negate  all  super- 
human consciousness,  for  only  by  these 
attempts  can  a  satisfactory  modus  vi- 
vendi  be  established.'  Here,  no  doubt, 
the  severe  logician  will  detect  an  in- 
consistency. Why  should  the  thinker 
who  desires  his  own  work  to  prevail  ex- 
tend a  warm  welcome  to  another  think- 
er who  says  the  flat  opposite?  Only  a 
sportsman  can  answer  the  question, 
though  his  answer,  when  given,  will  be 
quite  unintelligible  to  the  mere  logician. 
The  sportsman  desires  to  win,  but  if  he 
is  a  true  sportsman,  he  will  be  glad 
rather  than  sorry  when  the  crew  that 
steps  into  the  competing  boat  is  as 
highly  trained  as  his  own.  This,  too,  is 
inconsistent.  By  no  device  of  logical  in- 
genuity can  you  reconcile  your  desire  to 
win  with  your  preference  for  an  oppo- 
nent who  has  a  fair  chance  of  beating 
you.  It  is  a  paradox  which  James  dis- 
covered in  philosophy,  and  which  he 
thoroughly  enjoyed.  He  was  a  great 
master  in  things  appertaining  to  the 
sportsmanship  of  the  Spirit. 

'He  looks  more  like  a  sportsman  than 
a  professor,'  said  one  of  his  pupils.  To 
which  we  may  add  that  he  looked  what 
he  was,  and  that  it  would  be  good 
for  philosophy  if  more  of  its  professors 
looked  like  him. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


III 

Both  from  the  tone  and  from  the  sub- 
stance of  these  letters  it  is  abundant- 
ly evident  that  for  James  the  critical 
things  of  life  were  the  personal  relations. 
More  than  once  he  says  so,  totidem  ver- 
bis.  '  Ideality  is  only  to  be  found  in  the 
personal  relations.'  'The  best  things  in 
life  are  its  friendships.'  One  can  imag- 
ine him  subscribing  without  much  hesi- 
tation to  the  saying  of  William  Blake: 
'The  general  good  is  the  plea  of  the 
scoundrel,  the  hypocrite  and  the  flat- 
terer. He  who  would  do  good,  let  him 
do  it  in  minute  particulars.'  From  this 
'  saying  the  distance  is  not  great  to  the 
following  sentences  from  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  Henry  Whitman :  '  Let  us  all  be  as 

I  we  are,  save  when  we  want  to  reform 
:  ourselves.      The    only    unpardonable 

crime  is  that  of  wanting  to  reform  one 
another.'  His  rejection  of  the  concep- 
tual mode  of  arriving  at  truth  is  here 
reflected  in  his  distrust  of  regimenta- 
tion as  a  means  of  arriving  at  good  con- 
duct. For  a  striking  passage,  which  re- 
veals his  inner  mind  on  this  subject, 
take  the  following  from  another  letter 
to  the  last-named  correspondent:  — 

'As  for  me,  my  bed  is  made:  I  am 
against  bigness  and  greatness  in  all 
their  forms,  and  with  the  invisible  mo- 
lecular forces  that  work  from  individual 

II  to  individual,  stealing  in  through  the 
crannies  of  the  world  like  so  many  soft 
rootlets,  or  like  the  capillary  oozing  of 

ti  water,   and  yet  rending   the  hardest 

monuments  of  man's  pride  if  you  give 

them  time.    The  bigger  the  unit  you 

deal  with,  the  hollower,  the  more  brutal, 

the  more  mendacious,  is  the  life  dis- 

I played.  So  I  am  against  all  the  big  or- 

uganizations  as  such,  national  ones  first 

and  foremost;  against  all  big  successes 

Band  big  results;  and  in  favor  of  the 

i  eternal  forces  of  truth  which  always 

work  in  the  individual  and  immediately 

unsuccessful  way  —  under-dogs  always, 


201 

till  history  comes,  after  they  are  long 
dead,  and  puts  them  on  the  top.' 

Had  James  lived  ten  years  longer  and 
witnessed  the  war,  and  the  hideous  con- 
fusion sequent  upon  it  to  which  the 
blundering  blindness  of  the  'big  organ- 
izations' has  brought  the  world,  he 
would  not  have  found  it  necessary  to 
add,  as  he  does,  that  his  words  on  this 
subject  would  probably  be  'quite  un- 
intelligible to  anybody  but  myself.' 
The  truth  they  tell  is  precisely  what  the 
war  and  its  after-effects  have  made  in- 
telligible to  everybody.  We  see,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  big  organizations,  'espe- 
cially the  national  ones,'  everywhere 
confronted  by  problems  with  which 
they  are  wholly  incapable  of  coping;  at- 
tempting to  govern  the  action  of  forces 
which  are  intrinsically  beyond  human 
control  both  in  their  vastness  and  in 
their  infinite  complexity;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  pretense  of  coping  with 
them  surrounds  the  whole  operation 
with  an  atmosphere  of  make-believe 
and  mendacity,  which  not  only  dis- 
credits government  as  such,  but  de- 
moralizes the  character  of  the  politician 
and  of  the  citizen  who  follows  him.  In 
the  attempt  to  keep  up  this  fiction,  on 
which  the  very  life  of  the  big  organiza- 
tions depends,  the  politics  of  the  world, 
both  national  and  international,  be- 
come, for  the  most  part,  a  mere  struggle 
for  power  among  those  who  are  ambi- 
tious to  sit  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty; 
and  to  this  struggle  the  real  interests  of 
mankind,  which  government  is  sup- 
posed to  serve,  are  sacrificed  wholesale. 

Against  the  regimental  mode  of 
thought  which,  beginning  in  the  realms 
of  speculative  philosophy,  ends  by 
staging  this  fatal  force  on  the  boards 
of  history,  William  James  was,  by  both 
temperament  and  conviction,  a  rebel. 
For  ages  past  our  civilization  has  been 
obsessed  by  the  notion  that  man  is  a 
being  whose  first  and  outstanding  need 
is  the  need  to  be  governed.  But  we  have 


WILLIAM  JAMES  AND  HIS  LETTERS 


only  to  read  over  the  first  essay  in  The 
Will  to  Believe  to  satisfy  ourselves  that 
this  is  precisely  the  conception  of  man 
which  James  challenges  from  the  out- 
set. The  first  need  of  man  is  the  need 
to  be  taught  and  not  the  need  to  be 
governed.  Aufond  man  is  an  ungovern- 
able being,  who,  in  the  last  resort,  sub- 
mits to  no  law  'save  that  which  is  im- 
posed by  his  own  sense  of  fitness.'  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  '  keeping  him  in  his 
place,'  for  the  simple  reason  that  his 
life  consists  in  the  process  of  moving 
out  of  his  place  and  finding  a  new  one, 
in  obedience  to  a  creative  impulse  which 
it  were  a  sin  to  deny  and  a  crime  to 
restrain. 

That  this  is  the  position  to  which  the 
doctrine  of  'the  will  to  believe'  ulti- 
mately leads  up  is,  I  think,  abundantly 
clear  from  the  passage  I  have  just 
quoted  from  the  Letters.  At  this  point 
James's  'Humanism'  and  his  'Amer- 
icanism' are  two  names  for  the  same 
thing.  Unlike  his  brother  Henry,  his 
heart  was  always  with  the  American 
rather  than  the  European  type  of  civ- 
ilization, and  the  root  of  his  prefer- 
ence, so  far  as  it  was  the  result  of  reflec- 
tion, lay  in  the  fact  that  America  gives 
to  'the  molecular  forces'  a  wider  free- 
dom to  play  their  part. 

'My  dear  Mack,'  he  writes  to  his 
brother-in-law,  'we  "intellectuals"  in 
America  must  all  work  to  keep  our 
precious  birthright  of  individualism, 
and  of  freedom  from  these  institutions. 
Every  great  institution  is  perforce  a 
means  of  corruption  —  whatever  good 
it  may  also  do.' 

And  again,  to  Miss  Frances  R.  Morse, 
'God  bless  the  American  climate,  with 
its  transparent,  passionate,  impulsive 
variety  and  headlong  fling.  .  .  .  God 
bless  America  in  general.  .  .  .  Talk  of 
corruption!  We  don't  know  what  the 
word  corruption  means  at  home,  with 
our  improvised  and  shifting  agencies  of 
crude  pecuniary  bribery,  compared  with 


the  solidly  entrenched  and  permanently 
organized  corruptive  geniuses  of  mon- 
archy, nobility,  church,  army,  that  pene- 
trate the  very  bosom  of  the  higher  kinds 
as  well  as  the  lower  kinds  of  people  in  all 
the  European  States  (except  Switzer- 
land) and  sophisticate  their  motives 
away  from  the  impulse  to  straightfor- 
ward handling  of  any  simple  case.' 

These  words  were  written  more  than 
twenty  years  ago.  How  far  America 
may  still  deserve  the  blessings  which 
James  here  invokes  upon  her  is  not  for 
the  present  writer  to  say.  But  that  the 
war  and  the  sequel  to  the  war  have  left 
the  '  great  institutions '  of  Europe  more 
exposed  than  ever  to  capture  by  sinister 
forces  hardly  admits  of  a  doubt.  Even 
the  League  of  Nations,  designed  by  its 
first  authors  for  the  express  purpose  of 
countering  these  forces,  seems,  at  the 
present  moment,  to  be  in  no  little  dan- 
ger of  yielding  to  them.  What,  indeed, 
would  James  have  said  about  this 
well-meant  effort  to  cure  'the  big  or- 
ganizations' of  their  inherent  vices 
by  creating  a  yet  bigger  one,  which 
shall  include  them  all?  There  is  nothing 
in  these  letters  to  indicate  that  he 
'would  have  blessed  it.  That  he  was  a 
lover  of  peace  is,  of  course,  evident 
enough;  and  if  further  proof  is  needed, 
it  can  be  found  in  his  Moral  Equivalent 
for  War.  But  in  this  matter,  as  in  so 
many  others,  we  should  have  found 
him,  I  imagine,  with  the  molecular  for- 
ces and  against  the  big  organizations. 

IV 

To  the  present  writer  William  James 
appears  as  the  forerunner  of  a  time 
when  Education  will  have  become  the 
primary  concern  of  mankind  and  Gov- 
ernment secondary,  when  '  light '  will  be 
esteemed  more  highly  than  '  power '  - 
an  order  which  reverses  their  relative 
positions  at  the  present  moment.  From 
his  whole  view  of  the  universe,  and  of 


WILLIAM   JAMES   AND   HIS   LETTERS 


man  as  a  creative  element  within  it,  it 
follows  that  the  problem  of  developing 
the  unused  energies  of  the  human  mind 
is  of  far  greater  importance  than  that 
of  controlling  by  regulative  systems  the 
energies  that  are  now  in  operation.  In- 
deed, we  may  say  that  the  second  prob- 
lem, on  which  all  our  political  activities 
are  now  centred,  will  be  solved  only  in 
so  far  as  we  approach  to  a  solution  of 
the  first.  By  giving  to  men  the  largest 
scope  and  opportunity  to  develop  as 
free  creative  individuals,  we  establish 
the  only  conditions  under  which  per- 
sonal, social,  and  national  morality  can 
flourish.  Right  relations  between  man 
and  man,  between  nation  and  nation, 
are  impossible  on  any  other  terms. 

The  whole  group  of  doctrines  which 
centre  round  '  the  will  to  believe '  need, 
therefore,  to  be  restudied  in  the  light  of 
the  history  of  the  last  ten  years.  In  the 
conception  of  a '  block  universe,'  against 
which  James  never  ceased  to  lift  up  his 
voice,  will  be  found  the  parent  and  pro- 
totype of  all  the  stereotyped  systems, 
whether  of  social  order  or  of  religious 
thought,  which  successive  seekers  after 
power  have  sought  in  vain  to  impose 
upon  a  rebellious  world,  thereby  divert- 
ing the  forces  that  are  needed  for  the 
education  of  mankind  into  a  struggle 
for  the  mastery,  which  moves  forever 
in  a  vicious  circle  and  whose  principal 
fruit  is  misery  and  disaster. 

By  his  own  confession,  James  left  his 

work  incomplete;  he  felt  that  he  had 

built  'only  one  side  of  the  arch.'   The 

completion  will  come  when  a  mind 

arises  sufficiently  powerful  to  correlate 

the  pragmatic  principle  with  the  great 

movements  of  human  history  now  in 

^progress.  There  is  little  danger  that  his 

•teachings  will  be  forgotten;  the  march 

vf  events  will  continue  to  bring  them  to 

mind;  and  though  the  form  in  which  he 

left  them  may  be  altered,  the  spirit  that 

I  inspired  them  will  live  on  and  play  an 


203 

ever-increasing  part  in  moulding  the 
civilization  of  the  future.  William 
James  is  probably  the  best  contribu- 
tion America  has  so  far  made  toward 
establishing  the  final  community  of 
mankind.  But  it  will  not  be  a  commun- 
ity after  the  type  of  any  of  the  'big  or- 
ganizations' now  in  existence. 

I  may  be  reminded  that  what  we  are 
here  concerned  with  is  not  the  teaching, 
but  the  man.  For  answer,  I  would  re- 
peat that  the  two  are  essentially  one. 
In  revealing  that  unity,  Mr.  Henry 
James  has  shown  us  his  father  as  he  es- 
sentially was,  has  paid  a  tribute  to  his 
memory  than  which  none  could  be  more 
fitting,  and  at  the  same  time  has  made  a 
contribution  of  great  importance  to  the 
h'terature  of  his  native  land.  The  pic- 
ture that  he  has  presented  reinforces  at 
all  points  the  essential  values  of  the  life 
and  work  of  William  James,  and  leaves 
upon  those  who  knew  him  the  impres- 
sion of  a  living  portrait. 

In  the  well-known  sermon  of  Phillips 
Brooks,  named  'The  Candle  of  the 
Lord,'  there  are  a  few  sentences  that 
seem  to  me  to  sum  up  the  man  as  he  is 
here  presented  to  us,  and  perhaps  I  may 
be  forgiven  for  quoting  them  at  length. 

'There  is  in  a  community  a  man  of 
large  character,  whose  influence  runs 
everywhere.  You  cannot  talk  with  any 
man  in  all  the  city  but  you  get,  shown 
in  that  man's  own  way,  the  thought, 
the  feeling  of  that  central  man  who 
teaches  all  the  community  to  think,  to 
feel.  The  very  boys  catch  something  of 
his  power,  and  have  something  about 
them  that  would  not  be  there  if  he  were 
not  living  in  the  town.  What  better 
description  can  you  give  of  all  that  than 
to  say  that  that  man's  life  was  fire,  and 
that  all  those  men's  lives  were  candles 
that  he  lighted,  which  gave  to  the  rich, 
warm,  live,  fertile  nature  that  was  in 
him  multiplied  points  of  exhibition,  so 
that  he  lighted  the  town  through  them? 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  FANEUHI 


BY   CHARLES  BERNARD  NORDHOFF 


TOWARD  evening  the  wind  died  away 
to  a  little  breeze  from  the  southeast; 
barely  enough  to  fill  the  sails  of  the 
schooner  and  ruffle  gently  the  calm 
surface  of  the  sea.  Banks  of  cloud, 
gold-rimmed  and  flushing  in  the  sunset, 
were  piled  above  the  horizon,  and  be- 
neath them  loomed  a  purplish  blur  of 
land  —  the  skyline  of  Huahine,  first 
of  the  Leeward  Islands. 

I  was  stretched  on  the  after-deck, 
listening  to  the  faint  lap  and  gurgle  of 
water  under  the  counter.  The  sound  of 
subdued  laughter  came  from  the  fore- 
castle, breaking  a  murmur  of  voices 
speaking  softly  in  the  native  tongue. 
The  ship's  bell  sounded  twice,  seemed 
to  hesitate,  and  rang  twice  again.  A 
sailor  in  dungarees  and  a  ragged  straw 
hat  came  aft  to  replace  the  helmsman, 
who  yawned  as  he  stepped  aside  from 
the  wheel,  stretching  huge  bare  arms 
in  a  gesture  of  relief.  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  he  was  of  a  type  rare- 
ly seen  in  the  islands  to-day:  a  hand's- 
breadth  taller  than  what  we  count  a  tall 
man;  superbly  proportioned  on  a  giant 
scale,  and  light-skinned  as  a  Sicilian  or 
Catalan. 

The  white  man  beside  me  looked  up 
with  a  scowl.  He  was  a  lean  and 
bilious  gentleman,  with  eyebrows  that 
twitched  unpleasantly  when  he  spoke, 
and  the  air  of  perpetual  discontent 
that  goes  with  a  dyspeptic  mouth.  I 
used  to  wonder  why  the  directors  had 
selected  him  for  his  task  —  the  collec- 
tion of  Polynesian  material  for  the 
cases  of  an  American  museum. 

'Have  a  look  at  that  boy,'  he  re- 

204 


marked;  'I've  collected  in  a  good 
many  parts  of  the  world,  but  I  never 
had  to  deal  with  such  people  as  these 
Kanakas.  They're  liars  and  thieves, 
every  one  of  them,  and  that  overgrown 
rascal  Teriiaro  is  the  worst  of  the  lot. 
He  took  me  in  for  a  while  —  I  was 
quite  warmed  up  over  his  yarns  of  a 
burial-cave  at  Opoa. 

'I  was  sent  here  to  get  together  a  lot 
of  weapons  and  bowls  and  ornaments 

—  genuine  old  stuff.    Nowadays  it  is 
all  stowed  away  in  the  burial-caves; 
there  must  be  hundreds  of  them  scat- 
tered through  the  islands,  but  if  you 
think  it  is  easy  to  find  one,  try  it  some 
day!  I  don't  want  to  carry  away  bones 

—  the  French  government  won't  allow 
that;  all  I  want  is  the  ethnological  stuff 
and  measurements  of  a  series  of  old 
skulls.    Living  specimens  don't  prove 
much,  because  the  modern  native  is 
saturated    with    white    blood.     Even 
among  the  natives  the  secrets  of  the 
burial-caves  are  closely  guarded;  I  dis- 
covered  that  after  I'd  wasted  three 
months  without  getting  on  the  track  of 
one.    By  that  time  everyone  on  the 
beach  knew  what  I  was  after,  and  that 
I  was  offering  a  thousand  francs  to  the 
man  who  would  show  me  what  I  want- 
ed to  see.     Then  one  morning  Teriiaro 
knocked  at  my  door,  shaky  and  blear- 
eyed  at  the  end  of  a  seven-day  spree. 
He  speaks  a  little  English. 

'His  proposition  was  simple:  for  a 
thousand  francs  down  and  another 
thousand  when  the  job  was  finished  to 
my  satisfaction,  he  would  show  me  the 
burial-cave  at  Opoa  —  the  biggest  of 


IN   THE   SHADOW  OF  FANEUHI 


them  all,  he  claimed.  We  were  to  run 
down  to  Raiatea  by  different  boats,  and 
while  I  waited  at  Uturoa,  he  would  go 
ahead  to  see  that  the  coast  was  clear, 
bring  out  and  hide  all  the  stuff  he  could 
carry,  and  return  to  take  me  around 
the  island  by  night  in  his  canoe.  I 
had  to  swear  not  to  give  him  away. 

'Jackson  gave  me  a  line  on  the  boy. 
I  said  I  was  considering  him  for  a  guide 
to  help  me  explore  the  interior  of 
Raiatea.  Yes  —  he  knew  the  island 
well;  people  lived  near  Opoa;  chiefs 
since  heathen  times.  Well,  I  took  a 
chance.  I  waited  at  Uturoa  and  finally 
Teriiaro  came  to  tell  me  that  he  had 
failed;  years  before,  he  had  known  the 
cave,  but  now  he  could  n't  find  it  — 
perhaps  a  landslide  had  blocked  it  up. 
I  was  put  out;  he  had  taken  my  money 
and  made  a  fool  of  me;  but  I  raised 
such  a  row  about  my  thousand  francs 
that,  when  we  got  back  to  Tahiti,  he 
persuaded  old  Jackson  —  Ah,  here's 
Jackson  now.' 

A  thin  old  man  in  pajamas  was  com- 
ing aft.  His  eyes  of  faded  blue  regarded 
the  world  with  a  glance  at  once  kindly 
and  cynical;  a  short  curved  pipe  —  so 
permanently  affixed  that  it  seemed  as 
much  a  part  of  him  as  his  nose  —  pro- 
truded through  the  curtain  of  a  white 
moustache.  The  manager  of  the  Atoll 
Trading  Company  was  known  to  re- 
move his  pipe,  now  and  then,  in  order 
to  knock  out  the  ashes  and  fill  it;  and 
presumably  it  did  not  remain  in  his 
mouth  when  he  slept;  but  at  other 
itimes  it  was  to  be  seen  in  place,  trailing 
i  blue  wisp  of  smoke,  and  lending  to 
lis  utterances  —  pronounced  between 
:eeth  forever  held  apart  by  a  quarter- 
nch  of  hard  rubber  —  an  individual 
juality.  Old  Jackson  is  a  person  of 
Considerable  education,  and  probably 
:he  most  successful  trader  in  eastern 
Polynesia;  and  he  knows  more  of  the 
lative  life  than  is  considered  good  for 
i  white  man.  As  he  sat  down  carefully 


205 

beside  me,  settling  his  back  against  the 
rail,  the  collector  rose  to  go  below.  The 
trader  smiled  behind  his  moustache. 

'Still  croaking  about  his  thousand 
francs,  eh?'  he  said,  when  the  other 
was  gone.  'Teriiaro  paid  that  long  ago 
—  I  lent  him  the  money  myself.  I 
fancy  he 's  been  telling  you  what  a  lot 
of  thieves  and  liars  the  natives  are  — 
a  conclusion  based  on  a  single  expe- 
rience. No  doubt  he 's  right  —  the  na- 
tive does  n't  differ  very  much  from 
the  rest  of  us.  But  Teriiaro,  though 
he  does  drink  a  bit,  is  not  a  bad  boy; 
I  've  known  his  grandfather  for  twenty 
years,  and  you  won't  come  across  a 
finer  old  chap.  The  men  of  the  family 
were  hereditary  high  priests  at  Opoa 
for  centuries,  and  the  missionaries  still 
suspect  the  old  man  of  dabbling  in 
heathenism.  The  boy  was  probably 
lying  when  he  told  this  collector  person 
he  could  n't  find  the  cave;  he  admitted 
as  much  to  me  when  he  asked  me  to 
lend  him  the  money  to  make  good  his 
advance.  I  '11  give  you  his  side  of  the 
story  as  he  told  it  to  me  that  day;  you 
can  believe  what  you  like  —  the  native 
yarn,  at  any  rate,  is  the  more  enter- 
taining of  the  two. 

'From  the  time  of  his  birth,  Teriiaro 
lived  at  the  mouth  of  the  valley  of 
Opoa,  —  at  the  foot  of  Faneuhi,  the 
sacred  mountain,  —  in  the  house  of  his 
grandfather,  Matatua.  There  is  not  a 
drop  of  white  blood  in  the  family,  which 
is  of  the  highest  aristocracy,  as  natives 
go;  you've  seen  the  boy--  a  much 
bigger  man,  and  lighter-colored,  than 
the  run  of  them.  Before  the  mission- 
aries came,  Opoa,  on  the  island  of 
Raiatea,  was  the  holiest  place  in  the 
Eastern  Pacific:  Oro,  the  war-god,  was 
born  there,  and  human  sacrifices  we« 
brought  from  distant  islands  to  be  slam 
before  the  platform  of  rock  in  the  grove 
of  ironwood  trees.  When  a  high  chief 
died,  his  body,  embalmed  by  rubbing 
with  cocoanut  oil  and  the  juices  of 


206 


IN   THE   SHADOW   OF   FANEUHI 


herbs,  was  laid  on  the  marae  for  the 
ceremonies  which  would  admit  his 
spirit  to  Rohutu  Noanoa  —  the  Sweet- 
Scented  Heaven.  After  that,  the  corpse 
was  borne,  secretly  and  by  night,  far 
into  the  recesses  of  the  valley,  to  a  cave 
known  only  to  the  few  who  were  its 
guardians.  Nowadays  the  forest  has 
grown  thick  about  the  neglected  marae, 
and  the  natives  fear  the  place  as  the 
haunt  of  evil  spirits,  saying  that  the 
hunter  of  a  wild  pig  or  gatherer  of  fire- 
wood who  sets  foot  on  that  ground  will 
be  afflicted  with  a  palsy,  or  break  out 
with  loathsome  sores  like  those  of  a 
leper. 

'Matatua,  the  grandfather  of  Terii- 
aro,  is  a  wizard  of  great  repute  among 
the  people.  They  believe  that  he  can 
foretell  the  future,  invoke  the  spirits 
of  the  dead,  and  lay  spells  which  cause 
those  who  incur  his  displeasure  to 
sicken  and  die.  He  alone  on  the  island 
can  subdue  the  fury  of  the  fire  in  the 
Umuti,  and  by  the  power  of  his  incan- 
tations pass  unharmed  —  with  those  to 
whom  he  gives  leave  —  over  the  white- 
hot  stones.  The  missionary  at  Uturoa, 
to  whom  Matatua  is  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh,  came  once  to  view  this  fire-walk- 
ing; but  he  could  make  nothing  of 
it  and  said  that  it  was  devil's  work  — 
that  Matatua  was  an  unholy  man,  to 
be  avoided  like  the  devil  himself. 
Nevertheless,  the  people  still  come  from 
great  distances  to  consult  Matatua  — 
though  secretly,  for  fear  the  missionary 
might  hear  of  it. 

'During  the  boyhood  of  Teriiaro, 
there  were  times  of  year  when  strange 
visitors  came  to  the  old  man's  house  — 
gray-haired  men  of  stately  carriage  and 
slow  speech.  No  one  could  say  whence 
they  came,  and  the  boy  —  dozing  on 
his  mat  —  could  hear  them  until  far 
into  the  night,  speaking  with  his  grand- 
father in  an  old  language  he  could  not 
understand.  Sometimes,  when  the  talk- 
ing was  finished,  they  passed  quietly 


out  into  the  darkness;  sometimes  the 
boy  fell  asleep,  and  awoke  at  daybreak 
to  find  them  gone  and  Matatua  sleep- 
ing heavily  in  his  corner.  Once,  when 
the  moon  was  in  its  last  quarter  and 
he  could  see  dimly,  he  rose  as  they 
went  out  and  followed  secretly  until  he 
saw  them  disappear  in  the  forest  where 
the  skulls  lie  by  the  marae;  but  fear 
overcame  him  then,  and  he  turned 
back.  On  those  nights,  fishermen  on 
the  barrier  reef  saw  awesome  things: 
glowing  masses  of  flame,  like  pale 
comets,  rushing  down  the  mountainside; 
fitful  glares  on  the  tree-tops,  as  of  fires 
suddenly  fed  and  as  suddenly  extin- 
guished; and  sometimes,  if  the  night 
breeze  blew  strongly  from  the  land,  they 
heard  the  faint  deep  throb  of  drums. 

'As  Teriiaro  grew  older,  his  grand- 
father began  to  tell  him  stories  of  the 
old  days:  of  forays  against  distant 
islands;  of  heroes,  chiefs,  and  magic 
omore  —  short  club-like  spears,  fash- 
ioned by  wizards  and  hardened  in 
fires  kindled  at  the  ever-burning  oven 
of  Miru.  The  names  of  these  omore, 
together  with  legends  of  the  warriors 
who  bore  them,  have  lived  from  gener- 
ation to  generation  in  the  islands  — 
handed  down  in  traditions  like  those 
of  Excalibur,  or  the  magic  sword  of 
Roland. 

'  Once  the  old  man  took  the  boy  with 
him,  far  up  into  the  valley,  to  gather 
herbs.  At  a  place  where  three  great 
miro  trees  grew  apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  forest,  Matatua  led  the  way  to  the 
base  of  a  cliff.  Directing  his  grandson 
to  bind  dry  cocoanut  fronds  for  a  torch, 
he  moved  aside  a  thin  slab  of  stone, 
disclosing  a  passage  into  the  bowels 
of  the  mountain.  Presently  they  stood 
in  a  lofty  cavern,  its  ceiling  lost  in 
shadows  that  advanced  and  retreated 
in  the  flickering  torchlight.  From 
niches  about  the  rocky  walls  looked 
out  the  skulls  of  men  long  dead ;  on  the 
dry  sandy  floor,  in  ordered  rows,  lay 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  PANEUHI 


the  gigantic  figures  of  chiefs,  bound 
with  wrappings  of  delicately  plaited 
cinnet;  and  beside  each  dead  warrior 
was  his  polished  omore  of  ironwood. 
And  Matatua  led  the  way  from  one 
to  another,  telling  the  names  of  men 
and  of  the  clubs  they  had  borne,  and 
reciting  their  deeds  in  the  poetic  words 
of  other  days. 

'In  this  way,  Teriiaro  came  to  know 
of  the  Sacred  Cave  of  Opoa.  On  ac- 
count of  a  woman,  he  left  the  house  of 
his  grandfather  and  came  to  Tahiti. 
Tetua  was  her  name  —  she  lived  in  the 
district  of  Opoa  and  her  pretty  face 
caught  the  fancy  of  Teriiaro.  Her 
family  was  of  the  lowest  class  of  society 
—  the  Manahune,  whom  some  believe 
to  be  the  descendants  of  an  aboriginal 
race,  smaller  and  darker-skinned  than 
the  Polynesian  immigrants.  Matatua 
sternly  forbade  the  match  —  the  gulf 
between  the  families  was  too  great. 
But  Teriiaro  was  no  longer  a  child,  and 
one  night  he  and  the  girl  stole  away  to 
Uturoa  by  canoe,  and  took  passage  on 
a  schooner  to  Papeete. 

'I  heard  their  story  when  he  came 
to  my  office  asking  for  work.  As  it 
chanced,  I  needed  an  extra  hand  to 
unload  copra,  and  for  a  time  he  and 
Tetua  got  on  happily  enough.  Then 
the  boy  began  to  run  wild,  wandering 
about  at  night  with  drunken  com- 
panions and  sleeping  wherever  the  rum 
overcame  him.  The  girl  used  to  stop 
me  on  the  streets,  her  eyes  swollen 
with  tears,  and  ask  if  I  could  n't  do 
something  to  keep  her  husband 
straight. 

'I  got  tired  of  it,  finally,  and  put  him 
aboard  a  schooner  trading  through 
the  Paumotu.  Hard  work  and  clean 
living  soon  made  a  man  of  him;  but 
when  he  returned  to  Papeete,  the  story 
was  always  the  same.  It  was  at  the 
end  of  one  of  these  sprees  that  he 
!  heard  of  the  collector  and  made  up  his 


207 

'Had  such  a  proposal  been  made  to 
him  when  he  first  arrived  in  Tahiti,  he 
would  have  dismissed  the  idea  with 
horror.  But  he  had  been  a  long  time  in 
Papeete  and  had  heard  white  men, 
whose  wisdom  he  had  no  reason  to 
doubt,  ridicule  the  old  beliefs  —  call- 
ing them  heathen  nonsense,  fit  only 
to  deceive  the  ignorant.  The  offer  of 
money  in  advance  was  an  irresistible 
temptation;  he  spent  the  thousand 
francs  on  drink  and  dresses  for  Tetua, 
before  his  departure  for  the  Leeward 
Group. 

'The  collector  stopped  in  Uturoa, 
as  they  had  agreed,  while  Teriiaro  went 
on  to  the  house  of  his  grandfather. 
The  old  man  received  him  gravely,  say- 
ing that  he  had  done  well  to  come  home, 
for  reports  of  his  bad  habits  in  Tahiti 
had  reached  Raiatea.  If  he  suspected 
the  object  of  Teriiaro's  visit,  he  gave 
no  sign,  and  the  boy  began  to  fancy, 
with  a  faint  new-born  contempt,  — 
even  here,  in  the  shadow  of  Faneuhi, 
the  sacred  mountain,  —  that,  after  all, 
white  men  were  right.  But  he  pre- 
tended interest  when  Matatua  spoke 
of  a  desire  to  initiate  him  in  the  wisdom 
of  the  ancients,  and  suggested  that  he 
leave  home  no  more. 

'On  the  third  morning  the  old  man 
launched  his  canoe,  telling  his  grandson 
that  he  was  obliged  to  make  a  trip  to 
Tevaitoa,  on  the  far  side  of  the  island, 
where  he  owned  land.  There  was  copra 
to  be  weighed  and  sold  —  he  might  be 
gone  a  week.  Teriiaro  stood  on  the 
beach  until  the  canoe  had  rounded  a 
distant  wooded  point.  His  chance  had 
come. 

'It  was  still  early  when  he  started 
on  his  journey  inland.  The  grass  was 
still  damp  with  dew;  the  air  was  cool, 
and  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  pua  blos- 
soms. He  was  thinking  of  the  things 
he  would  buy  with  the  second  thousand 
francs:  a  new  guitar,  bright  with  pearl 


Imind  to  rifle  the  Opoa  burial-cave.  inlay,  which  would  mark  him  as  a  man 


208 


IN  THE   SHADOW  OF  FANEUHI 


of  substance  among  his  friends;  the 
long-coveted  watch  with  a  luminous 
dial;  a  pair  of  shoes  for  Tetua,  the  kind 
with  high  heels,  such  as  the  half-caste 
girls  in  Papeete  wear.  His  feet  were  as 
nimble  as  his  thoughts;  he  glanced  up, 
and  the  three  great  miro  trees,  stately 
and  sombre  as  in  the  days  of  his  boy- 
hood, stood  before  him.  The  rest  of  the 
story  I  can  tell  you  only  as  he  told  it 
to  me. 

'When  he  had  bound  torches  of  dried 
cocoanut  frond,  he  walked  toward  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  where  years  before  his 
grandfather  had  shown  him  the  en- 
trance of  the  cavern.  As  he  drew  near 
the  place,  he  saw  a  thing  that  made 
him  pause.  There,  on  a  great  rock,  — 
glaring  at  him  and  seeming  to  oppose 
his  passage,  —  was  a  lizard  far  larger 
than  any  known  in  the  islands  to-day. 
"Ah,"  thought  the  boy,  in  half-terrified 
bravado,  "does  my  grandfather  leave 
the  king  of  all  the  lizards  to  guard 
his  dry  bones  when  he  is  away?"  But 
when  he  cast  a  stone  at  the  lizard,  it 
vanished,  and  in  its  place  stood  an  old 
man  with  hair  as  white  as  coral  long 
bleached  in  the  sun.  His  eyes  were  ter- 
rible to  see;  they  held  the  eyes  of 
Teriiaro  with  a  strange  power,  causing 
his  courage  to  melt  away,  and  the 
strength  to  flow  from  his  limbs.  Then 
the  life  went  out  of  him,  and  he  knew 
no  more  until  he  became  aware  of  a 
beating  in  his  brain  —  a  sound  which 
changed  to  the  throbbing  of  a  great 
drum. 

'When  his  eyes  opened  he  saw  what 
chilled  his  blood.  There  was  the  marae 
with  its  row  of  skulls,  lighted  from 
either  side  by  torches  which  seemed 
trees  aflame.  On  the  platform  of  rock 
lay  a  shapeless  thing,  like  an  unhewn 
log,  wound  about  with  fine  cinnet  and 
decked  with  tufts  of  red  feathers.  At 
the  foot  of  the  marae  was  gathered  a 
company  of  tall  old  men,  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  ancient  days,  and  in  their 


midst  one  knelt  by  the  Ofai  Tuturu  — 
the  Praying-Stone  —  intoning  a  solemn 
chant.  It  seemed  to  Teriiaro  that  the 
priest  was  offering  up  something  that 
lay  before  him.  At  times  he  paused  in 
his  chanting,  and  held  up  both  hands 
toward  the  image  on  the  marae.  Then 
the  drums  thundered  and  the  flame  of 
the  burning  trees  seemed  to  leap  up 
with  redoubled  brightness.  Moving  his 
head  a  little,  the  boy  saw  that  the  offer- 
ing was  the  dead  body  of  a  man;  and  at 
that  moment  the  priest  plucked  out  an 
eye  and  held  it  above  his  head,  while 
the  drums  throbbed  louder  and  deeper 
than  before,  and  the  huge  torches, 
which  seemed  never  to  be  consumed, 
sent  flames  leaping  to  the  tops  of  the 
ironwood  trees. 

'As  full  consciousness  returned  toi 
him,  Teriiaro  realized  with  a  sudden 
pang  of  terror  that  his  hands  and  feet 
were  bound,  and  that  two  silent  men, 
with  axes  of  dolerite  in  their  hands, 
stood  over  him.  Was  he  destined  to  lie 
where  the  body  of  that  other  man  lay 
now  —  an  offering  to  the  feathered  and 
shapeless  god?  He  nearly  swooned  at 
the  thought;  and  when  he  felt  himself 
seized  and  lifted  by  many  hands,  his 
senses  left  him  for  the  second  time. 

'A  blinding  light  awakened  him  — 
the  morning  sun,  shining  through  a 
familiar  doorway,  was  full  on  his  face. 
Filled  with  wonder  and  relief,  he 
glanced  about.  There  in  the  old  corner, 
sleeping  peacefully  on  a  mat,  lay  Mata- 
tua,  his  grandfather.  Teriiaro  began 
to  hope  that  he  had  only  dreamed  a 
strangely  vivid  and  terrifying  dream; 
but  presently  he  noticed  on  his  arm  a 
loop  of  cinnet,  tied  in  a  curious  manner; 
and  as  he  puzzled  over  this,  a  disquiet- 
ing memory  came  back  to  him  —  a  say- 
ing of  his  grandfather  that  in  heathen 
days  a  victim  destined  for  sacrifice 
was  thus  distinguished. 

'Stealthily  and  in  haste  he  launched 
his  canoe  and  paddled  away  from  the 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


209 


place  to  which  he  would  never  dare 
return.  In  Uturoa  he  heard  a  story 
that  did  not  lessen  his  terror:  a  fisher- 
man of  Tevaitoa  had  gone  alone  in  his 
canoe  to  the  reef,  and  no  man  had  seen 
him  since.  There  had  been  lights  on 
the  reef  that  night,  —  other  fishermen, 
doubtless,  from  farther  up  the  coast,  — 
but  no  trace  of  this  man  or  his  canoe 
remained.  So  Teriiaro  was  not  sorry 
when  the  schooner  for  Tahiti  came;  he 
neither  slept  nor  ceased  to  glance  be- 
hind him  until  he  landed  on  the  Pa- 
peete beach.' 

Old  Jackson  peered  at  me  as  he  fin- 
ished his  improbable  tale.  The  moon 
was  up,  and  in  its  clear  light  I  could 


see  the  wrinkles  about  his  eyes  and  the 
gleam  of  white  eyebrows  and  mous- 
tache. His  pipe  had  burned  out;  I 
watched  him  fumble  for  a  moment  be- 
fore he  took  it  from  his  mouth  with  an 
air  of  sudden  resolution.  Without  a 
word,  he  filled  it  from  an  enormous 
rubber  pouch  and  replaced  it  hastily 
between  his  teeth.  When  the  tobacco 
was  burning,  he  spoke  again. 

'  You  know  what  a  row  this  collector 
made,'  he  said;  'the  boy  was  so  badly 
scared  that  I  advanced  the  money 
myself  to  avoid  a  fuss.  Teriiaro  is  a 
first-rate  hand  on  a  schooner,  but  he 's 
not  keen  on  making  this  Raiatea  trip  — 
watch  him  to-morrow,  and  you'll  see 
that  he  won't  set  foot  ashore.' 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


BY  LEONORA  PEASE 


'Is  teacher  gone  by  de  school?'  asked 
Carmilla  anxiously  of  the  big  boy 
sweeping  the  steps  that  led  up  from  the 
cement  walk,  where  Carmilla  stood,  to 
the  level  of  the  sunny  oblongs  of  win- 
dows in  the  old-fashioned  house  of  the 
three  Miss  Shannons. 

The  big  boy  stopped  sweeping. 

'Is  de  green  teacher  gone?'  pursued 
Carmilla,  referring  to  Miss  Shannon  of 
the  green  gown. 

'Dunno,'  he  answered,  looking  down 
on  Carmilla  reflectively.  'The  brown 
teacher's  went.' 

'Is  de  blue  one?' 

'Yep,  she's  went,  too.' 

Across  the  square,  from  the  windows 

VOL.  128— NO.  & 

c 


opposite,  Marian  had  just  flung  impa- 
tiently behind  her,  'Hurry  up,  mamma, 
and  comb  my  hair  — there's  the  blue 
Miss  Shannon  going.' 

At  a  quarter  to  eight,  five  mornings 
out  of  the  week,  the  brown  Miss  Shan- 
non walked  west  up  the  square  to  the 
Avenue,  where  the  car  ran  north;  at 
eight  o'clock,  the  blue  Miss  Shannon 
walked  west  up  the  square  to  the  Avenue 
and  the  car  going  south;  and  at  eight- 
fifteen,  the  green  Miss  Shannon  walked 
east  past  the  end  of  the  square  to  the 
schoolhouse. 

Carmilla  herself  lived  east,  over  the 
other  side  of  the  school  and  the  car- 
tracks,  on  which  the  cars  went  clanging 


210 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


and  banging  and  whizzing  under  the 
school's  east  windows,  and  from  which 
most  of  the  teachers  alighted  mornings. 
From  this  squatty  and  grimy  locality 
Carmilla  escaped,  across  the  strip  of 
asphalt  drive,  to  the  cement  walk  and 
the  steps  down  which  the  green  Miss 
Shannon  was  awaited,  to  the  brilliant 
plot  of  grass  and  new-blown  elms  of  the 
square,  to  the  red  and  yellow  tulips  set 
out  in  their  bed  to  welcome  the  spring. 
If  some  whimsical  gardener  had  set 
Carmilla,  in  slim  green  dress  and  round 
red-and-yellow  hat,  down  among  them, 
she  would  have  made  a  flaunting  little 
human  tulip.  Instead,  in  her  little  fa- 
ded cotton  slip,  with  mop  of  dark  hair 
over  forehead  and  neck,  black  eyes  big 
and  sad,  Carmilla  was  an  appealing 
small  waif  of  a  child  as  she  waited  there 
by  the  flower-bed  for  her  teacher. 

Theresa  Steffanelli,  now  breathlessly 
accosting  the  big  boy,  '  Is  teacher  gone 
by  de  school?'  was  in  better  harmony 
with  the  color-scheme.  Her  bright-blue 
sweater  over  a  scarlet  skirt,  plump  pink 
cheeks  under  an  outstanding  crop  of 
dark  hair  tied  with  a  flaring  bow  of  red 
ribbon,  made  a  brilliant  splotch  against 
the  gray  of  the  walk.  The  splotch  be- 
came a  streak  as  Dominic  appeared 
panting  behind  Theresa,  in  his  green 
sweater  banded  with  red;  and  Jassa- 
mine,  following,  contributed  the  yellow 
of  her  long,  overhanging  sweater.  A 
little  farther  along  the  walk,  Angelo,  in 
startling  new  green  pants  (fastened  with 
some  uncertainty  by  safety-pins  to  his 
shirt),  bore  down  upon  the  common 
goal,  and  Mary  formed  a  drab  tail  in 
her  washed-out  print  gown.  As  she 
perched  herself  on  the  green  Miss  Shan- 
non's lowest  step,  Mary  explained  de- 
murely, '  I  dot  a  sweat-uh,  but  I  not  dot 
it  on  now.'  Marian,  flying  from  across 
the  square,  in  white  apron,  her  bright 
fluffy  curls  contrasting  with  Jassamine's 
black  tresses  slicked  back  from  the  part- 
ing to  the  two  buttons  of  coiled  pigtails, 


came  in  time  for  the  flutter  and  swirl 
in  the  bevy  of  children,  which  an- 
nounced the  green  Miss  Shannon  de- 
scending the  steps. 

At  the  moment,  in  her  green  dress, 
fair  hair  coiled  high  on  her  head,  and 
smiling  face,  the  green  Miss  Shannon 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  spring. 
The  old-fashioned  houses  of  the  old- 
fashioned  square  were  so  near  the  school 
that  she  had  no  more  need  of  a  hat  this 
morning  than  had  the  Italian  women  of 
the  neighborhood,  or  Theresa,  Carmilla, 
and  Jassamine.  Like  a  breeze  of  spring, 
she  blew  the  bambinos  before  her  with  a 
'Now  see  who  can  get  to  the  corner 
first.' 

Another  bit  of  brightness  came  up 
with  the  green  Miss  Shannon  from  the 
rear  and  caught  step  —  '  de  teacher  by 
Room  15,'  whose  house  was  around  the 
corner  of  the  square.  Snappy  black 
eyes  and  satiny  black  hair  in  buns  over 
her  ears,  thin  beau-catcher  curl  glued 
in  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  well- 
powdered  nose,  modish  one-piece  blue 
taffeta  gown  above  her  trim,  pointed 
French-heeled  boots,  the  young  Miss 
O'Callahan  seemed  to  be  protesting, 
'Teachers  are  not  going  to  be  frumps 
any  longer.'  Miss  O'Callahan  was  on 
her  second-year  salary,  but  she  lived  at 
home,  and  managed  by  charge  accounts 
to  keep  her  clothes  paid  for,  and  to 
squeeze  out  five  dollars  for  her  Grade 
Teachers'  Association — more  than  some 
did.  She  was  an  intelligent  young 
woman,  and  twice  as  good  a  teacher  as 
she  looked. 

Walking  over  from  the  car  on  the 
Avenue,  and  nearing  them  from  behind, 
were  Miss  Fletcher,  tall  and  fair,  gram- 
mar grade,  Miss  Marie  DeMar,  stout 
and  dark,  primary,  both  inconspicu- 
ously and  economically  dressed,  and 
Miss  Jarvis,  domestic  science,  well  at- 
tired. Miss  Jarvis  was  a  'special,'  and 
on  higher  salary.  Teachers  of  domestic 
science  had  originally  put  in  more  time 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


211 


at  Normal  School,  but  now  went  through 
in  the  same  time  as  the  elementary 
teachers,  and  their  superior  rank  had 
begun  to  grind  on  the  elementaries. 
The  elementaries  had  subsisted  on 
meagre  pay  until  the  war,  when  their 
unexpected  exodus  from  the  classroom 
brought  an  alarmed  and  speedy  but 
cautious  increase  in  their  salaries,  with 
more  generous  raises  for  the  higher-paid 
groups.  It  seemed  an  established  idea 
that  they  should  be  the  lowest  paid  in 
the  service. 

'But  if  the  manual-training  men  get 
more  pay,  why  should  n't  the  domestic- 
science  women?'  an  apologist  might 
begin. 

'Yes,  of  course,  and  the  singing,  and 
all  the  other  specials  —  What  I  want  to 
know  is,  what  is  the  matter  with  the 
grade  teachers?  Who  works  harder 
than  we  do? '  an  elementary  would  mus- 
ter spunk  to  ask;  a  query  that  could 
not  get  itself  answered,  and  the  thing 
went  on  grinding. 

'My  kid  sister,'  Miss  O'Callahan  was 
saying,  on  their  walk  through  the  morn- 
ing sunshine  to  the  schoolhouse,  'says 
she'll  never  be  a  teachar  —  not  on  your 
life.  My  father  wants  her  to  go  to  Nor- 
mal, but  she  says  she's  going  to  busi- 
ness college.' 

'Just  what  my  niece  declares,'  joined 
in  Miss  Fletcher.  '  She  thinks  it 's  enough 
to  look  at  me.' 

'  I  wish  I  could  do  anything  else,'  the 
green  Miss  Shannon  threw  in  wistfully, 
'but  teach  school.' 

The  remark  would  not  have  been 
noticed  from  another  speaker;  but  the 
green  Miss  Shannon,  —  she  of  the  smil- 
ing eyes  and  cheering  word,  never  ailing 
or  complaining  or  indignant  or  critical, 
—  from  the  reformer's  point  of  view  the 
most  dangerous  of  optimists! 

'You  too?'  the  stout,  dark  teacher 
said.  She  was  herself  not  unaware  of 
the  irony  of  things,  but  temperament- 
ally humorous  and  profoundly  patient. 


'Say,  if  anything  should  separate  you 
two  from  the  service,'  Miss  O'Callahan 
protested,  'what's  to  become  of  me, 
and  Miss  Polonski,  and  the  rest  of  us 
sweet  young  things?  We  think  we  know 
the  game  when  we  come  out  of  Normal, 
but  we  can't  stand  long  before  our 
classes  without  running  to  you  to  ask 
what's  the  next  move.' 

'So  I've  observed,'  Miss  Fletcher  re- 
joined, as  they  went  in  at  the  teachers' 
entrance,  and  on  to  the  office  key-board 
to  take  down  their  keys. 

Speeding  down  the  hall  with  her 
bright  troop,  the  green  Miss  Shannon 
espied  the  diminutive  Salvadore  Del- 
monico,  contrary  to  rules,  waiting  at 
the  door  of  Room  16.  His  small  body 
was  agitated  by  an  emotion  beyond 
his  present  expression  in  English,  as 
he  poured  out,  'Teacher  —  de  big  boy 
come  —  teacher,  de  big  boy  he  go  by  de 
desk  —  de  big  boy  he  swipe  all  de 
marbles  on  you  —  he  runs  away  — 
runs  down  dat  way  — ' 

The  marbles!  That  treasured  collec- 
tion, held  in  trust.  For  every  marble 
that  went  thump,  thump,  thump  on  the 
floor  in  school-time,  custody  in  that 
safe  repository,  the  right-hand  drawer 
of  teacher's  desk;  but  at  the  end  of  the 
term,  restoration.  Now  many  pairs  of 
big  dark  eyes  of  rightful  owners  will 
watch  the  progress  of  recapture.  And 
the  nine  cents,  ah,  the  nine  cents  of 
Theresa,  entrusted  to  teacher's  care 
yesterday  and  forgotten  —  what  of 
that?  And  the  soul  of  the  big  boy  — 
should  it  not  be  rescued  from  such  a 
pitfall? 

'Down  dat  way,'  into  the  boys'  base- 
ment, in  pursuit,  hurries  teacher;  gets 
wind  of  one  Pasquale  Pappa,  hales 
him  into  Room  16  ere  the  nine  o'clock 
gong  strikes.  What  of  the  marbles,  Pas- 
quale Pappa?  What  of  the  nine  cents? 

Pasquale  looks  accusingly  upon  Sal- 
vadore. 

'Yes,  I  was  bring  de  waste-basket 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


last  night  by  de  sweepers.  I  see  him,' 
pointing  at  Salvadore, '  swipe  de  marble 
out  de  teacher's  desk,  an'  he  give  me  one 
an'  I  drop  it  back.  I  tell  him  if  he  do 
dat,  de  teacher '11  holler  on  him.' 

'I  wants  my  mudder,'  screams  Sal- 
vadore, 'my  mudder,  my  mudder,  my 
mudder! ' 

The  game  is  up.  But  the  marbles, 
who  has  the  marbles?  'Rafael  has 
de  marble.'  —  'No,  teacher,  Salvadore 
give  de  marble.'  —  'Who  else  has  the 
marbles?' 

Here  they  stand  in  a  row  —  Michael, 
Tony,  Joseph,  Rafael,  Dominic,  Jaspar. 

—  'Teacher,  Salvadore  give  de  marble.' 

—  'Where    are    they    now?'  —  Lost, 
gamed,  given,  swiped  —  scattered.  And 
the  money,  the  nine  cents? 

'No,  teacher,  I  did  n't  rob  de  moneys 
on  youze.  It's  a  sin  to  rob  de  moneys 
on  de  teacher.'  His  father  Salvadore 
can  deceive,  his  mother  he  can  hoax, 
'de  teacher'  he  cannot.  'Where  is  the 
money?'  It  is  at  home  hidden  in  'my 
mudder's'  sweater  pocket.  'Go  home 
and  get  it.'  Emanuel,  the  largest  boy 
in  the  grade,  conducts  him. 

II 

Two  new  dark  little  boys  come  in 
and  present  paper  slips  to  teacher.  Al- 
ready she  has  fifty-three  bambinos  for 
the  forty-eight  seats.  A  fiction  prevails 
in  school-circles  (obtained  from  aver- 
ages) of  forty-eight  pupils  to  a  room, 
and  a  pleasantry  of  forty-two  to  a  room. 
But  there  are  the  elastic  small  chairs. 

'What  is  your  name?  John  Scully? 
That 's  an  Irish  name,'  laughs  the  green 
Miss  Shannon. 

'Yes,  yes,'  says  John;  for  only  'yes, 
yes'  can  he  say. 

'  But  you  're  not  Irish,'  the  nice  teach- 
er jokes. 

'  Yes,  yes.' 

'  You  're  Italian.' 

'  Yes,  yes.' 


'How  do  you  spell  it?  Ah,  "Sculle,"' 
reads  the  green  Miss  Shannon.  'Paul 
Brosseau.  You  're  a  little  French  boy, 
are  n't  you?" 

'No,  ma'am  —  Catholeek.' 

Max  brings  a  note:  — 

'DEAR  TEACHER, 

All  of  your  children  are  hitting  my 
Maxie  on  the  way  home.  I  want  that 
stopped.  I'll  tell  the  principal.  And 
they  make  noses  on  him.  I  want  that 
stopped.  Another  thing,  they  always 
take  his  things,  and  I  want  that  stopped. 
Your  loving 

MRS.  ROSENBERG.' 

The  Italian  parents  cannot  write 
notes,  not  so  much  as  excuses  for  tardi- 
ness. The  laggards  are  many.  They 
must  be  punished;  they  must  learn  the 
sorry  fate  of  the  sluggard;  they  shall 
not  sing  with  the  others;  they  shall  sit 
in  a  row  on  low  chairs  back  of  the  teach- 
er till  the  singing  is  over.  '  They  sing  at 
me,'  the  culprits  complain,  and  weep. 
They  sing  at  them,  'A  birdie  with  a 
yellow  bill,'  and  point  and  shake  their 
forefingers.  'Ain't  you  'shamed,  you 
sleepy  head?'  They  sing  at  them, 
'Tick-tock,  tick-tock,  clocks  are  say- 
ing,' and  at  'Then  comes  school  and 
—  don't  —  be — late,'  'Dey  shakes  deir 
fingers  on  me,'  Anthony  says,  and  weeps 
more.' 

Will  he  be  sitting  on  this  little  mourn- 
ing bench  to-morrow?  No,  he  will  come 
early,  and  stand  up  by  his  seat  and  sing 
and  point  and  shake  his  finger  at  the 
woeful  mites  who  will  be  sitting  as  now 
he  is  sitting.  The  joy  of  singing  shall 
be  his,  and  the  fun  of  being  a  make-be- 
lieve car  of  the  six  make-believe  trains 
in  the  room,  seven  cars  long,  and  the 
first  child  is  an  engine.  Arms  touching 
shoulders  in  front,  imitative  feet  shuf- 
fling, left  hand  for  a  whistle,  right  hand 
rings  the  bell,  off  goes  the  train :  — 

'Chu,  chu,  chu,  chu,  chu,  chu,  chu, 
I  am  a  chu-chu  train; 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


Blow  the  whistle,  ring  the  bell, 

Now  we  '11  start  again. 

Chu,  chu,  chu,  chu,  chu,  chu.  chu, 

See  how  fast  I  go. 

When  I  come  to  bridges, 

Then  I  'm  —  very  —  s-l-o-w.' 

Now  they  are  standing  very  straight, 
as  the  green  Miss  Shannon  is  standing, 
right-hand  fingers  outspread,  three  fin- 
gers stiff,  two  curved,  left  forefinger 
ready  to  be  the  captain:  — 

'Five  little  soldiers  standing  in  a  row. 
Three  stood  up  straight  and  two  —  just  so. 
Along  came  the  captain,  and,  what  do  you  think? 
Up  they  all  jumped  as  quick  as  a  wink.' 

They  hit  the  t's  and  the  n  and  the  k 
at  the  end  of  the  words,  as  the  green 
Miss  Shannon  shows  them.  If  some  do 
not,  they  sing  it  again.  It  is  just  as  in 
the  phonics  lesson,  which  comes  after 
the  singing.  The  phonics  lesson  con- 
sists of  making  sounds,  after  the  man- 
ner of  beasts,  birds,  and  insects  which 
have  preceded  them  up  the  scale  of 
being,  even  as  the  green  Miss  Shannon 
makes  sounds:  sounds  of  the  English 
tongue,  associated  with  symbols  of  the 
English  language.  A  disguised  drill, 
vivified  by  the  green  Miss  Shannon, 
carried  along  with  enthusiasm  —  but 
interrupted. 

Emanuel  and  Salvadore  reappear. 
The  morals  lesson  is  allowed  to  fit  the 
occasion.  Nobody  has  yet  instructed 
teacher  to  put  the  morals  lesson  at  a 
certain  time  on  the  programme.  Sal- 
vadore brings  to  teacher  a  bright  new 
dime.  No  tears,  no  nine  cents;  only  a 
bright  new  dime.  Teacher  looks  upon 
the  dime,  upon  Salvadore,  upon  Eman- 
uel. Emanuel  is  Jewish,  and  does  not 
know  the  Italian  words  Salvadore  talk- 
ed to  his  father.  Is  it  that  teacher  has 
another  time  demanded  the  dime  for 
the  yarn  used  in  the  weaving  of  the 
doll  rug,  for  the  paste,  for  the  crayons, 
what  not?  Salvadore  shall  have  the 
dime  for  his  teacher.  Ah,  that  was 
teacher's  slip.  Now  Peter  shall  take 


213 

back  the  new  dime  and  make  inquiries 
of  the  father,  and  Salvadore  shall  sit  in 
Room  16  until  Peter  returns,  and  shall 
read  his  lesson. 

Salvadore  does  not  wish  Jp  read  his 
lesson.  He  loves  to  sing,  he  loves  to 
draw,  he  does  not  love  to  read.  He  has 
lost  his  book.  Phena  too  has  forgotten 
her  book.  Dominic  has  torn  his.  Jas- 
par  has  chewed  the  corners  off  his. 
Concetti's  is  very  dirty.  Carmilla's  is  a 
maze  of  loose  pages,  which  she  care- 
fully keeps  in  order  and  reads  like  a 
public  speaker  turning  the  pages  of  his 
manuscript.  Teacher  has  found  an- 
other book  for  Salvadore  to  read  from, 
and  Phena  may  sit  with  Marian,  whose 
book,  carefully  covered  with  brown 
cambric,  is  clean  and  untorn.  Teacher 
looks  with  bright  eyes  on  Marian,  and 
speaks  glad  words  of  her  book.  But  the 
rest  may  not  'make  nice  their  books 
like  teacher  says.'  They  get  them  'off 
my  big  brudder,'  or  'by  de  principal,' 
and  never  were  they  as  Marian's. 

'Yiz  can  buy  dem  off  de  candy 
woman,'  volunteers  Theresa. 

'Yiz!  What  should  you  say?'  re- 
minds teacher. 

With  a  little  toss  of  her  head, 
'Youze,'  Theresa  corrects  herself.  So 
continuously  does  teacher  struggle  to 
break  the  mould  of  environment. 

Rosie  finds  the  picture-lesson  page 
for  Salvadore  —  the  picture  of  many 
bugs.  'Who  sees  a  new  word?  Salva- 
dore?' —  '  Teacher,  I  know  —  bug.' 
Last  year  teacher  must  not  tell  the  new 
word;  the  new  word  was  sacred  to 
phonics.  This  year  the  principal  says 
teacher  must  tell  the  new  word.  No, 
the  word  is  not  'bug/  It  is  what  bees 
say.  'What  are  bees?'-  'They  are 
fairies,'  says  Phena,  looking  at  the 
picture.  They  have  wings.  'Who  has 
been  to  the  country?'  Tony.  Every- 
body points  to  Tony.  'Tonywuzbyde 
country.'  But  neither  does  Tony  know 
bees  from  fairies. 


214 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


So  teacher  tells  and  Marian  reads. 
Carmilla  listens  and  reads  just  as 
Marian  has  read.  'Now  read  the  last 
sentence,  Carmilla.'  Carmilla  must 
read  from  the  top,  swiftly,  with  a  little 
hum,  till  she  comes  to  it.  'Do  you  like 
to  make  honey?'  she  reads  glibly,  and 
looks  up  to  find  that  teacher's  eyes 
have  the  little  jokes  in  them.  Like  Sal- 
vadore,  Carmilla  cannot  fool  teacher. 
Now  Salvadore  will  read :  — 

'"Bugs,  bugs,  little  bees.  Do  you 
like  to  fly  sunshines?  You  are  busy 
little  bees  to  make  moneys  for  me.  Do 
you  like  to  make  moneys?"'  Money 
means  something  to  Salvadore,  honey 
does  not. 

Down  falls  Jimmie's  marble,  thump, 
thump,  thump,  rolling  on  the  floor  to 
teacher.  Teacher  says,  'Um!  Another 
lovely  marble  I  have  for  my  collection.' 
Carmilla  sees  that  teacher  looks  with 
bright  eyes  upon  the  marble.  It  must 
be  that  teacher  likes  the  beautiful 
marble.  Carmilla  has  no  beautiful 
marble  to  give  to  teacher,  but  she  has 
the  glass  pendant  she  found  in  the  al- 
ley, which  Jaspar  offered  to  trade  for 
two  marbles.  The  glass  pendant  is  a 
fine  thing  to  have,  to  make  rainbows  by 
—  still,  she  would  like  to  give  teacher 
the  beautiful  marbles. 

Now  comes  Peter  back  with  the  nine 
cents  for  Theresa.  The  father  'says 
like  this '  to  teacher  for  Salvadore  — 
'Teacher  shall  close  him  up  in  a  dark 
room.'  The  suggested  punishment  not 
being  in  accord  with  modern  methods, 
teacher  is  wondering  what  she  shall  do 
with  Salvadore  and  with  Salvadore's 
class.  Teacher  has  asked  for  kinder- 
garten material  for  Room  16,  to  keep 
busy  half  the  tiny  restless  folk,  while 
the  other  tiny  restless  folk  read ;  but  no 
kindergarten  material  has  come  for 
teacher;  for  different  things  has  teacher 
asked  in  vain.  Five  rooms  use  the  scis- 
sors, and  it  is  not  now  the  turn  of  Room 
16.  Salvadore's  class  go  to  the  board 


and  make  'two  hills,'  which  is  an  n,  and 
'three  hills,'  which  is  an  m,  while  the 
first-reader  class  read  about  the  '  Shear- 
ing of  the  Sheep.' 

'Oh,  I  know  a  sheep,  teacher,'  ex- 
claims Joseph.  'We  got  one  by  our 
house.' 

'Are  you  sure  you  have  a  sheep, 
Joseph?' 

'No,  teacher,  he  got  no  sheep.  He 
got  a  dog.  I  seed  it,  teacher.' 

Jassamine's  reading  of  the  'Ba,  ba, 
Black  Sheep'  is  a  sort  of  free  transla- 
tion into  understandable  language:  — 

'One  for  de  fahder, 
One  for  de  mudder, 
And  one  for  de  little  boy  dat  's  lame.' 

Teacher  can  use  the  rest  of  the  twenty 
minutes'  reading  period  implanting  in 
the  minds  of  the  A  Class  an  idea  of 
a  '  master,'  a '  dame,'  and  a  '  lane.'  But 
after  starting  this  same  class  in  the  first 
lesson  of  the  book,  beginning,  — 

Ply  the  spade  and  ply  the  hoe, 
Plant  the  seed  and  it  will  grow,  — 

teacher's  enthusiasm  must  be  invin- 
cible. One  child  had  indeed  indicated  a 
dim,  associated  notion  of  a  hoe.  'It's 
what  you  sprinkles  water  wid,  teacher.' 
Teacher  did  not  write  the  book,  or 
adopt  it  as  the  standard  reader  for  the 
schools;  teacher 's  business  is  to  teach  it. 

As  the  C  Class  do  not  use  the  book, 
their  reading  lesson,  of  teacher's  de- 
vising, is  more  flexible.  '  Stand,'  teacher 
says,  and  shows  the  word  printed  on  a 
card.  At  the  first  lesson  no  one  moves, 
and  teacher  lifts  a  child  to  his  feet. 
Then  a  few  have  learned  and  show  the 
other  children  by  actions.  'Sit,'  'Run,' 
'Jump.'  So  they  work  at  the  English 
vocabulary  until  recess. 

The  substitute  in  Room  14,  —  Be- 
ginning First,  —  an  experienced  higher- 
grade  teacher,  is  trying  to  get  her  flock 
into  ranks  in  the  hall.  The  green  Miss 
Shannon  goes  to  her  assistance. 

'They  can't  understand  you,'   the 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


215 


substitute  teacher  explains,  in  comic 
dismay.  'You  have  to  lift  them  out  of 
their  seats  and  carry  them  into  the 
coat-room.  Then  someone's  hat  is  lost. 
"  Boo-hoo-hoo.  I  wants  my  mudder." 
Where  is  his  hat?  Oh,  where?  "Why 
here's  his  hat,"  some  little  smart  thing 
says.  Put  it  on.  Then  — Well,  I'm 
not  coming  back  here  to-morrow.' 

The  stout,  dark  teacher,  farther  up 
the  hall,  has  come  to  say  a  friendly 
word  to  the  substitute. 

'You  should  hear  our  superintendent 
speak  out  in  meeting,'  she  rejoins,  and 
imitates  him  pompously.  ' "  All  children 
are  alike  susceptible.  If  our  children  are 
not  as  proficient  as  in  other  districts,  it 
is  the  fault  of  the  teacher."' 

'I  would  n't  want  better  entertain- 
ment,' the  substitute  comments,  'than 
to  watch  some  of  these  superintendents 
teach  school  a  while.  I  should  start 
them  in  your  district.' 

They  laugh,  and  being  merry,  the 
stout,  dark  teacher  goes  on  to  tell  them 
what  her  loyal  Phena  has  just  now  im- 
parted to  her.  'I  hearn  a  kid  say  youze 
fat,'  tells  Phena.  'Youze  is  n't  fat.' 

Their  laughter  is  cut  short  by  the 
recess  bell,  and  the  substitute  signals 
her  despair  to  the  green  Miss  Shannon, 
on  hall  duty,  as  the  lines  of  wriggling, 
bobbing,  evasive  bambinos  advance 
upon  Room  14.  Irrepressible  are  the 
bambinos.  Twice  must  teacher  speak 
to  Theresa  for  whispering  while  teacher 
is  telling  the  story  of 'The  Three  Bears.' 
Carmilla  tells  the  story  after  teacher, 
while  Theresa  whispers. 

'  Do  you  want  me  to  pin  this  on  you? ' 
teacher  reminds  Theresa,  and  shows 
the  big  red-paper  tongue.  Theresa  for 
a  little  while  then  does  not  whisper  to 
Carmilla  and  Jassamine  and  Angelo  and 
Peter.  But  soon  again,  — 

'Come  here,  Theresa,'  says  teacher. 
With  reluctant  steps  Theresa  complies. 
There  she  stands  in  the  corner,  with  the 
red  tongue  pinned  on.  Yes,  before  now 


has  the  red  tongue  been  wet  with  tears. 

They  dramatize  the  Three  Bears. 
Marian  is  Golden  Locks,  Peter  is  the 
big  'fah-der'  bear,  Becky  is  the  middle- 
sized  'mudder'  bear,  Dominic  is  the 
'littlest'  baby  bear.  They  draw  the 
Three  Bears.  There  is  writing,  spelling, 
dismissal  of  the  B  and  C  classes,  calis- 
thenics, games,  sight-reading  from  the 
dilapidated  sets  of  books  furnished  by 
the  Board,  —  books,  pages,  parts  miss- 
ing, —  doubling  up  in  seats,  skipping 
pupils  who  draw  blanks.  —  Noon. 

Teacher  sees  the  lines  out,  locks  the 
door,  and  races  for  the  penny-lunch 
room.  The  teachers  volunteer  to  help 
serve  the  swarms  of  children,  as  at  this 
hour  the  employees  paid  by  the  Board 
are  swamped.  Carmilla  comes  for  the 
bowl  of  soup,  the  glass  of  milk,  the 
sandwich  —  The  pennies  to  pay  for 
them?  That  is  the  green  Miss  Shan- 
non's secret.  When  Carmilla  first  came 
to  Room  16,  she  was  thinner  than  now, 
and  whiter.  The  green  Miss  Shannon 
watched,  wondered;  then  one  morning 
Carmilla  fainted.  Teacher  sent  quickly 
for  the  school  doctor.  Carmilla  was 
under-nourished,  the  school  doctor 
said.  Teacher  brought  a  bowl  of  soup 
from  the  penny-lunch  room.  Yes,  soup 
was  all  the  medicine  Carmilla  needed. 
The  school  nurse  went  to  where  Car- 
milla lived  —  the  father  dead,  the  mo- 
ther all  day  away  at  the  laundry;  in 
the  evening  the  nurse  went  and  showed 
Carmilla's  mother  how  better  to  pre- 
pare the  scanty  fare.  But  for  the  green 
Miss  Shannon  and  the  penny  lunch  and 
the  flower-bed  in  the  square,  little 
Carmilla  — 

It  was  a  breathless,  spinning  noon 
hour  for  the  green  Miss  Shannon,  stop- 
ped short  by  the  gong,  watching  the 
lines  of  children  flowing  up  the  stairs 
and  halls  and  into  Room  16  again,  clos- 
ing the  door.  'What  have  you  there 
in  your  desk,  Tony? '  -  ' Nudding.'  - 
'Yes,  teacher,  he  have.  He  swipe  some- 


216 


CARMILLA'S  TEACHER 


thing  off  de  peddler.'  What  should  a 
head  of  cabbage  be  doing  in  Tony  Ap- 
pa's  desk?  'Where  did  you  get  that, 
Tony? '  —  'I  buyed  it  for  two  cent  off  de 
peddler.'  —  'No,  teacher,  he  never  did. 
We  seed  him  swipe  it  off  de  peddler.' 
Witnesses  go  with  Tony  to  restore  the 
cabbage  to  the  peddler,  while  the  room 
is  at  work  constructing  the  cardboard 
house  and  furniture  of  the  Three  Bears. 
A  bambino  comes  from  the  substitute 
teacher  in  Room  14,  and  teacher  goes 
with  him,  only  for  a  little  while.  A 
man,  a  strange  man,  opens  the  door  and 
looks  on  them  with  sharp  eyes,  and 
goes  away.  Rosie  stands  up. 

'Teacher,'  Rosie  bursts  out  as  the 
green  Miss  Shannon  returns,  'a  man 
comes  by  us  and  he  looks  on  us.' 
'How  did  he  look?' 
'My  God,  I  don't  know.    You  bet- 
ter stay  in  here.' 

Teacher  'looks  on  Rosie,'  but  Car- 
milla  does  not  know  what  teacher  is 
thinking.  She  is  thinking  of  the  strange 
things  Rosie  says,  and  is  remembering 
about  Rosie  and  the  Christmas  party. 
The  day  of  the  Christmas  party  Rosie 
came  to  school  much  too  early,  and 
when  she  saw  the  green  Miss  Shannon 
approaching,  ran  to  her  and  asked  when 
it  would  be  time  for  the  Christmas 
party  to  begin. 

'Not  yet.  After  a  while.' 
Then  at  recess  Rosie  asked  again. 
'Not  yet.  After  a  while.' 
And  at  noon,  and  between  times, 
when  would  it  be  time  for  the  Christ- 
mas party  to  begin? 

'Not  yet.  After  a  while.' 
More  and  more  incredulous  and  sus- 
picious of  teacher's  assurances  Rosie 
was  growing.    Time  dragged  to  after- 
noon recess,  lessons  going  on  as  usual. 
It  was  proper  to  rebuke  and  caution 
teacher  as  Rosie  herself  had  been  re- 
buked and  cautioned ;  yet  with  restraint. 
' I 'm  afraid  you  lie  some,  teacher;  it 's 
an  awful  sin.' 


But  how  should  Rosie  reinstate  her- 
self after  the  party,  which  came  off  af- 
ter all,  in  the  kindergarten  room,  with 
a  trimmed  tree,  and  candy  and  red 
apples  from  teacher,  and  games  and 
singing. 

'  O  teacher,  youze  so  lovely  to  us  by 
your  party,'  said  Rosie;  'just  like  a 
mudder.' 

'Yes,  just  like  a  mudder,'  agreed 
Joseph. 

'Yes,  teacher,'  Dominic  hesitated; 
'  but  so  many  childrens  and  no  fah-der  ? ' 

III 

Again  Carmilla  does  not  know.  Why 
is  teacher  smiling?  But  she  likes  to 
look  on  teacher  when  she  smiles,  and 
when  the  little  jokes  are  in  her  eyes, 
and  upon  her  green  dress.  Carmilla  is 
a  sort  of  small  moon  to  teacher's  sun. 
Carmilla  goes  on  with  the  construction 
lesson,  cutting  and  pasting  the  table  on 
which  are  to  stand  the  three  bowls  of 
broth  of  the  Three  Bears. 

But  this  is  not  all  of  school,  what 
they  have  been  doing  to-day.  No- 
no.  Sometimes  the  superintendent 
comes.  Then  they  all  sit  up  very 
straight,  just  as  the  green  Miss  Shan- 
non stands.  They  do  not  whisper,  not 
even  Theresa.  She  will  certainly  have 
the  red  tongue  pinned  upon  her  if  she 
whispers  before  the  big,  prim,  sad  man 
who  is  the  superintendent.  Some- 
times the  smart  young  man  in  the  office 
—  he  must  be  smart  because  he  is 
the  principal  —  comes  in  swiftly  and 
goes  out  swiftly.  Sometimes  the  man 
who  does  not  wear  his  coat  comes  in 
and  looks  at  the  fixture  on  the  wall 
(which  is  a  thermostat)  and  goes  out 
again.  Sometimes  the  lady  in  the  pret- 
ty dress  and  beads,  —  a  black  one  on 
each  side  and  a  green  one  in  the  middle, 
like  an  eye,  three  of  them  on  a  chain,  — 
comes  in  briskly  and  smiles  at  teacher, 
and  sits  in  the  chair,  and  the  bambinos 


CARMILLA'S   TEACHER 


all  stand  and  sing  for  teacher,  blow  out 
lights  with  their  breath,  and  step  up 
and  down  the  scale  and  choose  songs; 
and  the  bead  lady  tells  them  how  nicely 
they  sing,  and  talks  a  minute  to  teacher, 
and  goes  out  briskly. 

Sometimes,  after  teacher  takes  out  all 
the  drawings  they  have  done,  strings 
many  along  the  blackboards,  and  puts 
many  in  a  pile  on  her  desk,  the  lady 
with  the  gray  hair  comes  in  slowly  and 
looks  at  the  drawings,  and  Carmilla, 
who  is  a  monitor,  and  Marian,  who  is  a 
monitor,  and  Antonio  and  Peter  pass 
papers  and  crayons,  and  the  children 
draw  for  teacher,  and  the  lady  with  the 
gray  hair  tells  teacher  that  the  drawings 
are  good,  and  goes  out  slowly. 

Sometimes  the  young  lady  in  the 
gym  suit  looks  in,  for  whom  they  go  to 
the  gym;  and  the  young  lady  in  the 
gym  suit  sits  and  plays  at  the  piano, 
and  for  teacher  they  march  and  skip 
and  swing  on  the  big  swings  and  rings, 
as  they  have  practised  with  teacher  for 
the  gym  lady;  and  then  with  teacher 
and  the  gym  lady  they  play  the  games. 

Yes,  all  of  these  come  sometimes 
and  go  sometimes.  But  teacher  always 
stays.  But  what  Carmilla  does  not 
know  is  that  these  folk,  every  one,  and 
the  teacher  above  in  the  domestic- 
science  kitchen,  and  the  teacher  below 
in  the  manual-training  shop,  and  the 
teachers  three  blocks  off  in  the  Mann 
Technical  High  School,  are  all  much 
more  important  and  dignified  figures 
than  her  teacher,  with  much  more  im- 
portant and  dignified  salaries. 

It  is  true  that,  in  the  meetings  of 
teachers,  where  Carmilla  does  not  go, 
there  is  talk  —  admirable  talk — of 
teacher's  service  and  devotion  and  self- 
sacrifice  and  indispensability;  and  the 
big,  prim,  sad  man  who  is  the  superin- 


217 

tendent  says  that  the  only  part  any- 
one else  has  in  the  system  is  to  help 
teacher.  But  the  stout  dark  primary 
teacher  and  the  tall  fair  grammar  teach- 
er and  the  green  Miss  Shannon,  who  no 
longer  care  for  words,  and  the  young 
Miss  O'Callahan  and  Miss  Polonski, 
who  never  will  care  for  words,  reflect 
that  they  who  would  help  should  ask, 
not  always  tell,  the  doers  what  to  do, 
and  they  question  why  teacher's  must 
always  be  the  lowest  place.  Carmilla 
does  not  know  that  the  green  Miss 
Shannon,  and  the  blessed  ones  like  her, 
are  growing  rarer  and  rarer.  She  is 
conscious  in  her  small  soul,  as  are  the 
simple  foreign  folk  about  her,  that  the 
one  who  knows  her,  and  who  is  her  light 
and  hope,  is  her  teacher  —  Carmilla's 
teacher. 

On  the  way  home  with  teacher,  across 
the  strip  of  asphalt  drive,  along  the 
cement  walk  toward  the  tulip-bed, 
Carmilla  opens  her  little  grimy  fist, 
disclosing  the  two  bright  glass  marbles 
traded  by  Jaspar  for  the  pendant  that 
makes  rainbows.  Wriggly  coils  of  col- 
ors inside  the  crystal  spheres,  tiny 
rainbows  imprisoned,  the  marbles  wink 
up  at  Carmilla.  Almost  does  the  little 
fist  close  again  on  their  shimmer. 

'Here,  teacher.  Here's  two  marbles 
for  you.' 

'O  Carmilla  —  for  me!  Thank  you, 
dear.  Urn,  two  such  nice  marbles.' 
The  little  jokes  are  in  teacher's  eyes. 
'But  you  know  Miss  Shannon  cannot 
have  any  marbles  except  those  that  go 
thump,  thump,  thump-  Now  the 
little  jokes  are  in  Carmilla's  eyes,  too. 
'You  keep  them,  Carmilla.  Mind  you 
hold  tight.'  She  bends  down  and  closes 
the  little  fist  over  the  gleaming  bits. 
There  is  a  sweet  and  tender  light  in  the 
eyes  of  Carmilla's  teacher. 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


BY  RALPH  BARTON   PERRY 


SUPERSTITIONS  are  perpetuated  main- 
ly in  the  church  and  the  home,  because 
whatever  is  said  out  loud  in  either  place 
is  intended  to  edify  those  who  hear  it. 
Parents  and  other  adult  members  of  the 
family  belong  to  the  priestly  caste.  It 
is  their  business  to  preach  the  doctrine 
and  to  be  ostentatiously  on  their  good 
behavior.  Like  their  colleagues  of  the 
church,  they  feel  the  strain  and  find  it 
necessary  to  enjoy  stolen  hours  of  un- 
frocked relaxation,  which  they  spend 
with  others  of  the  profession  who  are 
pledged  not  to  betray  them.  There  are 
so  many  whom  circumstance  has 
placed  in  this  position,  but  who  feel  un- 
equal to  its  duties,  that  there  is  a  wide- 
spread tendency  to  centralize  the  work 
of  edification  in  the  boarding-school, 
where  it  can  be  done  by  paid  experts. 
As  yet,  however,  this  relief  is  too  ex- 
pensive to  be  generally  enjoyed,  and  it 
still  falls  to  the  common  lot  of  the 
adult  to  work,  to  pay  taxes,  and  to  offi- 
ciate in  the  home. 

Edification  breeds  superstition  sim- 
ply because  fictions  having  sentimental 
value  have  to  be  preferred  to  facts.  In 
the  home  this  begins  with  the  myths  of 
Santa  Claus  and  fairyland,  and  ends 
with  the  myth  of  the  Perfect  Gentle- 
man and  the  Perfect  Lady.  In  the 
home,  as  in  the  church,  there  are  ecclesi- 
astical as  well  as  doctrinal  superstitions 
—  that  is,  superstitions  having  the 
function  of  protecting  the  prestige  of  the 
authorities.  In  the  case  of  the  home 
these  superstitions  have  to  do  particu- 

218 


larly  with  the  pure  benevolence,  exem- 
plary rectitude,  and  perfect  manners  of 
the  parents.  This  idealized,  fictitious 
parent  may  vary  to  any  degree  from 
the  real  parent.  His  activities  off  the 
stage,  the  friends  with  whom  he  asso- 
ciates there,  and  even  his  past  history, 
are  constructed  and  recast  to  fit  the 
role  of  paragon  which  he  assumes  in  the 
domestic  drama. 

Despite  the  weakness  of  his  position 
otherwise,  the  adult  member  of  the 
home  enjoys  this  great  advantage,  that 
he  fixes  its  superstitions  in  the  form 
which  they  finally  assume.  He  utilizes 
the  experiences,  deeds,  and  shrewd 
comments  of  the  children,  but  puts  his 
own  interpretation  on  them.  It  is  the 
adult  who  tells  the  story  —  sometimes, 
from  motives  of  pride  or  retaliation,  to 
other  adults  of  rival  domestic  establish- 
ments; sometimes,  for  purposes  of  edifi- 
cation, to  one  of  the  children.  In  either 
case  the  moral  that  adorns  the  tale  be- 
comes its  dominant  feature,  and  it  is 
the  adult  saga-maker  who  points  the 
moral.  He  enjoys  this  advantage  at  his 
peril,  however.  For  he  is  the  most  de- 
fenseless victim  of  his  own  eloquence. 
His  rivals  do  not  believe  him  because 
they  possess  prior  domestic  superstitions 
of  their  own.  The  children  are  pro- 
tected by  their  inattention,  levity,  and 
worldly  wisdom.  But  he  himself  hears 
himself  so  often,  and  takes  himself  so 
seriously,  that  he  is  like  to  become  the 
only  thoroughly  orthodox  adherent  of 
his  own  teaching.  It  is  in  the  hope  of 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


opening  the  eyes  of  the  domestic  adult, 
and  enabling  him  to  resist  this  insidi- 
ous process  of  auto-suggestion,  that 
these  words  are  written. 

There  is,  for  example,  a  widespread 
belief  that  the  mother,  or  wife,  or  resi- 
dent aunt,  or  other  domestic  adult  fe- 
male, is  the  lover  and  champion  of  the 
home.  Man  is  supposed  to  be  a  natural 
vagrant,  only  with  great  difficulty  pre- 
vented from  spending  his  idle  time  wan- 
dering from  club  to  club,  or  from  hole 
to  hole  on  the  golf-links.  Woman,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  supposed  to  be  by 
nature  the  nostic  or  homing  animal. 
Domestic  dynamics,  in  short,  are  com- 
monly explained  as  a  resultant  of  the 
centrifugal  force  of  the  male  and  the 
centripetal  force  of  the  female.  This  is 
doubtless  the  more  edifying  view  of  the 
matter,  because  it  idealizes  what  cir- 
cumstance has  decreed  to  be  necessary. 
Since  livelihood  falls  to  the  lot  of  the 
male  and  homekeeping  to  the  lot  of  the 
female,  it  is  prettier  to  suppose  that  the 
deepest  passion  of  the  one  is  the  love  of 
outdoors,  and  of  the  other  the  love  of  in- 
doors; just  as  it  would  be  prettier  to 
suppose  that  a  man  compelled  to  earn 
his  living  as  a  night-watchman  was  by 
nature  a  nocturnal  animal. 

The  facts,  however,  do  not  agree 
with  this  edifying  view  of  the  matter. 
The  greatest  day  in  the  history  of  a 
privileged  woman  is  the  day  of  her  Com- 
ing Out.  From  that  day  forth  she  wages 
a  more  or  less  ineffectual  struggle  to 
stay  out.  On  the  other  hand,  the  great- 
est hour  in  a  man's  day  is  the  hour  when 
he  sets  his  face  toward  home.  Every 
day,  through  hours  of  work,  he  is  sus- 
tained by  the  same  bright  vision,  which 
he  derives  from  romantic  fiction,  or 
from  his  own  creative  imagination.  He 
sees  himself  joyfully  greeted  by  a  house- 
hold, no  member  of  which  has  anything 
else  to  do,  or  any  other  wish,  save  to 
make  him  comfortable.  They  have  all 
indulged  themselves  to  their  hearts' 


219 

content  earlier  in  the  day,  and  now  it  is 
his  turn  to  be  indulged.  It  is  under- 
stood that  he,  and  he  alone,  is  tired. 
Any  attentions  or  amiability  on  his 
part  are  gratefully  appreciated,  but 
they  are  not  demanded,  or  even  ex- 
pected, of  him.  After  dinner,  there  is  a 
certain  comfortable  chair  waiting  for 
him  in  an  accustomed  spot  near  a  read- 
ing-lamp. The  contour  of  the  uphol- 
stery is  his  perfect  complement.  He 
fits  himself  to  the  chair,  reaches  for  the 
evening  paper,  and  then  experiences 
the  purest  rapture  of  domestic  bliss.  It 
consists  in  a  sense  of  being  '  let  alone,' 
of  snugness,  relaxation,  and  a  hovering 
protection.  But,  like  all  ecstasies,  it  is 
essentially  indescribable. 

This  is  man's  sustaining  vision.  It  is 
only  a  vision,  but,  like  all  visions,  it 
shows  where  the  heart  lies. 

Now,  why  is  it  only  a  vision  ?  Because 
it  leaves  out  approximately  seventy- 
five  per  cent  of  the  facts.  All  the  other 
members  of  the  household  are  tired,  also, 
and  are  as  conscious  of  having  acquired 
merit  and  earned  indulgence  as  is  the 
male  wage-earner.  Each,  like  the  adult 
male,  forms  his  own  conception  of  the 
end  of  a  perfect  day  by  the  simple 
method  of  opposition.  The  children, 
having  spent  most  of  the  day  in  a  re- 
strained posture  on  a  school-bench,  in- 
cline to  riot.  The  woman,  having  spent 
the  day  indoors,  desires  to  go  out;  and 
having  seen  no  one  during  the  day  ex- 
cept the  postman,  the  milkman,  and  the 
iceman,  desires  to  associate  more  exten- 
sively with  her  kind.  She,  too,  has  been 
sustained  during  the  day  by  a  vision 
-children  tucked  in  bed,  her  hus- 
band fired  with  social  zeal,  best  clothes, 
a  taxicab,  a  meal  prepared  by  somebody 
else,  and  then  a  dance  or  the  theatre, 
friends,  gayety,  and  late  to  bed !  Hence, 
while  for  the  man  the  symbol  of  home 
is  the  armchair,  for  the  woman  it  is  the 
dressing-table.  When  the  inward-bound 
man  and  the  outward-bound  woman 


220 


DOMESTIC   SUPERSTITIONS 


meet  on  the  threshold  at  the  end  of  the 
day,  then  indeed  is  the  ligature  of  mat- 
rimony strained ! 

What  might  or  will  be  the  case  under 
a  different  social  organization  it  is  im- 
possible to  predict.  The  present  domes- 
tic motivation  is  doubtless  a  more  or 
less  artificial  pressure-effect  of  circum- 
stance. Men  work  all  day  in  order  to 
be  able  to  go  home;  women,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  leave  home.  Men  are  stand- 
ing outside,  looking  in;  women,  inside, 
looking  out.  In  both  cases  the  force  of 
inclination  is  equal  and  opposite  to  the 
force  of  circumstance.  Thus  the  day  of 
the  man  and  the  day  of  the  woman  and 
the  day  of  the  children  culminate  dis- 
cordantly; and  at  .the  only  hour  when 
the  family  is  united  in  the  flesh  it  is 
divided  in  spirit.  Somebody  must  spend 
the  'free'  evening  virtuously  and  pa- 
tiently doing  something  that  he  does 
not  want,  or  else  everybody  must  spend 
it  in  a  joint  debate  that  nobody  wants. 
Possibly,  in  some  future  time,  men  and 
women  will  both  work  at  home  and  go 
out  to  play;  or  will  both  go  out  to  work 
and  spend  the  evening  in  adjoining 
armchairs.  Even  then  one  does  not  see 
one's  way  clear  about  the  children. 

As  it  stands,  then,  man  is  the  lover 
and  champion  of  the  home.  To  him  it 
is  a  haven,  a  place  of  refuge,  and  an  op- 
portunity of  leisure.  Woman  is  the  cus- 
todian and  curator  of  the  home.  It  is 
her  place  of  business.  '  Woman's  place 
is  in  the  home'  is  not  a  description  of 
female  human  nature,  but  a  theory  re- 
garding the  division  of  labor,  or  a  pre- 
cept, coined  and  circulated  by  men  who 
want  homes  and  need  women  to  create 
them. 

This  corrected  view  of  the  home-sen- 
timents throws  a  new  light  on  certain 
habits  of  life  which  might  be  supposed 
at  first  to  contradict  it.  There  is,  for 
example,  man's  well-known  addiction 
to  clubs.  It  is  popularly  supposed  that 
he  resorts  to  these  places  in  order  to  get 


away  from  home.  Quite  the  contrary. 
He  goes  to  his  club  because  his  club  is 
the  nearest  approximation  to  his  ideal 
of  home  that  is  available.  It  is  more 
homelike  than  home.  A  man's  club  does 
not  exist  for  the  promotion  of  social 
life,  but  for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  it. 
It  is  essentially  a  place  where  the  up- 
holstery is  deep,  where  one  can  read 
newspapers  and  eat,  and  where  one  is 
safe  from  intrusion.  In  other  words,  a 
man  goes  out  to  his  club  only  from  fear 
of  having  to  go  farther  out. 

Or,  consider  the  popular  view  that 
women  are  more  religious  than  men. 
The  real  point  seems  to  be  that  women 
are  more  inclined  than  men  to  go  to 
church;  which  is  a  very  different  thing. 
Sunday  is  related  to  the  week  as  the 
evening  to  the  day.  For  a  man,  there- 
fore, it  is  a  day  at  home;  and  for  a 
woman,  a  day  out.  A  man's  idea  of 
Sunday  is  to  surround  his  house  with 
barbed-wire,  lock  and  barricade  the 
doors  and  windows,  disconnect  the  tele- 
phone, put  on  his  slippers  and  an  old 
suit,  and  then  devote  the  day  to  read- 
ing the  paper  and  'puttering.'  A 
woman's  idea  of  Sunday  is  to  have 
everything  cleaned  and  polished  up, 
including  the  children;  everybody  in 
best  clothes;  and  then  have  half  of  her 
friends  in  in  the  afternoon,  and  visit  the 
other  half  in  the  evening.  Now  it  is  not 
difficult  to  see  which  programme  and 
mood  most  easily  accommodates  itself 
to  public  worship.  If  you  are  all  dressed 
up  and  socially  inclined,  what  can  be 
more  natural  and  agreeable  than  going 
to  church?  And  if  you  are  down  cellar, 
in  old  clothes,  building  bookshelves  out 
of  a  packing-box,  what  can  be  more 
impossible? 

According  to  the  orthodox  super- 
stition, woman,  as  inwardly  bent  on 
religion  and  the  home,  is  the  natural 
conservative.  She  is  regarded  as  the  in- 
stinctive exponent  of  established  things 
—  of  convention,  authority,  and  the 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


221 


moral  code.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  being 
more  or  less  rigidly  subjected  to  these 
things,  her  heart  is  set  against  them. 
Only  men  are  really  shocked;  women 
pretend  to  be,  because  men  would  be 
still  more  shocked  if  they  did  n't. 
Men,  who  have  had  the  making  of 
laws,  have  a  real  respect  for  them; 
women  publicly  observe  them,  but  se- 
cretly regard  them  as  little  better  than 
a  nuisance.  It  is  the  same  opposite  play 
of  inclination  and  circumstance  that 
has  been  observed  in  the  narrower 
sphere  of  the  home.  Men,  being  placed 
by  circumstance  in  positions  of  hazard 
and  exposure,  long  for  security;  women, 
being  accustomed  to  security,  long  for 
freedom  and  adventure. 

II 

But  to  return  to  our  domestic  super- 
stitions. The  most  distinctive  and  high- 
ly developed  domestic  art  is  scolding. 
The  orthodox  belief  is  that  scolding  is 
a,  sort  of  judicial  censure  administered 
from  motives  of  the  purest  benevolence. 
If  there  is  a  tone  of  anger  in  it,  that  is 
supposed  to  be  righteous  indignation, 
or  the  voice  of  offended  justice,  the 
^colder  being  for  the  moment  the 
nouth-piece  of  the  categorical  impera- 
j:ive.  Scolding  is  conceived  to  be  a  duty 
Deculiar  to  the  home  because  of  the 
•elation  of  guardianship  in  which  one 
nember  of  the  family  stands  to  another. 
Thus  one  is  one's  child's  keeper,  or  one's 
vife's,  or  one's  husband's,  but  not  one's 
iieighbor's. 

Now,  what  are  the  facts?  Among 
mimals,  where  motives  are  more  un- 
.shamed,  scolding  is  a  mode  of  threat  or 
-ttack.  It  is  a  manifestation  of  enmity. 
There  is  ho  reason  for  supposing  it  other- 
rise  in  the  case  of  the  domestic  life 
•f  man.  Statistics  would  undoubtedly 
eveal  an  almost  perfect  correlation  be- 
ween  the  frequency  and  intensity  of 
colding  and  the  parent's  threshold  of 


on 


irritability  —  the  latter  depending  _.. 
conditions  of  age,  digestion,  fatigue, 
temperamental  irascibility,  and  person- 
al idiosyncrasy. 

Why  should  scolding  be  peculiar  to 
the  home?  Not  because  the  home  is 
dedicated  to  benevolent  admonition, 
but  because  the  family  circle  provides 
perpetual,  inescapable,  intimate,  and 
unseasonable  human  contacts.  Indi- 
viduals of  the  same  species  are  brought 
together  in  every  permutation  and  com- 
bination of  conflicting  interests  and  in- 
compatible moods.  There  is  no  other 
grouping  of  human  beings  which  pro- 
vides so  many  stimuli  for  the  combative 
instinct.  When  this  instinct  is  aroused 
among  the  children,  it  is  called  quarrel- 
someness, and  is  greatly  deprecated  by 
adults.  When  it  is  aroused  in  the  adult 
himself,  it  assumes  the  more  or  less 
sublimated  form  of  scolding.  It  flour- 
ishes in  the  home  because  it  is  both 
aroused  and  protected  there.  Scold- 
ing provides  a  reputable  method  of 
venting  spleen  when  other  outlets  are 
stopped  by  law  and  convention.  In  the 
home,  scolding  can  be  indulged  in  with 
impunity  so  long  as  it  does  not  arouse 
the  neighbors.  Its  victims  are  defense- 
less ;  and  the  corporate  pride  of  the  fam- 
ily seals  the  mouths  of  its  members,  so 
that  a  decent  repute  may  be  preserved 
before  the  world.  It  is  this  conspiracy 
of  silence  and  regard  for  appearances 
that  has  created  the  fiction  of  the  hap- 
py fireside  choir,  where  all  voices  carol 
in  perpetual  unison. 

There  would  be  no  merit  in  this  ex- 
posure, did  it  not  serve  to  bring  to  light 
the  real  disciplinary  value  of  home  life, 
which  consists,  not  in  the  eloquence  and 
light  of  admonition,  but  rather  in  the 
aggravation  of  social  experience.  An  in- 
dividual who  learns  how  to  live  cheer- 
fully, or  even  how  to  live  at  all,  in  a 
home,  finds  little  difficulty  in  living 
with  his  fellows  anywhere  else.  The 
scolding  of  children  teaches  them  not  so 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


much  the  error  of  their  ways,  as  a  prac- 
tised skill  in  getting  on  with  irritable 
adults,  many  of  whom  they  will  meet 
in  real  life  later  on.  Perhaps  the  most 
superb  manifestation  of  domestic  life 
is  the  magnanimity  of  children  —  their 
swift  forgetfulness  of  injury  and  their 
indulgence  even  of  those  human  weak- 
nesses of  which  they  are  themselves  the 
victims.  Both  children  and  adults,  con- 
sorting with  one  another  in  every  com- 
bination of  age  and  sex,  in  every  condi- 
tion of  health,  at  every  hour  of  the  day, 
and  in  a  great  variety  of  moods  and 
temperaments,  exhaust  the  whole  reper- 
tory of  human  relations  and  learn  how 
to  live  together.  The  best  name  for  this 
is  patience.  It  is  the  lack  of  this  which 
distinguishes  the  bachelor,  the  maid, 
the  orphan,  and  in  some  degree  the  only 
child. 

In  the  family,  as  elsewhere,  example 
is  said  to  be  better  than  precept.  The 
idea  is  that  the  child,  carefully  noting 
the  heroic  or  saintly  qualities  of  the  fa- 
ther, mother,  or  resident  aunt,  —  those 
qualities  particularly  celebrated  in  do- 
mestic song  and  story,  —  models  his 
action  closely  thereon,  and  so  of  his  own 
accord  grows  in  wisdom  and  hi  favor  at 
the  same  time  that  he  grows  in  stature. 
But  the  observed  results  are  so  unlike 
this  as  to  justify  suspicion  that  here, 
too,  we  have  to  do  with  a  superstition. 
And  such  is,  indeed,  unhappily  the 
case.  While  it  is  doubtless  true  that  the 
exemplar  is  better  than  the  preceptor, 
in  the  family,  at  least,  there  is  no  ground 
for  believing  that  example  works  any 
better  than  precept.  What  the  child 
gives  particular  attention  to  in  the 
domestic  adult  is  the  genial  weakness, 
the  human  errancy,  the  comic  relief,  the 
discomfiture  of  dignity.  He  carefully 
notes  that  his  father  smokes  and  swears, 
and  puts  his  feet  on  the  table;  and  that 
his  mother  or  resident  aunt  eats  candy, 
uses  slang,  and  puts  her  elbows  on  the 
table.  He  thereupon  does  these  things 


himself,  not  because  he  is  imitating  a 
model,  but  because,  having  an  inclina- 
tion to  do  them  anyway,  he  takes  ad- 
vantage of  the  fact  that  his  monitor  is 
for  the  moment  disarmed. 

It  is  not  that  the  child  is  indifferent 
to  example,  but  that  he  finds  his  exam- 
ples elsewhere.  The  domestic  adult  is 
not  in  his  line  at  all.  He  would  as  soon 
think  of  imitating  him  as  the  domestic 
adult  himself  would  think  of  imitating 
the  Emperor  of  Japan  or  the  Grand 
Llama  of  Thibet.  He  has  his  own  pan- 
theon and  hierarchy  of  heroes  in  the 
real  world  outside.  These  are  some- 
times adults,  more  often  the  elders  of 
his  own  tribe.  In  any  case  they  are  free 
from  that  odor  of  sanctity  and  strained 
posture  of  edification  which  disqualify 
the  domestic  adult.  It  should  be  added 
that  this  discontinuity,  though  it  may 
prevent  emulation,  does  not  hinder, 
but  rather  promotes,  a  certain  shrewd, 
critical  observation;  so  that  a  child 
may  find  himself  presently  cultivating 
the  complementary  opposite  of  certain 
types  of  character  that  have  been  pecu- 
liarly familiar  to  him  in  his  domestic 
environment. 

Ill 

Many  minor  superstitions  arise  from 
domestic  myopia.  The  intensity  and 
the  close  propinquity  of  the  domestic 
drama  exaggerates  all  its  values,  both 
positive  and  negative.  The  normal 
genius  of  childhood  is  mistaken  for 
individual  distinction;  and  its  normal 
limitations  for  individual  delinquency. 
Within  the  family  all  children  are  re- 
markable ;  generic  traits  disappear  from 
view  altogether.  The  parent  who  will 
laugh  heartily  at  a  cartoon  depicting 
the  characteristic  greediness,  cruelty, 
truancy,  disobedience,  noisiness,  irre- 
sponsibility, and  general  barbarism  of  a 
fictitious  boy  or  girl,  will  at  once  stiffen 
into  apprehensive  sobriety  when  his  own 
child  betrays  the  least  of  these  weak- 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


nesses.  Viewing  human  life  as  a  whole, 
he  observes  that  children  grow  and  out- 
grow, and  that  mischievous  children 
have  been  known  to  spend  their  adult 
years  outside  the  penitentiary;  he  may 
even  recollect  that  he  had  a  fault  or  two 
himself  in  early  years;  but  as  regards  his 
own  children,  every  offense  is  a  crime, 
every  evil  a  calamity,  and  every  inci- 
dent a  crisis.  His  only  salvation  lies  in 
frequent,  unannounced  visits  to  other 
families.  , 

IV 

We  have  finally  to  examine  a  funda- 
mental superstition  relating  to  the  seat 
of  domestic  authority.  In  so  far  as  the 
feudal  principle,  or  the  theocratic  prin- 
ciple, or  the  autocratic  principle,  or  the 
plutocratic  principle,  survives  here  and 
there,  owing  to  the  conservatism  of 
the  home,  the  father  does  manage  to  re- 
tain some  semblance  of  authority.  But 
patriarchy  is  on  its  last  legs.  There  is 
little  to  it  now  but  outward  form  and 
old  court  ritual.  The  father  still  gives 
his  name  to  the  family,  sits  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  and  —  oh,  yes,  pays  the 
bills!  But  there  is  more  service  than 
authority  hi  the  second  and  third  of 
these  prerogatives,  since  someone  has 
to  carve,  and  it  is  the  making  rather 
than  the  paying  of  bills  that  really 
counts.  Of  course,  he  can  still  tyran- 
nize over  the  family  by  making  himself 
so  disagreeable  that  he  has  to  be  bought 
off;  but  in  a  family  anybody  can  do 
that.  It  is  not  a  power  that  attaches  to 
the  male  parent  as  such.  As  father,  he  is 
still  the  titular  monarch,  and  that  is 
about  all.  If  he  were  formally  to  abdi- 
jcate,  it  would  not  alter  the  actual  bal- 
ance of  domestic  forces  in  the  least. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he 
Ito  some  extent  exploits  the  pathos  of 
his  fallen  greatness,  and  wrings  from 
the  feelings  of  his  wife,  children,  or  sis- 
ter-in-law various  minor  concessions 
iffecting  his  comfort.  Nothing  can  ex- 


223 

ceed  the  scrupulousness  with  which  ap- 
pearances are  preserved  in  public.  He 
still  takes  the  curb  when  the  family 
uses  the  sidewalk,  and  is  the  last  to  en- 
ter and  the  first  to  leave  a  public  or 
private  conveyance.  But  to  one  who 
knows  life  as  it  is,  the  irony  and  bathos 
of  the  modern  age  are  summed  up  in  two 
spectacles:  Kaiser  Wilhelm  chopping 
wood  at  Amerongen,  and  the  paterfa- 
milias washing  dishes  in  the  pantry. 

If  the  father  has  fallen  from  author- 
ity, who  has  superseded  him?  The  mo- 
ther? Not  at  all.  The  popular  impres- 
sion to  that  effect  has  no  basis  except 
the  fact  that  the  power  of  the  mother 
has  increased  relatively  to  that  of  the 
father.  But  this  is  due  to  the  fall  of  the 
father  rather  than  to  any  notable  rise 
of  the  mother.  No,  the  new  domestic 
polity  is  neither  the  patriarchy  nor  the 
matriarchy,  but  the  pediarchy. 

That  the  children  should  encroach 
upon,  and  eventually  seize,  the  author- 
ity of  the  parents  is  not  so  strange  as 
might  at  first  appear.  After  all,  it  is 
only  the  domestic  manifestation  of  the 
most  characteristic  social  and  politi- 
cal movement  of  modern  times,  the 
rise,  namely,  of  the  proletarian  masses. 
Within  the  family  the  children  consti- 
tute the  majority,  the  unpropertied,  the 
unskilled,  and  the  unprivileged.  They 
are  intensely  class-conscious,  and  have 
come  to  a  clearer  and  clearer  recogni- 
tion of  the  conflict  of  interest  that 
divides  them  from  the  owners  and  man- 
agers. Their  methods  have  been  sim- 
ilar to  those  employed  in  the  industrial 
revolution  —  the  strike,  passive  resist- 
ance, malingering,  restriction  of  out- 
put, and,  occasionally,  direct  action. 

Within  the  family,  as  in  the  modern 
democracy,  the  control  is  by  public 
opinion.  It  is  government  of  the  child- 
ren, by  the  children,  and  for  the  child- 
ren. But  this  juvenile  sovereignty  is  ex- 
ercised indirectly  rather  than  directly. 
The  office-holders  are  adults,  whose 


DOMESTIC  SUPERSTITIONS 


power  is  proportional  to  their  juvenile 
support.  The  real  (though  largely  un- 
seen and  unacknowledged)  principle  of 
domestic  politics  is  the  struggle  for 
prestige  among  the  adults.  Some  em- 
ploy the  methods  of  decadent  Rome, 
the  panem  et  circenses;  others,  the  arts 
of  the  military  hero  or  of  the  popular 
orator.  But  all  acknowledge  the  need 
of  conciliating  the  juvenile  masses. 

The  power  of  juvenile  opinion  is  due, 
not  merely  to  its  mass,  and  to  the  bold- 
ness and  unscrupulousness  with  which 
it  is  asserted,  but  to  its  reinforcement 
from  outside.  It  is  more  than  a  domes- 
tic movement:  it  is  an  interdomestic 
movement.  The  opinion  of  the  children 
is  thus  less  provincial  than  that  of 
domestic  adults.  It  has,  furthermore,  a 
force  which  it  derives  from  its  more  in- 
timate contact  with  the  main  currents 
of  history.  The  domestic  adult  is  in  a 
sort  of  backwash.  He  is  looking  toward 
the  past,  while  the  children  are  thinking 
the  thoughts  and  speaking  the  language 
of  to-morrow.  They  are  in  closer  touch 
with  reality,  and  cannot  fail,  however 
indulgent,  to  feel  that  their  parents  and 
resident  aunt  are  antiquated.  The  child- 
ren's end  of  the  family  is  its  budding, 
forward-looking  end;  the  adults'  end  is, 
at  best,  its  root.  There  is  a  profound 
law  of  life  by  which  buds  and  roots 
grow  in  opposite  directions. 

The  domestic  conflict  is  in  many  of 
its  notable  features  parallel  to  the  in- 
dustrial conflict;  and  they  may  be  of 
common  origin.  It  is  natural  that  simi- 


lar remedies  should  be  proposed.  The 
Taylor  system  and  other  efficiency  sys- 
tems have  already  broken  down  in  both 
cases.  Conservatives  will  propose  to 
meet  the  domestic  problem  by  higher 
allowances  and  shorter  school-hours, 
with  perhaps  time  and  a  half  for  over- 
time and  a  bit  of  profit-sharing.  Lib- 
erals will  propose  boards  of  conciliation 
with  child  representation,  attempts  to 
link  study  and  chores  with  the  'crea- 
tive' impulses,  and  experiments  in  di- 
vided management.  Radicals  and  do- 
mestic revolutionists  will  regard  all  such 
half-way  measures  as  utterly  ineffec- 
tual, because  they  preserve  the  paren- 
tal system  in  its  essentials.  They  will 
aim  to  consummate  the  revolution  as 
soon  as  possible  by  violence,  and  then 
to  bring  a  new  order  into  being  through 
a  dictatorship  of  a  sectarian  minority. 
This  new  order  would  be  an  almost 
exact  inversion  of  the  parental  order. 
Whereas,  under  the  present  system,  the 
parents  are  supposed  to  control  the 
home  for  the  benefit  of  the  children, 
providing  them  with  the  necessities  of 
life,  and  giving  them  work  and  advice 
for  their  own  good,  under  the  new  sys- 
tem, the  children  would  control  the 
home  for  the  benefit  of  the  parents  and 
other  adults,  assuming  full  responsibil- 
ity for  their  living,  and  employing  their 
expert  servicesonly  as  might  be  required. 
However  difficult  it  may  be  to  put  such 
a  change  into  effect,  there  is,  from  the 
adults'  point  of  view,  much  to  be  said 
for  it. 


TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 


BY  A.  EDWARD  NEWTON 


IF  one  elects  to  live  well  out  in  the 
country,  going  to  the  opera  presents  se- 
rious difficulties.  One  can't  very  well  go 
home  to  dress  and  go  in  town  again; and 
if  one  decides  to  stay  in  town  at  a  hotel, 
there  is  a  suit-case  to  be  packed  in  the 
morning  —  an  operation  the  result  of 
which  I  abhor,  as  I  always  forget  some- 
thing essential.  On  one  occasion  some 
years  ago,  I,  like  a  dutiful  husband,  had 
agreed  to  go  to  the  opera;  and  having 
packed  my  bag  and  sent  it  to  my  hotel, 
I  dismissed  from  my  mind  the  details 
of  my  toilet,  until  I  came  to  dress  in  the 
evening,  when  I  discovered,  to  my  hor- 
ror, that  I  had  absentmindedly  packed 
a  colored  neglige  shirt  instead  of  the 
white,  hard-boiled  article  which  custom 
has  decreed  for  such  occasions,  and 
that  several  other  little  essentials  were 
missing.  I  was  quite  undressed  when  I 
made  this  discovery;  it  was  already 
late,  and  my  temper,  never  absolutely 
flawless  on  opera  nights,  was  not  im- 
proved by  my  wife's  observation  that 
we  should  surely  miss  the  overture.  I 
thought  it  altogether  likely  and  said  so 
—  briefly. 

It  was,  as  I  remember,  my  Lord 
Chesterfield  who  observed  that  when 
one  goes  to  the  opera  one  should  leave 
one's  mind  at  home;  I  had  gone  his 
Lordship  one  better  —  I  had  left  prac- 
tically everything  at  home,  and  I  heart- 
ily wished  that  I  was  at  home,  too.  I 
shall  not,  I  think,  be  accused  of  over- 
statement when  I  say  that  it  is  alto- 
gether probable  that  most  married  men, 

VOL.  188— NO.  g 

D 


if  they  could  be  excused  from  escorting 
their  wives  to  the  opera,  would  cheer- 
fully make  a  substantial  contribution 
to  any  worthy  —  or  even  unworthy — 
charity. 

Thoughts  such  as  these,  if  thoughts 
they  may  be  called,  surged  through  my 
head  as  I  rapidly  dressed,  and  prepared 
to  dash  through  the  streets  in  search  of 
any  'gents'  furnishing-goods'  shop  that 
might  chance  to  be  open  at  that  hour. 
I  needed  such  articles  of  commerce  as 
would  enable  me  to  make  myself  pre- 
sentable at  the  opera,  and  I  needed 
them  at  once.  It  was  raining,  and  as  I 
dashed  up  one  street  and  down  another, 
I  discovered  that  the  difference  between 
a  raised  umbrella  and  a  parachute  is 
negligible;  so  I  closed  mine,  with  the  re- 
sult that  I  was  thoroughly  drenched  be- 
fore I  had  secured  what  I  needed.  I 
have  the  best  of  wives,  but  truth  com- 
pels me  to  say  that  when,  upon  my  re- 
turn, she  greeted  me  with  the  remark 
that  what  she  wanted  especially  to  hear 
was  the  overture  and  that  we  should 
certainly  be  late,  I  almost  —  I  say  I  al- 
most —  lost  my  temper. 

Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  remark  that 
we  do  not  go  to  the  opera  frequently? 
It  was  my  wife's  evening,  not  mine;  and 
as  I  sat  on  the  side  of  a  bed,  eating  a 
sandwich  and  struggling  to  insert  square 
shirt  pegs  in  round  holes,  to  the  gently 
sustained  motif  that  we  should  surely 
miss  the  overture,  I  thought  of  home,  of 
my  books,  of  a  fire  of  logs  crackling,  of 
my  pipe,  and  I  wondered  who  it  was 


226 


TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 


that  said  when  anything  untoward  hap- 
pened, 'All  this  could  have  been  avoid- 
ed if  I  had  stayed  at  home.' 

Finally,  after  doing  up  my  wife's 
back,  'hooking  them  in  the  lace,'  I  fin- 
ished my  own  unsatisfactory  toilet,  feel- 
ing, and  doubtless  looking,  very  much 
as  Joe  Gargery  did  when  he  went  to  see 
Miss  Havisham.  But  at  last  we  were 
ready,  and  we  descended  to  the  lobby 
of  our  hotel,  having  in  the  confusion 
quite  overlooked  the  fact  that  we  should 
require  a  taxi.  It  was  still  raining,  and 
not  a  taxi  or  other  conveyance  was  to 
be  had!  I  was  quite  nonplussed  for  the 
moment,  and  felt  deeply  grieved  when 
my  wife  remarked  that  it  was  hardly 
worth  while  now  to  leave  the  hotel  — 
we  were  so  late  that  we  should  miss  the 
overture  anyway;  to  which  I  replied  — 
but  never  mind  specifically  what  I  said : 
it  was  to  the  effect  that  we  would  go  to 
the  opera  or  bust. 

But  how?  Standing  at  the  door  of 
the  hotel,  I  waited  my  chance,  and  fin- 
ally a  taxi  arrived;  but  quite  unexpect- 
edly a  man  appeared  from  nowhere  and 
was  about  to  enter  it,  saying  as  he  did 
so,  in  a  fine  rolling  English  voice, '  I  wish 
to  go  to  the  opera  house.'  There  was  no 
time  to  lose;  quickly  brushing  the  man 
aside,  I  called  to  my  wife  and  passed  her 
into  the  taxi;  and  then,turning  to  the 
stranger,  I  explained  to  him  that  we, 
too,  were  going  to  the  opera,  and  that 
he  was  to  be  our  guest,  pushed  the  as- 
tonished man  into  the  machine,  told  the 

driver  to  go  like  h (to  drive  rapidly), 

and,  entering  myself,  pulled  the  door  to 
and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  We  were 
off. 

For  a  moment  nothing  was  said.  We 
were  all  more  or  less  surprised  to  find 
ourselves  together.  I  think  I  may  say 
that  my  newly  discovered  friend  was 
astonished.  Something  had  to  be  said, 
and  it  was  up  to  me.  '  My  name  is  New- 
ton,' I  said;  and  gently  waving  toward 
Mrs.  Newton  a  white-kid-gloved  hand, 


which  in  the  darkness  looked  like  a 
small  ham,  I  explained  that  Mrs.  New- 
ton was  very  musical  and  was  particu- 
larly anxious  to  hear  the  overture  of  the 
opera  and  I  was  unavoidably  late.  I 
added  that  I  hoped  he  would  forgive 
my  rudeness;  then,  remembering  that 
I  was  speaking  to  an  English  gentle- 
man, who  probably  thought  me  mad, 
I  inquired  if  he  was  not  a  stranger  in 
Philadelphia. 

'Yes,'  he  replied,  'I  only  arrived  in 
the  city  this  evening.' 

'And  have  you  friends  here? '  I  asked. 

His  reply  almost  disconcerted  me, 
'Present  company  excepted,  none.' 

'Oh,  come  now,'  I  said;  'I  took  you 
for  an  Englishman,  but  no  Englishman 
could  possibly  make  so  graceful  a  speech 
on  such  short  notice.  You  must  either 
be  Scotch  or  Irish;  whenever  one  meets 
a  particularly  charming  Englishman,  he 
invariably  turns  out  to  be  Scotch  —  or 
Irish.' 

'Well,  the  fact  is,  I'm  Scotch,'  my 
friend  replied;  'my  name  is  Craig, 
Frank  Craig;  I'm  an  artist.' 

'Don't  apologize,'  I  said.  'You  are 
probably  not  a  very  great  artist.  I  'm  a 
business  man,  and  not  a  very  great  bus- 
iness man  either,  and  as  we  are  the  only 
friends  you  have  in  the  city,  you  shall 
have  supper  with  us  after  the  opera. 
Don't  decline;  I'm  very  much  at  home 
in  our  hotel,  as  perhaps  you  noticed. 
Ask  for  me  at  the  door  of  the  supper- 
room.  Don't  forget  my  name.  Here  we 
are  at  the  opera  house,  in  good  time  for 
the  overture  after  all.' 

And  I  passed  my  friend  out  of  the 
taxi,  and  he,  assuring  me  that  he  would 
join  us  at  supper,  went  his  way  and  we 
ours. 

During  the  performance,  which  was 
miserable,  I  chuckled  gently  to  myself 
and  wondered  what  my  Scotch  friend 
thought  of  the  affair  and  whether  he 
would  keep  his  appointment.  The  opera 
was  late,  there  was  the  usual  delay  in 


TWENTY-FIVE   HOUBS   A   DAY 


getting  away,  and  it  was  almost  mid- 
night when  the  head  waiter  conducted 
my  new-found  guest  to  our  table.  Then 
for  the  first  time  we  had  a  good  look  at 
each  other,  and  told  each  other  how 
funny  it  all  was  and  how  unexpected 
and  delightful.  After  an  excellent  sup- 
per and  a  bottle  of  champagne,  followed 
by  a  fine  brandy,  and  cigars,  — -  for  I 
determined  to  do  the  thing  well,  —  we 
grew  confidential.  We  talked  of  life  and 
of  travel,  and  finally,  of  course,  about 
books  and  authors. 

'Have  you  ever  met  Booth  Tarking- 
ton?' my  friend  inquired.  I  had.  Did  I 
know  him?  I  did  not.  Craig  had  been 
staying  with  him  in  Indianapolis.  Had 
I  ever  heard  of  Arnold  Bennett?  I  had. 
Did  I  care  for  his  books?  I  did.  He 
also  had  been  staying  with  Booth  Tar- 
kington  in  Indianapolis:  in  fact,  Ben- 
nett and  he  were  traveling  together  at 
the  present  time. 

'Bennett  is  doing  a  book  for  the  Har- 
pers to  be  called  Your  United  States,' 
Craig  explained;  and  he,  Craig,  was 
doing  the  illustrations  for  it. 

'And  where  is  Arnold  Bennett  now?* 
I  asked. 

'  Upstairs,  in  bed  and  asleep,  I  hope.' 

'And  what  are  you  doing  to-mor- 
row?' 

'Well,  Bennett  is  lunching  with  the 
literati  of  the  city,  and  I'm  going  to 
take  photographs  and  make  sketches 
for  our  book.  We  are  each  on  our  own, 
you  know.' 

'But  the  literati  of  the  city,'  I  re- 
peated doubtfully.  'That  would  be 
Agnes  Repplier,  of  course,  and  Dr.  Fur- 
ness,  and  Weir  Mitchell,  and  who  else?' 
We  were  rather  shy  of  literati  at  the 
moment,  as  we  still  are,  and  I  hoped 
these  would  not  fail  him. 

Craig  did  n't  know;  he  had  not  been 
invited. 

'And  after  the  luncheon,  what  next?' 
I  inquired. 

'Well,  I  believe  that  we  are  to  go  to 


227 

the  picture-gallery  of  a  Mr.  Weednaar, 
with  a  friend  who  has  secured  cards  for 
us.  I'm  not  invited  to  the  luncheon, 
but  I'm  keen  to  see  the  pictures.' 

'Very  well,'  I  said,  'let  me  make 
plans  for  you.  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do: 
I'll  make  it  a  holiday;  I  shall  get  my 
motor  in  from  the  country,  and  go 
around  with  you  and  show  you  the 
sights.  You  want  to  see  "Georgian" 
Philadelphia,  you  say  —  we  call  it  "Co- 
lonial"; I  know  it  well;  I'll  be  your 
guide,  you  shall  take  your  photographs 
and  make  your  sketches,  and  in  the  af- 
ternoon we,  too,  will  go  out  and  see 
Mr.  Widener's  pictures,  —  his  name,  by 
the  way,  is  Widener,  not  Weednaar,  — 
and  if  I  can  find  Harry  Widener,  a  scion 
of  that  house  and  a  friend  of  mine,  I  'H 
get  him  to  ask  us  out  for  lunch,  and  we 
will  be  there  to  welcome  Bennett  and 
his  friend  with  their  cards  on  their  arri- 
val. What,  by  the  way,  is  the  name  of 
your  friend  to  whom  you  owe  your  in- 
troduction to  Mr.  Widener?' 

'A  Mr.  Hellman  of  New  York;  a  book- 
seller, I  believe;  perhaps  you  know  him 
too.' 

'Perfectly,'  I  said;  'I  probably  owe 
him  money  at  this  very  minute. ' 

With  this  understanding,  and  much 
pleased  with  each  other,  we  parted  for 
the  night. 

II 

The  next  morning,  at  half-past  nine, 
we  met  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  and  I 
was  presented  to  Arnold  Bennett.  I  do 
not  remember  that  at  that  time  I  had 
ever  seen  a  photograph  of  him,  and  I 
was  rather  disillusioned  by  seeing  a  per- 
son quite  lacking  in  distinction,  dressed 
in  ill-fitting  clothes,  and  with  two  very 
prominent  upper  teeth,  which  would 
have  been  invaluable  had  he  taken  to 
whistling,  professionally. 

'So  you  are  the  man,'  he  said,  'who 
has  so  captivated  my  friend  Craig.  He 
told  me  all  about  your  escapade  last 


228 


TWENTY-FIVE   HOURS   A   DAY 


night,  over  the  breakfast-table,  and  in 
the  excitement  of  narration  he  ate  my 
eggs.' 

'No  matter,'  said  I;  'you  are  going  to 
lunch  with  the  literati  of  the  city;  you 
ought  not  to  worry  over  the  loss  of  your 
eggs.  But  what  is  quite  as  important, 
who  is  giving  the  luncheon?' 

'George  Horace  Lorimer,'  he  replied, 
i  '  Then, '  said  I, '  you  certainly  need  not 
worry  over  the  loss  of  a  pair  of  eggs.  In 
an  hour  or  two  you'll  be  glad  you  did 
not  eat  them,  for  Lorimer  understands 
ordering  a  luncheon,  no  man  better. 
I'm  sorry  for  Craig,  for  he's  lunching 
with  me;  but  we  shall  join  you  during 
the  afternoon  at  Mr.  Widener's.' 

This  seemed  to  upset  Bennett  com- 
pletely. 'But  we  are  going  to  Mr. 
Weednaar's  by  appointment  —  we  have 
cards  — ' 

'  I  know,  from  George  Hellman,'  I  in- 
terrupted; 'I  don't  need  any  cards.  If 
Harry  Widener  is  at  home,  we  will 
lunch  with  him;  if  not,  we  will  join  you 
some  time  during  the  afternoon.' 

Bennett  looked  at  me  with  astonish- 
ment. He  had  doubtless  been  warned 
of  bunco-steerers,  card-sharks,  and  con- 
fidence men  generally:  I  appeared  to 
him  a  very  finished  specimen,  probably 
all  the  more  dangerous  on  that  account. 
We  left  him  bewildered;  he  evidently 
thought  that  his  friend  would  be  the 
victim  of  some  very  real  experiences  be- 
fore he  saw  him  again.  As  we  parted,  he 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  to  Craig, 
'If  you  play  poker  with  that  man,  you 
are  lost';  but  he  did  n't. 

Ill 

We  Philadelphians  do  not  boast  of 
the  climate  of  our  city.  During  the 
summer  months  we  usually  tie  with 
some  town  in  Texas  —  Waco,  I  believe 
—  for  the  honor  of  being  the  hottest 
place  in  the  country:  but  in  November 
it  is  delightful,  and  we  have  the  finest 


suburbs  in  the  world.  If  it  were  not 
for  its  outlying  districts,  Philadelphia 
would  be  intolerable.  But  the  day  was 
fine,  we  were  in  high  spirits,  like  boys 
out  for  a  lark,  which  indeed  we  were, 
and  I  determined  that  our  sightseeing 
should  begin  at  the  '  Old  Swedes,'  or,  to 
give  it  its  proper  name,  'Gloria  Dei,' 
Church,  and  work  our  way  north  from 
the  southern  part  of  the  city,  stopping 
at  such  old  landmarks  as  would  seem 
to  afford  material  for  Craig's  pencil. 

What  a  wonderful  day  it  was !  Agree- 
able at  the  time,  and  in  retrospect  de- 
lightful, if  somewhat  tinged  with  mel- 
ancholy, for  I  chanced  to  read  in  an 
English  newspaper  not  long  ago  of  the 
death  of  my  friend  Craig,  in  some  way 
a  victim  of  the  war.  But  looking  back 
upon  that  day,  everything  seemed  as 
joyous  as  the  two  quaintly  carved  and 
colored  angels'  heads,  a  bit  of  old  Swed- 
ish decoration,  which  peered  down  upon 
us  from  the  organ-loft  of  the  old  church 
about  which  Craig  went  into  ecstasies 
of  delight  —  as  well  he  might,  for  it  is  a 
quaint  little  church  almost  lost  in  the 
shipping  and  commerce  that  surrounds 
it.  Built  by  the  Swedes  in  1700,  it 
stands  on  the  bank  of  the  Delaware,  on 
the  site  of  a  block-house  in  which  reli- 
gious services  had  been  held  more  than 
half  a  century  before  its  erection. 

Too  few  Philadelphians  know  this 
tiny  church  or  attend  its  services:  it  is 
out  of  the  beaten  track  of  the  tourist; 
but  some  of  us,  not  entirely  forgetful 
of  old  Philadelphia,  love  to  visit  it  oc- 
casionally, and  if  the  sermon  gets  weari- 
some, as  sermons  sometimes  do,  we  can 
creep  out  stealthily  and  spend  a  few 
minutes  prowling  around  the  grave- 
yard, —  where  interments  are  still 
made  occasionally,  —  looking  at  the 
tombstones,  on  which  are  curiously  cut 
the  now  almost  illegible  names  of  devout 
men  and  women  who  departed  this  life 
in  faith  and  fear  more  than  two  cen- 
turies ago. 


TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 


229 


'But  come  now,'  I  at  last  had  to  say, 
'this  is  our  first,  but  by  no  means  our 
best  church;  wait  until  you  see  St. 
Peter's.' 

The  ride  from  Old  Swedes  Church  to 
St.  Peter's  has  nothing  to  recommend 
it;  but  it  is  short,  and  we  were  soon 
standing  in  one  of  the  finest  bits  of  Co- 
lonial church  architecture  in  America. 

'Why,'  exclaimed  Craig,  'we  have 
nothing  more  beautiful  in  London,  and 
there  is  certainly  nothing  in  New  York 
or  Boston  that  can  touch  it.' 

'Certainly,  there  is  n't,'  I  said:  'and 
if  you  were  a  Philadelphian  and  had  an 
ancestor  buried  in  this  church  or  within 
its  shadow,  you  would  not  have  to  have 
brains,  money,  morals,  or  anything 
else.  Of  course,  these  accessories  would 
do  you  no  harm,  and  in  a  way  might  be 
useful,  but  the  lack  of  them  would  not 
be  ruinous,  as  it  would  be  with  ordinary 
folk.'  Then  I  spoke  glibly  the  names  of 
the  dead  whom,  had  they  been  living,  I 
should  scarcely  have  dared  to  mention, 
so  interwoven  are  they  in  the  fabric  of 
the  social,  or  as  some  might  say,  the  un- 
social, life  of  Philadelphia. 

'And  these  people,'  said  Craig,  'do 
they  look  like  other  people  —  do  you 
know  them?' 

It  was  a  delicate  question.  It  was  not 
for  me  to  tell  him  that  a  collateral  an- 
cestor was  a  founder  of  the  Philadel- 
phia Assembly,  or  to  boast  of  a  bowing 
acquaintance  with  that  charming  wom- 
an, Mrs.  John  Markoe,  whose  family 
pew  we  were  reverently  approaching. 
Craig  could,  of  course,  know  nothing 
of  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  be  a 
member,  not  of  St.  Peter's,  but  of  'St. 
Peter's  set,'  which  is  a  very  different 
matter;  but  he  fully  appreciated  its 
architectural  charm,  and  as  we  strolled 
about,  he  observed  with  the  keenest  in- 
terest the  curious  arrangement  of  the 
organ  and  altar  at  one  end  of  the  church, 
and  the  glorious  old  pulpit  and  reading- 
desk  at  the  other,  with  a  quite  un- 


necessary sounding-board  surmounting 
them  like  a  benediction. 

'How  dignified  and  exclusive  the 
square  pews  are ! '  said  Craig. '  They  look 
for  all  the  world  like  the  lord  of  the 
manor's,  at  home.' 

'Yes,'  said  I,  'and  not  half  so  exclu- 
sive as  the  people  who  occupy  them. 
You  could  have  made  a  very  pretty  pic- 
ture of  this  church  crowded  with  wealth 
and  fashion  and  beauty  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago,  if  you  had  been  lucky 
enough  to  live  when  there  was  color 
in  the  world;  now  we  all  look  alike.' 

'I  know,'  said  Craig;  'it's  too  bad.' 

I  could  have  told  him  a  good  deal  of 
the  history  of  Christ  Church,  which  we 
next  visited.  It  is  only  a  short  distance 
from  St.  Peter's;  indeed,  in  the  early 
days,  Christ  Church  and  St.  Peter's 
formed  one  parish.  The  present  struc- 
ture was  built  in  1727,  of  bricks  brought 
over  from  England.  Architecturally,  it 
is  the  finest  church  in  Philadelphia;  and 
so  expensive  was  it  for  the  congregation 
of  two  hundred  years  ago  that,  in  order 
to  finish  its  steeple  and  provide  it  with 
its  fine  chime  of  bells,  recourse  was  had 
to  a  lottery!  Indeed,  two  lotteries  were 
held  before  the  work  was  completed. 
Philadelphians  all  felt  that  they  had  a 
stake  in  the  enterprise,  and  for  a  long 
time  the  bells  were  rung  on  every  possi- 
ble occasion.  Queen  Anne  sent  over  a 
solid-silver  communion  service,  which  is 
still  in  use,  and  its  rector,  Dr.  William 
White,  after  the  Revolution,  became 
the  first  Bishop  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
in  the  United  States  of  America,  hav- 
ing finally  been  consecrated  at  Lambeth 
after  years  of  discussion  as  to  how  the 
episcopacy  was  to  be  carried  on.  So 
'Old  Christ,'  as  it  is  affectionately 
called,  may  properly  be  regarded  as  the 
Mother  Church  in  this  country.  When 
Philadelphia  was  the  national  capital, 
Washington  attended  it,  as  did  John 
Adams,  and  Benjamin  Franklin,  occa- 
sionally—perhaps not  often  enough. 


230 


TWENTY-FIVE   HOURS   A   DAY 


But  our  time  was  limited  and  there 
was  much  to  see:  Carpenter's  Hall,  and 
the  State  House  with  its  beautiful  win- 
dows, which  Craig  called  Palladian,  and 
its  splendid  Colonial  staircase,  from 
which  I  was  powerless  to  draw  his  at- 
tention to  the  far-famed  Liberty  Bell. 

'I  know  all  about  that,'  said  Craig; 
'I've  been  reading  it  up;  but  if  you  can 
tell  me  in  what  single  respect  an  Eng- 
lishman has  n't  just  as  much  liberty  as 
an  American,  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen.' 

Having  forgotten  to  point  out  the 
grave  of  our  greatest  citizen,  Benjamin 
Franklin,  who,  we  love  to  tell  Boston- 
ians,  was  born  in  Philadelphia  at  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  we  retraced  our  steps 
—  if  one  can  be  said  to  retrace  one's 
steps  in  a  motor — to  the  Christ  Church 
burying-ground  at  Fifth  and  Arch 
Streets.  There,  peering  through  the 
iron  railing,  we  read  the  simple  inscrip- 
tion carved  according  to  his  wish  on  the 
flat  tomb:  'Benjamin  and  Deborah 
Franklin,  1790.'  I  have  always  regret- 
ted that  I  had  not  availed  myself  of  the 
opportunity  once  offered  me  of  buying 
the  manuscript  in  Franklin's  hand  of 
the  famous  epitaph  which  he  composed 
in  a  rather  flippant  moment  in  1728  for 
his  tombstone.  The  original  is,  I  be- 
lieve, among  the  Franklin  papers  in  the 
State  Department  at  Washington,  but 
he  made  at  least  one  copy,  and  possibly 
several.  The  one  I  saw  reads:  — 

THE  BODY 

of 
BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

PKINTER 
(Like  the  cover  of  an  old  book 

Its  contents  torn  out 
And  stript  of  its  lettering  and  gilding) 

Lies  here,  food  for  worms. 

But  the  work  shall  not  be  lost 

For  it  will  (as  he  believed)  appear  once  more 

In  a  new  and  more  elegant  edition 

Revised  and  corrected 

by 
THE  AUTHOR. 


No  doubt  the  plain  marble  slab,  with 
the  simple  name  and  date  (for  Franklin 
needs  no  epitaph  in  Philadelphia),  is 
more  dignified,  but  I  have  always  wish- 
ed that  his  first  idea  had  been  carried 
out. 

As  we  were  only  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  Quaker  Meeting-House,  we  paid  it 
a  hasty  visit,  and  I  confessed,  in  reply 
to  the  question,  that,  often  as  I  had 
passed  the  austere  old  brick  building,  I 
had  never  entered  it  before,  although  I 
had  always  intended  to. 

At  last  I  looked  at  my  watch  —  un- 
necessarily, for  something  told  me  it 
was  lunch-time.  We  had  had  a  busy 
morning;  Craig  had  made  sketches  with 
incredible  rapidity  while  I  bought  pho- 
tographs and  picture-postals  by  the 
score.  We  had  not  been  idle  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  there  was  more  to  be  seen, 
Fairmount  —  not  the  Park;  there  was 
no  time  for  that,  and  all  parks  are  more 
or  less  alike,  although  ours  is  most  beau- 
tiful; but  the  old-time  'water-works,' 
beautifully  situated  on  the  hillside, 
terraced  and  turreted,  with  its  three 
Greek  temples,  so  faultlessly  propor- 
tioned and  placed  as  to  form  what  Joe 
Pennell  says  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots 
in  America,  and  which,  he  characteris- 
tically adds,  we  in  Philadelphia  do  not 
appreciate. 

But  Craig  did.  It  was  a  glorious  day 
in  mid-November,  the  trees  were  in 
their  full  autumn  regalia  of  red  and 
gold,  the  Schuylkill  glistened  like  silver 
in  the  sun,  and  in  the  distance  tumbled, 
with  a  gentle  murmur  of  protest  at  be- 
ing disturbed,  over  its  dam  into  the 
lower  level,  where  it  becomes  a  river  of 
use  if  not  of  beauty.  I  thought  how 
seldom  do  we  business  men  pause  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  to  look  at  anything  so 
free  from  complications  as  a  'view.' 
My  factory  was  within  ten-minutes' 
walk;  there,  penned  up  amid  dirt  and 
noise,  I  spend  most  of  my  waking  hours, 
discussing  ways  and  means  by  which  I 


TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS  A  DAY 


231 


may  increase  the  distance  between  my- 
self and  the  sheriff,  neglecting  the  beau- 
ty which  unfolds  itself  at  my  very  door. 
I  determined  in  future  to  open  my  eyes 
occasionally;  but  hunger  put  an  end 
to  my  meditations.  Food  is  required 
even  on  the  most  perfect  day;  by  this 
time  the  literati  must  have  met  — 
and  parted.  Back  to  the  city  we  sped, 
lunched  at  my  club,  thence  to  Lynne- 
wood  Hall,  the  palatial  residence  of  Mr. 
Widener,  some  miles  from  the  centre  of 
the  city. 

On  our  arrival  we  were  ushered, 
through  the  main  entrance-hall,  beauti- 
fully banked  with  rare  flowers,  into  the 
gallery  in  which  is  housed  one  of  the 
finest  collections  of  pictures  in  America. 
Bennett  and  George  Hellman  were  al- 
ready there,  and  Mr.  Widener,  the  old 
gentleman  who  had  formed  the  collec- 
tion, was  doing  the  honors. 

Harry,  his  grandson,  was  there,  too, 
and  to  the  amazement  of  Bennett  wel- 
comed me  with  outstretched  arms.  'I 
got  your  telephone  message,  but  too  late 
to  connect  with  you;  I've  been  in  New 
York.  Why  did  you  not  come  to  lunch? 
You  were  not  at  your  office.  I  left  mes- 
sages for  you  everywhere.' 

Bennett  looked  greatly  relieved;  so  I 
was  not  an  intruder  after  all  and,  won- 
derful to  relate,  nothing  had  happened 
to  Craig. 

Mr.  Widener  seemed  relieved  to  see 
me,  and  I  soon  grasped  the  reason.  He 
did  not  know  who  his  guest  was. 

'Who  is  this  man?'  he  whispered  to 
me. 

'Arnold  Bennett,  the  distinguished 
English  author,'  I  replied. 

'Does  he  know  anything  about  pic- 
tures?' he  asked. 

'I  have  no  doubt  he  does,'  I  replied. 
'Here  is  a  man  who  certainly  does.' 
And  I  presented  Craig,  who,  to  the 
great  relief  of  his  host,  was  vocal. 

And  then  I  saw  how  things  had  been 
going.  Bennett,  with  his  almost  un- 


canny power  of  observation,  had  seen 
and  doubtless  understood  and  appre- 
ciated everything  in  the  gallery,  but 
had  remained  mute;  an  'Oh'  or  an  'Ah* 
had  been  all  that  Mr.  Widener  was  able 
to  extract  from  him.  The  old  gentle- 
man  had  seemingly  been  playing  to  an 
empty  house,  and  it  irked  him.  Craig 
had  the  gift  of  expression;  knew  that  he 
was  looking  at  some  of  the  masterpieces 
of  the  world,  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
say  so. 

We  strolled  from  one  gallery  to  an- 
other, and  then  it  was  suggested  that 
perhaps  we  would  care  to  see  —  But  the 
afternoon  was  going;  Bennett  had  to  be 
in  New  York  at  a  certain  hour;  it  was 
time  to  move  on. 

'Spend  another  night  in  Philadel- 
phia,' I  said  to  Craig;  'you  must  not  go 
without  seeing  Harry's  books.  After  a 
while  there  will  be  tea  and  toast  and 
marmalade  and  Scotch  and  soda;  life 
will  never  be  any  better  than  it  is  at 
this  minute.' 

Craig  did  not  require  much  urging. 
Why  should  he?  We  were  honored 
guests  in  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  the 
country,  in  a  museum,  in  fact,  filled  to 
overflowing  with  everything  that  taste 
could  suggest  and  money  buy;  and  for 
host  we  had  the  eldest  son  of  the  eldest 
son  of  the  house,  a  young  man  distin- 
guished for  his  knowledge,  modesty, 
and  courtesy.  We  went  to  Harry's 
apartment,  where  his  books  were  kept, 
where  I  was  most  of  all  at  home,  and 
where  finally  his  mother  joined  us.  In 
the  easy  give-and-take  of  conversation 
time  passed  rapidly,  until  finally  it  was 
time  to  go,  and  we  said  good-bye.  It 
was  my  last  visit 'to  Lynnewood  Hall, 
as  Harry's  guest.  Five  months  later, 
almost  to  a  day,  he  found  his  watery 
grave  in  the  Atlantic,  a  victim  of  the 
sinking  of  the  Titanic. 

On  our  way  back  to  our  hotel  we 
agreed  that  we  would  go  to  the  theatre 


232 


WOOD   NUPTIAL 


and  have  supper  afterward;  there  was 
just  time  to. change,  once  again  gnawing 
a  sandwich.  By  great  good  fortune 
there  was  a  real  comedy  playing  at  one 
of  the  theatres ;  seats  were  secured  with- 
out unusual  difficulty,  and  we  were  soon 
quietly  awaiting  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 
After  the  performance  we  had  supper, 
which  had  been  ordered  in  advance. 
We  were  at  the  end  of  a  perfect  day,  a 
red-letter  day,  a  day  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten, Craig  said.  We  had  known  each 
other  something  like  twenty-four  hours, 
yet  we  seemed  like  old  friends. 

'I  can't  hope  to  give  you  such  a  day 
as  we  have  had,  when  you  come  to  Lon- 
don; but  you'll  look  me  up,  won't  you?' 

'Yes,  of  course,  and  meantime  I  want 
you  to  do  something  for  me.' 


'Anything,  my  dear  boy;  what  is  it? 

'  I  want  a  presentation  copy  of  Buried 
Alive,  with  an  inscription  in  it  from 
Arnold  Bennett,  and  on  a  fly-leaf  I 
want  a  little  pencil  sketch  by  you.' 

'Right-o.  I  '11  send  it  directly  I  get  to 
New  York.' 

But  I  had  to  wait  several  days  before 
I  received  a  small  package  by  express, 
which,  on  opening,  I  found  to  be  a  beau- 
tiful little  water-color  painting  by  Craig 
of  the  picturesque  old  stone  bridge 
over  the  Thames  at  Sonning;  and  in  an- 
other package,  the  book,  Buried  Alive, 
with  a  characteristic  inscription.  The 
author  was  doubtful  of  my  identity  to 
the  very  last,  for  he  wrote,  'To  Mr. 
Newton  of  Philadelphia,  I  believe,  with 
best  wishes  from  Arnold  Bennett.' 


WOOD  NUPTIAL 


BY  JOSEPH   AUSLANDER 


THE  woods  are  still;  the  scent  of  old  rain  stirs 
Out  of  the  trampled  fronds  and  over  us; 
And  now  the  evening  air  is  glamorous 
With  parley  of  the  bramble  gossipers, 
And  fireflies  who  trace  diameters 
Of  light  along  a  winking  radius, 
And  rasping  saws,  and  the  continuous 
Insistence  of  the  thicket  carpenters. 

The  architects  of  night  are  scaffolding 

Our  minster  to  a  pandemonium 

Of  flute  and  timbrel,  warmth  of  brass  and  string, 

And  thrill  of  triangle  and  tympanum; 

The  Reverend  Beetle  hems  his  fas  and  do's, 

And  frogs  intone  their  oratorios. 


THE  INTERPRETER.  II 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  EAST 


BY  L.  ADAMS  BECK 


EARLY  in  the  pure  dawn  the  men 
came,  and  our  boat  was  towed  up  into 
the  Dal  Lake  through  crystal  water- 
ways and  flowery  banks,  the  men  on 
the  path  keeping  step  and  straining 
at  the  rope  until  the  bronze  muscles 
stood  out  on  their  legs  and  backs,  and 
shouting  strong  rhythmic  phrases  to 
mark  the  pull. 

'They  shout  the  Wondrous  Names  of 
God  —  as  they  are  called,'  said  Vanna, 
when  I  asked.  'They  always  do  that 
for  a  timed  effort.  Badshah!  The  Lord, 
the  Compassionate,  and  so  on.  I  don't 
think  there  is  any  religion  about  it,  but 
it  is  as  natural  to  them  as  one,  two, 
three  to  us.  It  gives  a  tremendous  lift. 
Watch  and  see.' 

It  was  part  of  the  delightful  strange- 
ness that  we  should  move  to  that  strong 
music. 

We  moored  by  a  low  bank,  under  a 
great  wood  of  chenar  trees,  and  saw 
the  little  table  in  the  wilderness  set  in 
the  greenest  shade,  with  our  chairs  be- 
side it,  and  my  pipe  laid  reverently  up- 
on it  by  Kahdra. 

Across  the  glittering  water  lay,  on 
one  side,  the  Shalimar  Garden,  known 
to  all  readers  of  Lalla  Rookh  —  a  para- 
dise of  roses;  and  beyond  it  again 
the  lovelier  gardens  of  Nur-Mahal,  the 
Light  of  the  Palace,  that  imperial  wom- 
i  an  who  ruled  India  under  the  weak  Em- 
i  peror's  name  —  she  whose  name  he  set 


thus  upon  his  coins:  'By  order  of  King 
Jehangir,  gold  has  a  hundred  splendors 
added  to  it  by  receiving  the  name  of 
Nur-Jahan  the  Queen.' 

Has  any  woman  ever  had  a  more 
royal  homage  than  this  most  royal 
woman  —  known  first  as  Mihr-u-Nis- 
sa,  Sun  of  Women ;  later,  as  Nur-Mahal, 
Light  of  the  Palace;  and,  latest,  Nur- 
Jahan-Begam,  Queen,  Light  of  the 
World? 

Here,  in  these  gardens,  she  had  lived 
—  had  seen  the  snow  mountains  change 
from  the  silver  of  dawn  to  the  illimit- 
able rose  of  sunset.  The  life,  the  color 
beat  insistently  upon  my  brain.  They 
built  a  world  of  magic  where  every 
moment  was  pure  gold.  Surely  —  sure- 
ly to  Vanna  it  must  be  the  same!  I  be- 
lieved in  my  very  soul  that  she  who 
gave  and  shared  such  joy  could  not  be 
utterly  apart  from  me. 

Just  then,  in  the  sunset,  she  was  sit- 
ting on  deck,  singing  under  her  breath 
and  looking  absently  away  to  the  Gar- 
dens across  the  Lake.  I  could  hear  the 
words  here  and  there,  and  knew  them. 

'Pale  hands  I  loved  beside  the  Shalimar. 
Where   are   you   now  —  who   lies   beneath 

your  spell? 
Whom  do  you  lead  on  Rapture's  roadway 

far, 
Before  you  agonize  them  in  farewell? 

'Don't!'  I  said  abruptly.   'You  did 

that  on  purpose!' 

9SS 


234 


THE  INTERPRETER 


'  What? '  she  asked  in  surprise.  '  That 
is  the  song  everyone  remembers  here. 
Poor  Laurence  Hope!  How  she  knew 
and  loved  my  India!  What  are  you 
grumbling  at?' 

Her  smile  stung  me. 

'Never  mind,'  I  said  morosely.  'You 
don't  understand.  You  never  will/ 

And  yet  I  believed  sometimes  that 
she  would  —  that  time  was  on  my  side. 
When  Kahdra  and  I  pulled  her  across 
to  Nur-Mahal's  garden  next  day,  how 
could  I  not  believe  it,  her  face  was  so 
full  of  joy  as  she  looked  at  me  for 
sympathy? 

We  were  pulling  in  among  the  reeds 
and  the  huge  carved  leaves  of  the  water- 
plants,  and  the  snake-headed  buds  loll- 
ing upon  them  with  the  slippery  half- 
sinister  look  that  water-flowers  have,  as 
if  their  cold  secret  life  belonged  to  the 
hidden  water-world  and  not  to  ours. 
But  now  the  boat  was  touching  the  lit- 
tle wooden  steps. 

Oh,  beautiful,  most  beautiful  —  the 
green  lawns,  shaded  with  huge  pyra- 
mids of  the  chenar  trees;  the  terraced 
gardens  where  the  marble  steps  climbed 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  the  moun- 
tain streams  flashed  singing  and  shining 
down  the  carved  marble  slopes.  Even 
in  the  glory  of  sunshine,  the  passing  of 
all  fair  things  was  present  with  me  as  I 
saw  the  empty  shell  that  had  held  the 
Pearl  of  Empire,  and  her  roses  that  still 
bloom,  her  waters  that  still  sing  for 
others. 

The  spray  of  a  hundred  fountains 
was  mioty  diamond-dust  in  the  warm 
air  laden  with  the  scent  of  myriad 
flowers. 

Kahdra  followed  us  everywhere,  sing- 
ing his  little  tuneless,  happy  song.  The 
world  brimmed  with  beauty  and  joy. 
And  we  were  together. 

Words  broke  from  me:  — 

'  Vanna,  let  it  be  forever!  Let  us  live 
here.  I  '11  give  up  all  the  world  for  this 
and  you/ 


'But  you  see,'  she  said  delicately,  'it 
would  be  "giving  up."  You  use  the 
right  word.  It  is  not  your  life.  It  is  a 
lovely  holiday,  no  more.  You  would 
weary  of  it.  You  would  want  the  city 
life  and  your  own  kind/ 

I  protested  with  all  my  soul.  But  she 
went  on:  — 

'No.  Indeed,  I  will  say  frankly  that 
it  would  be  lowering  yourself  to  live  a 
lotos-eating  life  among  my  people.  It 
is  a  life  with  which  you  have  no  tie. 
A  Westerner  who  lives  like  that  steps 
down;  he  loses  his  birthright,  just  as  an 
Easterner  does  who  Europeanizes  him- 
self. He  cannot  live  your  life,  nor  you 
his.  If  you  had  work  here,  it  would 
be  different.  No  —  six  or  eight  weeks 
more;  then  go  away  and  forget  it/ 

I  turned  from  her.  The  serpent  was 
in  Paradise.  When  is  he  absent? 

On  one  of  the  terraces  a  man  was 
beating  a  tom-tom,  and  veiled  women 
listened,  grouped  about  him  in  brilliant 
colors. 

'Is  n't  that  all  India?'  she  said;  'that 
dull  reiterated  sound?  It  half  stupefies, 
half  maddens.  Once,  at  Darjiling,  I  saw 
the  Llamas'  Devil  Dance:  the  soul,  a 
white-faced  child  with  eyes  unnaturally 
enlarged,  fleeing  among  a  rabble  of 
devils  —  the  evil  passions.  It  fled  wildly 
here  and  there,  and  every  way  was 
blocked.  The  child  fell  on  its  knees, 
screaming  dumbly  —  you  could  see  the 
despair  in  the  starting  eyes;  but  all  was 
drowned  in  the  thunder  of  Thibetan 
drums.  No  mercy  —  no  escape.  Hor- 
rible!' 

'  Even  in  Europe  the  drum  is  awful/ 
I  said.  'Do  you  remember  in  the 
French  Revolution,  how  they  drowned 
the  victims'  voices  in  a  thunder-roll  of 
drums?' 

'I  shall  always  see  the  face  of  the 
child,  hunted  down  to  hell,  falling  on 
its  knees,  and  screaming  without  a 
sound,  when  I  hear  the  drum.  But  lis- 
ten—  a  flute!  Now,  if  that  were  the 


THE  INTERPRETER 


Flute  of  Krishna,  you  would  have  to 
follow.  Let  us  come!' 

I  could  hear  nothing  of  it;  but  she  in- 
sisted, and  we  followed  the  music,  in- 
audible to  me,  up  the  slopes  of  the  gar- 
den that  is  the  foot-hill  of  the  mighty 
mountain  of  Mahadeo;  and  still  I  could 
hear  nothing. 

Vanna  told  me  strange  stories  of  the 
Apollo  of  India,  whom  all  hearts  most 
adore,  even  as  the  herd-girls  adored 
him  in  his  golden  youth  by  Jumna  River 
and  in  the  pastures  of  Brindaban. 

II 

Next  day  we  were  climbing  the  hill 
to  the  ruins  where  the  evil  magician 
brought  the  King's  daughter  nightly  to 
his  will,  flying  low  under  a  golden 
moon.  Vanna  took  my  arm,  and  I 
pulled  her,  laughing,  up  the  steepest 
flowery  slopes  until  we  reached  the 
height;  and,  lo!  the  arched  windows 
were  eyeless,  a  lonely  breeze  was  blow- 
ing through  the  cloisters,  and  the  beau- 
tiful yellowish  stone  arches  supported 
nothing  and  were  but  frames  for  the 
blue  of  far  lake  and  mountain  and  the 
divine  sky.  We  climbed  the  broken 
stairs,  where  the  lizards  went  by  like 
flashes;  and  had  I  the  tongues  of  men 
and  angels,  I  could  not  tell  the  wonder 
that  lay  before  us  —  the  whole  wide 
valley  of  Kashmir  in  summer  glory, 
with  its  scented  breeze  singing,  singing 
above  it. 

We  sat  on  the  crushed  aromatic  herbs 
and  among  the  wild  roses,  and  looked 
down. 

'To  think,'  she  said,  'that  we  might 
have  died  and  never  seen  it!' 

There  followed  a  long  silence.  I 
thought  she  was  tired  and  would  not 
break  it.  Suddenly  she  spoke  in  a 
strange  voice,  low  and  toneless :  — 

'The  story  of  this  place.  She  was  the 
Princess  Padmavati,  and  her  home  was 
in  Ayodhya.  When  she  woke  and  found 


235 

herself  here  by  the  lake,  she  was  so  ter- 
rified that  she  flung  herself  in  and  was 
drowned.  They  held  her  back,  but  she 
died.' 

'How  do  you  know?' 

'  Because  a  wandering  monk  came  to 
the  abbey  of  Tahk-i-Bahi  near  Pesha- 
war, and  told  Vasettha  the  Abbot.' 

I  had  nearly  spoiled  it  all  by  an  ex- 
clamation, but  I  held  myself  back.  I 
saw  she  was  dreaming  awake  and  was 
unconscious  of  what  she  said. 

'The  Abbot  said,  "Do  not  describe 
her.  What  talk  is  this  for  holy  men? 
The  young  monks  must  not  hear.  Some 
of  them  have  never  seen  a  woman. 
Should  a  monk  speak  of  such  toys?" 
But  the  wanderer  disobeyed  and  spoke, 
and  there  was  a  great  tumult,  and  the 
monks  threw  him  out  at  the  command 
of  the  young  Abbot,  and  he  wandered 
down  to  Peshawar;  and  it  was  he  later 
—  the  evil  one!  —  that  brought  his 
sister,  Lilavanti  the  Dancer,  to  Pesha- 
war, and  the  Abbot  fell  into  her  snare. 
That  was  his  revenge!' 

Her  face  was  fixed  and  strange;  for  a 
moment  her  cheeks  looked  hollow,  her 
eyes  dim  and  grief-worn.  What  was  she 
seeing?  what  remembering?  Was  it  a 
story  —  a  memory?  What  was  it? 

'Men  have  said  so;  but  for  it  he  sur- 
rendered the  Peace.  Do  not  speak  of 
her  accursed  beauty.' 

Her  voice  died  away  to  a  drowsy  mur- 
mur; her  head  dropped  on  my  shoulder; 
and  for  the  mere  delight  of  contact  I  sat 
still  and  scarcely  breathed,  praying  that 
she  might  speak  again.  But  the  good 
minute  was  gone.  She  drew  one  or  two 
deep  breaths,  and  sat  up  with  a  bewil- 
dered look,  which  quickly  passed,  and 
left  only  a  painful  knitting  of  the  brows. 

'I  was  quite  sleepy  for  a  minute. 
The  climb  was  so  strenuous.  Hark  —  I 
hear  the  Flute  of  Krishna  again.' 

Again  I  could  hear  nothing,  but  she 
said  it  was  sounding  from  the  trees  at 
the  base  of  the  hill.  Later,  when  we 


236 


THE  INTERPRETER 


climbed  down,  I  found  she  was  right  — • 
that  a  peasant  lad,  dark  and  amazingly 
beautiful,  as  these  Kashmiris  often  are, 
was  playing  on  the  Flute  to  a  girl  at  his 
feet,  looking  up  at  him  with  rapt  eyes. 
He  flung  Vanna  a  flower  as  we  passed. 
She  caught  it  and  put  it  in  her  bosom. 
A  singular  blossom,  three  petals  of  pur- 
est white,  set  against  three  green  leaves 
of  purest  green;  and  lower  down  the 
stem  the  three  green  leaves  were  re- 
peated. It  was  still  in  her  bosom  after 
dinner,  and  I  looked  at  it  more  closely. 

'That  is  a  curious  flower,'  I  said. 
'Three  and  three  and  three.  Nine. 
That  makes  the  mystic  number.  I  never 
saw  a  purer  white.  What  is  it?' 

'Of  course  it  is  mystic,'  she  said  seri- 
ously. '  It  is  the  Ninefold  flower.  You 
saw  who  gave  it?' 

'That  peasant  lad.' 

She  smiled. 

'  You  will  see  more  some  day.  Some 
might  not  even  have  seen  that.' 

'Does  it  grow  here?' 

'This  is  the  first  I  have  seen.  It  is 
said  to  grow  only  where  the  gods  walk. 
Do  you  know  that  throughout  all  India 
Kashmir  is  said  to  be  holy  ground? 
It  was  called  long  ago  the  land  of  the 
Gods,  and  of  strange,  but  not  evil,  sor- 
ceries. Great  marvels  were  seen  here.' 

I  felt  that  the  labyrinthine  enchant- 
ments of  that  enchanted  land  were  clos- 
ing about  me  —  a  slender  web,  gray, 
almost  impalpable,  finer  than  fairy  silk, 
was  winding  itself  about  my  feet.  My 
eyes  were  opening  to  things  I  had  not 
dreamed.  She  saw  my  thought. 

'But  you  could  not  have  seen  even 
that  much  of  him  in  Peshawar.  You 
did  not  know  then.' 

'He  was  not  there,'  I  answered,  fall- 
ing half-unconsciously  into  her  tone. 

'He  is  always  there  —  everywhere; 
and  when  he  plays,  all  who  hear  must 
follow.  He  was  the  Pied  Piper  in  Hame- 
lin;  he  was  Pan  in  Hellas.  You  will  hear 
his  wild  fluting  in  many  strange  places 


when  you  know  how  to  listen.  When 
one  has  seen  him,  the  rest  comes  soon. 
And  then  you  will  follow.' 

'Not  away  from  you,  Vanna.' 

'From  the  marriage  feast,  from  the 
Table  of  the  Lord!'  she  said,  smiling 
strangely.  'The  man  who  wrote  that 
spoke  of  another  call,  but  it  is  the  same 
—  Krishna  or  Christ.  When  we  hear 
the  music,  we  follow.  And  we  may  lose 
or  gain  heaven.' 

It  might  have  been  her  compelling 
personality,  it  might  have  been  the 
marvels  of  beauty  about  me,  but  I 
knew  well  that  I  had  entered  at  some 
mystic  gate.  My  talk  with  Vanna  grew 
less  personal  and  more  introspective. 
I  felt  the  touch  of  her  finger-tips  lead- 
ing me  along  the  ways  of  Quiet:  my  feet 
brushed  a  shining  dew.  Once,  in  the 
twilight  under  the  chenar  trees,  I  saw 
a  white  gleaming  and  thought  it  a 
swiftly  passing  Being;  but  when  in 
haste  I  gained  the  tree,  I  found  there 
only  a  Ninefold  flower,  white  as  a  spirit 
in  the  evening  calm.  I  would  not  gather 
it,  but  told  Vanna  what  I  had  seen. 

'You  nearly  saw,'  she  said.  'She 
passed  so  quickly.  It  was  the  Snowy 
One,  Uma,  the  Daughter  of  the  Hima- 
laya. That  mountain  is  the  mountain 
of  her  lord  —  Shiva.  It  is  natural  she 
should  be  here.  I  saw  her  last  night 
leaning  over  the  height  —  her  chin  pil- 
lowed on  her  folded  arms,  with  a  low 
star  in  the  mists  of  her  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  like  lakes  of  blue  darkness,  vast 
and  wonderful.  She  is  the  Mystic 
Mother  of  India.  You  will  see  soon. 
You  could  not  have  seen  the  flower 
until  now.' 

'Do  you  know,'  she  added,  'that  in 
the  mountains  there  are  poppies  clear 
blue  —  blue  as  turquoise?  We  will  go 
up  into  the  heights  and  find  them.' 

And  next  moment  she  was  planning 
the  camping  details  —  the  men,  the 
ponies  —  with  a  practical  zest  that 
seemed  to  relegate  the  occult  to  the  ab- 


THE  INTERPRETER 


237 


surd.    Yet  the  very  next  day  came  a 
wonderful  happening. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  and,  as  it 
were,  suddenly  the  purple  glooms  bank- 
ed up  heavy  with  thunder.  The  sky 
was  black  with  fury,  the  earth  passive 
with  dread.  I  never  saw  such  lightning 
—  it  was  continuous  and  tore  in  zigzag 
flashes  down  the  mountains,  literally 
like  rents  in  the  substance  of  the  world's 
fabric.  And  the  thunder  roared  up  in 
the  mountain  gorges  with  shattering 
echoes.  Then  fell  the  rain,  and  the 
whole  lake  seemed  to  rise  to  meet  it. 

We  were  standing  by  the  cabin  win- 
dow, and  she  suddenly  caught  my 
hand,  and  I  saw  in  a  light  of  their  own 
two  dancing  figures  on  the  tormented 
water  before  us.  Wild  in  the  tumult, 
embodied  delight,  with  arms  tossed  vio- 
lently above  their  heads,  and  feet  flung 
up  behind  them,  skimming  the  waves 
like  sea-gulls,  they  passed.  I  saw  the 
fierce  aerial  faces  and  their  unhuman 
glee  as  they  fled  by;  and  she  dropped 
my  hand  and  they  were  gone. 

Slowly  the  storm  lessened,  and  in  the 
west  the  clouds  tore  raggedly  asunder 
and  a  flood  of  livid  yellow  light  poured 
down  upon  the  lake  —  an  awful  light 
that  struck  it  into  an  abyss  of  fire. 
Then,  as  if  at  a  word  of  command,  two 
glorious  rainbows  sprang  across  the 
water  with  the  mountains  for  their 
piers,  each  with  its  proper  colors  chord- 
ed.  They  made  a  Bridge  of  Dread  that 
stood  out  radiant  against  the  back- 
ground of  storm  —  the  Twilight  of  the 
Gods,  and  the  doomed  Gods  marching 
forth  to  the  last  fight.  And  the  thunder 
growled  sullenly  away  into  the  recesses 
of  the  hill,  and  the  terrible  rainbows 
faded  until  the  stars  came  quietly  out, 
and  it  was  a  still  night.  But  I  had  seen 
that  what  is  our  dread  is  the  joy  of  the 
spirits  of  the  Mighty  Mother;  and 
though  the  vision  faded,  and  I  doubted 
what  I  had  seen,  it  prepared  the  way 
for  what  I  was  yet  to  see. 


Ill 


A  few  days  later  we  started  on  what 
was  to  be  the  most  exquisite  memory 
of  my  life.  In  the  cool  gray  of  a  divine 
morning,  with  little  rosy  clouds  neck- 
ing the  eastern  sky,  we  set  out  from 
Islamabad  for  Vernag.  And  this  was 
the  order  of  our  going.  She  and  I  led  the 
way,  attended  by  a  sais  (groom),  and  a 
coolie  carrying  the  luncheon  basket. 
Half-way  we  would  stop  in  some  green 
dell,  or  by  some  rushing  stream,  and 
there  rest  and  eat  our  little  meal,  while 
the  rest  of  the  cavalcade  passed  on  to 
the  appointed  camping-place;  and  in  the 
late  afternoon  we  would  follow,  riding 
slowly,  and  find  the  tents  pitched. 

It  was  strange  that,  later,  much  of 
what  she  said  escaped  me.  Some  I  noted 
down  at  the  time,  but  there  were  hints, 
shadows  of  lovelier  things  beyond,  that 
eluded  all  but  the  fringes  of  memory 
when  I  tried  to  piece  them  together  and 
make  a  coherence  of  a  living  wonder. 
For  that  reason,  the  best  things  cannot 
be  told  in  this  history.  It  is  only  the 
cruder,  grosser  matters  that  words  will 
hold.  The  half-touchings  —  vanishing 
looks,  breaths  —  O  God,  I  know  them, 
but  cannot  tell! 

In  the  smaller  villages,  the  headman 
came  often  to  greet  us  and  make  us  wel- 
come, bearing  on  a  flat  dish  a  little  of- 
fering of  cakes  and  fruit,  the  produce  of 
the  place.  One  evening  a  headman  so 
approached,  stately  in  white  robes  and 
turban,  attended  by  a  little  lad  who 
carried  the  patriarchal  gift  beside  him. 
Our  tents  were  pitched  under  a  glorious 
walnut  tree,  with  a  running  stream  at 
our  feet. 

Vanna,  of  course,  was  the  interpreter, 
and  I  called  her  from  her  tent  as  the 
man  stood  salaaming  before  me.  It  was 
strange  that,  when  she  came,  dressed  in 
white,  he  stopped  in  his  salutation,  and 
gazed  at  her  in  what,  I  thought,  was 
silent  wonder.  She  spoke  earnestly  to 


238 


THE  INTERPRETER 


him,  standing  before  him  with  clasped 
hands  —  almost,  I  could  think,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  suppliant. 

The  man  listened  gravely,  with  only 
an  interjection  now  and  again;  and 
once  he  turned  and  looked  curiously  at 
me.  Then,  in  his  turn,  he  spoke,  evi- 
dently making  some  announcement, 
which  she  received  with  bowed  head; 
and  when  he  turned  to  go  with  a  grave 
salute,  she  performed  a  very  singular 
•'ceremony,  walking  slowly  round  him 
three  times,  keeping  him  always  on  the 
right.  He  repaid  it  with  the  usual  sa- 
laam and  greeting  of  peace,  which  he  be- 
stowed also  on  me,  and  then  departed 
in  deep  meditation,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

I  ventured  to  ask  what  it  all  meant, 
and  she  looked  thoughtfully  at  me  be- 
fore replying. 

'It  was  a  strange  thing.  I  fear  you 
will  not  altogether  understand,  but  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  can.  That  man, 
though  living  here  among  Mohamme- 
dans, is  a  Brahmin  from  Benares,  and, 
what  is  very  rare  in  India,  a  Buddhist. 
And  when  he  saw  me,  he  believed  he 
remembered  me  in  a  former  birth.  The 
ceremony  you  saw  me  perform  is  one 
of  honor  in  India.  It  was  his  due.' 

'Did  you  remember  him? '  I  knew  my 
voice  was  incredulous. 

'Very  well.  He  has  changed  little, 
but  is  further  on  the  upward  path.  I 
saw  him  with  dread,  for  he  holds  the 
memory  of  a  great  wrong  I  did.  Yet  he 
told  me  a  thing  that  has  filled  my  heart 
with  joy.' 

'  Vanna  —  what  is  it?' 

She  had  a  clear,  uplifted  look  which 
startled  me.  There  was  suddenly  a  chili 
air  blowing  between  us. 

'  I  must  not  tell  you  yet,  but  you  will 
know  soon.  He  was  a  good  man.  I  am 
glad  we  have  met.' 

She  buried  herself  in  writing  in  a 
small  book  that  I  had  noticed  and  long- 
ed to  look  into,  and  no  more  was  said. 


We  struck  camp  next  day  and  trekked 
on  toward  Vernag  —  a  rough  march, 
but  one  of  great  beauty,  beneath  the 
shade  of  forest  trees,  garlanded  with 
pale  roses  that  climbed1  from  bough  to 
bough  and  tossed  triumphant  wreaths 
into  the  uppermost  blue.  In  the  after- 
noon thunder  was  flapping  its  wings  far 
off  in  the  mountains,  and  a  little  rain 
fell  while  we  were  lunching  under  a  big 
tree.  I  was  considering  anxiously  how 
to  shelter  Vanna,  when  a  farmer  invited 
us  to  his  house  —  a  scene  of  Biblical 
hospitality  that  delighted  us  both.  He 
led  us  up  some  breakneck  little  stairs 
to  a  large  bare  room,  open  to  the  clean 
air  all  around  the  roof,  and  with  a  kind 
of  rough  enclosure  on  the  wooden  floor, 
where  the  family  slept  at  night.  There 
he  opened  our  basket,  and  then,  with 
anxious  care,  hung  clothes  and  rough 
draperies  about  us,  that  our  meal  might 
be  unwatched  by  one  or  two  friends 
who  had  followed  us  in  with  breathless 
interest. 

Still  further  to  entertain  us,  a  great 
rarity  was  brought  out  and  laid  at  Van- 
na's  feet,  as  something  we  might  like  to 
watch  —  a  curious  bird  in  a  cage,  with 
brightly  barred  wings  and  a  singular 
cry.  She  fed  it  with  a  fruit,  and  it  flut- 
tered to  her  hand.  Just  so  Abraham 
might  have  welcomed  his  guests;  and 
when  we  left,  with  words  of  deepest 
gratitude,  our  host  made  the  beautiful 
obeisance  of  touching  his  forehead 
with  joined  hands  as  he  bowed. 

To  me  the  whole  incident  had  an  ex- 
traordinary beauty,  and  ennobled  both 
host  and  guest.  But  we  met  an  ascend- 
ing scale  of  beauty,  so  varied  in  its  as- 
pects that  I  passed  from  one  emotion 
to  another,  and  knew  no  sameness. 

That  afternoon  the  camp  was  pitched 
at  the  foot  of  a  mighty  hill,  under  the 
waving  pyramids  of  the  chenars,  sweep- 
ing their  green  like  the  robes  of  a  god- 
dess. Near  by  was  a  half-circle  of  low 
arches  falling  into  ruin,  and  as  we  went 


THE  INTERPRETER 


239 


in  among  them,  I  beheld  a  wondrous 
sight  —  the  huge  octagonal  tank  made 
by  the  Mogul  Emperor  Jehangir  to  re- 
ceive the  waters  of  a  mighty  spring 
which  wells  from  the  hill  and  has  been 
held  sacred  by  Hindu  and  Moslem.  And 
if  loveliness  can  sanctify,  surely  it  is 
sacred,  indeed. 

'How  all  the  Mogul  Emperors  loved 
running  water!'  said  Vanna.  'I  can  see 
them  leaning  over  it  in  these  carved 
pavilions,  with  delicate  dark  faces  and 
pensive  eyes  beneath  their  turbans,  lost 
in  the  endless  reverie  of  the  East,  while 
liquid  melody  passes  into  their  dream. 
It  was  the  music  they  best  loved.' 

She  was  leading  me  into  the  royal 
garden  below,  where  the  young  river 
flows  beneath  the  pavilion  set  above 
and  across  the  rush  of  the  water. 

'I  remember  before  I  came  to  India,' 
she  went  on,  '  there  were  certain  words 
and  phrases  that  meant  the  whole  East 
to  me.  It  was  an  enchantment.  The 
first  flash  picture  I  had  was  Milton's 

Dark  faces  with  white  silken  turbans  wreathed, 

and  it  still  is.  I  have  thought  ever  since 
that  every  man  should  wear  a  turban. 
It  dignifies  the  uncomeliest,  and  it  is 
quite  curious  to  see  how  many  inches  a 
man  descends  in  the  scale  of  beauty  the 
moment  he  takes  it  off  and  you  see  only 
the  skull-cup  about  which  they  wind  it. 
They  wind  it  with  wonderful  skill,  too. 
I  have  seen  a  man  take  eighteen  yards 
of  muslin  and  throw  it  round  his  head 
with  a  few  turns;  and  in  five  or  six  min- 
utes the  beautiful  folds  were  all  in  order 
and  he  looked  like  a  king.  Some  of  the 
Gujars  here  wear  black  ones,  and  they 
are  very  effective  and  worth  painting 
-  the  black  folds  and  the  sullen  tem- 
pestuous black  brows  underneath.' 

We  sat  in  the  pavilion  for  a  while, 

looking  down  on  the  rushing  water,  and 

she  spoke  of  Akbar,  the  greatest  of  the 

Moguls,  and  spoke  with  a  curious  per- 

i  sonal  touch,  as  I  thought. 


'I  wish  you  would  try  to  write  a 
story  of  him  —  one  on  more  human 
lines  than  has  been  done  yet.  No  one 
has  accounted  for  the  passionate  quest 
of  truth  that  was  the  real  secret  of  his 
life.  Strange  in  an  Oriental  despot  if  you 
think  of  it !  It  really  can  be  understood 
only  from  the  Buddhist  belief  (which, 
curiously,  seems  to  have  been  the 
only  one  he  neglected)  that  a  mysteri- 
ous Karma  influenced  all  his  thoughts. 
If  I  tell  you,  as  a  key-note  for  your 
story,  that  in  a  past  life  he  had  been  a 
Buddhist  priest,  —  one  who  had  fallen 
away,  —  would  that  at  all  account  to 
you  for  attempts  to  recover  the  lost 
Way?  Try  to  think  that  out,  and  to 
write  the  story,  not  as  a  Western  mind 
sees  it,  but  pure  East.' 

'That  would  be  a  great  book  to  write 
if  one  could  catch  the  voices  of  the  past. 
But  how  to  do  that?' 

'I  will  give  you  one  day  a  little  book 
that  may  help  you.  The  other  story  I 
wish  you  would  write  is  the  story  of  a 
dancer  of  Peshawar.  There  is  a  con- 
nection between  the  two  —  a  story  of 
ruin  and  repentance.' 

'Will  you  tell  it  to  me*' 

'A  part.  In  this  same  book  you  will 
find  much  more,  but  not  all.  All  can- 
not be  told.  You  must  imagine  much; 
but  I  think  your  imagination  will  be 
true.' 

'Why  do  you  think  so?' 

'Because  in  these  few  days  you  have 
learned  so  much.  You  have  seen  the 
Ninefold  flower,  and  the  rain-spirits. 
You  will  soon  hear  the  Flute  of  Krish- 
na, which  none  can  hear  who  cannot 
dream  true.' 

That  night  I  heard  it.  I  waked,  sud- 
denly, to  music,  and  standing  in  the 
door  of  my  tent,  in  the  dead  silence  of 
the  night,  lit  only  by  a  few  low  stars,  I 
heard  the  poignant  notes  of  a  flute.  I 
it  had  called  my  name,  it  could  not 
have  summoned  me  more  clearly,  and 
I  followed  without  a  thought  of  delay, 


240 


THE  INTERPRETER 


forgetting  even  Vanna  in  the  strange 
urgency  that  filled  me. 

The  music  was  elusive,  seeming  to 
come  first  from  one  side,  then  from  the 
other;  but  finally  I  tracked  it  as  a  bee 
does  a  flower,  by  the  scent,  to  the  gate 
of  the  royal  garden  —  the  pleasure 
place  of  the  dead  Emperors.  The  gate 
stood  ajar  —  strange!  for  I  had  seen  the 
custodian  close  it  that  evening.  Now 
it  stood  wide,  and  I  went  in,  walking 
noiselessly  over  the  dewy  grass.  I  knew, 
and  could  not  tell  how,  that  I  must  be 
noiseless.  Passing  as  if  I  were  guided 
down  the  course  of  the  strong  young 
river,  I  came  to  the  pavilion  that  span- 
ned it,  —  the  place  where  we  had  stood 
that  afternoon,  —  and  there,  to  my 
profound  amazement,  I  saw  Vanna, 
leaning  against  a  slight  wooden  pillar. 
As  if  she  had  expected  me,  she  laid  one 
finger  on  her  lip,  and  stretching  out  her 
hand,  took  mine  and  drew  me  beside 
her  as  a  mother  might  a  child.  And 
instantly  I  saw! 

On  the  farther  bank  a  young  man  in 
a  strange  diadem  or  mitre  of  jewels, 
bare-breasted  and  beautiful,  stood 
among  the  flowering  oleanders,  one 
foot  lightly  crossed  over  the  other  as  he 
stood.  He  was  like  an  image  of  pale 
radiant  gold,  and  I  could  have  sworn 
that  the  light  came  from  within  rather 
than  fell  upon  him,  for  the  night  was 
very  dark.  He  held  the  Flute  to  his  lips, 
and  as  I  looked,  I  became  aware  that 
the  noise  of  the  rushing  water  tapered 
off  into  a  murmur  scarcely  louder  than 
that  of  a  summer  bee  in  the  heart  of 
a  rose.  Therefore,  the  music  rose  like 
a  fountain  of  crystal  drops,  cold,  clear, 
and  of  an  entrancing  sweetness,  and 
the  face  above  it  was  such  that  I  had  no 
power  to  turn  my  eyes  away.  How  shall 
I  say  what  it  was?  All  that  I  had  ever 
desired,  dreamed,  hoped,  prayed,  look- 
ed at  me  from  the  remote  beauty  of  the 
eyes,  and  with  the  most  persuasive 
gentleness  entreated  me,  rather  than 


commanded,  to  follow  fearlessly  and 
win.  But  these  are  words,  and  words 
shaped  in  the  rough  mould  of  thought 
cannot  convey  the  deep  desire  that 
would  have  hurled  me  to  his  feet  if 
Vanna  had  not  held  me  with  a  firm 
restraining  hand. 

Looking  up  in  adoring  love  to  the 
dark  face  was  a  ring  of  woodland  crea- 
tures. I  thought  I  could  distinguish  the 
white  clouded  robe  of  a  snow  leopard, 
the  soft  clumsiness  of  a  young  bear, 
and  many  more;  but  these  shifted  and 
blurred  like  dream  creatures  —  I  could 
not  be  sure  of  them  or  define  their  num- 
bers. The  eyes  of  the  Player  looked 
down  upon  their  passionate  delight 
with  careless  kindness. 

Dim  images  passed  through  my  mind. 
Orpheus  —  no,  this  was  no  Greek. 
Pan  —  yet  again,  no.  Where  were  the 
pipes,  the  goat-hoofs?  The  young  Dio- 
nysos  —  no;  there  were  strange  jewels 
instead  of  his  vines.  And  then  Vanna's 
voice  said  as  if  from  a  great  distance,  — 

'Krishna  —  the  Beloved';  and  I  said 
aloud,  'I  see!'  And,  even  as  I  said  it, 
the  whole  picture  blurred  together  like 
a  dream,  and  I  was  alone  in  the  pavilion 
and  the  water  was  foaming  past  me. 

Had  I  walked  in  my  sleep?  I  won- 
dered, as  I  made  my  way  back.  As  I 
gained  the  garden  gate,  before  me,  like  a 
snowflake,  I  saw  the  Ninefold  flower. 

When  I  told  her  next  day,  speaking  of 
it  as  a  dream,  she  said  simply,  'They 
have  opened  the  door  to  you.  You  will 
not  need  me  soon.' 

'I  shall  always  need  you.  You  have 
taught  me  everything.  I  could  see  noth- 
ing last  night  until  you  took  my  hand.' 

'I  was  not  there,'  she  said  smiling. 
'It  was  only  the  thought  of  me,  and 
you  can  have  that  when  I  am  very  far 
away.  I  was  sleeping  in  my  tent.  What 
you  called  in  me  then  you  can  always 
call,  even  if  I  am  —  dead.' 

'That  is  a  word  which  is  beginning 
to  have  no  meaning  for  me.  You  have 


THE  INTERPRETER 


241 


said  things  to  me  —  no,  thought  them  — 
that  have  made  me  doubt  if  there  is 
room  in  the  universe  for  the  thing  we 
have  called  death.' 

She  smiled  her  sweet  wise  smile. 

'  Where  we  are,  death  is  not.  Where 
death  is,  we  are  not.  But  you  will  un- 
derstand better  soon.' 

IV 

Our  march,  curving,  took  us  by  the 
Mogul  gardens  of  Achibal,  and  the 
glorious  ruins  of  the  great  Temple  at 
Martund,  and  so  down  to  Bawan,  with 
its  crystal  waters  and  that  loveliest 
camping-ground  beside  them.  A  mighty 
grove  of  chenar  trees,  so  huge  that  I  felt 
as  if  we  were  in  a  great  sea-cave  where 
the  air  is  dyed  with  the  deep  shadowy 
green  of  the  inmost  ocean,  and  the  mur- 
muring of  the  myriad  leaves  was  like  a 
sea  at  rest.  The  water  ran  with  a  great 
joyous  rush  of  release  from  the  moun- 
tain behind,  but  was  first  received  in  a 
basin  full  of  sacred  fish  and  reflecting  a 
little  temple  of  Maheshwara  and  one  of 
Surya  the  Sun.  Here,  in  this  basin,  the 
water  lay  pure  and  still  as  an  ecstasy, 
and  beside  it  was  musing  the  young 
Brahmin  priest  who  served  the  temple. 

Since  I  had  joined  Vanna  I  had  be- 
gun, with  her  help,  to  study  a  little 
Hindostani,  and,  with  an  aptitude  for 
language,  could  understand  here  and 
there.  I  caught  a  word  or  two,  as  she 
spoke  with  him,  that  startled  me,  when 
the  high-bred  ascetic  face  turned  serene- 
ly upon  her,  and  he  addressed  her  as 
'My  sister,'  adding  a  sentence  beyond 
my  learning,  but  which  she  willingly 
translated  later:  'May  He  who  sits 
above  the  Mysteries,  have  mercy  upon 
thy  rebirth.' 

She  said  afterward,  — 

'How  beautiful  some  of  these  men 
are.  It  seems  a  different  type  of  beauty 
from  ours  —  nearer  to  nature  and  the 
old  gods.  Look  at  that  priest:  the  tall, 

VOL.  128— NO.  2 


figure,  the  clear  olive  skin,  the  dark 
level  brows,  the  long  lashes  that  make  a 
soft  gloom  about  the  eyes,  —  eyes  that 
have  the  fathomless  depth  of  a  deer's, 
—  the  proud  arch  of  the  lip.  I  think 
there  is  no  country  where  aristocracy 
is  more  clearly  marked  than  in  India. 
The  Brahmins  are  the  aristocrats  of  the 
world.  You  see,  it  is  a  religious  aristoc- 
racy as  well.  It  has  everything  that  can 
foster  pride  and  exclusiveness.  They 
spring  from  the  Mouth  of  Deity.  They 
are  his  word  incarnate.  Not  many  kings 
are  of  the  Brahmin  caste,  and  the  Brah- 
mins look  down  upon  those  who  are  not, 
from  sovereign  heights.' 

And  so,  hi  marches  of  about  ten  miles 
a  day,  we  came  to  Pahlgam  on  the  banks 
of  the  dancing  Lidar.  There  were  now 
only  three  weeks  left  of  the  time  she  had 
promised.  After  a  few  days  at  Pahlgam 
the  march  would  turn  and  bend  its  way 
back  to  Srinagar,  and  to  —  what?  I 
could  not  believe  it  was  to  separation: 
in  her  lovely  kindness  she  had  grown 
so  close  to  me  that,  even  for  the  sake 
of  friendship,  I  believed  our  paths  must 
run  together  to  the  end;  and  there  were 
moments  when  I  could  still  half  con- 
vince myself  that  I  had  grown  as  neces- 
sary to  her  as  she  was  to  me.  No  —  not 
as  necessary,  for  she  was  life  and  soul  to 
me;  but  perhaps  a  part  of  her  daily  ex- 
perience that  she  valued  and  would  not 
easily  part  with. 

That  evening  we  were  sitting  outside 
the  tents,  near  the  camp-fire  of  pine 
logs  and  cones.  The  men,  in  various 
attitudes  of  rest,  were  lying  about,  and 
one  had  been  telling  a  story,  which  had 
just  ended  in  excitement  and  loud 
applause. 

'These  are  Mohammedans,  said 
Vanna,  'and  it  is  only  a  story  of  love 
and  fighting,  like  the  Arabian  Nights. 
If  they  had  been  Hindus,  it  might  well 
have  been  of  Krishna  or  of  Rama  and 
Sita.  Their  faith  comes  from  an  earlier 
time,  and  they  still  see  visions.  The 


THE  INTERPRETER 


Moslem  is  a  hard  practical  faith  for 
men  —  men  of  the  world,  too.  It  is  not 
visionary.' 

'  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  the  visions  or  apparitions  of 
the  Gods  that  are  seen  here.  Is  it  all 
illusion?  Tell  me  your  thought.' 

'How  difficult  that  is  to  answer!  I 
suppose  that,  if  love  and  faith  are  strong 
enough,  they  will  always  create  the 
vibrations  to  which  the  greater  vibra- 
tions respond,  and  so  create  God  in 
their  own  image  at  any  time  or  place. 
But  that  they  call  up  what  is  the  truest 
reality,  I  have  never  doubted.  There  is 
no  shadow  without  a  substance.  The 
substance  is  beyond  us,  but  under  cer- 
tain conditions  the  shadow  is  projected 
and  we  see  it.' 

'Have  I  seen,  or  has  it  been  dream?' 

'I  cannot  tell.  It  may  have  been  the 
impress  of  my  mind  on  yours,  for  I  see 
such  things  always.  You  say  I  took 
your  hand?' 

'Take  it  now.' 

She  obeyed,  and  instantly,  as  I  felt 
the  firm  cool  clasp,  I  heard  the  rain  of 
music  through  the  pines  —  the  Flute- 
Player  was  passing!  She  dropped  it, 
smiling,  and  the  sweet  sound  ceased. 

'You  see!  How  can  I  tell  what  you 
have  seen?  You  will  know  better  when 
I  am  gone.  You  will  stand  alone  then.' 

'You  will  not  go  —  you  cannot!  I 
have  seen  how  you  have  loved  all  this 
wonderful  time.  I  believe  it  has  been 
as  dear  to  you  as  to  me.  And  every  day 
I  have  loved  you  more.  You  could  not 
—  you  who  are  so  gentle  —  you  could 
not  commit  the  senseless  cruelty  of 
leaving  me  when  you  have  taught  me  to 
love  you  with  every  beat  of  my  heart. 
I  have  been  patient  —  I  have  held 
myself  in;  but  I  must  speak  now.  Mar- 
ry me,  and  teach  me.  I  know  nothing. 
You  know  all  I  need  to  know.  For 
pity's  sake,  be  my  wife.' 

I  had  not  meant  to  say  it;  it  broke 
from  me  in  the  firelit  moonlight  with  a 


power  that  I  could  not  stay.  She  looked 
at  me  with  a  discerning  gentleness. 

'Is  this  fair?  Do  you  remember  how 
at  Peshawar  I  told  you  I  thought  it  was 
a  dangerous  experiment,  and  that  it 
would  make  things  harder  for  you? 
But  you  took  the  risk  like  a  brave  man, 
because  you  felt  there  were  things  to  be 
gained  —  knowledge,  insight,  beauty. 
Have  you  not  gained  them?' 

'Yes.   Absolutely.' 

'Then  —  is  it  all  loss  if  I  go?' 

'Not  all.  But  loss  I  dare  not  face.' 

'  I  will  tell  you  this.  I  could  not  stay 
if  I  would.  Do  you  remember  the  old 
man  on  the  way  to  Vernag?  He  told  me 
that  I  must  very  soon  take  up  an  en- 
tirely new  life.  I  have  no  choice,  though, 
if  I  had,  I  would  still  do  it.' 

There  was  silence,  and  down  a  long 
arcade,  without  any  touch  of  her  hand, 
I  heard  the  music,  receding  with  ex- 
quisite modulations  to  a  very  great  dis- 
tance; and  between  the  pillared  stems, 
I  saw  a  faint  light. 

'  Do  you  wish  to  go  ? ' 

'Entirely.  But  I  shall  not  forget  you, 
Stephen.  I  will  tell  you  something. 
For  me,  since  I  came  to  India,  the  gate 
that  shuts  us  out  at  birth  has  opened. 
How  shall  I  explain?  Do  you  remember 
Kipling's  "  Finest  Story  in  the  World  "  ? ' 

'Yes:  fiction!' 

'Not  fiction — true,  whether  he  knew 
it  or  no.  But  for  me  the  door  has  open- 
ed wide.  First,  I  remembered  piece- 
meal, with  wide  gaps;  then  more  con- 
nectedly. Then,  at  the  end  of  the  first 
year,  I  met  one  day  at  Cawnpore  an 
ascetic,  an  old  man  of  great  beauty  and 
wisdom,  and  he  was  able  by  his  own 
knowledge  to  enlighten  mine.  Not 
wholly  —  much  has  come  since  then; 
has  come,  some  of  it,  in  ways  you  could 
not  understand  now,  but  much  by  di- 
rect sight  and  hearing.  Long,  long  ago 
I  lived  in  Peshawar,  and  my  story  was 
a  sorrowful  one.  I  will  tell  you  a  little 
before  I  go.' 


THE  INTERPRETER 


243 


'I  hold  you  to  your  promise.  What 
is  there  I  cannot  believe  when  you  tell 
me?  But  does  that  life  put  you  alto- 
gether away  from  me?  Was  there  no 
place  for  me  in  any  of  your  memories 
that  has  drawn  us  together  now  ?  Give 
me  a  little  hope  that,  in  the  eternal 
pilgrimage,  there  is  some  bond  between 
us,  and  some  rebirth  where  we  may 
meet  again.' 

'I  will  tell  you  that  also  before  we 
part.  I  have  grown  to  believe  that  you 
do  love  me  —  and  therefore  love  some- 
thing which  is  infinitely  above  me.' 

'And  do  you  love  me  at  all?  Am  I 
nothing,  Vanna  —  Vanna?' 

'My  friend,'  she  said,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  mine.  A  silence  and  then  she 
spoke,  very  low.  'You  must  be  pre- 
pared for  very  great  change,  Stephen, 
and  yet  believe  that  it  does  not  really 
change  things  at  all.  See  how  even  the 
Gods  pass  and  do  not  change.  The  early 
Gods  of  India  are  gone,  and  Shiva, 
Vishnu,  Krishna  have  taken  their 
places  and  are  one  and  the  same.  The 
Gods  cannot  die,  nor  can  we,  or  any- 
thing that  has  life.  Now  I  must  go 
inside.' 

The  days  that  were  left  we  spent  in 
wandering  up  the  Lidar  River  to  the 
hills  that  are  the  first  ramp  of  the  as- 
cent to  the  great  heights.  She  sat,  .one 
day,  on  a  rock,  holding  the  sculptured 
leaves  and  massive  seed-vessels  of  some 
glorious  plant  that  the  Kashmiris  be- 

i  lieve  has  magic  virtues  hidden  in  the 
seeds  of  pure  rose  embedded  in  the 
white  down. 

'If  you  fast  for  three  days  and  eat 

ij  nine  of  these  in  the  Night  of  No  Moon, 

•  you  can  rise  on  the  air  light  as  thistle- 
down and  stand  on  the  peak  of  Hara- 

I  moukh.  And  on  Haramoukh,  as  you 
know,  it  is  believed  that  the  Gods  dwell. 
There  was  a  man  here  who  tried  this  en- 
chantment. He  was  a  changed  man  for- 
ever after,  wandering  and  muttering  to 

1  himself,  and  avoiding  all  human  inter- 


course as  far  as  he  could.   He  said  he 
had  seen  the  Dream  of  the  God! 

'  Do  you  think  he  had  seen  anything? ' 

'What  do  I  know?  Will  you  eat  the 
seeds  ?  The  Night  of  No  Moon  will  soon 
be  here.' 

She  held  out  the  seed-vessels,  laugh- 
ing. I  write  that  down;  but  how  record 
the  lovely  light  of  kindliness  in  her  eyes 
—  the  almost  submissive  gentleness  that 
yet  was  a  defense  stronger  than  steel? 
I  never  knew  —  how  should  I?  — 
whether  she  was  sitting  by  my  side  or 
heavens  away  from  me  in  her  own 
strange  world.  But  always  she  was  a 
sweetness  that  I  could  not  reach,  a  cup 
of  nectar  that  I  might  not  drink,  unal- 
terably her  own  and  never  mine,  and 
yet  —  my  friend. 

She  showed  me  the  wild  track  up  into 
the  mountains,  where  the  pilgrims  go 
to  pay  their  devotions  to  the  Great 
God's  shrine  in  the  awful  heights. 

Above  where  we  were  sitting,  the  riv- 
er fell  in  a  tormented  white  cascade, 
crashing  and  feathering  into  spray-dust 
of  diamonds.  An  eagle  was  flying  above 
it,  with  a  mighty  spread  of  wings  that 
seemed  almost  double-jointed  in  the 
middle,  they  curved  and  flapped  so  wide 
and  free.  The  fierce  head  was  out- 
stretched with  the  rake  of  a  plundering 
galley,  as  he  swept  down  the  wind,  seek- 
ing his  meat  from  God,  and  passed  ma- 
jestic from  our  sight. 

Vanna  spoke,  and  as  she  spoke  I  saw. 
What  are  her  words  as  I  record  them? 
Stray  dead  leaves  pressed  in  a  book  — 
the  life  and  grace  dead.  Yet  I  record, 
for  she  taught  me,  what  I  believe  the 
world  should  learn,  that  the  Buddhist 
philosophers  are  right  when  they  teach 
that  all  forms  of  what  we  call  matter 
are  really  but  aggregates  of  spiritual 
units,  and  that  life  itself  is  a  curtain 
hiding  reality,  as  the  vast  veil  of  day 
conceals  from  our  sight  the  countless 
orbs  of  space.  So  that  the  purified  mind , 
even  while  prisoned  in  the  body,  may 


244 


THE  INTERPRETER 


enter  into  union  with  the  Real  and,  ac- 
cording to  attainment,  see  it  as  it  is. 

She  was  an  interpreter  because  she 
believed  this  truth  profoundly.  She 
saw  the  spiritual  essence  beneath  the 
lovely  illusion  of  matter,  and  the  air 
about  her  was  radiant  with  the  motion 
of  strange  forces  for  which  the  dull 
world  has  many  names,  aiming  indeed 
at  the  truth,  but  falling,  oh,  how  far 
short  of  her  calm  perception!  She  was 
of  a  House  higher  than  the  Household 
of  Faith.  She  had  received  enlighten- 
ment. She  believed  because  she  had 
seen. 


Next  day  our  camp  was  struck,  and 
we  turned  our  faces  again  to  Srinagar 
and  to  the  day  of  parting.  I  set  down 
but  one  strange  incident  of  our  journey, 
of  which  I  did  not  speak  even  to  her. 

We  were  camping  at  Bijbehara,  await- 
ing our  house-boat,  and  the  site  was  by 
the  Maharaja's  lodge  above  the  little 
town.  It  was  midnight  and  I  was  sleep- 
less —  the  shadow  of  the  near  future 
was  upon  me.  I  wandered  down  to  the 
lovely  old  wooden  bridge  across  the 
Jhelum,  where  the  strong  young  trees 
grow  up  from  the  piles.  Beyond  it  the 
moon  was  shining  on  the  ancient  Hindu 
remains  close  to  the  new  temple;  and 
as  I  stood  on  the  bridge,  I  could  see  the 
figure  of  a  man  in  deepest  meditation 
by  the  ruins.  He  was  no  European.  I 
could  see  the  straight,  dignified  folds  of 
the  robes.  But  it  was  not  surprising  that 
he  should  be  there,  and  I  should  have 
thought  no  more  of  it,  had  I  not  heard 
at  that  instant  from  the  farther  side  of 
the  river  the  music  of  the  Flute.  I  can- 
not hope  to  describe  that  music  to  any 
who  have  not  heard  it.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that,  where  it  calls,  he  who  hears  must 
follow,  whether  in  the  body  or  the  spirit. 
Nor  can  I  now  tell  in  which  I  followed. 
One  day  it  will  call  me  across  the  River 
of  Death,  and  I  shall  ford  it  or  sink  in 


the  immeasurable  depths,  and  either 
will  be  well. 

But  immediately  I  was  at  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  standing  by  the  stone 
Bull  of  Shiva  where  he  kneels  before  the 
Symbol,  and  looking  steadfastly  upon 
me  a  few  paces  away  was  a  man  in  the 
dress  of  a  Buddhist  monk.  He  wore  the 
yellow  robe  that  leaves  one  shoulder 
bare;  his  head  was  bare,  also,  and  he 
held  in  one  hand  a  small  bowl  like  a 
stemless  chalice.  I  knew  I  was  seeing 
a  very  strange  and  inexplicable  sight, 
—  one  that  in  Kashmir  should  be  in- 
credible, —  but  I  put  wonder  aside,  for 
I  knew  now  that  I  was  moving  in  the 
sphere  where  the  incredible  may  well 
be  the  actual.  His  expression  was  of  the 
most  unbroken  calm.  If  I  compare  it 
to  the  passionless  gaze  of  the  Sphinx, 
I  misrepresent,  for  the  Riddle  of  the 
Sphinx  still  awaits  solution,  but  in  this 
face  was  a  noble  acquiescence  and  a 
content  which,  had  it  vibrated,  must 
have  passed  into  joy. 

Words  or  their  equivalent  passed  be- 
tween us.  I  felt  his  voice. 

'You  have  heard  the  music  of  the 
Flute?' 

'  I  have  heard.' 

'What  has  it  given?' 

'A  consuming  longing.' 

'  It  is  the  music  of  the  Eternal.  The 
creeds  and  the  faiths  are  the  words  that 
men  have  set  to  that  melody.  Listen- 
ing, it  will  lead  you  to  Wisdom.  Day 
by  day  you  will  interpret  more  surely.' 

'I  cannot  stand  alone.' 

'  You  will  not  need.  What  has  led  you 
will  lead  you  still.  Through  many 
births  it  has  led  you.  How  should  it 
fail?' 

'What  should  I  do?' 

'Go  forward.' 

'What  should  I  shun?' 

'Sorrow  and  fear.' 

'What  should  I  seek?' 

'Joy.' 

'And  the  end?' 


THE   INTERPRETER 


'Joy.  Wisdom.  They  are  the  Light 
and  Dark  of  the  Divine.' 

A  cold  breeze  passed  and  touched  my 
forehead.  I  was  still  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  bridge  above  the  water 
gliding  to  the  ocean,  and  there  was  no 
figure  by  the  Bull  of  Shiva.  I  was  alone. 
I  passed  back  to  the  tents,  with  the 
shudder  that  is  not  fear  but  akin  to 
death  upon  me.  I  knew  that  I  had  been 
profoundly  withdrawn  from  what  we 
call  actual  life,  and  the  return  is  dread. 

The  days  passed  as  we  floated  down 
the  river  to  Srinagar. 

On  board  the  Kedarnath,  now  lying 
in  our  first  berth  beneath  the  chenars, 
near  and  yet  far  from  the  city,  the  last 
night  had  come.  Next  morning  I  should 
begin  the  long  ride  to  Baramula,  and 
beyond  that  barrier  of  the  Happy  Val- 
ley down  to  Murree  and  the  Punjab. 
Where  afterward?  I  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  My  lesson  was  before  me  to  be 
learned.  I  must  try  to  detach  myself 
from  all  I  had  prized  —  to  say  to  my 
heart  that  it  was  but  a  loan  and  a  gift, 
and  to  cling  only  to  the  imperishable. 
And  did  I  as  yet  certainly  know  more 
than  the  A  B  C  of  the  hard  doctrine  by 
which  I  must  live?  Que  vivre  est  diffi- 
cile,  0  mon  coeur fatigue!  —  An  immense 
weariness  possessed  me  —  a  passive 
grief. 

Vanna  would  follow  later  with  the 
wife  of  an  Indian  doctor.  I  believed  she 
was  bound  for  Lahore;  but  on  that 
point  she  had  not  spoken  certainly, 
and  I  felt  that  we  should  not  meet  again. 

And  now  my  packing  was  finished, 
and,  so  far  as  my  possessions  went,  the 
little  cabin  had  the  soulless  emptiness 
that  comes  with  departure. 

I  was  enduring  as  best  I  could.  If  she 
had  held  loyally  to  her  pact,  could  I  do 
less?  Was  she  to  blame  for  my  wild 
hope  that  in  the  end  she  would  relent 
and  step  down  to  the  household  levels 
of  love? 


245 

She  sat  by  the  window  —  the  last 
time  I  should  see  the  moonlit  banks 
and  her  clear  face  against  them.  I 
made  and  won  my  fight  for  the  courage 
of  words. 

'And  now  I've  finished  everything, 
thank  goodness!  and  we  can  talk. 
Vanna  —  you  will  write  to  me?' 

'Once.  I  promise  that.' 

'Only  once?  Why?  I  counted  on 
your  words.' 

'I  want  to  speak  to  you  of  something 
else  now.  I  want  to  tell  you  a  memory. 
But  look  first  at  the  pale  light  behind 
the  Takht-i-Suliman.' 

So  I  had  seen  it  with  her.  So  I  should 
not  see  it  again.  We  watched  until  a 
line  of  silver  sparkled  on  the  black  wa- 
ter, and  then  she  spoke. 

'Stephen,  do  you  remember  in  the 
ruined  monastery  near  Peshawar,  how 
I  told  you  of  the  young  Abbot,  who 
came  down  to  Peshawar  with  a  Chinese 
pilgrim?  And  he  never  returned.' 

'I  remember.  There  was  a  dancer.' 

'There  was  a  dancer.  She  was  Lila- 
vanti,  and  was  brought  there  to  trap 
him;  but  when  she  saw  him  she  loved 
him,  and  that  was  his  ruin  and  hers. 
Trickery  he  would  have  known  and  es- 
caped. Love  caught  him  in  an  unbreak- 
able net,  and  they  fled  down  the  Pun- 
jab, and  no  one  knew  any  more.  But  I 
.  know.  For  two  years  they  lived  to- 
gether, and  she  saw  the  agony  in  his 
heart  —  the  anguish  of  his  broken 
vows,  the  face  of  the  Blessed  One  re- 
ceding into  an  infinite  distance.  She 
knew  that  every  day  added  a  link  to 
the  heavy  Karma  that  was  bound  about 
the  feet  she  loved,  and  her  soul  said, 
"Set  him  free,"  and  her  heart  refused 
the  torture.  But  her  soul  was  the  strong- 
er. She  set  him  free.' 

'How?' 

'She  took  poison.  He  became  an  as- 
cetic in  the  hills,  and  died  in  peace,  but 
with  a  long  expiation  upon  him.' 

'And  she?' 


246 


THE  INTERPRETER 


'  I  am  she.' 

'  You ! '  I  heard  my  voice  as  if  it  were 
another  man's.  Was  it  possible  that  I 

—  a  man  of  the  twentieth  century  — 
believed   this   impossible   thing?    Im- 
possible, and  yet  —  What  had  I  learned 
if  not  the  unity  of  Time,  the  illusion  of 
matter?    What  is  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, what  the  first?   Do  they  not  lie 
before  the  Supreme  as  one,  and  clean 
from  our  petty  divisions?   And  I  my- 
self had  seen  what,  if  I  could  trust  it, 
asserted  the  marvels  that  are  no  mar- 
vels to  those  who  know. 

'You  loved  him?' 

'I  love  him.' 

'Then  there  is  nothing  at  all  for  me.' 

She  resumed  as  if  she  had  heard 
nothing. 

'I  have  lost  him  for  many  lives.  He 
stepped  above  me  at  once;  for  he  was 
clean  gold,  though  he  fell;  and  though 
I  have  followed,  I  have  not  found. 
But  that  Buddhist  beyond  Islamabad 

—  you  shall  hear  now  what  he  said.  It 
was  this.    "The  shut  door  opens,  and 
this  time  he  waits."   I  cannot  yet  say 
all  it  means,  but  there  is  no  Lahore  for 
me.  I  shall  meet  him  soon.' 

'Vanna,  you  would  not  harm  your- 
self again?' 

'Never.  I  should  not  meet  him.  But 
you  will  see.  Now  I  can  talk  no  more. 
I  will  be  there  to-morrow  when  you  go, 
and  ride  with  you  to  the  poplar  road.' 

She  passed  like  a  shadow  into  her 
little  dark  cabin,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
I  will  not  dwell  on  that  black  loneliness 
of  the  spirit,  for  it  has  passed  —  it  was 
the  darkness  of  hell,  a  madness  of  jeal- 
ousy, and  could  have  no  enduring  life 
in  any  heart  that  had  known  her.  But 
it  was  death  while  it  lasted.  I  had  mo- 
ments of  horrible  belief,  of  horrible  dis- 
belief; but  however  it  might  be,  I  knew 
that  she  was  out  of  reach  forever.  Near 
me  —  yes !  but  only  as  the  silver  image 
of  the  moon  floating  in  the  water  by  the 
boat,  with  the  moon  herself  cold  myri- 


ads of  miles  away.  I  will  say  no  more 
of  that  last  eclipse  of  what  she  had 
wrought  in  me. 

The  bright  morning  came,  sunny  as 
if  my  joys  were  beginning  instead  of 
ending.  Vanna  mounted  her  horse,  and 
led  the  way  from  the  boat.  I  cast  one 
long  look  at  the  little  Kedarnath,  the 
home  of  those  perfect  weeks,  of  such 
joy  and  sorrow  as  would  have  seemed 
impossible  to  me  in  the  chrysalis  of  my 
former  existence.  Little  Kahdra  stood 
crying  bitterly  on  the  bank;  the  kindly 
folk  who  had  served  us  were  gathered, 
saddened  and  quiet. 

How  dear  she  looked,  how  kind,  how 
gentle  her  appealing  eyes,  as  I  drew  up 
beside  her!  She  knew  what  I  felt,  that 
the  sight  of  little  Kahdra,  crying  as  he 
said  good-bye,  was  the  last  pull  at  my 
sore  heart.  Still  she  rode  steadily  on, 
and  still  I  followed.  Once  she  spoke. 

'  Stephen,  there  was  a  man  in  Pesha- 
war, kind  and  true,  who  loved  that  Lila- 
vanti,  who  had  no  heart  for  him.  And 
when  she  died,  it  was  in  his  arms,  as  a 
sister  might  cling  to  a  brother;  for  the 
man  she  loved  had  left  her.  It  seems 
that  will  not  be  in  this  life,  but  do  not 
think  I  have  been  so  blind  that  I  did 
not  know  my  friend.' 

I  could  not  answer  —  it  was  the  reali- 
zation of  the  utmost  I  could  hope,  and 
it  came  like  healing  to  my  spirit.  Bet- 
ter that  bond  between  us,  slight  as  most 
men  might  think  it,  than  the  dearest 
and  closest  with  a  woman  not  Vanna. 
It  was  the  first  thrill  of  a  new  joy  in  my 
heart  —  the  first,  I  thank  the  Infinite, 
of  many  and  steadily  growing  joys  and 
hopes  that  cannot  be  uttered  here. 

I  bent  to  take  the  hand  she  stretched 
to  me;  but  even  as  our  hands  touched, 
I  saw,  passing  behind  the  trees  by  the 
road,  the  young  man  I  had  seen  in  the 
garden  at  Vernag  —  most  beautiful,  in 
the  strange  mitre  of  his  jeweled  diadem. 
His  Flute  was  at  his  lips,  and  the  music 
rang  out  sudden  and  crystal-clear,  as  if 


THE  INTERPRETER 


247 


a  woodland  god  were  passing  to  awaken 
all  the  joys  of  the  dawn. 

The  horses  heard,  too.  In  an  instant 
hers  had  swerved  wildly,  and  she  lay  on 
the  ground  at  my  feet. 

VI 

Days  had  gone  before  I  could  recall 
what  had  happened  then.  I  lifted  her 
in  my  arms  and  carried  her  into  the 
rest-house  near  at  hand,  and  the  doctor 
came  and  looked  grave,  and  a  nurse  was 
sent  from  the  Mission  Hospital.  No 
doubt  all  was  done  that  was  possible; 
but  I  knew  from  the  first  what  it  meant 
and  how  it  would  be.  She  lay  in  a  white 
quietness,  and  the  room  was  still  as 
death.  I  remembered  with  unspeakable 
gratitude  later  that  the  nurse  had  been 
merciful  and  had  not  sent  me  away. 

So  Vanna  lay  all  day  and  all  night ;  and 
when  the  dawn  came  again,  she  stirred 
and  motioned  with  her  hand,  although 
her  eyes  were  closed.  I  understood,  and, 
kneeling,  I  put  my  hand  under  her 
head,  and  rested  it  against  my  shoulder. 
Her  faint  voice  murmured  at  my  ear. 

'  I  dreamed  —  I  was  in  the  pine  wood 
at  Pahlgam,  and  it  was  the  Night  of 
No  Moon,  and  I  was  afraid,  for  it  was 
dark;  but  suddenly  all  the  trees  were 
covered  with  little  lights  like  stars,  and 
the  greater  light  was  beyond.  Nothing 
to  be  afraid  of.' 

'Nothing,  beloved.' 

'And  I  looked  beyond  Peshawar, 
farther  than  eyes  could  see;  and  in  the 
ruins  of  the  monastery  where  we  stood, 
you  and  I  —  I  saw  him,  and  he  lay  with 
his  head  at  the  feet  of  the  Blessed  One. 
That  is  well,  is  it  not?' 

'Well,  beloved.' 

'And  it  is  well  I  go?  Is  it  not?' 

'It  is  well.' 

A  long  silence.  The  first  sun-ray 
touched  the  floor.  Again  the  whisper : — 


'Believe  what  I  have  told  you.  For 
we  shall  meet  again.' 

I  repeated,  'We  shall  meet  again.' 

In  my  arms  she  died. 

Later,  when  all  was  over,  I  asked  my- 
self if  I  believed  this,  and  answered  with 
full  assurance,  Yes. 

If  the  story  thus  told  sounds  incred- 
ible, it  was  not  incredible  to  me.  I  had 
had  a  profound  experience.  What  is  a 
miracle?  It  is  simply  the  vision  of  the 
Divine  behind  nature.  It  will  come  in 
different  forms  according  to  the  eyes 
that  see,  but  the  soul  will  know  that  its 
perception  is  authentic. 

I  could  not  leave  Kashmir,  nor  was 
there  any  need.  On  the  contrary,  I  saw 
that  there  was  work  for  me  here  among 
the  people  she  had  loved,  and  my  first 
aim  was  to  fit  myself  for  that  and  for 
the  writing  I  now  felt  was  to  be  my 
career  in  life.  After  much  thought,  I 
bought  the  little  Kedarnath  and  made 
it  my  home,  very  greatly  to  the  satis- 
faction of  little  Kahdra  and  all  the 
friendly  people  to  whom  I  owed  so 
much. 

Vanna's  cabin  I  made  my  sleeping- 
room,  and  it  is  the  simple  truth  that 
the  first  night  I  slept  in  the  place  that 
was  a  Temple  of  Peace  in  my  thoughts 
I  had  a  dream  of  wordless  bliss,  and 
starting  awake  for  sheer  joy,  I  saw  her 
face  in  the  night,  human  and  dear, 
looking  upon  me  with  that  poignant 
sweetness  which  would  seem  to  be 
the  utmost  revelation  of  love  and  pity. 
And  as  I  stretched  my  hands,  another 
face  dawned  solemnly  from  the  shadow 
beside  her,  with  grave  brows  bent  on 
mine  —  one  I  had  known  and  seen  in 
the  ruins  at  Bijbehara.  Outside,  and 
very  near,  I  could  hear  the  silver  weav- 
ing of  the  Flute  that  in  India  is  the  sym- 
bol of  the  call  of  the  Divine.  A  dream; 
but  it  taught  me  to  live. 


(The  End) 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


BY  A.   G.   GARDINER 


IT  is  a  fact  of  universal  admission  that 
the  prestige  of  the  British  Parliament 
has  not  been  at  so  low  an  ebb  in  living 
memory  as  it  is  to-day.  We  should  have, 
I  think,  to  go  back  to  the  time  when 
George  III,  in  his  pursuit  of  personal 
government,  packed  the  House  of  Com- 
mons with  his  creatures,  to  parallel  the 
disrepute  into  which  the  present  Parlia- 
ment has  fallen.  The  House  of  Com- 
mons has  lost  its  authority  over  the 
public  mind  and  its  influence  upon 
events.  The  press  has  largely  ceased  to 
report  its  proceedings,  and  the  scrappy 
descriptive  summary  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  full-dress  verbatim  reports 
with  which  we  were  familiar  a  few  years 
ago.  This  is  no  doubt  largely  due  to  the 
revolution  in  the  press  which  has  re- 
placed the  sober  seriousness  of  the  past 
by  a  tendency  to  keep  the  public  amused 
with  sensation  and  stunts.  But  the  fact 
does  reflect  the  public  sense  of  the  de- 
cadence of  Parliament. 

And  there  is  an  odd  touch  of  irony  in 
this  —  that  the  depreciation  affects  the 
popular  House  much  more  than  the 
House  of  Lords.  For  generations  the 
latter  has  been  a  threatened  institu- 
tion, the  last  hope  of  impossible  causes 
and  the  bugbear  of  the  reformer.  Its 
record  of  stupid  opposition  to  every 
movement  of  enlightened  and  rational 
change  has  been  the  tradition  of  a  cen- 
tury; but  it  seemed  that,  with  the  great 
Budget  fight  of  1910  and  the  passing  of 
the  Parliament  Act,  its  power  for  mis- 
chief had  been  finally  controlled.  It 

248 


was  an  ogre  that  had  lost  its  teeth  and 
its  claws,  and  was  henceforth  harmless. 
And  behold!  Just  at  the  moment  when 
the  representative  House  is  at  last 
based  on  the  broadest  possible  fran- 
chise, when  the  suffrage  is  universal 
and  women  have  the  vote,  we  are  con- 
fronted with  the  spectacle  of  a  House  of 
Commons  so  negligible  as  to  be  almost 
beneath  contempt,  and  so  mute  and 
servile  that,  by  comparison,  the  heredi- 
tary Chamber  stands  out  in  contrast  as 
the  guardian  of  public  liberties  and 
free  institutions.  For  long  years  Lib- 
erals have  been  fighting  for  a  thor- 
oughly representative  system  and  for 
imposing  restraint  upon  the  reaction- 
ary tendencies  of  the  Upper  House. 
And  having  accomplished  their  aim, 
they  find  that  they  have  to  turn,  for 
the  experience  of  whatever  remnant  of 
enlightened  and  liberal-minded  opinion 
there  remains,  from  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  the  House  of  Lords.  There  at 
least  an  occasional  weighty  voice  is 
heard  in  protest  against  the  follies  of  the 
government.  There  at  least  is  some 
reminiscence  of  the  spirit  of  independent 
criticism,  which  has  certainly  vanished 
from  a  House  of  Commons  that  ex- 
ists simply  to  register  the  decrees  of  a 
ministry. 

If  we  seek  to  discover  the  causes  of 
the  decline  of  the  Parliamentary  insti- 
tution, the  most  general  conclusion  will 
be  that  it  is  an  incident  in  the  convul- 
sion of  the  war.  There  can,  of  course, 
be  no  doubt  on  this  point.  It  is  the  war 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


that  has  shaken  the  pillars  of  West- 
minster and  left  the  governance  of 
England  more  chaotic  and  indetermin- 
ate than  it  has  been  for  two  centuries. 
But  while  this  is  undoubtedly  true,  it  is 
also  true  that  for  some  years  before  the 
war  there  had  been  tendencies  at  work 
which  had  been  undermining  confidence 
in  Parliamentary  government.  The 
transfer  of  power  from  the  educated 
middle  classes  to  the  mass  of  the  people, 
while  a  just  and  inevitable  development 
of  the  democratic  idea,  was  productive 
of  results  which  were  not  wholly  salu- 
tary. The  appeal  ceased  to  be  to  an  in- 
structed community,  which  could  be 
reached  by  argument,  and  passed  to  the 
millions  who  had  neither  the  taste  nor 
the  time  for  the  consideration  of  affairs, 
and  became  interested  in  them  only 
when  passion  was  aroused. 

The  development  enormously  en- 
hanced the  power  of  the  demagogue  in 
politics.  It  made  the  appeal  to  reason 
more  difficult  and  the  appeal  to  violent 
emotion  infinitely  more  profitable. 
And  the  change  in  the  seat  of  power  was 
accompanied  by  another  change,  which 
intensified  the  demagogic  tendency. 
The  press  became  aware  of  the  big  bat- 
talions and  set  out  to  exploit  them.  An 
enterprising  youth  named  Harmsworth, 
having  discovered,  by  the  success  of 
Answers  and  similar  erudite  publica- 
tions, that  what  the  great  public  want- 
ed to  know  was  how  many  acres  there 
were  in  Yorkshire,  how  many  letters  in 
the  Bible,  how  far  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don put  end  to  end  would  reach  across 
the  Atlantic,  and  so  on,  determined  to 
apply  the  spirit  of  this  illuminating  gos- 
pel to  the  conduct  of  the  daily  press. 
His  triumph  was  phenomenal.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  years  the  whole  char- 
acter of  the  English  press  was  changed. 
It  passed  mainly  into  the  hands  of  a 
few  great  syndicates,  with  young  Mr. 
Harmsworth,  now  Viscount  Northcliffe, 
as  the  head  of  the  new  journalistic  hier- 


249 

archy.  It  led  the  public  on  stunts  and 
sensations.  It  debased  the  currency  of 
political  controversy  to  phrases  that 
could  be  put  in  a  headline  and  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  The  old-fashion- 
ed newspaper,  which  reported  speeches 
and  believed  in  the  sanctity  of  its  news- 
columns,  went  under  or  had  to  join  in 
the  sauve  qui  pent.  Parliament  was 
treated  as  a  music-hall  turn.  If  it  was 
funny,  it  was  reported;  if  it  was  seri- 
ous, it  was  ignored.  With  the  exception 
of  a  few  papers,  chiefly  in  the  provinces, 
like  the  Manchester  Guardian  and  the 
Scotsman,  the  utterances  of  serious 
statesmen  other  than  the  Prime  Min- 
ister were  unreported.  The  Midlothian 
campaign  of  Gladstone,  which  used  to 
fill  pages  of  the  newspapers,  would  to- 
day be  dismissed  in  an  ill-reported  half- 
column  summary  devoted,  not  to  the 
argument,  but  to  the  amusing  asides 
and  the  irrelevant  interruptions. 

All  this  profoundly  affected  the  Par- 
liamentary atmosphere.  The  power 
outside  the  House  was  no  longer  a  vigi- 
lant influence  upon  events  within  the 
House.  The  statesman  ceased  to  rely 
upon  his  reasoned  appeal  to  the  facts. 
He  found  that  the  way  to  dominion 
over  Parliament  was  not  by  argument 
on  the  floor  of  the  House,  but  by  mak- 
ing terms  with  the  great  lords  of  the 
press  outside,  who  controlled  the  ma- 
chine that  manufactured  public  opin- 
ion. Long  before  the  war  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  had  appreciated  the  changed 
circumstances  and  taken  advantage  of 
them.  A  press  man  was  much  more  im- 
portant to  him  than  a  Parliamentary 
colleague  or  a  prince  of  the  blood.  He 
might  forget  to  reply  to  an  archbishop, 
but  he  would  never  forget  to  reply  to  a 
journalist.  His  acquaintance  among 
the  craft  was  more  various  and  peculiar 
than  that  of  any  politician  of  this  day 
or  any  other  day.  There  was  no  news- 
paper man  so  poor  that  he  would  not 
do  him  reverence  and  entertain  him  t( 


250 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


breakfast.  While  his  former  colleague, 
Mr.  Asquith,  studiously  ignored  the 
press  and  would  no  more  have  thought 
of  bargaining  with  Northcliffe  and 
Beaverbrook  for  their  support  than  of 
asking  his  butler  to  write  his  speeches, 
Mr.  George  lived  in  the  press  world, 
knew  every  leading  journalist's  vul- 
nerable point,  humored  his  vanity,  and 
gave  him  a  knighthood  or  a  peerage  as 
readily  as  his  breakfast. 

By  these  ingenious  arts,  which  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  watching  at  pretty 
close  quarters  for  twenty  years  past,  he 
built  up  that  press  legend  of  himself 
which  has  been  so  invaluable  an  asset 
to  him.  It  has  not  only  enabled  him  to 
establish  his  own  political  fortunes:  it 
has  enabled  him  to  destroy  the  political 
fortunes  of  one  set  of  colleagues  after 
another  —  unhappy  gentlemen,  who 
did  not  know  the  secret  doors  of  Fleet 
Street,  and  found  themselves  frozen 
out  of  the  public  affections  by  a  mys- 
terious wind  that  emanated  from  they 
knew  not  where. 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  mention  the 
chief  figures  of  the  press  bodyguard 
with  which  Mr.  George  has  displaced 
the  authority  of  Parliament  and  made 
himself  more  nearly  a  dictator  than  the 
country  has  seen  since  the  days  of 
Cromwell.  They  are  really  very  few, 
but  between  them  they  influence  the 
opinion  and  control  the  news-supply  of 
nineteen  twentieths  of  the  people  of  the 
country.  They  are  Lord  Northcliffe, 
whom  he  made  a  viscount;  his  brother, 
Lord  Rothermere,  whom  also  he  made  a 
viscount;  a  third  brother,  Sir  Leicester 
Harmsworth,  whom  he  made  a  baronet; 
Mr.  George  Riddell  of  the  News  of  the 
World,  whom  he  made  Lord  Riddell; 
the  manager  of  the  Times,  Sir  Stuart 
Campbell,  whom  he  made  a  knight; 
the  manager  of  the  Mail,  whom  he  made 
a  knight;  Sir  H.  Dalziel  of  the  Daily 
Chronicle  and  Pall  Mall;  Sir  William 
Robertson  Nichol  (also  made  a  knight), 


who,  as  editor  of  the  British  Weekly, 
keeps  him  right  with  the  Nonconform- 
ist public;  Sir  Edward  Hulbar,  the  own- 
er of  a  great  group  of  papers  in  London 
and  Manchester  (a  baronetcy  for  him); 
Lord  Beaverbrook  of  the  Daily  Express, 
who  was  given  a  peerage  for  engineer- 
ing the  overthrow  of  the  Asquith  min- 
istry. There  are  others,  but  these  are 
the  leaders  of  the  claque  through  which 
Mr.  George  rules  England  and,  in  larger 
degree  than  any  man  living,  the  con- 
tinent of  Europe.  It  is  a  great  achieve- 
ment. The  press  lords  have  so  indoc- 
trinated the  public  mind  with  the 
Lloyd  George  legend  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  they  themselves  can  destroy 
their  own  creation.  Lord  Northcliffe, 
disappointed  at  not  being  chosen,  as  a 
part  of  his  contract,  to  represent  Eng- 
land at  the  Peace  Conference,  has  tried 
to  destroy  it,  but  has  found  that  he  did 
his  work  too  thoroughly  to  undo  it  eas- 
ily. The  public  has  become  so  attached 
to  the  legend  that  they  find  it  hard  to 
surrender  it  until  the  press  can  agree 
upon  a  new  legend  to  put  in  its  place. 
That  will  not  be  easy,  for  no  other  man 
living  has  anything  approaching  Mr. 
George's  genius  for  manipulating  the 
press,  and  he  has  had  five  years  of  pow- 
er in  which  to  consolidate  his  hold  upon 
the  machine  of  government  and  to  es- 
tablish his  friends  in  all  the  strategic 
positions  of  influence. 

II 

But,  side  by  side  with  this  transfer 
of  real  power  from  Parliament  to  the 
press,  there  has  been  another  tendency 
operating  to  discredit  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. This  tendency  has  no  doubt 
been  aggravated  by  the  disrepute  of 
Parliament  itself.  It  is  the  idea  of 
direct  action.  The  Labor  movement, 
just  when  it  seemed  to  have  the  control 
of  Parliament  within  its  grasp,  devel- 
oped a  school  which  aimed  at  repudiat- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


ing  Parliament  altogether,  or,  at  least, 
at  subordinating  it  to  the  exercise  of 
direct  industrial  power  outside.  The 
view  of  the  leaders  of  this  movement 
was  that  Parliament  was  an  institution 
which,  however  democratic  its  basis, 
became  inevitably  the  instrument  of 
the  capitalist  interests,  and  that  the 
realities  of  government  must  pass  to  the 
organized  industrial  classes  before  La- 
bor could  get  justice  or  achieve  the  aims 
it  had  in  view.  Between  the  mutually 
destructive  ideas  of  possessing  Parlia- 
ment and  dispossessing  Parliament,  La- 
bor has  temporarily  lost  its  way.  The 
rank  and  file  of  the  movement,  I  think, 
is  still  overwhelmingly  in  favor  of  a  Par- 
liamentary system;  but  the  intellectual 
energy  is  largely  behind  the  new  school 
of  thought,  and  the  discredit  that  has 
fallen  upon  the  present  Parliament  has 
strengthened  the  motive  of  direct  ac- 
tion. The  result  has  been  disastrous 
both  to  Labor  and  to  Parliament.  The 
cleavage  of  politics  tends  more  and  more 
to  be  between  Labor  and  Capital,  with 
the  latter  in  control  of  Parliament  and 
the  former  increasingly  disposed  to 
make  its  power  felt  outside  by  the  in- 
terruption of  the  processes  of  industry. 
This  insurgent  disposition  of  the  ad- 
vanced section  of  Labor  is  aggravated 
I  by  the  subservience  of  the  press  to  the 
[  money  interest.  The  present  condition 
of  journalistic  production  makes  it 
i  practically  impossible  for  newspapers 
I  to  be  run  in  the  interests  of  the  men; 
and  the  conviction  that  both  the  press 
and  Parliament  are  against  them  gives 
impetus  to  the  preachings  of  direct 
» action. 

Another  consideration  that  has  help- 
ed to  make  Labor  distrust  Parliament 
iis  its  own  failure  as  a  Parliamentary 
factor.   There  are  some  seventy  Labor 
i  members  in  the  present  House  of  Com- 
Imons;  but  it  is  notorious  that  they  are, 
lias  a  whole,  the  least  efficient  body  in 
the  Chamber.   The  fact  is  due  to  two 


251 

things.  While  it  is  the  intellectual  who 
dictates  the  abstract  policy  of  the  party, 
it  is  the  mass  of  the  party  that  nomi- 
nates and  elects  the  members;  and  it  is 
the  practice  to  send  to  Westminster 
trade-unionsecretariesofthird-rateabil- 
ity  and  generally  without  either  politi- 
cal training  or  Parliamentary  instinct. 
Nor  is  this  the  only  handicap.  They 
are  deprived  of  all  independent  action, 
and  enter  the  House  committed  to  a 
certain  collective  course  on  any  given 
issue,  regardless  of  what  the  debates 
may  reveal.  All  this  has  made  Labor 
a  singularly  negligible  influence  in  the 
House,  and  has  increased  its  disposi- 
tion to  distrust  an  instrument  it  has 
failed  to  use. 

HI 

And  there  is  another  cause  of  the  de- 
cline of  the  Parliamentary  institution. 
I  do  not  think  it  can  be  doubted  that  it 
is  not  to-day  attracting  the  best  intel- 
lectual and  moral  material  of  the  coun- 
try to  the  extent  to  which  it  attracted 
it  a  generation  or  two  ago.  The  push- 
ful and  clever  lawyer  is  still  there  in 
abundance;  but  the  great  public-spirit- 
ed citizen,  who  entered  Parliament,  not 
for  what  he  could  make  out  of  it,  but 
from  a  disinterested  passion  for  the  com- 
monwealth, —  the  man  of  the  type  of 
Cobden  and  Bright,  —  has  disappeared. 
No  first-rate  Parliamentary  figure,  has 
emerged  during  the  past  twenty  years, 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Churchill,  a 
mere  swashbuckler  of  politics. 

This,  I  fear,  is  not  an  accidental  cir- 
cumstance. It  is  due  to  the  changed 
conditions.  In  the  past  the  private 
member  of  distinction  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  his  influence  felt, 
which  is  no  longer  possible.  If  he  had 
anything  to  say,  he  was  able  to  say  it, 
and  he  was  assured  that  through  the 
press  he  would  reach  the  mind  of  the 
country.  All  this  is  changed.  The  pri- 
vate member  has  few  chances  of  being 


252 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


heard  and  no  chance  of  being  reported. 
Though  he  speak  with  the  tongue  of 
angels,  the  popular  press,  occupied  with 
important  matters  like  the  forthcoming 
prize-fight  01*  the  latest  society  divorce 
suit,  will  be  deaf  to  his  pleadings.  If  he 
is  to  make  any  impression,  he  must  be 
a  noisy  nuisance,  who  cannot  be  sup- 
pressed. The  effect  of  this  is  to  make 
Parliament  increasingly  unattractive  to 
the  men  who  would  give  it  distinction, 
but  who  are  not  prepared  to  devote 
their  time  and  their  energies  to  an  un- 
profitable and  not  very  elevating  service. 

I  remember  Lord  Morley,  when  he 
was  at  the  India  Office,  deploring  the 
disappearance  of  the  great  private  mem- 
ber, who  consecrated  distinguished  abil- 
ities of  mind  and  character  to  the  serv- 
ice of  the  State  without  any  desire  for 
office. 

'You  mean  a  man  of  the  type  of 
Cobden,'  I  said. 

'No,'  he  replied,  'I  would  be  satis- 
fied with  something  less  than  Cobden. 
I  would  be  content  if  the  House  of  Com- 
mons produced  one  private  member 
of  the  type  of  Bradlaugh:  powerful  in 
speech,  courageous  in  action,  with  a 
large  understanding  of  affairs,  and  no 
eye  upon  the  front  bench.  But  there  is 
no  such  man  to-day.' 

There  is  no  such  man,  because  there 
is  no  room  for  such  a  man.  Burke  would 
be  almost  as  much  out  of  his  element  in 
the  House  of  Commons  to-day  as  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  would  be 
out  of  his  element  on  the  race-course. 
The  change  in  the  character  of  the 
House  of  Commons  is,  of  course,  largely 
due  to  the  enormously  increased  ac- 
tivities which  modern  developments 
have  imposed  upon  it.  The  tide  of 
business  that  flows  through  the  House 
is  so  impetuous,  that  the  large  issues  of 
conduct  are  lost  in  the  mass  of  multi- 
tudinous detail,  and  the  appeal  to  the 
moral  standards  of  public  conduct  has 
become  almost  as  irrelevant  as  a  sermon 


on  the  stock  exchange.  Those  who  are 
concerned  about  these  things  find  a 
more  fruitful  field  for  their  activities 
in  the  social  and  intellectual  world  out- 
side than  they  could  hope  to  find  in  the 
House  of  Commons  of  to-day. 

But  in  spite  of  these  general  tenden- 
cies, which  have  slowly  and  insensibly 
transformed  the  spirit  and  procedure  of 
Parliament,  it  remains  true  that  the  low 
esteem  in  which  it  is  held  to-day  is 
mainly  due  to  the  war.  On  the  3rd  of 
August,  1914,  the  House  of  Commons 
was  put  into  cold  storage,  and  from 
that  condition  of  frozen  inactivity  it 
has  never  emerged.  Recalling  that  un- 
forgettable scene  when  Sir  Edward 
Grey  made  the  speech  that  committed 
England  to  the  war,  one  seems  to  look 
across  a  gulf  that  can  never  again  be 
spanned.  Power  so  completely  passed 
from  the  House  of  Commons  to  the 
executive,  that  the  merest  murmur  of 
criticism  was  enough  to  send  a  man  in- 
to political  exile  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
Mr.  Ramsay  MacDonald  made  such  a 
murmur  when  Sir  Edward  Grey  sat 
down,  and  he  has  not  recovered  from 
the  consequences  to  this  hour.  He  is 
marked  with  the  indelible  stain  of  hav- 
ing said  what  half  the  Cabinet  were  say- 
ing in  private  the  day  before,  and  what 
many  of  them,  including  Mr.  Lloyd 
George,  were  saying  only  three  hours 
before.  For  four  years  and  more  the 
iron  law  of  unquestioning  obedience 
was  imposed  on  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. It  became  a  registering  machine. 
It  was  drilled  and  disciplined  to  the 
service  of  the  executive.  Its  power  of 
initiative  vanished.  The  function  of 
the  opposition  to  oppose  was  abolished. 
The  liberties  of  the  Chamber  were  blot- 
ted out,  and  the  House  lost  the  very  in- 
stinct of  free  criticism  and  independent 
thought.  This  paralysis  continued  so 
long  that  it  became  the  habit  of  men's 
minds.  They  were  unconscious  of  their 
chains.  It  would  almost  be  true  to  say 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


253 


that  they  came  to  wear  their  chains 
proudly,  as  the  symbol  of  their  patriotic 
self-surrender.  The  more  they  clanked 
them,  the  more  they  asserted  their  de- 
votion to  the  country.  The  very  tradi- 
tion of  a  free  Parliament  passed  away. 

That  tradition  might  have  been  re- 
covered at  the  end  of  the  war,  if  power 
had  been  in  the  hands  of  men  who  rev- 
erenced the  Parliamentary  institution. 
But  Mr.  Lloyd  George  had  no  disposi- 
tion to  restore  to  Parliament  the  unpre- 
cedented authority  with  which  the  war 
had  invested  him  at  the  expense  of  Par- 
liament. The  events  of  the  years  of  the 
war  and  his  skillful  adaptation  of  them 
to  his  aim  of  personal  government  had 
made  him  dictator  in  all  but  name.  The 
fiction  of  Parliament  continued,  but  he 
ruled  the  country  through  the  press  and 
through  his  control  of  the  official  ma- 
chine, and  he  seized  the  moment  of 
hysteria  that  came  with  the  end  of  the 
war  to  rush  an  election  that  enabled 
him  to  secure  a  House  of  Commons 
exactly  adapted  to  his  purpose. 

The  squalor  and  shame  of  that  elec- 
tion, with  its  coarse  appeals  to  the 
worst  appetites  of  the  mob,  is  a  humili- 
ating memory.  Its  fruit  continues  in  a 
House  of  Commons  that  is  without 
precedent  since  the  days  of  the  pocket 
boroughs.  Not  a  single  Liberal  states- 
man of  front-bench  rank  was  returned, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  modern  annals 
the  representative  chamber  was  with- 
out an  organized  opposition.  Two  small 
fragments  of  the  Liberal  and  Labor 
parties  were  returned,  but  they  con- 
sisted of  new  and  inconspicuous  men, 
and  as  they  acted  in  isolation,  the  small 
influence  they  might  have  exercised  up- 
3n  events  was  dissipated. 

The  disaster  to  the  opposition  was 
:ompleted  by  the  dramatic  course  of  af- 
fairs in  Ireland.  The  Nationalist  party 
lad  for  generations  formed  a  formid- 
able opposition  bloc  in  the  House;  but 
j:he  election  swept  the  Nationalist  party 


out  of  existence,  and  in  its  place,  Na- 
tionalist Ireland  elected  a  solid  phalanx 
of  Sinn  Fein  candidates,  who,  adopting 
the  policy  of  repudiating  the  English 
Parliament,  have  made  no  appearance 
at  Westminster.  Mr.  George  was  there- 
fore left  in  possession  of  Parliament 
with  a  completeness  unlike  anything  in 
history.  Not  only  was  there  no  opposi- 
tion confronting  him,  but  the  unwieldy 
mob  of  members  sent  to  support  him 
came,  not  as  free  representatives  freely 
elected,  but  as  his  personal  adherents 
who,  in  accepting  his  'coupon,'  had 
practically  undertaken  to  disestablish 
Parliament  and  endorse  his  personal 
dictatorship  without  challenge. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  a  House  of 
Commons  elected  in  these  circumstances 
and  under  these  conditions  was  of  a 
quality  new  to  the  walls  of  St.  Stephen's. 
It  was  composed  for  the  most  part  of 
men  who  had  done  well  out  of  the  war 
and  expected  to  do  still  better  out  of  the 
peace.  The  wiser  mind  of  the  nation 
was  wholly  absent  from  it,  and  the  scum 
thrown  up  by  the  war  was  left  in  un- 
disputed possession.  Owing  their  seats 
entirely  to  the  strategy  of  Mr.  George, 
depending  for  the  retention  of  these 
seats  entirely  upon  his  maintenance  in 
office,  at  once  ignorant  of  and  indiffer- 
ent to  the  traditions  of  Parliament, 
they  provided  a  perfect  instrument  for 
his  purpose.  In  the  previous  Parlia- 
ment, opposition  had  been  silenced  by 
the  supposed  requirements  of  the  war; 
but  in  this  Parliament  it  has  been  sup- 
pressed as  a  sort  of  blasphemy  against 
the  divine  right  of  dictatorship.  No 
proposal  has  been  too  grotesque  to  be 
swallowed  with  servile  and  uncom- 
plaining obedience.  Even  Mr.  George's 
fantastic  fifty-per-cent  tax  on  German 
imports  —  every  copper  of  which  came 
out  of  English  pockets  —  was  accepted 
almost  without  discussion,  although  the 
whole  business  community  was  panic- 
stricken  at  so  inconceivable  a  form  of 


254 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  PARLIAMENT 


commercial  suicide.  The  folly  perish- 
ed by  its  own  silliness  within  a  fort- 
night, but  it  has  been  duly  followed  by 
other  follies,  like  the  Anti-Dumping 
bill,  which  has  been  received  with  the 
same  complacent  imbecility.  Cabinet 
responsibility  has  ceased  to  exist,  the 
safeguards  of  the  constitution  have 
gone  one  by  one;  ministers  have  de- 
clined into  mere  clerks,  responsible,  not 
to  Parliament,  but  to  their  chief;  treas- 
ury control  has  vanished  from  finance, 
and  an  orgy  of  unchecked  extravagance 
runs  riot  through  the  departments;  the 
benches  of  the  House  are  crowded  with 
placemen,  for  whom  new  offices  have 
been  created  in  such  abundance  that 
Mr.  George  can  vote  down  the  feeble 
opposition  with  his  salaried  supporters 
alone.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  an  ex- 
periment in  personal  government  which 
would  have  been  unthinkable  a  decade 
ago. 

Two  issues  will  show  how  completely 
Parliament  has  abdicated.  The  story 
of  the  events  in  Ireland  during  the  past 
year  has  no  parallel  in  our  annals  for 
more  than  a  century.  The  facts,  denied 
or  travestied  with  impudent  effrontery 
by  Sir  Hamar  Greenwood,  are  no  longer 
in  doubt.  Every  day  adds  its  dreadful 
chapter  to  an  indictment  such  as  no 
civilized  government  in  modern  times 
has  been  subjected  to.  In  other  and 
better  days  one  incident  of  the  thousand 
that  have  occurred  would  have  stung 
Parliament  to  an  indignant  anger  that 
would  have  swept  the  government  that 
authorized  it  from  office.  One  has  only 
to  invoke  the  great  name  of  Gladstone 
to  appreciate  the  moral  death  that  has 
fallen  upon  an  institution  that  sits  day 
by  day  and  month  by  month  in  guilty 
and  approving  complicity  with  the  chief 
authors  of  this  indelible  crime. 

Or  take  the  enormous  disaster  that 
has  paralyzed  industrial  England  this 
summer.  Whatever  share  of  respon- 
sibility the  unions  have  for  that  catas- 


trophe, it  is  small  in  comparison  with 
the  share  of  the  government.  The} 
made  vast  profits  by  controlling  the 
coal-trade,  and  used  them  to  conceal 
the  deficiency  in  their  accounts.  Noth- 
ing was  set  aside  from  the  coal  profits 
for  the  purpose  of  restoring  the  trade 
to  normal  conditions  when  the  slump 
came.  It  came  as  the  result,  largely,  oi 
Mr.  George's  surrender  to  the  French 
demands  at  Spa,  which  glutted  France 
with  German  coal  and  brought  about 
the  collapse  of  the  English  coal-trade, 
And  with  this  collapse,  almost  at  a 
moment's  notice,  coal  was  decontrolled, 
and  the  miner  was  left  to  bear  the  whole 
burden  of  the  government's  gross  im- 
providence. The  wrong  was  open  and 
palpable,  but  the  House  of  Commons, 
in  this  as  in  every  other  crucial  test, 
abdicated  all  its  functions  of  criticism 
and  appeasement.  It  was  plainly  in 
sympathy  with  the  idea  of  using  the 
occasion  to  destroy  organized  Labor, 
at  whatever  cost  to  the  community. 
Probably  the  idea  will  prevail.  Labor 
may  be  left  beaten,  impoverished,  and 
sullen.  But  in  thus  destroying  the  last 
element  of  confidence  among  the  work- 
ing-classes in  its  good  faith,  Parlia- 
ment will  have  suffered  no  less  heavy  a 
blow. 

The  future  is  incalculable.  Parlia- 
mentary government,  of  course,  there 
will  continue  to  be;  but  whether  Parlia- 
ment can  recover  from  the  atrophy  of 
years  of  war  and  the  ignominy  of  years 
of  peace  to  anything  approaching  the 
prestige  of  other  days  is  more  than 
doubtful.  The  rot  has  gone  far,  and  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  disruptive  forces 
which  cannot  be  measured.  The  Caesar- 
ism  of  Mr.  Lloyd  George  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  challenge  of  direct  action 
on  the  other,  seem  to  be  crushing  the 
institution  between  the  hammer  and 
the  anvil.  Apart  from  the  abnormal 
happenings  of  the  past  seven  years,  the 
social  and  industrial  changes  of  the  last 


THE  JAPANESE  IN  HAWAII 


generation  have  foreshadowed  a  re- 
shaping of  the  machine  of  government. 
Decentralization  is  in  the  air,  and  the 
demand  for  an  instrument  less  remote 
and  cumbrous,  more  sensitive  and  im- 
mediately responsive  to  local  needs,  is 
increasingly  made. 

The  universal  loss  of  faith  —  in  men, 
in  institutions,  in  creeds,  in  theories  — 
which  is  the  devastating  product  of  the 
war  has  touched  nothing,  not  even  the 
Church,  more  blightingly  than  it  has 


255 

touched  Parliament.  It  would  have 
suffered  less  had  there  been  a  great 
moral  influence,  to  which  the  constitu- 
tional idea  was  as  sacred  as  it  was 
to  Hampden,  or  Burke,  or  Gladstone, 
in  control  of  affairs  when  the  tempest 
came.  But  the  upheaval  of  the  war  left 
it  the  sport  of  a  nimble  genius  to  whom 
the  soul  of  Parliament  is  nothing  and 
the  manipulation  of  mob  emotion 
through  the  press  the  only  vehicle  of 
statesmanship. 


THE  JAPANESE  IN  HAWAII 


BY  WILLIAM  HARDING  CARTER 


THE  recent  census  shows  that,  out  of 
a  total  population  of  255,912  in  the 
Hawaiian  Islands,  109,269  are  Japan- 
ese. The  increase  in  Japanese  popula- 
tion since  1910  is  29,594,  or  37.1  per 
cent,  compared  with  18,564  or  30.4  per 
cent  drring  the  preceding  decade.  The 
disproportionate  number  of  Japanese 
in  comparison  with  that  of  other  nation- 
alities in  the  islands  constitutes  an  in- 
tricate and  perplexing  problem,  and  a 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  Japanese 
immigration  is  essential  to  any  proper 
consideration  of  the  situation. 

Diplomatic  relations  between  Japan 
ind  Hawaii  began  with  a  treaty  of 
unity  and  commerce  in  1871.  Scarcity 
)f  agricultural  labor  in  Hawaii  caused 
Honorable  Charles  R.  Bishop,  Minister 
j)f  Foreign  Affairs,  to  take  up  with  the 
Hawaiian  consul  in  Tokyo  the  subject 
J)f  an  arrangement  for  obtaining  labor- 
TS  from  Japan;  but  nothing  came  of  it 
mlil  King  Kalakaua  visited  Japan,  in 
881,  when  the  Hawaiian  Minister  of 


Immigration,  Honorable  William  Nev- 
ins  Armstrong,  initiated  negotiations 
with  the  Japanese  government  on  the 
subject  of  emigration  of  laborers  from 
Japan  to  Hawaii. 

In  1883  Colonel  C.  P.  laukea  was 
accredited  to  the  Court  of  Japan  as 
Minister  Plenipotentiary,  for  the  special 
purpose  of  arranging  for  Japanese  im- 
migration, and  was  instructed  by  the 
Hawaiian  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
Honorable  Walter  Murray  Gibson,  in 
this  remarkable  manner:  — 

'You  will  please  impress  upon  the 
mind  of  the  Minister  the  very  excep- 
tional character  of  these  proposals,  and 
the  evidence  they  afford  of  the  high 
value  His  Majesty's  government  places 
upon  the  friendly  alliance  between  this 
country  and  Japan,  and  upon  the  Jap- 
anese race  05  a  repopidating  element.' 

Later,  under  date  of  July  22,  1885, 
Mr.  Gibson  wrote  to  Count  Inouye:  - 

'I  desire  in  the  first  place  to  assure 
Your  Excellency  that,  owing  to  the 


256 


THE   JAPANESE   IN   HAWAII 


strong  desire  of  Hawaii  to  settle  upon 
her  soil  a  kindred  and  kindly  people 
like  the  Japanese,  this  government  is 
most  anxious  to  meet  the  views  and 
requirements  of  Japan  on  all  points.' 

Under  date  of  January  21,  1886,  the 
Hawaiian  Consul-General  at  Tokyo,  Mr. 
R.  W.  Irwin,  wrote  to  Count  Inouye: 
'I  accept  unreservedly  the  terms  and 
conditions  laid  down  in  Your  Excellen- 
cy's communication  of  yesterday,  and 
I  am  prepared  to  sign  the  immigration 
convention.' 

The  Hawaiian  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  under  date  of  March  5,  1886, 
wrote  to  Count  Inouye:  'Mr.  Irwin  un- 
reservedly accepted  these  stipulations, 
and  I  have  now  the  honor  to  accept  his 
engagement  and  to  confirm  on  the  part 
of  His  Majesty's  government  the  sev- 
eral subsidiary  agreements  referred  to, 
in  so  far  as  may  be  consonant  with  the 
constitution  of  the  kingdom  and  His 
Majesty's  treaty  obligations  with  for- 
eign powers.' 

Count  Okuma  in  reply  informed  Mr. 
Irwin:  'I  accept  your  assurances  in 
these  regards,  as  well  as  other  particu- 
lars specified  in  your  communication, 
as  an  authorized  statement  of  the  ob- 
ligations which  your  government  as- 
sumes in  the  premises,  and  I  shall  so 
regard  the  understanding  as  binding  on 
our  respective  governments,  subject  to 
the  right  of  revoking  same,  either  in 
whole  or  in  part,  which  is  specifically 
reserved  to  me.' 

In  1885  there  were  less  than  fifty  Jap- 
anese in  Hawaii;  but  under  the  encour- 
agement of  the  terms  of  the  treaty,  the 
number  increased  to  twenty  thousand 
in  ten  years,  at  which  time  Japan  de- 
manded the  exclusion  of  any  more  Chi- 
nese laborers. 

Foreseeing  future  complications,  the 
Constitution  of  1887  was  made  to  limit 
the  franchise  to  *  every  male  resident  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Hawaiian,  of  American 
or  European  birth  or  descent,  who  shall 


have  taken  an  oath  to  support  the  con- 
stitution and  laws,  and  shall  know  how 
to  read  or  write  either  the  Hawaiian, 
English,  or  some  European  language.' 
In  the  following  year,  1888,  demands 
for  the  franchise  for  the  Japanese  be- 
gan, and  continued,  as  a  diplomatic 
bone  of  contention  along  the  line  of 
favored-nation  clauses,  until  1893,  when 
Mr.  Fujii,  Consul-General,  made  a  cat- 
egorical demand  upon  President  Dole 
for  the  granting  of  the  franchise  by  the 
Provisional  Government  —  which  had 
superseded  the  Monarchy  —  to  all  Jap- 
anese in  Hawaii,  including  field-laborers 
brought  under  contract,  over  whom  the 
Japanese  government  retained  control 
by  withholding  25  per  cent  of  their 
wages. 

President  Dole  explained  that  there 
could  be  no  foundation  in  law,  reason, 
or  the  usages  of  nations  for  one  nation 
to  demand  of  another,  as  a  right,  per- 
mission for  its  subjects  to  cast  off 
their  allegiance  and  acquire  citizenship 
in  another  country.  The  relation  of 
sovereign  and  subject,  state  and  citizen, 
comprises  an  obligation  between  the 
governing  authority  and  the  individ- 
ual; otherwise,  an  overcrowded  country 
could  unload  its  surplus  population  up- 
on a  smaller  country,  and  by  the  utiliza- 
tion of  the  enforced  franchise  eventually 
and  legally  absorb  the  smaller  country. 
This,  in  the  last  analysis,  would  result 
from  the  democratic  theory  that  gov- 
ernment should  follow  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed. 

Following  the  establishment  of  the 
Republic  of  Hawaii,  the  immigration 
convention  lapsed,  but  Japanese  con- 
tinued to  arrive  as  free  immigrants  in 
greater  numbers  than  before,  5129 
having  arrived  in  1896.  Matters  were 
reaching  a  serious  condition  by  reason  of 
the  heavy  immigration.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  end  a  situation  which  threaten- 
ed to  jeopardize  the  continued  devel- 
opment of  Hawaii  along  Anglo-Saxon 


THE  JAPANESE  IN  HAWAII 


257 


lines ;  and  under  the  terms  of  the  general 
statutes  of  Hawaii  nearly  1500  Japan- 
ese who  arrived  were  denied  entrance. 

The  native  Hawaiian  population  has 
been  disappearing  in  about  the  same 
ratio  in  which  that  of  the  Japanese  has 
increased.  Some  of  the  early  explorers 
estimated  the  native  population  of  the 
group  of  islands  as  high  as  250,000;  but 
in  1832  a  census  was  taken,  and  showed 
only  130,313.  Twenty  years  later  the 
population  had  dwindled  to  71,019,  of 
whom  2119  were  foreigners.  Improved 
agricultural  conditions,  incident  to  the 
reciprocity  treaty  with  the  United 
.States,  turned  the  tide,  and  in  1896  the 
total  population  was  109,020,  of  whom 
only  39,504  were  Hawaiians.  The  cen- 
sus of  1910  showed  only  26,041  Hawai- 
ians, and  the  new  census,  that  of  1920, 
shows  that  the  number  of  natives  has 
declined  to  23,723. 

While  the  native  Hawaiian  race  is 
steadily  disappearing,  it  still  exercises 
power  in  local  political  matters  through 
the  considerable  number  of  half-castes, 
born  of  intermarriages  of  whites  and 
Chinese  with  Hawaiians,  who  now  num- 
ber 18,027  and  are  steadily  increasing. 
There  is  practically  none  of  the  popu- 
lating by  mixing  of  races,  anticipated 
when  the  Japanese  were  invited  to  set- 
tle in  the  islands.  The  Japanese  men 

VOL.  128— NO.  8 
E 


marry  only  Japanese  women,  and  their 
children  are  habitually  registered  as 
Japanese  with  officials  of  their  own  gov- 
ernment. A  large  proportion  of  them 
are  sent  back  to  Japan  for  part  of  their 
education.  The  younger  children  at- 
tend both  the  public  schools  of  Hawaii 
and  private  Japanese  schools.  The 
number  of  Japanese  women  in  Hawaii 
has  increased  rapidly,  —  the  ratio  of 
women  to  men  having  nearly  doubled 
since  1900,  —  and  now  is  42.7  per  cent. 
The  Japanese  have  increased  in  num- 
ber since  the  census  of  1910  by  29,599, 
and  with  Filipinos  comprise  three  fourths 
of  the  total  increase. 

The  main  elements  of  population, 
other  than  Hawaiians  and  Japanese, 
are  Chinese,  Portugese,  Filipinos,  Por- 
to Ricans,  and  Spaniards.  Americans, 
British  and  Germans  have  been  more 
powerful  in  commercial  and  financial 
interests  than  in  numbers. 

The  islands  are  fertile,  then*  location 
is  of  immense  and  growing  importance, 
and  altogether  they  constitute  a  vital 
element  in  the  future  problems  of  the 
Pacific.  The  United  States  arrived  at 
their  possession  through  a  process  of 
stumbling,  and  doubtless  the  great  prob- 
lems arising  from  the  commercial  and 
strategic  position  of  the  islands  will  be 
met  in  the  same  way. 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


BY  PHILIP  CABOT 


CHEAP,  efficient  transportation  is  the 
life-blood  of  New  England.  Located  at 
the  extreme  northeastern  corner  of  the 
country,  it  has  been,  since  the  death  of 
the  China  trade,  as  dependent  on  its 
railroads  as  man  upon  his  food.  With- 
out them  we  die,  and  yet  for  twenty 
years  a  process  of  decay  has  been  going 
on  —  stealing  over  us  like  creeping 
paralysis,  but  so  gradually  that  for 
many  years  it  passed  almost  unnoticed. 

Ten  years  ago  rumblings  and  cracks 
in  the  walls  gave  us  warning,  however, 
of  the  collapse  which  has  now  occurred. 
To-day  the  New  England  railroads  not 
only  are  bankrupt,  but  seem  bankrupt 
beyond  repair.  Faced  with  this  condi- 
tion at  a  time  when  war  had  raised  the 
pressure  on  our  whole  industrial  system 
to  a  point  never  before  reached,  the 
manufacturer  and  distributer  turned  to 
the  motor-truck,  as  the  only  possible 
avenue  of  escape;  with  the  result  that, 
in  a  brief  five  years,  our  main  radial 
highways  have  been  converted  into 
railroad  rights  of  way,  and  are  now 
choked  with  heavy  traffic  for  which 
they  were  never  designed. 

Every  abuse  carries  its  penalty.  The 
penalty  for  this  abuse  of  our  roads  will 
be  a  heavy  one,  which  the  tax-payer 
must  pay.  The  Commonwealth  of 
Massachusetts  has  spent  more  than 
$25,000,000  of  the  tax-payers'  money  in 
road-construction,  much  of  which  has 

258 


already  been  ground  to  powder  under 
the  wheels  of  the  five- ton  truck;  and  the 
damage  must  to-day  be  repaired  at 
perhaps  double  the  former  cost.  Our 
State  tax  has  mounted  in  recent  years 
by  leaps  and  bounds;  the  contribution 
of  the  truck-owner  to  the  cost  of  road- 
construction  is  so  trivial,  that  most  of 
the  burden  will  fall  upon  the  tax-payer, 
on  whose  now  over-loaded  back  a  huge 
additional  levy  is  apparently  about  to 
fall  at  the  very  moment  when  he  is 
expecting  relief.  And  make  no  mistake 
as  to  who  must  bear  the  burden.  The 
old  notion  that  a  tax  could  be  pinned 
upon  one  class  has  vanished  into  thin 
air.  We  now  realize  that  it  is  not  the 
capitalist  who  pays  the  tax,  or  the  man- 
ufacturer. It  is  the  man  in  the  street 
who  pays  the  tax,  in  the  increased  cost 
of  everything  he  buys.  He  pays  the  bill 
for  every  waste  of  public  money. 

At  the  present  time  2,000,000  ton- 
miles  of  freight  are  transported  annu- 
ally by  truck;  and  five  years  hence,  if 
the  growth  continues,  the  figure  will  be 
60,000,000. 

Apparently  the  business  community 
has  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
motor-truck  is  to  replace  the  railroad 
for  freight  traveling  100  miles  or  less, 
and  is  developing  its  business  along 
these  lines.  The  decision  is  a  vital  one, 
which  must  rest,  one  would  suppose,  on 
some  well-matured  plan,  the  practica- 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


bility  and  financial  results  of  which 
have  been  thoroughly  tested  and  ade- 
quately proved.  But  such  is  not  the 
case.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  proposi- 
tion to  make  such  a  change  in  our  trans- 
portation system  not  only  is  one  which 
no  intelligent  merchant  or  manufac- 
turer would  recommend,  if  he  knew  the 
facts,  but  is  a  venture,  not  merely  wild, 
but  literally  impossible. 

The  traffic  which  it  is  proposed  to 
handle  in  this  way  will  hi  five  years' 
time  require,  for  Massachusetts  alone, 
at  least  2000  miles  of  main  highways 
constructed  primarily  for  that  purpose, 
at  a  cost  exceeding  $40,000  per  mile,  or 
a  total  of  $80,000,000.  Such  a  sum  of 
money  cannot  be  raised  and  economi- 
cally spent  in  the  brief  space  of  time 
within  which  the  work  must  be  done; 
for  unless  the  thing  is  done  promptly, 
our  industrial  life  will  be  strangled. 
But  even  if  it  were  possible,  the  result 
would  be  a  system  of  transportation  so 
costly  in  operation  as  to  be  prohibitive. 
The  cost  per  ton-mile  of  handling 
freight  in  such  a  way  would  be  more 
than  the  traffic  would  bear;  and  if  the 
money  were  raised  and  spent,  it  would 
be  wasted.  This  can  be  shown  by  fig- 
ures which,  while  subject  to  much 
uncertainty,  are  adequate  for  the 
purpose. 

It  now  costs  from  15  to  50  cents  per 
ton-mile  for  motor-truck  operation,  de- 
pend ing  upon  two  variables  —  the  dis- 
tance hauled  and  the  so-called  load- 
factor.  By  load-factor  is  meant  the 
ratio  between  the  maximum  number  of 
ton-miles  per  day  that  a  truck  can  trans- 
port and  the  actual  number  of  ton- 
miles  transported.  It  is  the  habit  of 
motor-truck  manufacturers  and  opera- 
tors to  figure  a  load-factor  of  50  or  60 
I  per  cent;  but  this  is  certainly  too  high, 
though  it  is  difficult  to  say  exactly 
what  the  figure  should  be.  But  con- 
sidering that  these  trucks  are  to  replace 
[i  our  freight  cars,  and  that  in  New  Eng- 


259 

land  the  load-factor  on  a  freight  car  is 
certainly  less  than  5  per  cent,  the  above 
figures  are  wholly  unreasonable.  If  a 
load-factor  of  20  per  cent  were  obtained, 
it  would  indeed  be  remarkable.  At  this 
load-factor,  operating  costs  per  ton- 
mile,  without  profit,  will  vary  from  30 
to  40  cents,  according  to  conditions. 

To  this  figure  the  intelligent  critic 
may  object,  on  the  ground  that,  the 
truck  being  a  relatively  new  device, 
great  economies  in  fuel  are  to  be  looked 
for;  but  in  the  first  place,  fuel  is  a  rela- 
tively small  item,  and  in  the  second 
place,  it  must  be  remembered  that,  as 
time  goes  on,  the  wages  cost,  which  even 
now  is  a  large  item,  will  tend  to  increase. 
Compared  with  railroad  wages  to-day, 
this  cost  is  very  low,  and  it  is  practi- 
cally certain  that  operators  cannot  be 
found  in  large  numbers  who  will  work 
regularly  for  the  wages  and  under  the 
working  conditions  now  in  effect.  Look- 
ing five  years  ahead,  therefore,  and 
adding  to  the  operating  cost  the  fixed 
charges  and  maintenance  of  way  and 
structures,  it  seems  clear  that  the  aver- 
age cost  per  ton-mile  of  this  method 
of  transportation  will  not  fall  below  50 
cents.  The  present  cost  of  way  and 
structures  is  estimated  at  33  cents  per 
ton-mile.  If  in  the  next  five  years  the 
traffic  doubles  annually,  which  would 
mean  a  traffic  of  60,000,000  ton-miles, 
this  might  come  down  to  ten  cents.  If 
the  trucks  were  taxed  ten  cents  per  ton- 
mile,  this  would  produce  an  income  of 
$6,000,000  per  year,  which,  added  to 
the  $3,500,000  in  fees  now  assessed,  is 
hardly  enough  to  meet  the  necessary  ex- 
penditures. But  at  this  rate,  assuming 
a  20  per  cent  load-factor,  about  10,000 
trucks  would  be  required,  and  the  tax 
per  truck  would  be  $600  per  year.  Com- 
pare the  present  license  fee,  and  note 
what  the  tax-payer  is  contributing. 

We  are,  then,  in  this  position:  in 
order  to  provide  and  maintain  the  nec- 
essary right  of  way  to  do  the  business, 


260 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


an  annual  expenditure  of  more  than 
$10,000,000  during  the  next  five  years 
will  be  necessary;  and  when  the  job  is 
done,  we  shall  have  created  a  system, 
the  operating  cost  of  which  will  be 
prohibitive.  Obviously,  this  is  no  solu- 
tion of  our  problem.  Better  to  pay  the 
money  to  the  present  owners  of  the 
railroads,  whose  rights  of  way  have 
already  cost  twice  the  sum  which  it  is 
now  proposed  to  spend  in  duplicating 
them,  and  are  far  better  adapted  for 
the  purpose. 

This  is  not  a  fact,  however,  which 
should  cause  the  legitimate  and  far- 
sighted  truck-manufacturer  any  alarm. 
He  is  engaged  in  a  great  permanent 
industry,  not  in.  raising  mushrooms. 
Sound,  steady  expansion  upon  a  firm 
foundation  is  his  watchword  and  his 
goal,  and  any  movement  which  tends 
to  throw  upon  him  a  sudden  but  ephem- 
eral demand  will  damage  him.  A  great 
structure,  built  upon  a  quicksand,  that 
will  topple  over  and  crush  him,  would 
be  an  unmitigated  misfortune,  which 
he  will  be  the  last  to  encourage.  He  is 
to-day  painfully  digging  himself  out  of 
such  a  crumbling  ruin  resulting  from 
the  war  boom,  and  he  will  not  need  a 
second  object-lesson.  The  burnt  child 
dreads  the  fire. 

We  are  clearly  driven  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  only  way  out  of  the  di- 
lemma (if  there  be  any)  is  by  improv- 
ing and  cheapening  our  local  railroad 
freight-service.  Perhaps  this  is  impos- 
sible; perhaps  we  are  in  a  blind  alley 
from  which  there  is  no  way  out.  But 
have  we  really  tried  to  escape?  Have 
we  put  our  best  brains  and  energy  into 
a  desperate  effort  to  improve  our  rail- 
road service?  Have  we  employed  the 
best  methods  that  the  keenest  business 
imagination  can  devise  to  help  us?  Of 
course  we  have  done  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Look  at  the  railroads  of  New 
England  to-day  and  the  conditions  un- 
der which  they  operate. 


n 

The  railroad  system  of  New  England 
—  into  which  the  investing  public  has 
already  poured  the  best  part  of  a  billion 
dollars,  to  which  should  be  added  annu- 
ally $25,000,000  more  to  keep  it  up-to- 
date  —  is  the  greatest  single  industry 
we  have.  At  the  head  are  a  group  of 
over-driven  slaves,  beaten  from  pillar 
to  post  by  government  officials  and 
labor-union  leaders,  and  under  them  a 
small  army  of  operating  men  in  a  semi- 
mutinous  condition,  whose  principal 
aim  at  the  present  time  seems  to  be  to 
secure  as  high  wages  and  do  as  little 
work  as  possible.  Here  is  a  business  in 
the  management  of  which  the  highest 
degree  of  skill,  cooperation,  and  imag- 
inative power  must  be  employed  and 
allowed  to  function  in  the  most  efficient 
manner.  But  we  have  either  failed  to 
show  great  skill  in  selecting  the  execu- 
tive officers,  or  have  forced  them  to 
work  under  impossible  conditions. 

The  freight-traffic  of  New  England 
is  peculiar.  Unlike  that  of  our  great 
Western  states  (or  even  that  which 
the  great  trunk  lines  handle),  the  busi- 
ness of  New  England  is  largely  in  less 
than  car-load  lots.  New  England  is,  in 
fact,  far  more  like  old  England,  and 
has  properly  been  compared  to  a  huge 
terminal.  In  the  conduct  of  this  busi- 
ness, we  have  allowed  ourselves  to  be 
dominated  —  one  might  almost  say 
hypnotized  —  by  the  ideas  of  train-load 
and  motive  power  associated  with  the 
great  name  of  James  J.  Hill.  The  bank- 
ers have  selected  Western  men  to  op- 
erate our  systems,  with  lawyers  and 
politicians  of  the  old  New  England 
school  for  their  adjutants  and  advisers. 

It  is  a  fundamental  axiom  of  life  that 
no  great  operation  can  be  carried  on 
without  team-work  —  the  most  active 
and  loyal  cooperation  between  all  mem- 
bers of  the  organization,  from  top  to 
bottom.  The  capacity  for  team-work 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


261 


(that ,  vigorous  cooperative  effort  ex- 
pressive of  the  militant  soul)  is  the 
measure  of  civilization,  of  the  rise  of 
civilized  man  above  the  brute.  This  is 
fundamental  and  axiomatic;  but  to 
what  extent  has  it  been  achieved  in  the 
railroad  business?  No  one  who  will 
take  the  trouble  to  talk  with  the  rail- 
road employees  need  long  remain  in 
doubt.  The  attitude  of  the  great  rail- 
road unions  and  of  the  individual  opera- 
tive is  one  of  sullen  discontent,  or  active 
hostility  to  the  executive  officers.  The 
system  of  rules  and  working  conditions 
on  which  the  men  insist  seems  primarily 
designed  to  make  the  operation  of  the 
business  as  costly  and  inefficient  as 
possible.  In  an  industry  where  the 
prosperity,  and  even  the  life,  of  the 
community  demands  maximum  effi- 
ciency and  minimum  cost,  the  great 
body  of  the  workers  spend  their  best 
time  and  effort  to  frustrate  both.  Is  it 
strange  that  the  service  is  unsatisfac- 
tory and  that  costs  are  high?  It  would 
be  a  miracle  if  it  were  otherwise.  One 
risks  nothing  in  saying  that  the  business 
must  be  reorganized  from  top  to  bot- 
tom before  it  can  function  properly. 

The  thing  is  possible.  Many  of  us 
can  remember  the  time,  a  generation 
ago,  when  the  frame  of  mind  of  these 
railroad  workers  was  radically  differ- 
ent: when  men  were  proud  of  the  com- 
panies they  served,  loyal  to  their  inter- 
ests, and  spoke  with  bated  breath  of 
their  superior  officer  as  '  the  old  man, '  a 
term  of  highest  reverence,  affection, 
and  respect.  We  can  remember  the  fine 
figure  of  the  conductor  of  the  fast  train, 
bowing  to  his  distinguished  passengers, 
all  of  whom  called  him  by  name.  That 
was  the  spirit  necessary  for  success,  but 
it  is  conspicuous  to-day  by  its  absence. 
It  was  the  result  of  a  great  local  enter- 
prise, owned,  managed,  and  operated  by 
local  men,  on  whom  the  responsibility 
for  success  had  been  squarely  placed, 
and  who  had  been  allowed  relative  free- 


dom of  action.  They  breathed  the  free 
air  of  their  native  hills,  were  honored 
and  respected  by  their  fellow  citizens, 
and,  feeling  the  full  weight  of  responsi- 
bility with  power,  met  the  test. 

The  conditions  which  have  produced 
the  ruin  that  we  now  face  belong,  per- 
haps, in  the  province  of  the  philosopher 
rather  than  the  statesman,  but  some 
comprehension  of  them  is  essential;  for 
the  men  who  must  to-day  get  us  out  of 
this  tangle  are  like  the  doctor  who  must 
diagnose  the  disease  before  he  can  cure 
it. 

The  public  mind  has  been  directed 
during  recent  years  to  blunders  and 
scandals  of  a  financial  character,  which 
are  supposed  to  be  the  root  cause  of  the 
present  collapse;  and  doubtless  they 
have  contributed  to  it.  But  they  are 
not  the  main  cause.  The  failure  is  in 
management,  not  in  finance.  Either 
this  great  industry  has  assumed  propor- 
tions beyond  the  power  of  men  to  deal 
with,  or  through  lack  of  sufficient  imag- 
ination and  grasp  of  the  nature  of  the 
problem,  the  owners  and  the  public 
have  failed  to  attract,  or  have  driven  to 
distraction,  the  type  of  man  that  was 
needed.  That  the  industry  has  become 
very  large,  that  such  men  as  are  needed 
to  run  it  successfully  are  rare,  no  one 
will  deny.  But  we  cannot  afford  to 
admit  that  the  job  is  beyond  our  power. 
The  word  'impossible'  is  not  popular 
with  our  people.  Where  there  's  a  will, 
there 's  a  way. 

On  the  other  hand,  that  we  have 
failed  to  get  the  right  managers,  or 
that,  having  got  them,  we  have  not 
allowed  them  to  do  their  work,  is  also 
clear;  and  before  we  discharge  them  as 
incompetent,  we  are  bound  in  fairness 
to  consider  the  conditions  under  which 
we  have  placed  them. 

Public  regulation  of  the  industry 
began  fifty  years  ago;  but  only  within 
twenty-five  years  did  it  become  gene- 
ral and  of  decisive  importance.  During 


262 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


the  latter  period,  however,  the  railroad 
systems  of  New  England  have  been 
under  the  strictest  supervision  of  eight 
independent  regulative  commissions, 
each  supreme  in  its  own  jurisdiction 
(the  limits  of  which  were  not  always 
clear),  each  holding  divergent  views  as 
to  the  policy  to  be  pursued,  and  unani- 
mous only  in  this,  that  railroad  execu- 
tives were  naughty  boys,  who  needed 
stern  discipline ;  and  the  rod  has  not  been 
spared.  As  a  result,  the  major  portion 
of  these  men's  time  has  been  spent  in 
attending  public  hearings,  in  preparing 
to  attend  them,  or  in  endeavoring  to 
act  in  such  a  way  that  they  would  not 
have  to.  Little  time  or  energy  has  been 
left  them  to  consider  how  to  run  the 
business  so  as  to  meet  the  rapidly 
changing  conditions;  and  they  have  had 
less  than  no  encouragement  to  look  into 
the  future  with  the  keen  constructive 
insight  which  was  essential  to  success. 
They  have  been  forced  into  the  ignoble 
position  of  holding  responsibility  with- 
out real  power,  of  being  accountable 
for  results  which  they  did  not  cause, 
and  of  being  blamed  for  every  failure, 
whether  brought  about  by  them  or 
by  others. 

Note,  also,  that  men  browbeaten  as 
these  men  have  been  are  not  likely  to 
overflow  with  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness, and  may  pass  on  similar  treatment 
to  their  subordinates.  Whatever  the  na- 
tive capacity  of  the  railroad  executives, 
therefore,  clearly  they  have  labored 
under  insuperable  obstacles.  The  power 
to  regulate,  like  the  power  to  tax,  is  the 
power  to  destroy,  and  public  regulation 
in  New  England  has  in  this  respect 
achieved  a  notable  success. 

m 

The  time  has  come,  however,  when 
the  business  men  of  New  England  must 
make  radical  improvements  in  the 
whole  railroad  situation,  or  we  die. 


Freight  rates  and  services  and  (to  a 
lesser  degree)  passenger  business  must 
be  cheapened  and  improved,  or  New 
England  industries  will  perish.  A  sys- 
tem of  motor-transportation  is  no 
remedy,  nor  is  government  ownership 
and  operation.  The  collapse  is  not  due 
primarily  to  financial  failure,  but  to 
failure  of  the  human  element;  and  in 
this  respect,  government  officials,  under 
present  conditions,  will  not  act  with 
more  vision,  intelligence,  and  energy 
than  private  officials.  The  essential 
thing  is  that  the  public  (that  is,  the 
tax-payer)  should  clearly  grasp  the  fact 
that  this  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death, 
and  determine  to  meet  it  with  the  des- 
perate energy  which  alone  will  bring 
success. 

The  two  main  issues  that  must  be 
grasped  are:  first,  that  the  railroad 
industry  (like  all  others)  must  be  con- 
ducted by  a  group  of  men  enthusiasti- 
cally interested  in  their  work  and  loyal 
to  it  and  to  each  other  from  top  to  bot- 
tom; and  second,  that  the  conditions 
of  traffic  of  New  England  are  not  like 
those  of  the  West  and  South,  but  more 
like  those  of  Europe,  and  must  be 
studied  and  dealt  with  as  such. 

It  is  the  industrial  life  of  New  Eng- 
land that  is  at  stake,  and  our  hope  must 
rest  on  New  England  men.  The  West 
has  its  own  problems  to  worry  over,  and 
the  type  of  brains  and  energy  which 
have  made  New  England  industrially 
great  must  save  us  now,  or  we  perish. 
We  must  rely  on  Eastern  men  —  not 
men  steeped  in  and  hypnotized  by  the 
ideas  of  train-load  and  motive  power 
invented  by  Jim  Hill  to  solve  the  traffic- 
problems  of  the  great-plains  states.  For 
observe  that  the  local  traffic  of  New 
England  is  much  of  it  in  less  than  car- 
load lots.  Freight  cars  of  thirty  to  fifty 
tons'  capacity  are  not  what  our  traffic 
requires.  The  five-ton  motor-truck,  or 
the  five-ton  railway-van  used  in  Eng- 
land, is  more  suited  to  our  conditions. 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


Light  trains  and  speed  in  handling  must 
be  the  order  of  the  new  day. 

One  of  the  most  serious  stumbling- 
blocks  in  our  local  freight  situation  to- 
day is  the  cost  and  the  delay  in  hand- 
ling at  terminals.  Our  present  system 
of  freight-houses  and  freight-handling 
is  calculated  to  produce  a  maximum 
of  both.  It  must  be  done  away  with. 
New  methods  must  be  devised.  Already 
the  lines  along  which  these  methods 
will  run  are  beginning  to  appear.  The 
motor-truck  has  replaced  the  horse  for 
local  haulage.  Removable  bodies,  which 
can  be  loaded  by  the  merchant  or  man- 
ufacturer in  his  shipping-room  and  slid 
on  to  the  motor-chassis  that  backs  into 
the  room,  will  take  the  goods  to  a 
freight-yard  (not  a  freight-house)  where 
overhead  traveling-cranes  will  hoist 
these  bodies  over  as  many  intervening 
tracks  as  is  necessary  to  deposit  them 
on  freight-cars  placed  according  to 
their  destination,  one  or  several  bodies 
on  each  car.  If  necessary,  tarpaulins 
can  be  stretched  over  them  for  protec- 
tion against  the  weather,  and  the  trains 
will  be  made  up  in  small  units,  hauled 
by  light,  economical  engines  (which  in 
the  not-distant  future  will  be  electric). 
Such  trains  will  be  dispatched  at  fre- 
quent intervals,  and  unloaded  by  the 
same  method  at  their  destination.  The 
business  of  transporting  goods  to  and 
from  the  freight-yards  can,  if  necessary, 
be  done  by  the  railroad  companies 
themselves  (as  it  is  in  England) ;  but  it 
will  probably  be  wiser  to  leave  this  part 
of  the  operation  in  the  hands  of  separate 
local  agencies. 

By  some  such  method  deliveries  of 
much  of  the  local  freight  can  be  greatly 
speeded  up  and  costs  of  handling  re- 
duced; and,  as  to  the  balance,  systems 
of  handling  by  small  electric  trucks  at 
the  freight-house,  such  as  are  now  being 
tried  in  the  Milwaukee  freight-house 
of  the  St.  Paul,  will  save  much  man- 
power and  reduce  costs. 


However,  it  is  not  by  the  increased 
use  of  machinery  alone  that  the  cost 
of  handling  freight  can  be  cut  down. 
Better  organization  of  man-power  and 
a  better  spirit  in  the  men  can  result  in 
an  increased  efficiency  which  would  cut 
the  handling  cost  in  two.  No  freight- 
handler  need  fear  the  loss  of  his  job. 
His  future  is  in  his  own  hands;  for,  if  he 
will  use  his  head  as  well  as  his  hands, 
and  put  will-power  behind  both,  no 
machine  can  displace  him.  But  he  must 
now  face  the  music,  for  the  tax-payer, 
once  thoroughly  aroused,  will  insist  that 
he  shall  handsomely  earn  his  pay  or 
give  way  to  a  machine  that  will. 

Just  what  the  cost  of  handling  local 
freight  by  rail  ought  to  be,  it  is  perhaps 
impossible  to  say;  but  some  approxi- 
mation to  the  point  where  the  dividing 
line  between  motor-truck  transport  and 
rail  transport  will  come  can  be  made  in 
this  way.  Assuming  a  price  of  15  cents 
per  hundredweight  for  cost  of  delivery 
at  the  freight-yard  and  removal  there- 
from, or  about  three  dollars  per  ton  at 
each  end,  we  have  a  fixed  charge  of  six 
dollars  per  ton  on  every  ton  moved, 
however  far  it  goes.  At  a  cost  of  50 
cents  per  ton-mile  for  motor  transport, 
six  dollars  will  move  a  ton  twelve  miles; 
so  that  for  this  and  shorter  distances 
the  railroad  cannot  compete.  This  dis- 
tance, amounting  to  six  miles  at  each 
end  of  the  operation,  fairly  represents 
the  area  of  the  larger  industrial  com- 
munities, where  streets  designed  for 
heavy  traffic  have  already  been  pro- 
vided; and  within  these  areas  the  truck 
will  clearly  be  supreme.  Beyond  this 
point,  however,  the  railroad  costs 
should  be  less,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
the  Class  II  rate,  within  which  class 
most  of  the  local  traffic  could  with  skill- 
ful readjustment  be  made  to  come,  is 
now  only  five  and  a  half  cents,  with  all 
the  terminal  cost  upon  its  head.  Even 
if  the  cost  for  hauling  local  freight  is  as 
high  as  five  cents,  plus  the  cost  of  hand- 


264 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


ling  at  terminals,  it  is  clear  that,  above 
the  twelve-mile  limit,  a  saving  over  the 
50  cents  per  ton-mile  for  motor  costs 
can  be  shown. 

But  there  is  one  feature  essential  to 
the  success  of  this  or  any  other  scheme. 
The  railroads  must  be  efficiently  oper- 
ated. Loyalty,  team-work,  and  dis- 
cipline in  railroad  operations  —  all  are 
absolutely  vital  to  any  improvement 
whatsoever.  Without  these  no  system, 
no  industrial  operation,  can  succeed. 
Scientific  management  and  the  best  of 
methods  are  futile  if  the  human  ele- 
ment fails.  The  army  of  75,000  men 
who  operate  the  railroads  of  New  Eng- 
land must  be  loyal  to  its  commander,  or 
the  enemy  (high  taxes  and  high  man- 
ufacturing costs)  will  drive  us  from  the 
field. 

At  the  present  moment  the  nation  is 
much  agitated  by  the  controversy  be- 
tween the  railroad  executives  and  the 
railroad  unions,  over  the  question  of 
wages  and  working  conditions  —  the 
unions  demanding  that  all  such  ques- 
tions shall  be  settled  on  a  national 
basis,  while  the  executives  plead  for  the 
privilege  of  dealing  directly  with  their 
own  employees.  It  is  beyond  the  scope 
of  this  article  to  analyze  the  merits  of 
this  controversy;  but  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  point  out  that,  in  the  heat  of 
battle,  the  parties  are  in  danger  of  los- 
ing sight  of  the  real  issue  —  the  shadow 
may  be  mistaken  for  the  substance. 
Effective  team-work  requires  loyalty 
and  discipline.  Industrial  organizations 
that  survive  the  test  of  time  are  organ- 
ized upon  the  same  principles  as  an 
army,  in  which  there  must  be  supreme 
command  and  also  subdivision  into 
units,  to  the  commanders  of  which 
much  liberty  of  action  is  allowed.  The 
organization  of  the  National  Baseball 
League  forms  an  analogy  which  is  in- 
structive, for  the  business  as  a  whole  is 
recognized  as  a  close  monopoly,  con- 
trolled absolutely  by  a  small  group  of 


men;  while  at  the  same  time  the  indi- 
viduality of  the  clubs  is  not  lost,  com- 
petition is  of  the  keenest  character,  and 
discipline  is  preserved. 

But  whatever  be  the  form  of  organi- 
zation, it  is  essential  to  success  that 
each  individual  who  comprises  it  shall 
be  interested  in  his  work,  proud  of  his 
job,  and  loyal  to  it  and  to  his  superior 
officer.  That  it  is  easy  to  create  such  a 
condition,  it  would  be  idle  to  assert;  but 
it  will  be  impossible  without  the  closest 
and  most  intimate  relations  between 
officers  and  men,  and  any  system  which 
tends  to  keep  them  apart  will  be  fatal. 
This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  serious 
objection  to  the  scheme  of  national 
agreements,  for  which  the  leaders  of  the 
railroad  unions  contend. 

The  transportation  conditions  of 
New  England  are  peculiar.  They  are 
wholly  different  from  the  conditions  of 
the  South  or  the  West,  and  a  union 
official  living  in  Cleveland  knows  little, 
and  is  likely  to  care  less,  about  the 
special  problems  of  our  community. 
The  railroads  of  New  England  must  be 
owned,  managed,  and  operated  by  men 
whose  homes  and  hearts,  as  well  as 
their  heads,  are  in  New  England.  The 
operating  men,  from  the  engineer  to 
the  freight-handler,  must  know  clearly 
that  the  success  and  the  efficiency  of 
operation  of  the  roads  is  vital  to  their 
own  lives;  that  when  they  strike,  they 
strike  their  own  wives  and  children; 
that,  if  costs  are  high,  they  must  pay 
them;  and  that,  if  the  business  is  a  fail- 
ure, they  and  theirs  will  be  the  sufferers. 

If,  in  the  process  of  reorganization  on 
which  we  must  now  embark,  new  men 
are  required  in  responsible  positions, 
they  should  be  sought,  and  will  be 
found,  among  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
present  operating  force.  The  spirit  of 
team-play,  which  is  essential,  can  be 
created  and  kept  alive  only  by  making 
it  clear  to  every  man,  from  water-boy 
to  president,  that  promotion  is  the  sure 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


265 


reward  of  good  work;  and  in  addition 
to  this,  public  regulation  must  be  so 
administered  that  responsibility  and 
power  will  not  be  divorced;  that  the 
men  we  look  to  for  results  shall  have 
freedom  of  action  within  reasonable 
limits,  and  be  given  a  chance  to  show 
what  they  can  do. 

Moreover,  unless  these  apparently 
simple  principles  are  entirely  fallacious, 
they  would  seem  to  indicate  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  of  grouping  the  New 
England  roads,  which  is  now  so  hotly 
disputed.  Current  argument  is  largely 
controlled  and  its  lines  directed  by  the 
hoary  tradition  that  the  problem  is  a 
financial  one,  to  be  settled  like  a  sum  in 
arithmetic,  notwithstanding  the  crop 
of  failures  which  this  method  has  pro- 
duced in  the  past.  But  one  is  tempted 
to  suggest  that  an  experiment  in  deal- 
ing with  it  primarily  as  a  human  prob- 
lem could  not  be  a  worse  failure,  and 
might  succeed. 

Nothing  is  more  alien  to  industrial 
progress  than  a  narrow  provincialism, 
and  yet  the  strongest  motive-forces  of 
the  race  are  its  personal  loyalties  to 
family  —  to  clan  —  to  State  and  to 
Nation.  If  this  motive  can  be  enlist- 
ed, it  is  irresistible,  and  will  sweep 
aside  obstacles  that  baffle  the  econo- 
mist and  the  banker.  So  that  it  might 
well  be  found  that  the  slogan,  'New 
England  money,  New  England  men, 
New  England  roads, '  will  lead  us  to  a 
victory  which  the  bankers  in  New  York 
who  guide  the  destinies  of  the  Trunk- 
Line  Association  cannot  achieve. 

The  roads  of  New  England  must 
either  be  grouped  together  or  parceled 
out  among  the  Western  trunk-lines. 
The  figures  point  to  the  latter  course; 
but  the  powerful  popular  instinct, 
which  has  opposed  this  in  the  past,  rests 
upon  a  sound  (if  somewhat  inarticulate) 
foundation.  New  England  railroads 
succeeded  when  they  were  local  enter- 
prises supported  by  the  loyalty  of  New 


England.  As  they  slipped  from  this 
basis,  they  began  to  fail,  and  they  have 
now  collapsed.  To  our  old  rock-founda- 
tion we  must  now  painfully  return. 

It  is  idle  to  suppose  that  the  contro- 
versies which  have  destroyed  the  morale 
of  our  railroad  organizations  are  be- 
tween Labor  and  Capital,  or  that  one 
class  in  the  community  is  more  vitally 
interested  in  their  solution  than  an- 
other. The  penalty  of  failure  will  not 
fall  most  heavily  upon  the  big  business 
man  or  the  banker.  These  can,  and 
will,  escape  and  win  a  livelihood  in  oth- 
er fields.  It  is  the  workingman  —  the 
man  in  the  street — who  will  suffer.  New 
England  is  his  home;  its  future  and 
his  are  one.  If  New  England  suffers 
from  the  failure  of  its  transportation- 
system,  these  men  and  their  wives  and 
children  must  bear  the  consequences. 
And  if  these  men  fail  to  realize  the 
true  nature  of  the  problem,  as  they 
have  failed  hitherto,  and  to  cooperate 
in  its  solution,  they,  and  chiefly  they, 
will  suffer. 

The  present  attitude  of  railroad  labor, 
which  seems  to  be  striving  for  high 
wages  and  limited  output,  is  suicidal. 
These  men  behave  as  if  efficient  and 
economical  operation  of  the  railroads 
were  somebody  else's  business.  In  fact, 
it  is  their  own.  If  they  maintain  their 
present  attitude,  they  will  destroy  them- 
selves and  force  their  fellow  citizens  to 
shatter  them  and  their  organizations  as 
a  measure  of  self-preservation.  The 
remedies  will  have  to  be  drastic,  for  it 
is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

To  sum  up  the  situation,  then,  and 
put  a  point  upon  the  spear,  we  are 
faced  with  a  vital  problem,  upon  the 
successful  solution  of  which  hangs  the 
future  of  New  England.  We  are  to-day 
a  manufacturing  community,  to  which 
cheap  and  rapid  local  transportation  is 
essential.  Owing  to  the  collapse  of  our 
railroad  system,  we  have  not  got  it 


266 


ROOT,  HOG,  OR  DIE 


Transportation  by  motor-truck,  except 
for  short  distances,  is  too  expensive. 
Our  goods  must  be  transported  by 
rail,  if  at  all,  and  we  must  either  pro- 
vide cheap  and  rapid  railroad  transpor- 
tation, or  perish  as  a  manufacturing 
centre. 

This  conclusion  does  not  imply  that 
the  policy  of  the  Commonwealth  regard- 
ing the  construction  of  state  roads  has 
been  unwise.  On  the  contrary,  such 
construction,  properly  planned  and 
administered  on  the  basis  of  payment 
by  the  automobile  of  its  share  of  cost 
and  maintenance,  through  a  system  of 
registration  fees,  is  sound  and  popular. 
But  these  roads  were  designed  for  rela- 
tively light  traffic;  their  foundations 
and  bridges  are  wholly  inadequate  to 
withstand  the  blows  of  a  five-ton  truck, 
and  their  use  for  freight-service  of  this 
character  is  wantonly  wasteful.  The 
$25,000,000  investment  of  the  tax- 
payers' money  is  being  destroyed  by  a 
use  that  was  never  intended.  Your 
pocket-knife  makes  a  poor  claw-ham- 
mer, to  say  nothing  of  the  effect  on  the 
knife. 

That  the  task  is  not  beyond  our  power, 
there  is  no  question.  Brains  and  energy 
of  the  sort  that  have  made  New  England, 
if  applied  to  this  problem,  will  solve  it. 
A  small  commission,  composed  of  the 
leaders  of  our  industrial  life,  could,  in  a 
very  short  time,  verify  the  facts  of  the 
case  and  draw  up  a  statement  which 


every  citizen  in  New  England  could 
understand,  and  which  should  be  pub- 
lished and  advertised  in  such  a  way  as 
to  drive  it  home  in  every  section  and 
in  every  class.  The  tax- payers,  once 
aroused,  will  then  insist  that  the  neces- 
sary steps  be  taken  at  once.  Different 
methods  of  handling  goods  and  of  hand- 
ling men  must  be  put  in  operation,  but 
these  methods  need  not  of  necessity  be 
invented.  To  a  large  extent,  the  labor- 
saving  devices  which  we  need  are  al- 
ready in  existence  and  in  use  in  other 
industrial  or  construction  organiza- 
tions. The  future  methods  of  handling 
men  need  not,  in  fact  must  not,  be  new. 
They  must  be  the  methods  now  in  use 
in  other  great,  efficient,  and  successful 
industries. 

Whether  these  changes  can  be  car- 
ried out  by  the  men  who  now  operate 
the  roads  remains  to  be  seen.  With  a 
clear  mandate  and  a  fair  chance,  which 
they  have  not  had  heretofore,  they 
should  be  given  time  to  show  what  they 
can  do.  If  they  fail,  they  must  be  re- 
placed by  men  who  will  not  fail.  Needs 
must  when  the  Devil  drives.  Our  need 
is  desperate,  and  the  right  men  can  be 
found.  Management,  and  not  money, 
is  what,  we  need.  The  motor-trucks  for 
local  deliveries,  the  terminals,  the  rail- 
roads, and  a  large  part  of  the  necessary 
equipment  are  at  hand.  We  have  the 
tools  —  our  problem  is  to  use  them 
with  the  requisite  skill. 


BY  DAVID  HUNTER  MILLER 


THE  story  of  the  Paris  negotiations 
about  the  Adriatic  has  not  yet  been 
written;  perhaps  all  of  it  cannot  be  told 
until  we  read  the  papers  of  Orlando  and 
Lloyd  George,  of  Sonnino  and  President 
Wilson,  and  of  some  other  figures  who, 
at  times  at  least,  played  a  part  in  the 
drama;  but  certainly  an  attempt  can 
now  be  made  to  outline  the  picture  and 
to  reconstruct  the  progress  of  one  of  the 
failures  of  Paris,  a  failure,  however, 
which  paved  the  way  for  the  final  end- 
ing, by  the  Treaty  of  Rapallo,  of  the 
differences  between  Italy  and  the  king- 
dom of  the  Serbs,  the  Croats,  and  the 
Slovenes. 

First  of  all,  let  us  recall  to  our  minds 
just  what  the  Adriatic  problem  was. 
When  Italy  became  at  once  a  united 
nation  and  a  great  power,  her  situation 
geographically  was  both  singularly 
satisfactory  and  unsatisfactory.  That 
great  peninsula,  which  looks  on  the 
map  like  a  gigantic  boot  projecting  into 
the  Mediterranean,  has  a  coast-line 
with  an  extraordinary  opportunity  for 
commerce.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Italian  frontier  on  the  north  and  north- 
east was  almost  hopeless  for  defense, 
and,  indeed,  seemed  drawn  so  as  to  in- 
vite attack. 

But  we  are  concerned  only  with  the 
Adriatic,  whose  western  waves  wash 
the  coasts  of  Italy  for  five  hundred 
miles,  from  beyond  Venice  to  the  Med- 
iterranean. From  the  point  of  view  of 
modern  naval  warfare,  no  sea  is  more 
one-sided.  Every  advantage  is  with  the 


east :  the  many  islands,  often  with  con- 
cealed channels  and  with  an  indented 
shore  behind  them,  protected  by  an  al- 
most impassable  mountain  range  along 
the  coast,  not  only  are  beyond  all 
attack,  but,  with  their  deep  harbors 
and  their  hiding-places,  make  an  ideal 
haven  for  warships;  but  the  unbroken 
coast-line  on  the  Italian  side,  with  its 
shallow  waters  and  almost  no  ports,  af- 
fords no  naval  base.  Moreover,  the  wa- 
ters of  the  Italian  shores  are  shallow, 
while  those  leading  to  the  Mediterra- 
nean by  the  Straits  of  Otranto  are  deep 
and  the  currents  swift,  so  that  mines  in 
that  twenty  miles  of  channel  are  hardly 
possible.  No  wonder  that,  despite  the 
Allied  fleets,  Austria  controlled  the 
Adriatic  throughout  the  war. 

But  the  Adriatic  problem  meant 
more  than  this.  The  shores  of  the  Adri- 
atic that  were  not  Italian  were  largely 
within  the  Empire  of  Austria-Hungary. 
Before  the  war,  the  peninsula  of  Istria, 
coming  down  east  of  Venice,  had  to  the 
north  the  great  Austrian  port  of  Trieste 
and  near  its  southern  tip  the  famous 
naval  base  of  Pola.  Hungary  reached 
the  sea  just  below,  at  Fiume,  the  outlet 
for  a  hinterland  of  varied  races  under 
different  governments.  Farther  south, 
Austrian  territory  extended  along  the 
coast,  in  the  narrow  strip  of  Dalmatia, 
that  Adriatic  wall  along  which  Serbia 
was  looking  for  a  window.  And  when 
one  thought  of  the  Adriatic,  one  could 
not  but  think  of  the  provinces  of  Bos- 
nia and  Herzegovina,  annexed  by  Au&- 

267 


268 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS   AT   PARIS 


tria-Hungary  with  a  cynical  contempt 
for  treaties ;  and  one  must  think  also  of 
two  other  countries  on  the  sea  below 
Dalmatia  —  Montenegro,  that  superb 
anomaly  of  independence,  and  Albania, 
a  land  that  had  always  lived  its  own 
life  in  the  Balkans,  but  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  and  of  Europe  till 
1913. 

With  its  memories  of  Italian  civili- 
zation and  culture,  where  Italian  power 
had  long  since  lost  sway;  with  its  med- 
ley of  races,  of  religions,  and  of  govern- 
ments; with  the  conflicting  strategic 
positions  and  ambitions  of  the  great 
powers  bordering  on  its  waters;  with  its 
cross-currents  of  commercial  rivalries, 
and  with  ancient  hatreds  smouldering 
under  modern  injustice,  the  Adriatic 
presented  a  situation  which,  at  any 
static  stage,  it  might  well  seem  impos- 
sible to  change  without  disaster,  but 
which,  in  the  state  of  flux  created  by  a 
great  war,  became  a  problem  whose 
solution  was  well  worthy  of  any  wisdom. 

II 

The  diplomatic  history  of  the  Adri- 
atic in  the  World  War  is  usually  dated 
from  the  Pact  of  London.  But  I  put  it 
farther  back.  I  date  it  from  that  night 
in  August,  1914,  when  the  Italian  Am- 
bassador at  Paris  woke  the  French 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  in  his  bed- 
room, and  told  him  that  the  attacks  by 
Germany  on  France  and  on  Russia 
were  not  a,  casus  fcederis  within  the 
terms  of  the  Triple  Alliance,  and  that 
Italy  would  remain  neutral.  Then  was 
taken  the  great  decision  by  Italy,  a 
decision  which  really  put  the  Adriatic 
question  on  the  lap  of  the  gods,  and 
which,  by  permitting  the  withdrawal  of 
French  troops  from  the  Italian  frontier, 
made  possible  the  first  victory  of  the 
Marne. 

Now,  the  Pact  of  London  has  been 
denounced  by  almost  every  recent  crit- 


ic; and,  in  particular,  it  has  been  de- 
nounced by  every  so-called  'liberal,'  a 
term  which  seems  to  me  often  to  mean 
one  who  is  very  tolerant  of  his  own 
point  of  view.  We  have  been  told  that 
the  Pact  of  London  was  secret,  that  it 
was  a  bargain  —  a  hard  bargain  — 
driven  by  Italy  with  the  Allies,  and  that 
it  violated  every  principle  of  self-deter- 
mination and  of  justice.  Well,  despite 
the  critics  and  despite  the  fact  that  they 
charged  me  at  Paris  with  the  crime  of 
being  pro-Italian,  I  think  I  can  con- 
sider the  Pact  of  London  by  an  exami- 
nation of  its  provisions  in  the  light  of 
the  circumstances  surrounding  its  crea- 
tion; and  that  is  how  any  international 
document  should  be  considered. 

That  treaty  was  signed  on  April  26, 
1915,  between  Italy,  Great  Britain, 
France,  and  Russia;  and  one  of  its 
provisions  was  that  Italy  should  enter 
the  war  on  the  side  of  the  Allies  within 
one  month  thereafter.  This  fact  alone 
repels  all  criticism  on  the  ground  of 
secrecy  at  the  time;  for  it  could  hardly 
be  expected  that  public  announcement 
would  be  made  of  a  future  move  in  the 
war. 

Of  course,  no  one  can  defend  secret 
treaties  in  principle,  for  the  principle  of 
secrecy  in  diplomacy  is  an  evil  one.  But 
the  evil  was  not  generally  recognized  in 
Europe  in  1915;  we  are  apt  to  forget 
the  great  change  which  has  taken  place 
in  world-sentiment  in  this  matter.  The 
Covenant  of  the  League  of  Nations  con- 
tains a  clause  for  the  public  registration 
of  treaties;  any  such  idea  would  have 
been  wholly  illusory  and  impossible  on- 
ly a  few  years  ago,  for  the  fundamental 
law  of  almost  every  continental  state 
made  provision  for  secret  treaties.  In- 
deed, if  we  go  back  a  century  in  our  own 
history,  we  find  the  Congress  of  the 
United  States  under  Madison  passing 
secret  laws,  which  for  years  were  kept 
off  our  statute-books. 

By  the  rest  of  the  Pact  of  London  it 


THE   ADRIATIC  NEGOTIATIONS  AT  PARIS 


was  agreed  that  Italy  should  have  vari- 
ous territorial  acquisitions  in  the  Adri- 
atic and  elsewhere,  and  that  she  should 
be  given  a  loan  in  London  of  £50,000,- 
000 —  a  very  modest  sum  from  the 
later  point  of  view  of  war  finance.  I  am 
reminded  in  this  connection  of  a  remark 
which  Mr.  Lloyd  George  is  reported  to 
have  made  in  Paris,  to  the  effect  that 
the  refusal  of  Great  Britain  to  give  Tur- 
key a  loan  of  £20,000,000  hi  1914  was 
the  most  extravagant  economy  known 
to  history. 

Of  course,  the  territorial  clauses  of 
the  Pact  of  London  were  a  bargain  be- 
tween Italy  and  the  Allies;  but  I  fail  to 
see  that  they  were  a  harsh  bargain. 
Passing,  for  the  moment,  any  question 
of  the  righteousness  of  the  clauses, 
surely  France  and  Great  Britain  were 
not  being  treated  harshly;  they  were 
not  giving  away  anything  of  their  own, 
and  from  the  point  of  view  simply  of 
self-interest,  they  could  well  afford  to 
be  generous  with  the  territory  of  their 
enemies  before  they  were  just;  it  was 
not  their  ox  that  was  being  gored  in 
Dalmatia. 

Now  the  territorial  clauses  of  the 
Pact  of  London  have  such  a  direct  rela- 
tion to  the  Adriatic  negotiations  at 
Paris  that  it  is  necessary  to  examine 
those  clauses  in  some  detail;  perhaps 
their  justice  or  injustice  has  become  a 
matter  of  no  practical  moment;  but 
still  I  shall  turn  aside  to  consider  that 
question  of  justice,  for  otherwise  the 
background  of  the  Paris  negotiations 
may  be  seen  in  a  false  light. 

The  moral  qualities  of  an  act  are  to 
be  judged  as  of  its  date  and  not  from 
subsequent  events.  I  not  only  admit, 
but  insist,  that  in  1919  it  would  have 
been  wrong  and  unjust,  as  well  as  un- 
wise and  impossible,  to  carry  out  the 
terms  of  the  Pact  of  London;  but,  to 
consider  fairly  the  situation  of  1915, 
we  must  lay  aside  our  knowledge  of  sub- 
sequent events,  difficult  as  that  is  to  do. 


269 

In  the  spring  of  1915,  when  Italy  en- 
tered the  war,  the  cause  of  the  Allies 
was  not  going  well.  They  were  making 
no  progress  on  the  Western  Front,  and 
in  the  East,  Russia  was  about  to  meet 
with  a  severe  defeat.  No  one  dreamed 
of  a  rout  of  Germany  or  of  a  complete 
remaking  of  the  map  of  Europe.  A 
continuance  of  the  former  European 
alignment  seemed  reasonable  to  expect, 
in  a  modified  form,  perhaps,  but  cer- 
tainly with  no  overturn  of  the  situation. 

Italy  had  lived  her  national  life  of 
two  generations  in  a  continuous  and 
justified  state  of  fear  —  a  sentiment  al- 
most unknown  to  American  statesmen, 
but  which  has  had,  and  has,  a  more 
profound  influence  on  European  thought 
and  action  than  can  well  be  imagined. 
The  door  in  the  Alps  was  open.  Italy 
visualized  a  German  empire  and  an 
Austro-Hungarian  empire  existing  after 
the  war,  the  former  probably,  and  the 
latter  certainly,  deeply  hostile  to  her; 
and  so  Italy  sought  safety,  sought  to 
acquire  a  frontier  as  impregnable  as 
possible,  together  with  the  control  of 
the  Adriatic.  Most  of  the  questioned 
territorial  gains  secured  by  Italy  in  the 
Pact  of  London  in  the  region  we  are 
now  considering  were  of  comparatively 
little  material  value;  their  worth  was 
chiefly  as  a  defense  against  attack. 

Furthermore,  unless  the  Empire  of 
Austria-Hungary  was  to  collapse,  the 
future  of  the  Jugo-Slav  movement  was 
problematical.  In  1915,  one  might,  per- 
haps, have  predicted  a  greater  Serbia, 
but  hardly  a  union  of  all  the  Jugo-Slavs. 
Certainly,  there  was  no  heaven-sent 
reason  why  any  of  those  peoples  should 
be  governed  from  Vienna  or  from  Buda- 
pest rather  than  from  Rome,  if  they 
were  not  to  have  their  own  capital  at 
Belgrade.  And  while  Serbia  did  not 
sign  the  Pact  of  London,  Russia,  the 
self-constituted  protector  of  the  Balkan 
Slavs,  was  a  consenting  party. 

So,  while  the  terms  of  the  Pact  of 


270 


THE  ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS  AT  PARIS 


London  were  drawn  in  the  spirit  of  the 
old  and  now  discredited  diplomacy, 
still  Italy,  from  the  standpoint  of  1915, 
was  largely  justified  in  signing  that 
treaty,  although  the  same  treaty  in 
1919  would  have  been  unrighteous  and 
unjust. 

By  the  Pact  of  London,  while  a  part 
of  the  coast  toward  the  north  of  the 
Adriatic,  including  specifically  Fiume 
and  all  the  coast  of  Croatia,  was  not  to 
be  Italian,  the  whole  of  the  Istrian  pen- 
insula was  to  go  to  Italy,  and  in  addi- 
tion an  extensive  strip  of  Dalmatia 
above  Spalato,  with  nearly  all  the  is- 
lands off  the  coast;  and  when  to  these 
was  added  Valona  and  its  gulf,  almost 
opposite  Brindisi  and  the  heel  of  the 
Italian  boot,  the  control  of  the  Adriatic 
was  complete;  it  would  have  been  whol- 
ly Italian  in  all  but  name. 

But  by  the  time  the  Conference  of 
Paris  met,  a  change  had  come  over  the 
spirit  of  the  political  dream  of  Eastern 
Europe.  The  ancient  empire,  which 
had  been  the  natural  enemy  of  Italy, 
had  vanished.  And  here  let  me  say  that 
it  is  a  common  criticism,  born  of  com- 
mon ignorance,  to  charge  the  Confer- 
ence of  Paris  with  the  Balkanization  of 
Eastern  Europe,  that  catching  phrase. 
It  was  no  treaty  that  set  up  separate 
governments  at  Prague,  at  Budapest 
and  at  Vienna,  for  those  separate  gov- 
ernments had  existed  since  before  the 
German  Armistice.  And  no  Peace  Con- 
ference could  have  joined  together  these 
fragments  of  an  empire  which  its  peo- 
ples had  put  asunder. 

Nor  was  it  any  outside  influence 
which  brought  to  a  conclusion  that  na- 
tional movement  which  resulted  in  the 
union  of  the  three  Jugo-Slav  peoples  — 
peoples  of  different  religions,  indeed, 
and  under  different  governments,  some 
of  whom  had  been  under  alien  rule  for 
centuries,  but  who  were  all  of  nearly 
the  same  blood  and  of  nearly  the  same 
speech. 


It  has  recently  been  made  public,  as 
perhaps  some  had  earlier  suspected, 
that  not  all  the  Americans  at  Paris  were 
of  one  mind  with  their  chief  about  the 
principle  of  self-determination.  It  now 
appears  that  there  were  some  unex- 
pressed and  private  thoughts  at  Paris, 
to  the  effect  that  self-determination  is 
a  rather  unsettling  doctrine  and  one 
not  based  on  sufficiently  ancient  legal 
precedents;  but  surely  everyone  who 
is  at  all  familiar  with  the  history  of  the 
Jugo-Slav  movement  will  agree  with 
Woodrow  Wilson  that  'self-determina- 
tion is  not  a  mere  phrase.' 

For  in  place  of  Serbia  we  found,  not  a 
Greater  Serbia,  but  a  new  kingdom,  the 
kingdom  of  the  Serbs,  the  Croats,  and 
the  Slovenes;  a  kingdom  including  Ser- 
bia and  Montenegro,  and  which  had 
taken  in  not  only  Bosnia  and  Herze- 
govina, but  also  Croatia  and  Slavonia, 
and  other  parts  of  Austria-Hungary;  a 
kingdom  which  regarded  its  claim  to 
Dalmatia  and  the  adjacent  islands  as 
perfect,  and  which  had  aspirations,  not 
only  to  Istria  but  even  to  Trieste. 

And  the  change  that  had  come  was 
not  a  change  in  fact  and  in  feeling  only, 
but  also  in  law.  The  Jugo-Slavs  were 
not  bound  technically  or  in  any  other 
sense  by  the  Pact  of  London,  but  held 
it  as  void  from  their  point  of  view,  and 
claimed  that  it  had  been  annulled  by 
the  so-called  'Pact  of  Rome,'  of  April, 
1918,  a  claim  which  had  in  it,  perhaps, 
more  of  equity  than  of  technical  ac- 
curacy. But  more  important,  practi- 
cally, was  the  fact  that  the  United 
States  was  certainly  not  bound  by  the 
Pact  of  London,  to  which  we  had  never 
directly  or  indirectly  assented;  indeed, 
the  American  legal  view  was  that  the 
Pact  of  London,  so  far  as  it  conflicted 
with  the  Fourteen  Points,  bound  no- 
body at  all;  for  the  Fourteen  Points 
had  in  substance  been  accepted  by 
Italy  as  well  as  by  France  and  Great 
Britain,  even  though  they  had  not  been 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS  AT  PARIS 


formally  incorporated  in  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  Armistice  of  November  3, 
1918,  as  they  were  in  the  strictest  sense 
made  part  of  the  German  Armistice 
eight  days  later. 

But  the  Pact  of  London  remained  a 
factor  throughout  the  negotiations. 
The  British  and  the  French  recognized 
fully  the  unwisdom  of  that  treaty  in 
the  light  of  events,  though  they  were 
naturally  unwilling  to  deny  that  an 
agreement  which  they  had  signed  was 
binding  as  to  them;  so  that,  with  some 
hesitation,  doubtless,  they  recognized 
that  they  could  not  deny  their  support  to 
Italian  claims  based  on  that  treaty. 

But,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  Ital- 
ians did  not  stand  on  the  Pact  of  Lon- 
don alone,  for  they  claimed  Fiume, 
which  was  specifically  and  by  name 
excluded  from  their  claims  by  that  very 
document. 

m 

It  was  with  such  a  background,  such 
a  confusion  of  conflicting  facts  and 
legal  theories,  that  the  Paris  negotia- 
tions between  the  United  States  and 
Italy  regarding  the  Adriatic  took  place. 

For  it  was  between  those  two  powers 
that  the  real  Adriatic  negotiations  at 
Paris  were  carried  on.  The  British  and 
the  French  were  entirely  willing  to  ac- 
cept in  advance  anything  that  America 
and  Italy  agreed  to,  and  the  Jugo- 
Slavs  were  practically  committed  to 
the  same  view  by  their  offer  of  arbi- 
tration before  President  Wilson.  In- 
deed, as  the  Jugo-Slavs  were  a  new 
political  union  of  peoples,  it  was  said  at 
Paris,  perhaps  with  some  reason,  that 
their  three  representatives,  Mr.  Ves- 
nich,  a  Serb,  Mr.  Pachitch,  a  Slovene, 
and  Mr.  Trumbitch,  a  Croat,  would 
have  preferred  to  accept,  as  easier  to 
defend  in  their  own  country,  an  agree- 
ment announced  to  them  rather  than 
one  that  had  obtained  their  assent. 
Obviously,  any  criticism  which  alleged 


271 

that  one  branch  of  the  newly  formed 
union  had  been  sacrificed  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  others  would  not  have  been 
easy  to  meet.  The  difficulties  of  their 
situation  were  illustrated  by  a  sym- 
bolic remark  made  by  one  of  their  dele- 
gates in  Paris,  that  he  was  negotiating 
with  a  dagger  at  his  back,  held  by  his 
own  colleagues. 

If  I  have  succeeded  in  my  attempted 
outline  of  the  geography  of  the  Adri- 
atic, it  will  be  seen  that  there  were  four 
regions  there  where  the  Italian  and 
Jugo-Slav  views  and  aspirations  clashed : 
Istria,  the  islands  belonging  partly  to 
Istria  and  partly  to  Dalmatia,  the  Dal- 
matian mainland,  and  Fiume.  Doubt- 
less, if  the  question  were  asked  of  any- 
one which  of  these  four  was  the  cause 
of  the  final  difficulty  between  President 
Wilson  and  the  Italians,  the  answer 
would  be  Fiume;  but  that  answer  would 
be  wrong.  It  was  not  Fiume  that  prov- 
ed the  finally  impossible  point,  but  an- 
other region,  very  closely  related  to  that 
of  Fiume,  it  is  true,  but  still  distinct: 
it  was  a  little  strip  of  territory  running 
along  the  Gulf  of  Fiume  and  then  down 
the  Istrian  coast,  with  a  hinterland  of 
small  importance  —  a  strip  which  a 
New  York  journalist  at  Paris  wittily 
called  the  'Riverside  Drive  of  Istria'; 
a  strip  which  the  Italians  valued  highly, 
but  only  because  it  would  bring  Italian 
territory  up  to  Fiume  itself. 

During  President  Wilson's  first  visit 
to  Europe,  little  progress  was  made 
toward  any  settlement  of  the  Adriatic 
question.  Signer  Orlando,  the  Italian 
Prime  Minister,  had,  indeed,  during 
that  time,  most  actively  and  heartily 
worked  with  President  Wilson  in  the 
drafting  of  the  Covenant  of  the  League 
of  Nations,  and  the  relations  between 
the  two  chiefs  of  state  were  most  cordial. 
But  the  Adriatic  was  not  directly  re- 
lated to  a  peace  with  Germany,  with 
which  all  the  delegations  were  then 
more  particularly  occupied. 


272 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS   AT   PARIS 


It  was  not  until  President  Wilson 
came  to  Paris  for  the  second  time  that 
the  whole  matter  was  taken  up  directly 
between  him  and  Signer  Orlando,  in 
great  detail.  The  Italians  naturally 
wanted  settled  a  question  which  was  of 
more  direct  interest  to  them  than  the 
terms  of  the  peace  with  Germany,  even 
including  reparations. 

In  the  negotiations,  President  Wilson 
rested  almost  wholly,  I  think  I  may  say 
wholly,  on  the  opinions  of  his  territorial 
advisers,  on  all  details  of  the  various 
proposals.  He  was,  indeed,  willing  to 
accept  any  agreement  freely  entered  in- 
to between  Italy  and  the  Jugo-Slavs; 
but  no  such  agreement  was  possible, 
perhaps  for  the  reasons  I  have  indi- 
cated, perhaps,  partly,  because  of  the 
very  natural  hostility  then  existing  be- 
tween the  two  countries.  The  Serbs 
had,  of  course,  fought  valiantly  and  de- 
votedly on  the  side  of  the  Allies;  but 
the  Croats  and  the  Slovenes  had  been 
subjects  of  Austria-Hungary,  and  while 
many  of  them  had  in  fact  supported  the 
Allied  cause,  still  the  Italians  did  not 
then  feel  very  kindly  toward  peoples, 
some  of  whom  had,  a  few  short  months 
before,  fought  against  Italian  troops  on 
the  Piave. 

The  American  point  of  view,  as  I  have 
said,  necessarily  was  that  the  subject 
must  be  considered  wholly  independent- 
ly of  the  Pact  of  London;  and  the  opin- 
ion of  Professor  Douglas  Johnson,  the 
eminent  geographer  of  Columbia  Uni- 
versity and  the  American  territorial 
adviser,  in  this  matter  supported  the 
Italian  claims  as  to  Fiume  not  at  all, 
practically  not  at  all  as  to  the  Dalma- 
tian mainland,  to  a  very  limited  extent 
as  to  the  islands,  and  in  Istria  up  to, 
but  only  up  to,  the  line  drawn  by  Pro- 
fessor Johnson,  which  became  known 
as  the  Wilson  line. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  verbally  the 
Wilson  line,  in  which,  indeed,  important 
changes  were  made  from  time  to  time 


after  it  was  originally  laid  down;  but  it 
left  in  Jugo-Slav  territory  a  very  con- 
siderable part  of  eastern  Istria,  and 
specifically,  and  more  important,  per- 
haps, it  was  intentionally  drawn  so  as 
to  leave  wholly  in  Jugo-Slav  territory 
the  railroad  running  north  from  Fiume 
to  Vienna.  From  the  Italian  point  of 
view,  one  great  objection  to  it  was 
bound  up  with  the  matter  of  Fiume; 
for  the  Wilson  line,  in  every  form,  left 
Fiume  physically  separated  by  land 
from  Italy. 

The  views  of  the  American  territorial 
adviser  were  that  the  position  taken  by 
him  really  involved  very  great  conces- 
sions to  Italy :  that  the  Wilson  line  was 
drawn  so  as  to  leave  several  hundred 
thousand  Slavs  in  Italy  and  perhaps 
only  75,000  Italians  on  the  other  side  of 
the  frontier;  that  Dalmatia,  with  the 
exception  of  Zara,  a  city  of  12,000  peo- 
ple, was  almost  wholly  Slav;  and  that 
the  Dalmatian  and  Istrian  islands  were 
likewise  mostly  Slav;  and,  finally,  that 
Fiume,  while  possibly  half-Italian  in 
its  population,  was  the  essential  eco- 
nomic outlet  to  the  sea  for  a  vast  hin- 
terland, much  of  which  was  part  of 
Jugo-Slavia  and  the  rest  a  part  of  Hun- 
gary and  other  regions  toward  the 
north. 

IV 

This  leads  me  to  say  something  a  lit- 
tle more  in  detail  of  Fiume,  a  city  which 
for  its  size  has  certainly  had  more  than 
its  share  of  the  headlines  on  the  front 
pages  during  the  last  two  years. 

Fiume  owes  its  commercial  import- 
ance to  its  location  at  the  only  real 
break  in  the  mountain-range  running 
down  the  eastern  coast  of  the  Adriatic. 
Nowhere  else  along  that  shore  south  of 
Fiume  can  railroads  easily  reach  the 
sea.  While  it  has  not  a  naturally  fine 
harbor,  its  facilities  had  been  well  de- 
veloped by  Hungary,  and  are  suscepti- 
ble of  further  improvement;  and  while 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS   AT  PARIS 


273 


logically  not  serving  the  same  terri- 
tory as  Trieste,  it  is  a  commercial  rival 
of  that  city.  In  1914  the  trade  of  Hun- 
gary found  its  political  and  natural 
outlet  at  Fiume,  and  its  surrounding 
country  and  neighboring  hinterland 
were  wholly  Slav.  If  the  suburb  of 
Susak,  a  part  of  the  port,  is  included  as 
being  in  everything  but  in  law  a  part  of 
the  city,  the  Italians,  while  the  largest 
group  in  Fiume,  were  not  a  majority  of 
the  population. 

These  facts  made  the  Italian  claim 
to  Fiume  seem  to  President  Wilson 
wholly  outside  of  any  principle  of  self- 
determination,  and  the  Italian  argu- 
ment had  no  other  real  basis.  So  that, 
so  long  as  the  Italian  demands  included 
Fiume,  any  successful  result  of  nego- 
tiations between  President  Wilson  and 
the  Italian  representatives  was  impos- 
sible. So-called  'compromise  proposals' 
could  mean  only  that  one  side  or  the 
other  should  give  way.  And  in  fact 
the  negotiations  between  Orlando  and 
President  Wilson  in  March  and  April 
were  more  than  unsuccessful,  for  they 
ended  in  President  Wilson's  public 
statement  of  April  23,  which  not  only 
ended  the  discussions,  but  caused  the 
temporary  withdrawal  of  the  Italian 
delegation  from  Paris. 

The  reasons  that  led  President  Wil- 
son to  declare  publicly  his  position  in  a 
matter  which  was  under  discussion  are 
still  somewhat  obscure.  It  seems  that  he 
was  informed,  I  believe  erroneously, 
that  a  public  statement  was  about  to  be 
made  by  the  Italian  delegation.  Cer- 
tainly, late  in  the  evening  of  the  day  be- 
fore the  issuance  of  President  Wilson's 
statement,  Count  Macchi  di  Cellere, 
the  Italian  Ambassador  at  Washington, 
who  was  then  in  Paris,  had  no  idea  of 
such  a  purpose,  for  he  then  handed  me 
a  typewritten  copy  of  the  latest  Italian 
proposal,  in  four  brief  items;  and  the 
day  that  President  Wilson's  statement 
appeared,  the  count  told  me  that  Signer 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  2 


Orlando  had  not  succeeded  in  his  at- 
tempt to  see  President  Wilson  that 
day,  owing  to  the  latter's  other  en- 
gagements; and  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
had  sent  word  to  the  Italian  delegation 
that  three  of  the  four  items  of  the 
Italian  proposal  were  acceptable,  and 
had  asked  for  information  as  to  the 
fourth,  which  concerned  Fiume. 

But  whatever  were  the  reasons  for 
President  Wilson's  action,  certainly 
some  of  its  effects  were  unfortunate. 
It  stirred  up  much  feeling  about  the 
whole  matter,  particularly  in  Italy,  and 
tended  to  take  the  question  out  of  the 
realm  of  discussion  and  argument  and 
into  the  sphere  of  the  emotions,  an  un- 
satisfactory background  for  any  inter- 
national exchanges. 

Still,  the  negotiations  were  only  in- 
terrupted ;  their  first  chapter  was  closed, 
but  they  were  resumed,  on  the  initia- 
tive of  Colonel  House,  when  Orlando 
and  Sonnino  came  back  to  Paris.  And 
I  feel  free  to  speak  in  some  detail  of 
those  later  negotiations  of  May,  1919, 
for  their  story  has  been  largely  pub- 
lished in  Italy  in  the  Memoirs  of  Count 
Macchi  di  Cellere. 

Colonel  House's  aim  was  to  arrive  at 
a  solution  which  would  be  satisfactory 
to  the  Italians,  and  which,  at  the  same 
time,  would  not  be  an  abandonment  of 
the  principles  laid  down  by  President 
Wilson.  Certainly,  this  was  a  consum- 
mation devoutly  to  be  wished,  but  one 
that  seemed  almost  impossible  on  its 
face.  However,  Colonel  House  not  only 
tried  it,  but  demonstrated  that  it  was 
not  impossible;  and  while  the  desired 
goal  was  not  reached,  the  failure  was  no 
fault  of  his. 

After  talking  with  Orlando  and  Pres- 
ident Wilson,  Colonel  House  evolved 
and  had  accepted  this  plan  for  dis- 
cussions, which,  indeed,  was  itself  a 
proof  of  his  extraordinary  influence, 
both  with  his  chief,  President  Wilson, 
and  with  his  friend,  Signor  Orlando: 


274 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS   AT  PARIS 


conversations  were  to  take  place  be- 
tween Orlando  and  myself,  with  the 
view  of  reaching  an  accord  between  us, 
either  temporary  or  final;  anything 
that  we  agreed  on  would  be  supported 
by  Colonel  House,  and  would  be  care- 
fully considered  by  President  Wilson  on 
Colonel  House's  recommendation;  in 
other  words,  whatever  Orlando  agreed 
to  with  me  would  bind  Italy,  but  not 
America. 

My  path  in  the  matter,  so  far  as  per- 
sonal relations  were  concerned,  was 
made  easier  by  my  close  friendship  with 
Count  Macchi  di  Cellere,  whose  death, 
a  few  months  later,  was  a  real  loss  to 
his  own  country  and  a  sad  blow  to  his 
many  friends  here.  And  while  Signer 
Orlando  kept  the  negotiations  strictly 
in  his  own  hands,  the  Count  di  Cellere 
was  frequently,  and  Baron  Sonnino  oc- 
casionally, present  at  our  talks. 

These  rather  extraordinary  conver- 
sations with  Signor  Orlando,  which 
took  place  at  the  hotel  of  the  Italian 
delegates,  and  which  were  necessarily 
carried  on  in  French,  were  always  en- 
tirely amicable  and  cordial;  indeed, 
Signor  Orlando's  attractive  personal- 
ity, combined  with  his  juristic  attitude 
of  mind,  precluded  any  other  course  of 
discussion. 

I  often  recall  a  few  words  of  Signor 
Orlando  which  seemed  to  me  to  speak 
in  part  his  thoughts  on  the  meetings  of 
the  Council  of  Four.  I  was  talking  one 
evening  with  him  and  Marshal  Joffre, 
who  said  to  Orlando,  in  French,  'Do 
you  know  any  English?'  To  which 
Orlando  replied  that  he  knew  very  lit- 
tle—  'Nothing,'  he  added,  'except 
these  words,  "eleven  o'clock,  I  don't 
agree,  good-bye."' 

Now,  there  is  one  sort  of  solution  al- 
most always  possible  in  a  diplomatic 
discussion,  and  that  is  a  modus  vivendi, 
an  agreement  to  postpone  final  deci- 
sion and  to  arrange  a  status  for  the 
intervening  time.  In  view  of  the  diver- 


gence of  thought  between  President 
Wilson  and  the  Italians,  this  seemed  one 
way  out  of  the  difficulty,  and  it  was  dis- 
cussed in  various  forms.  But  there 
were  obvious  objections  to  any  such 
postponement,  and  the  terms  of  the 
intermediate  status,  the  questions  of 
temporary  occupation  and  of  tempo- 
rary government,  presented  new  prob- 
lems without  solving  old  ones. 

The  real  attitude  of  the  Italians  was 
not  one  of  eagerness  for  the  application 
of  the  Pact  of  London;  they  regarded  it 
rather  as  a  claim  which  they  might  re- 
luctantly be  forced  to  press.  Orlando 
said  to  me  that  that  treaty  was  his 
last  line  of  defense;  that,  if  no  solution 
were  possible,  if  no  delay  were  obtained, 
he  would  be  compelled  to  fall  back  up- 
on the  Pact  of  London,  —  for  he  would 
have  nothing  else,  —  although  he  did 
not  like  it  and  did  not  believe  it  was  in 
accordance  with  the  principles  of  Presi- 
dent Wilson. 

So  the  talks  with  Signor  Orlando 
soon  turned  toward  the  possibility  of  a 
definitive  agreement,  and  I  proposed 
a  formula,  the  most  important  point  of 
which  was  that  Fiume  should  be  an  in- 
dependent city  and  free  port  under  the 
protection  of  the  League  of  Nations. 
This  suggestion  was  not  wholly  novel, 
but  it  was  the  first  time,  I  think,  that  it 
had  been  definitely  made  in  that  form 
in  the  negotiations.  It  differed  from 
the  views  of  the  American  territorial 
advisers,  who  would  have  preferred  to 
give  Fiume  to  the  Jugo-Slavs;  and  it  at 
the  same  time  rejected  the  Italian  de- 
mand, which  would  have  made  Fiume 
Italian,  or,  at  least,  have  put  it  under 
Italian  protection. 

My  own  belief  at  Paris  was  —  and 
despite  the  episode  of  d'Annunzio,  I 
have  never  seen  any  reason  to  change 
it  —  that  a  fair  vote  by  secret  ballot  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Fiume  would  have 
shown  a  very  large  majority  in  favor  of 
a  free  city  and  against  either  Jugo-Slav 


THE  ADRIATIC  NEGOTIATIONS  AT  PARIS 


or  Italian  sovereignty;  people  usually 
vote  according  to  their  own  ideas  of 
self-interest;  and  that  Fiume,  which  is 
essentially  a  port  of  through  'traffic 
both  ways,  would  be  more  prosperous 
and  more  developed  under  its  own  con- 
trol than  under  either  that  of  Italy  or 
that  of  the  Jugo-Slavs,  particularly  in 
view  of  the  Hungarian  and  other  traffic, 
seems  to  me  clear.  I  do  not  intimate 
that  that  fact,  if  it  be  a  fact,  is  conclu- 
sive, but  it  is  certainly  entitled  to  some 
weight. 

It  soon  appeared  that  President  Wil- 
son would  accept  this  solution  as  to 
Fiume.  The  Italians  hesitated.  But  in 
their  inner  feelings,  the  members  of  the 
Italian  delegation  were  not  at  all  of  one 
mind  about  Fiume.  After  all,  Fiume 
represented  a  dream  of  Italian  senti- 
ment rather  than  a  reality  of  Italian 
needs.  And  there  were  not  lacking 
Italian  statesmen  who  thought  that, 
by  insisting  on  Fiume,  Italy  would  be 
seeking  a  shadow  which  might  well 
mean  abandoning  some  real  substance. 
And  finally  Orlando  yielded  and  agreed 
that  he  would  accept  the  solution  as  to 
Fiume.  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  per- 
haps Colonel  House  had  again  achieved 
the  seemingly  impossible,  and  that  the 
Adriatic  question  was  to  be  solved. 

But  there  remained  Dalmatia,  the 
islands  off  the  coast,  and  Istria.  The 
first  presented  comparatively  little  diffi- 
culty, though  causing  much  discussion. 
The  Italians  claimed  only  one  or  two 
towns  on  the  mainland,  and  Baron  Son- 
nino,  unyielding  as  he  is  usually  pic- 
tured, said  that  Italy  was  not  inflexible 
about  the  islands. 

Baron  Sonnino  has  often  been  painted 
in  the  black  colors  of  a  reactionary,  and 
no  one  knew  better  than  he  that  the  in- 
dictment had  been  drawn.  He  said  to 
me  once  with  a  smile,  'If  we  come  to  an 
agreement,  you  might  add  a  clause  to 
the  effect  that  Baron  Sonnino  should 
retire  from  office,  for  that  might  help 


275 

to  get  the  agreement  accepted';  and 
'after  all,'  he  added,  'I  am  an  old  man, 
and  have  been  in  office  as  Foreign  Min- 
ister since  the  war  began.' 

Reactionary  or  no,  Baron  Sonnino 
had  all  the  charm  of  the  old  school,  and 
his  manner  made  me  recall  the  remark 
of  Lord  Rosebery,  who  said  that,  while 
he  agreed  with  the  Liberals,  he  prefer- 
red to  dine  with  the  Conservatives. 


All  that  was  left  was  the  location  of 
the  Wilson  line  in  Istria;  the  Italians 
wanted  it  moved  east  at  its  southern 
end,  over  toward  Fiume,  so  as  to  leave 
in  Italy  all  of  Istria,  with  a  boundary- 
line  touching  Fiume  itself;  but  here 
President  Wilson,  still  resting  on  the 
recommendations  of  his  territorial  ad- 
visers, refused  to  yield;  and  the  Italians 
were  equally  firm,  considering  that  they 
had  already  given  up  too  much,  or  at 
least  enough,  of  their  claims,  and  that 
the  physical  junction  with  Fiume  was 
indispensable  from  their  standpoint. 

Indeed,  national  aspirations  are  so 
bound  up  with  national  sentiment  and 
tradition,  that  it  is  not  a  matter  of  pure 
fancy  to  recall  that  the  Italian  claim  of 
1919  had  been  phrased  six  centuries  be- 
fore the  Conference  of  Paris,  by  Dante, 
in  one  of  the  most  famous  lines  of  the 
Inferno,  where  he  spoke  of  the  sea  east 
of  Istria  as  'the  Quarnero,  whose  wa- 
ters are  the  confines  of  Italy  and  bathe 
her  farthest  frontiers.' 

So  on  this  point  of  Istria,  a  compara- 
tively minor  one,  if  the  situation  is 
looked  at  as  a  whole,  the  negotiations 
broke  down  and  failed  to  result. 

Whose  duty  was  it  to  yield?  The 
answer  depends  on  the  point  of  view. 
The  American  territorial  advisers,  right- 
ly considering  the  Pact  of  London  a 
nullity  as  to  the  United  States,  consid- 
ered, not  only  that  Italy  had  received 
great  concessions,  but  that  she  had 


276 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS   AT   PARIS 


really  yielded  nothing  at  all.  Their 
opinion  was  that,  as  Italy  had  been 
given  the  strongest  possible  frontier  in 
the  north,  a  grant  which  included  as 
Italian  even  the  southern  part  of  the 
Austrian  Tyrol,  and  as  the  remaining 
land-frontier  had  been  drawn  east  of 
the  ethnic  line,  Italy  had  received  all 
her  just  claims;  and  they  considered, 
too,  that  Italy  would  be  safe  as  to  the 
Adriatic,  an  opinion  shared  by  the 
American  naval  experts. 

The  other  argument  was  that,  as- 
suming the  correctness  of  the  views  of 
the  American  territorial  advisers,  the 
importance  of  reaching  a  solution  out- 
weighed the  importance  of  the  change 
in  the  line  in  Istria;  that  the  difference 
between  the  two  proposals  was  not 
great  enough  to  be  a  difference  in  prin- 
ciple, but  only  in  degree;  that  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  present  solution  so  nearly 
correct  in  theory,  a  solution  in  which 
Italy  had  yielded  her  claim  to  Fiume,  — 
a  claim  which,  whether  defensible  or 
not,  had  aroused  passions  and  feelings 
of  a  grave  character,  —  should  not  be 
dismissed  in  favor  of  the  mere  possi- 
bility of  a  slightly  different  solution 
later  on;  and  that  a  continuance  of  such 
a  difference  between  two  neighboring 
countries  involved  grave  risks  of  war; 
or  if  not  the  risk  of  war,  that  it  involved 
at  least  the  possibility  of  the  applica- 
tion of  the  provisions  of  the  Pact  of 
London  —  a  treaty  which  everyone, 
Italy  included,  wished  to  discard. 

I  am  frank  to  say  that  the  latter  was 
my  own  view;  I  thought  that  President 
Wilson  should  have  yielded  for  the 
sake  of  the  greater  good  of  a  final  set- 
tlement as  against  the  lesser  good  of 
the  assumed  correctness  of  the  Wilson 
line. 

Whether  I  am  right  or  not,  certainly 
the  failure  of  the  settlement  brought 
about  a  year  and  a  half  of  uncertainty, 
and  made  possible  the  mimic  war  of 
d'Annunzio;  and  the  final  result,  as  we 


shall  see,  was  more  favorable  to  Italy  in 
regard  to  Istria  and  the  Wilson  line  than 
the  solution  proposed  in  the  conversa- 
tions that  I  had  with  Orlando. 

Whether  one  agrees  or  not  with  the 
stand  of  President  Wilson,  one  cannot 
but  admire  its  courage  and  its  disre- 
gard of  political  results;  the  man  who 
stands  for  what  he  thinks  just,  even 
when  his  course  is  bound  to  lose  votes, 
is  almost  as  rare  nowadays  as  the  great 
auk.  Those  political  results  followed 
as  surely  as  the  night  the  day;  the  op- 
position to  President  Wilson  capitalized 
his  stand  on  the  Adriatic  question,  and 
from  their  flotation  of  the  sentiment 
which  that  stand  had  aroused  drew 
large  dividends  in  ballots. 

After  President  Wilson  came  back  to 
Washington,  discussions  continued  at 
Paris  and  by  exchanges  between  the 
various  governments.  Their  most  im- 
portant feature  was  the  proposal  to 
Italy,  made  in  December,  1919,  by 
Great  Britain,  France,  and  the  United 
States  jointly,  in  which  President  Wil- 
son, under  the  advice  of  Dr.  Bowman, 
of  the  American  Geographical  Society, 
made  substantial  concessions  from  his 
earlier  views.  But  this  proposal  was  not 
accepted,  and  it  was  followed  by  the  ac- 
cord of  January,  1920,  between  France, 
Great  Britain,  and  Italy,  under  the 
leadership  of  Signer  Nitti,  an  accord 
which  President  Wilson  refused  to  ac- 
cept, but  which,  so  far  as  it  related  to 
Jugo-Slav  relations  with  Italy,  was  in 
substance  incorporated  into  the  final 
agreement  of  the  Treaty  of  Rapallo. 

I  omit  any  discussion  of  the  occupa- 
tion of  Fiume  by  d'Annunzio  —  that 
amazing  madness  which  destroyed  for 
months  the  trade  of  a  commercial  city 
and  brought  about  increased  feeling 
among  the  various  partisans  on  all  sides, 
but  which  convinced  no  one  who  was 
not  convinced  before,  and  left  the  offi- 
cial attitudes  of  the  governments  of 
Italy  and  of  the  Jugo-Slavs  unchanged. 


THE   ADRIATIC   NEGOTIATIONS  AT   PARIS 


277 


Nor  can  I  do  more  than  allude  to  the 
matter  of  Albania  —  an  important 
part  of  the  Adriatic  question,  but  one 
not  so  much  discussed  at  Paris. 

All  ideas  of  any  partition  of  Albania, 
or  of  an  Italian  protectorate,  or  even 
of  Italian  occupation  of  the  port  of 
Valona,  have  been  finally  abandoned. 
By  a  treaty  signed  on  August  2,  1920, 
Italy,  .retaining  only  two  headlands 
near  Valona  and  the  island  of  Saseno, 
off  the  coast,  recognizes  the  indepen- 
dence of  Albania  within  the  frontiers 
of  1913;  any  doubt  as  to  the  separate 
existence  of  Albania  is  at  an  end:  she 
has  a  real  and  apparently  stable  gov- 
ernment of  her  own,  and  has,  indeed, 
become  a  member  of  the  League  of 
Nations. 

But  the  final  settlement  of  the  Adri- 
atic question  between  Italy  and  the 
Jugo-Slavs  is  not  unrelated  to  the  in- 
conclusive Paris  negotiations.  That 
settlement  took  place  last  autumn,  and 
its  moving  cause  was  the  American 
election  on  November  2,  which  obvi- 
ously left  Italy  a  free  hand  and  which 
brought  keenly  home  to  the  Jugo-Slavs 
the  advice  of  the  Scriptures:  'Agree 
with  thine  adversary  quickly,  whiles 
thou  art  in  the  way  with  him.' 

For  just  ten  days  after  our  election, 

there  was  signed  on  November  12,  at 

lapallo,   a   little   winter   resort   near 

ienoa,  a  treaty  between  Italy  and  the 

dngdom  of  the  Serbs,  the  Croats,  and 

he  Slovenes,  which  settled  their  dif- 

erences  as  to  the  Adriatic,  and  settled 

them  as  the  Italian  government,  not  as 


the  Italian  extremists,  wanted  them 
settled. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  terms 
of  the  Treaty  of  Rapallo  with  those 
proposed  at  Paris.  Italy  gets  four  island 
groups  in  the  Adriatic,  of  considerable 
strategic  but  little  other  importance; 
and  in  Dalmatia  a  little  territory  at 
Zara.  Fiume,  with  a  small  strip  running 
along  the  gulf,  becomes  independent. 
Thus  far,  we  might  be  in  Paris  instead 
of  at  Rapallo.  But  the  Wilson  line  in 
Istria  becomes  a  thing  of  dreams.  Not 
only  do  the  Italians  get  a  frontier  touch- 
ing that  of  Fiume;  not  only  do  they  get 
all  of  Istria;  but  the  line  near  Laibach 
goes  even  east  of  the  line  of  the  Pact  of 
London,  making  a  strategic  frontier 
even  more  strategic  than  before. 

I  called  the  Adriatic  negotiations  at 
Paris  a  failure.  Perhaps  I  was  too  harsh:- 
although  they  did  not  reach  any  final 
result,  they  demonstrated  the  obso- 
lescence of  the  Pact  of  London,  they 
paved  the  way  for  an  agreement  to  be 
reached  between  the  parties,  and  they 
showed  the  moral  fibre  of  a  man  who 
wanted  to  be  right,  even  while  he  was 
President. 

I  try  never  to  think  of  what  might 
have  been  at  Paris,  for  nothing  is  more 
vain  than  to  recast  a  mythical  present 
from  an  imaginary  past.  One  must  be  a 
philosopher  and  think  of  Sainte-Beuve's 
striking  phrase  in  his  introduction  to 
the  Memoirs  of  Saint  Simon:  'On  ne 
refait  point  1'histoire  par  hypothese.' 
(History  cannot  be  made  over  by  sup- 
posing.) 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


PERIOD   FURNITURE 

IN  our  town,  as  in  others  like  it,  the 
recent  years  have  proved  epochal.  First 
there  was  the  War,  and  after  that  the 
H.  C.  L.,  and  after  that  the  Coal  Boom, 
and  after  that  the  Interior  Decorator. 
On  every  hand  new  houses  are  going  up 
and  old  ones  either  coming  down  or 
undergoing  a  transforming  process  of 
rejuvenation. 

Contractors  and  builders  are  bustling 
busily,  and  our  afternoon  bridge  clubs 
flow  gently  along,  —  like  the  tide  of 
Sweet  Afton,  —  to  a  murmuring  stream 
of  period  furniture,  oriental  rugs, 
glassed-in  porches,  grass-cloth  hangings, 
refectory  tables,  and  breakfast  alcoves. 

One  morning  I  received  a  call  from 
an  interior  decorator.  He  was  a  pleas- 
ant little  gentleman  with  a  portfolio 
under  his  arm,  and  he  greeted  me  with 
so  obvious  an  assurance  of  being  ex- 
pected that  I  asked  him  to  come  in. 

'I  have  called,'  said  he,  'about  the 
period  furniture  for  the  library  and 
dining-room,  and  I  have  here'  —  indi- 
cating the  portfolio  —  'the  photographs 
of  the  special  "pieces"  which  our  Mr. 
Astrachan  has  selected  for  those  rooms. 
The  designs  are  extremely  chaste,  as 
you  will  see,  and  entirely  correct  in  line 
and  detail.  If  you  are  at  leisure  —  ' 

And  then  it  developed  that  he  was  a 
pleasant  little  gentleman  who  had  made 
a  mistake. 

He  had  been  assigned  by  Messrs.  As- 
trachan &  Kolinsky,  Interior  Decora- 
tors, of  Fifth  Avenue,  to  take  charge  of 
the  furnishings  and  fittings  of  an  exten- 
sively remodeled  mansion  farther  up  the 
street,  whose  owner  bore  the  same  name 
as  my  own.  The  homes  in  this  section 

278 


of  the  town  are  not  numbered,  and  in- 
quiries at  the  hotel  had  resulted  in  his 
arrival  at  my  door. 

Followed  explanations,  profuse  apol- 
ogies, and  a  bowing  exit. 

Our  interview  had  taken  place  in  the 
hall,  from  which,  through  uncurtained 
doorways,  were  widely  visible  the  con- 
tents of  the  library,  the  living-room, 
and  the  dining-room;  and  during  the 
brief  colloquy  the  pleasant  little  gentle- 
man's glance  —  heavily  bounded  by 
tortoise-shell  —  had  embraced  with  the 
sweeping  observation  of  an  expert  the 
varied  appurtenances  of  those  apart- 
ments. 

Incredulity,  shocked  disapproval,  a 
look  akin  to  horror,  following  his  swift 
survey  of  the  dining-room,  passed  rap- 
idly in  procession  across  his  mobile 
countenance;  and  as  he  politely  backed 
away,  it  was  with  the  feeling  of  one  ar- 
tistically condemned  that  I  closed  the 
door. 

In  the  hall  I  stood  still  and  looked 
about  me. 

'Period  furniture!'  Surely  no  dwell- 
ing-place in  all  the  town  was  so  thorough- 
ly period-furnitured  as  mine!  The 
dining-room,  now,  —  the  dining-room, 
whose  time-honored  plenishings  had  re- 
ceived that  devastating  lightning  glance 
from  Mr.  Astrachan's  dismayed  dep- 
uty, —  were  not  that  massive  board  oi 
convoluted  oak,  and  those  six  accom- 
panying chairs,  'Jacobean'?  They 
were  —  great-uncle  Jacobean;  indirect- 
ly inherited  by  my  husband  at  the  dis- 
mantling of  his  bachelor  relative's  old- 
fashioned  domicile.  The  sideboard  and 
china-closet  —  also  inherited,  but  nol 
from  the  same  source  —  were  eloquent 
emblems  of  an  obsolete  pattern,  whose 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


material  and  finish  contrasted  neatly 
with  the  table  and  chairs.  The  library 
at  my  right  harbored  the  customary 
craft  of  libraries,  —  books  aplenty, 
magazines  galore,  —  but  the  desk  be- 
tween the  windows  was  a  middle-aged 
'rolltop,'  and  before  the  fireplace  stood 
an  armchair  with  a  gilt-embossed  back 
and  permanently  waved  legs  —  a  '  Wil- 
liam and  Mary'  chair,  presented  at  my 
marriage,  twenty  years  ago,  by  Aunt 
Mary  and  Uncle  William,  and  held  ever 
since  in  the  reverence  befitting  the  wed- 
ding-gift that  was  accompanied  by  a 
check. 

The  living-room  across  the  hall  — 
but  here  my  descriptive  powers  fail, 
coming  to  a  full  stop,  as  it  were,  before 
the  florid  architecture  of  the  mid- Vic- 
torian 'sofa,'  the  Bronze  Age  on  the 
mantelpiece,  the  bent-wood  rocker  of 
the  early  eighties,  the  monastic  simplic- 
ity of  the  Mission  table,  with  its  bulg- 
ing-bowled lamp  of  Royal  Worcester, 
and  the  rigid  outlines,  blackly  angular, 
of  the  'upright'  piano  in  the  corner. 
No,  the  familiar  furniture  of  this  well- 
loved  and  lived-in  room  is  not,  strictly 
speaking,  '  Period '  —  it  is  exclamation 
point,  preceded  by  a  dash! 

My  mind's  eye  in  its  travels  ascends 
the  stairs. 

In  the  large  front  bedroom  is  the  Pe- 
riod of  Archibald  II.  Here  stands  aus- 
terely the  bed  of  black  walnut,  —  the 
wide  double  bed  of  the  old  regime,  — 
whereon  my  grandparents  slumbered 
peacefully,  undisturbed  by  scandalized 
fore-visionings  of  the  slim  twin  couches 
af  fashionable  modernity.  Here,  too,  is 
its  companion  bureau,  ponderous,  mov- 
ing reluctantly,  when  needs  must,  upon 
complaining  castors,  and  boasting  a 
swinging  oval  mirror  and  a  mottled 
narbled  top. 

Through  the  doorway  of  the  adjoin- 
,ng  dressing-room  looms  a  mausoleum- 
ike  structure  of  carved  and  paneled 
iherry,  which,  like  the  dining-room 


279 

table  and  chairs,  had  once  belonged  to 
Great-uncle  Jacob.  Blatantly  this  arti- 
cle of  vertu  hits  the  eye.  Frankly  hide- 
pus  it  is,  indeed  —  exteriorly;  but  with- 
in —  ah,  it  is  within  that  one  must  seek 
its  adequate  excuse  for  being;  for  be- 
hind its  glossy  red  panels  are  smooth, 
wide  shelves  of  fragrant  cedar,  where 
moth-inviting  peltry  may  be  safely 
stored.  A  separate  compartment  is 
divided  into  broad  dust-proof  spaces  — 
spaces  fortuitously  ideal  for  shoes,  ad- 
mirable for  hats.  Beneath  are  four 
brass-handled  drawers,  deep  and  gener- 
ous, wherein  repose  my  most  cherished 
linens  and  where,  in  un-cramped  ease, 
my  treasured  centre-pieces  lie  extended, 
their  broidered  surfaces  untroubled  by 
a  fold. 

At  one  side  an  unexpected  door,  fit- 
ted with  a  lock  and  key,  conceals  a  small 
receptacle  quite  perfectly  adapted  to 
the  particular  use  to  which  I  am  confi- 
dent it  was  put  by  bachelor  Great-uncle 
Jacob.  At  any  rate,  as  the  little  door 
swings  back,  a  faint  bouquet,  subtle,  al- 
luring, salutes  my  nostrils,  and  I  find 
myself  thinking  oddly  of  —  of  lemon- 
peel  and  Araby  the  Blest,  and  tinkling, 
delicate  glasses. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  legend  extant,  to 
the  effect  that,  in  the  reign  of  Great- 
grandfather Archibald  I,  there  existed 
certain  possessions  of  rare  old  mahog- 
any. Whispers  have  reached  me  of  a 
glass-knobbed  'low-boy,'  of  Chippen- 
dale chairs,  of  adorable  top-tipping 
card-tables  with  pie-crust  edges;  there 
is  even  a  tradition  of  a  wondrous  Shera- 
ton sideboard.  But,  alas,  these  gems  of 
antiquity  were  all  reduced  to  ashes  by  a 
destructive  fire,  which  necessitated  the 
immediate  erection  of  a  new  house  fur- 
nished throughout  in  'modern'  style. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  just  as  well. 
As  a  family  we  should  probably  have 
quarreled  violently  over  the  distribu- 
tion of  those  gracious  relics.  For  what 
domestic  disintegrations  might  not  that 


280 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


Sheraton  sideboard  have  been  respon- 
sible? —  besides  occasioning  the  sin  of 
covetousness  in  the  souls  of  our  friends 
and  acquaintances. 

As  it  is,  we  accepted  our  just  appor- 
tionment of  our  ancestors' '  delusions  of 
grandeur '  in  a  spirit  of  resigned  calm  and 
the  harmony  of  mutual  commiseration. 

But  what  is  one  to  do  —  such  a  one 
as  I,  that  is,  to  whom  has  descended,  in 
the  fullness  of  time,  a  proportionate 
share  of  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  two 
dismantled  homesteads,  as  well  as  a 
sprinkling  of  bestowals  from  several  on 
the  side-lines? 

Sell  them?  Give  them  away?  Cast 
them  to  the  flames?  Never!  Forbid 
such  sacrilege!  Besides,  —  I  confess  it 
unashamed,  —  I  don't  want  to.  I  like 
these  things.  I  am  'attached'  to  them. 
The  'Elizabethan'  roll-top  desk  in  the 
library  where,  in  years  agone,  Aunt 
Elizabeth  kept  her  circumspect  accounts 
and  copied  her  recipes;  the  cherry  sar- 
cophagus, where  Great-uncle  Jacob 
housed  his  wardrobe  and  assembled  the 
ingredients  of  the  mellow  consolation 
that  warmed  his  lonely  heart,  are  com- 
panions tried  and  true.  Chosen  with 
anxious  care  and  conscientious  economy 
in  the  placid  '  boomless '  past,  endeared 
by  long  usage  and  hallowed  by  memory, 
these  'Period'  furnishings  are  now  be- 
loved members  of  the  family;  and  so  I 
am  determined  they  shall  remain,  even 
though  my  gardener's  spade  should 
strike  oil  in  the  backyard,  or  my  face- 
tious Airedale  unearth  a  coal-mine  un- 
der the  front  steps.  Nevertheless,  my 
inherited  honesty,  chaste  in  design  and 
correct  in  line  and  detail,  forces  me  to 
admit  that,  at  times,  the  rummage-sale 
has  been  a  help. 

TERESINA 

Teresina  has  gone  to  school.  I 
watched  her  round  black  hat,  snug  blue 
sweater,  scarlet  dress,  white  legs  and 


brown  feet,  twinkling  away  up  the  path 
in  the  frosty  morning  dew,  safely  es- 
corted by  an  older  black-hatted,  blue- 
sweatered  edition  of  schoolgirlness,  very 
patronizing  and  sweet  in  her  role  of 
friendly  protector. 

Teresina  will  come  racing  home  at 
noon,  full  of  wisdom:  French  words  shy- 
ly attempted,  crayoned  chefs-d'ceuvres, 
'  writings '  of  incalculable  value. 

And  I  shall  be  so  glad  —  oh,  so  glad! 
—  to  have  her  back  again;  to  hug  her 
and  wash  her  and  feed  her,  and  listen  to 
her  complex  tales  of  the  big  boy  who 
cried  and  the  light-haired  boy  who 
pushed  her  head  off  his  desk  when  she 
leaned  harmlessly  upon  it,  and  the  girls 
who  whispered  and  had  to  go  out  and 
sit  on  the  stairs,  and  the  dog  who  looked 
in  the  window.  Teresina  has  given  me 
five  years  of  gladness;  for  she  is  curly 
and  crinkly  in  body  and  mind,  stubborn 
and  sweet,  amazingly  good  and  appall- 
ingly naughty.  Truly,  to  send  her  to 
school  has  been  my  adventure  almost 
more  than  hers,  such  adventures  being 
of  the  privileges  of  parenthood. 

But  to-day,  after  two  weeks  of  school, 
my  own  private  adventure  begins.  To- 
day, for  the  first  time  in  all  her  five  dar- 
ling demanding  years,  I  am  all  alone  in 
the  house  —  and  the  clock  just  striking 
ten!  For  Jennie,  the  beneficent  tyrant 
of  our  domestic  past,  has  gone  to  com- 
mand another  kitchen,  and  to  begin 
loving  another  baby  just  come  from  the 
Blue  Children,  as  she  has  so  loyally 
loved  our  Teresina. 

Even  though  her  departure  means 
baking  and  brewing  and  sweeping  for 
me,  and  many  moments  of  regret  for 
lost  comfortings  and  cossettings  —  I  am 
all  alone  in  the  house! 

This  morning  my  new  green  dishes 
danced  perilously  from  their  suds;  the 
steel  wool  scratched  without  pity  over 
pans  and  kettles;  the  kitchen  floor  got  a 
lick  and  a  promise  of  further  sweeping. 
I  sprinkled  a  basket  of  clothes  against 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


281 


the  ironing,  and  rolled  them  hard  and 
swiftly  in  fat  bundles;  I  made  beds  and 
dusted  one  table  and  two  chairs  (no 
more,  on  my  life) ;  and  all  the  time  I  was 
hurry-scurrying,  joyfully,  breathlessly, 
with  my  spirit  on  flightiest  tippy-toes, 
even  like  a  very  young  person  with  a 
wonderful  picnic  or  a  wonderful  party 
before  her. 

For,  when  all  those  most  necessary 
good  works  were  done,  I  would  have  to 
myself  two  hours  —  two  fat  morning 
hours;  not  the  tired  contented  time 
after  supper,  when  X  and  I  sit  happily 
by  the  fire,  and  find  our  heads  nod- 
ding over  our  books,  and  a  strange  need 
of  sleep  before  the  clock  strikes  nine; 
but  the  clear-shining,  brisk,  notable 
forenoon ! 

No  dear  but  insatiable  calls  for  drinks 
of  water,  graham  crackers,  dress-up 
scarves,  pencils,  paper,  mud-pie  spoons; 
no  need  to  arbitrate  between  tearful 
claims,  provide  'tea-parties,'  and  deal 
out  rubbers  and  reproofs.  And  from  the 
kitchen  no  urgent  or  comic  problems; 
explosive  announcements  that  the  pota- 
toes are  all  out,  or  the  ice-man  did  n't 
stop;  not  even  (a  thing  to  be  missed 
afterward,  but  not  to-day  in  the  first 
flush  of  adventure)  any  friendly  coax- 
ing at  eleven  o'clock:  'I'm  almost  dead 
for  the  lack  of  a  cup  of  tea;  and  if  you'll 
come  and  sit  in  the  kitchen  with  me,  I  '11 
make  you  some  cinnamon  toast/ 

Two  hours!  —  And  half  an  hour  has 
already  fled  while  I  write  this,  for  sheer 
comfort  in  telling  how  strange  and  fresh 
is  freedom.  —  To-night  shall  I  ask 
X  how  to  disconnect  the  telephone  for 
those  two  precious  hours?  Or  shall 
I  trust,  as  I  do  to-day,  that  in  some 
miraculous  fashion  a  thick  black  mark 
will  strike  through  our  name  and  num- 
ber in  every  telephone  book  in  town,  so 
that  all  my  friends  and  foes  shall  turn 
away  from  some  ominous  approach  to 
me,  muttering,  'That's  queer.  That's 
very  queer!'  and  I  shall  go  unscathed. 


For  if  people  only  knew  how  wonder- 
ful it  is  to  be  free,  surely  they  would  not 
need  me  for  just  two  hours! 

It  would  seem  easy  to  say  to  the  peo- 
ple whom  I  love  much  and  those  whom 
I  love  even  a  little,  —  those  who  would 
understand  and  those  who  would  not, 
—  '  I  am  going  to  keep  two  hours  of  five 
days  in  the  week  quite  free.  I  —  am  — 
going  —  to  —  try  —  to  —  write.' 

But  I  can't  say  it.  The  fatal  word  up 
there  printed  itself  slowly,  shyly,  as  if 
I  said,  'I'm  going  to  get  very  drunk,' 
or,  'I'm  going  to  smuggle  diamonds,' 
or,  'I'm  going  off  with  Mrs.  Smith's 
husband.' 

It  is  very  strange.  Ever  since  my  lit- 
tle-girlhood, 'writing '  has  been  my  most 
ultimate  and  easy  escape  from  the  per- 
sistences of  life.  And  lately,  when  I  have 
been  so  happy  that  often  the  wings  of 
my  joy  seem  ready  to  burst  some  in- 
ward fetter  and  flash  out  living  and 
shining,  'writing'  has  been  my  only  way 
of  setting  free  a  thousandth  part  of 
that  pulsing  joy.  The  public  worth  of 
what  I  write  is  of  no  such  matter  as  the 
doing  of  it.  It  is  not  needful  that  a  pri- 
vate art  should  make  repayment  hi  cash 
or  fame,  for  its  possessor  to  love  it  and 
to  require  its  practice. 

But  it  is  strange,  as  I  said,  that  with 
all  these  years  of  certainty  about  my  de- 
sire to  'write,'  I  have  never  felt  that 
anybody  else,  or  many  other  bodies, 
would  truly  understand  the  place  it 
holds  in  my  life.  I  could  say,  'I  must 
clean  house,'  or '  I  must  go  to  a  commit- 
tee meeting';  but  to  say,  save  to  those 
very  few  who  know  me  better  than  I 
know  myself, '  I  must  write,'  has  seemed 
foolish  and  vain. 

It  is  as  if  my  assumption  of  needing 
time  to  write  would  strike  my  hearers 
as  an  ill-judged  remark  of  my  older 
brother's  struck  us  long  ago.  He,  scrib- 
bling at  some  great  work  destined  for  a 
St.  Nicholas  contest,  put  us  younger 
roisterers  into  a  mood  of  derisiveness 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


with  his  reproof.  'Hush,  children! 
Don't  make  such  a  row!  I'm  writing 
for  the  Press!' 

Will  not  my  announcement  of  a  liter- 
ary retreat  bring  me  under  the  same 
condemnation?  Will  people  not,  even 
while  they  applaud  my  worthy  purpose, 
wonder  a  little:  'But  will  she  leave  all 
her  housework  till  afternoon?  Will  her 
family  get  enough  to  eat?  Will  she  give 
up  the  committees  and  things  she  used 
to  belong  to?  Can't  we  ever  call  her  up 
between  ten  and  twelve?'  And,  worst 
of  all,  stealthily,  won't  they  say,  'I  do 
wonder  if  the  kind  of  thing  she  writes  is 
worth  all  that  fuss'? 

No,  I  really  think  they  would  not  say 
any  of  those  things.  Most  of  them 
would  understand,  if  I  dared  to  pursue 
my  course  of  innocent  folly. 

But  the  fact  remains  that  only  to  the 
Contributors'  Club  can  I  speak  with 
perfect  frankness.  For  I  know  that 
there  must  be  hundreds  of  Atlantic-resid- 
ing women  who  feel  as  I  do  about  some 
pet  art  or  handicraft;  who  steal  time  for 
it,  sneakingly,  apologetically;  who  will 
not  love  their  fathers  and  husbands  and 
children  and  neighbors  any  the  less  for 
a  restrained  practice  of  it. 

They  will  understand  without  ever 
needing  to  measure  up  any  personal 
knowledge  of  me  against  any  possible 
failure  or  achievement. 

They  will  know  how  I  feel  this  Oc- 
tober morning,  when  Teresina  has  gone 
dancing  to  school,  and  the  house  sits 
quiet  by  its  sunny  meadow,  and  the  au- 
tumn crickets  purr  in  the  yellow  garden. 

They  will  know  why  I  shall  not  cut 
off  my  telephone  or  turn  the  key  in  my 
door,  and  yet,  why  I  must  needs  run  so 
precipitately  to  my  desk,  sweep  aside 
bills  and  letters,  and  scratch  off  all  this 
folly  of  confession. 

It  is  half-past  eleven:  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  more  before  the  white  legs 
and  brown  feet  trot  up  the  brick  walk, 
and  the  curly  head  rubs  against  my 


chin  in  greeting.  Perhaps  there  is  even 
time  to  copy  some  of  this  on  the  type- 
writer. 

What  do  I  care  whether  the  Atlantic 
will  accept  this  or  not?  Have  I  not  had 
an  hour  and  a  half  of  perfect,  undis- 
turbed, secret,  old-fashioned  scribbling? 

And  when  X  reads  it  to-night,  I 
thank  the  Lord  that  he  will  only  chuckle, 
and  will  announce  in  no  uncertain 
voice,  — 

'I'll  attend  to  that  telephone  busi- 
ness to-morrow  morning,  first  thing.' 

I  shall  not  let  him  do  it,  of  course. 
But,  just  the  same,  thank  the  Lord! 


ON   TYPEWRITERS 

Of  course,  they  are  merely  a  sign  of 
the  times,  but  anyone  who  has  sat  in  an 
office  with  eighteen  or  twenty  of  them 
rattling  like  a  brook  in  full  spate  within 
the  compass  of  four  too-narrow  walls, 
retains  a  searing  of  the  mind.  One  of 
many  captains  lays  down  one  of  many 
cigarettes,  calls  one  of  many  stenog- 
raphers, and  begins:  'Take  this.'  Then, 
in  a  wasting  monotone,  the  soulless 
voice  of  a  Frankenstein,  varied  only  by 
an  occasional,  'No  —  scratch  that  out,' 
he  drones  a  letter  to  his  tailor,  an  advice 
to  the  General  Staff,  or  a  description  of 
the  cotton  plains  of  Turkestan.  The 
form  of  the  sentences  varies  as  little  as 
the  captain's  voice.  They  are  short. 
They  begin  with  the  substantive,  fol- 
lowed by  a  verb,  which  is  in  turn  fol- 
lowed by  an  adjective  or  another  noun, 
and  at  the  end,  as  a  kind  of  miserable 
rear-guard,  is  suspended  the  phrase  — 
'there  being'  such  and  such  a  thing,  or 
such  and  such  a  condition.  It  was  my 
fortune  to  read  a  great  many  army  re- 
ports during  a  year  in  the  War  Depart- 
ment, and  I  speak  from  experience  when 
I  say  that  the  'there-being'  construc- 
tion is  one  passionately  admired  by  the 
military  man.  At  last  the  drone  dies 
away  in  a  discussion  of  the  latest  regu- 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


283 


lation  concerning  the  form  of  signature, 
and,  wafting  oriental  odors,  the  stenog- 
rapher resumes  her  place  at  her  ma- 
chine, draws  a  powder-puff  from  her 
bosom,  —  for,  like  Moses,  '  the  skin  of 
her  face  did  shine/  —  and  pats  her 
nose.  These  formalities  concluded,  the 
noise  is  increased  by  her  contribution 
on  the  keys. 

Well,  that  is  the  business  world,  and 
undoubtedly  the  typewriter  is  of  im- 
mense value;  but  do  you  not  resent  its 
intrusion  on  the  world  of  friends  and 
social  relationships?  It  is  part  of  the 
Zeitgeist  that  tolerates '  thru '  and  *  yours 
aff'y.'  People  say  that  it  saves  so  much 
time  in  writing;  but  how  much  loss  it 
causes  in  individuality!  When  I  receive 
a  typed  letter  from  a  friend,  it  makes  me 
feel  as  post-cards  do,  that  I  am  on  his 
conscience,  not  in  his  mind.  Also  it 
makes  people  careless  of  their  grammar 
and  spelling.  A  very  delightful  young 
man  of  my  acquaintance,  with  an  Ox- 
ford education  and  a  real  knowledge  of 
literature,  can  write  that  he  was  '  much 
empressed  by  the  difficulty  of  getting  a 
birth'  on  a  steamship  to  Japan. 

You  are  typing.  You  come  to  the  end 
of  the  line,  thinking  there  is  room  to 
strike  the  final  e  of '  possible,'  or  the  t  of 
'just';  but  the  little  beggars  stick,  so 
you  either  let  the  word  go  as  it  is,  or  al- 
low the  e  or  t  to  dance  off  on  the  next 
line  as  Karen's  red  shoes  danced  away 
when  she  tore  them  from  her  feet  in  the 
churchyard. 

So  much  of  modern  literature  bears 
the  stamp  of  having  been  composed  on 
the  typewriter  —  the  sentences  some- 
times brisk  and  impatient,  sometimes 
lumbering  along  like  a  train  of  mule- 
wagons  over  a  sandy  plain.  Perhaps  one 
half  of  the  books  one  so  criticizes  were 
produced  by  the  old-fashioned  means 
of  a  pen,  but  I  do  maintain  that  very 
few  appear  of  which  the  reader  can  say, 
'This  is  a  labour  of  love,  the  work  of  a 
man  who  lingeringly  wrote  each  sen- 


tence as  though  it  were  his  last.'  Could 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  have  captured  the 
mood  which  sombres  the  lovely  pages 
of  his  Hydriotaphia  while  seated  before 
a  clacking  machine,  or  the  translators 
of  the  Bible  have  touched  the  wings 
of  Gabriel?  Surely  they  wrote,  as  Fra 
Angelico  painted,  on  their  knees.  Gone 
are  the  days  of  Grub  Street,  when  the 
author,  his  feet  curled  under  his  chair,  a 
wad  of  paper  thrust  under  the  hind-legs 
of  the  table  to  keep  it  steady,  and  be- 
fore him  scribbled  sheets  and  a  china 
ink-pot,  sat  with  his  pen  between  his 
lips  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  patch  of  sky 
behind  the  garret  window.  Unless  he 
has  been  changing  the  ribbon  of  his 
typewriter,  the  author  of  to-day  no 
longer  has  an  inky  finger.  Before  any- 
one catches  me  up  on  this  generali- 
zation, I  hasten  to  make  a  few  excep- 
tions—  notably  Henry  James.  Great 
man  as  one  has  always  considered  him, 
one's  admiration  leaps  to  amazement 
on  realizing  that  he  dictated  his  books. 
M on  Dieu!  quel  h&mme!  Surely  he  must 
have  had  some  physical  method  of  keep- 
ing track  of  his  rhetorical  labyrinths, 
such  as  walking  down  a  long  room  drop- 
ping pebbles  to  record  the  fall  of  his 
relative,  subjunctive,  and  parenthetical 
clauses,  and  on  the  return  journey  pick- 
ing them  up,  —  thus  sure  that  not  one 
had  escaped,  —  until  all  were  safely 
gathered  in  the  rare  triumph  of  a  full 
stop. 

I  have  a  little  collection  of  French 
poems  of  the  nineteenth  century,  after 
many  of  which  is  a  reproduction  of  the 
original,  with  its  blots,  its  erasures,  its 
emendations.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  go  over 
the  pages  and  see  the  poet's  hesita- 
tions —  an  encouragement,  indeed,  that 
brings  the  Olympians  nearer  earth. 
Who,  I  ask  you,  would  treasure  the 
first  draft  of  'La  Maison  du  Berger,' 
were  typing  substituted  for  the  delicate 
flow  of  De  Vigny's  pen;  and  for  the  im- 
patient dash  over  some  discarded  word, 


284 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


—  a  gesture  of  dismissal,  it  seems,  to 
the  second-rate,  —  a  row  of  little  x'sl 
Such  a  sacrilege  were  comparable  to 
reading  Keats  to  the  accompaniment  of 
an  insecure  set  of  false  teeth. 

One  more  protest,  and  I  have  done. 
It  is  against  those  apostles  of  efficiency 
who,  overvaluing  that  most  common 
commodity,  time,  bring  their  type- 
writers on  the  train  with  them,  and 
make  the  journey  hideous  by  an  inces- 
sant flow  of  soul.  A  parlor-car,  to  nor- 
mal people,  is  a  place  where  they  read 
novels  they  would  not  dare  read  at 
home,  sit  vacantly  counting  the  silos 
on  the  various  farms  they  pass,  plan 
campaigns  for  seizing  railroad  cross- 
ings, or,  from  the  appearance  of  the 
houses,  decide  the  fitting  names  for  the 
families  that  inhabit  them.  When  my 
brother  and  sister  and  I  were  small,  our 
mother  and  governess  could  always  be 
sure  of  one  peaceful  quarter  of  an  hour 
during  the  journey  which  we  frequent- 
ly made  between  Albany  and  Buffalo. 
That  time  came  when  we  approached 
Syrause;  for  having  been  told  that 
there  were  a  great  many  negroes  there, 
we  always  pressed  our  noses  against  the 
window  to  enumerate  rapturously  all 
persons  of  color  whom  we  saw.  I  still  do 
it,  and  achieved,  a  month  ago,  the  fine 
total  of  thirty.  On  the  return  journey  I 
found,  to  my  anger,  that  the  counter- 
interest  of  watching  a  one-armed  man 
typing  took  my  mind  from  the  main 
business  of  the  day,  so  that  my  score 
was  only  seven. 

VIGIL 

I  had  a  plan  that  I  would  keep 
Myself  awake:  I  would  not  sleep, 
But  listen  hard  till  far  away 
The  silver  bells  upon  his  sleigh 


I  heard,  and  on  the  neighbors'  roofs 
The  clatter  of  those  tiny  hoofs. 

Then  from  my  nice  warm  bed  I  'd  creep; 
Out  of  my  window  I  would  peep, 
And  see  him  with  the  bag  of  toys 
He  yearly  brings  good  girls  and  boys. 

For  from  my  window  I  can  see 
The  chimney  of  our  library, 
Where  all  our  stockings  in  a  row 
Hang  till  the  fire  has  burned  so  low 
That  down  the  chimney,  warm  and 

wide, 
Old  Santa  Claus  can  get  inside. 

But  if  a  fire  there  should  be 
With  roaring  flames,  it  seems  to  me 
The  chimney  'd  get  so  piping  hot, 
I  guess  he  'd  think  he  'd  better  not. 

I  made  my  prayer,  and  went  to  bed, 
And  Mother  tucked  me  in,  and  said, 
'Dear,  drowsy  head 

On  pillow  white, 

Sleep  sound  all  night.' 
And  then  I  made  believe  to  fall 
Right  sound  asleep:  but  in  the  hall 
I  heard  our  old  grandfather-clock  — 
Tick-lock  tick-lock  tick-lock  lick-lock 
Tick-lock  tick-lock  lick-lock  lick-lock 
Tick-lock    .  .  . 

Then,  all  at  once,  it  struck  eleven  — 
And  /  had  gone  to  bed  at  seven  I 

I  listened  then  with  all  my  might; 
And  far  away  across  the  night 
I  heard  his  sleigh-bells'  tinkling  tune, 
And  guessed  that  he  was  coming  soon. 
But  ever  fainter  grew  the  sound, 
Till  silence  fell  the  whole  world  round 
Except  for  old  grandfather-clock  — 
Tick-lock  lick-lock  lick-lock  lick-lock  — 
He'd  come  and  gone;  and  I  admit 
That  I  was  rather  glad  of  it. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


To  Frank  I.  Cobb  the  New  York  World 
has  owed  for  many  years  the  reputation 
of  printing  the  most  vigorous  and  cogent 
editorial  page  in  the  United  States.  Dr. 
Joseph  Fort  Newton,  called  during  the 
war  to  preach  in  the  City  Temple,  —  the 
famous  preaching  pulpit  in  London,  —  is 
minister  of  the  Church  of  the  Divine  Pater- 
nity in  New  York  City.  Hans  Coudenhove, 
a  Dutchman  who  has  spent  most  of  his  ac- 
tive life  in  Africa,  sends  this  paper  from  Zom- 
ba,  in  Nyasaland.  William  McFee  is  at 
present  chief  engineer  of  the  S.  S.  Toloa, 
under  the  British  flag. 

*  *  * 

Fannie  Stearns  Gilford,  one  of  the  most 
graceful  and  individual  of  American  poets, 
lives  in  Pittsfield,  Massachusetts.  Milton  O. 
Nelson,  formerly  associate  editor  of  the 
Minneapolis  Journal,  has  lately  joined  the 
staff  of  the  Portland  (Oregon)  Telegram. 
The  story  here  told  is,  of  course,  a  record 
from  the  author's  life.  Indeed,  it  could  not 
be  anything  else.  The  author  was  brought 
up  in  a  household  closely  patterned  after 
Old  Testament  ideals.  Perhaps  we  may, 
without  breach  of  confidence,  publish  a  par- 
agraph from  a  highly  interesting  letter  of 
recollections. 

Father  [writes  Mr.  Nelson]  was  innately  mod- 
est, even  diffident.  He  never  pestered  us  much 
with  taking  daily  inventories  of  our  spiritual  rela- 
tions with  the  Infinite,  as  the  elder  Gosse  bothered 
his  afflicted  son;  nor  did  he  ever  presume  to  know 
the  mind  of  God  to  a  nicety.  But  the  question  up- 
permost in  his  thought  always  was : '  Are  my  child- 
ren saved? '  Evidence  of  this  is  given  in  his  words 
when  his  first  child  —  John  Newton,  aged  26, 
who  went  as  a  missionary  to  Peru,  Brazil  —  died 
of  yellow  fever  two  months  after  his  arrival. 
The  first  words  father  spoke  after  the  shock  of 
the  tidings  were:  'One  of  my  boys  is  safe.' 

*  *  * 

Frances  Theresa  Russell,  a  new  contribu- 
tor, is  of  the  faculty  of  Leland  Stanford 
Junior  University.  L.  P.  Jacks,  Principal  of 
Manchester  College,  Oxford,  and  editor  of 
the  Hibbert  Journal,  was  for  many  years  a 
familiar  and  affectionate  friend  of  William 
James.  Charles  Bernard  Nordhofif  is  living 


at  Papeete,  in  the  South  Seas.  Leonora 
Pease,  a  teacher  in  the  public  schools  of 
Chicago,  knows  whereof  she  writes. 

*  *  * 

Ralph  Barton  Perry  is  Professor  of  Philos- 
ophy at  Harvard.  A.  Edward  Newton,  now 
diverting  himself  in  English  auction-rooms, 
will  return  to  America  in  tune  for  the  publi- 
cation of  his  new  volume  in  September. 
L.  Adams  Beck  is  an  English  scholar  and 
traveler,  now  living  in  the  Canadian  West. 
Joseph  Auslander  is  an  American  poet  at 
present  teaching  at  Harvard. 

*  *  * 

Alfred  G.  Gardiner,  distinguished  Eng- 
lish journalist  and  essayist,  for  many  years 
editor  of  the  London  Daily  News,  but  now 
living  in  alert  retirement,  keeps  his  study 
window  wide  open  on  politics.  Major-Gen- 
eral  William  H.  Carter,  U.S.A.,  a  West 
Point  graduate  of  1873,  in  the  course  of  his 
service  commanded  the  Hawaiian  Depart- 
ment. Retired  in  1915,  he  was  recalled  to 
active  service  in  1917.  His  article  is  in  a 
large  degree  authoritative.  Philip  Cabot  is  a 
Boston  banker,  who  has  had  long  and  suc- 
cessful experience  in  the  conduct  of  public 
utilities.  David  Hunter  Miller,  a  New  York 
lawyer  with  a  detailed  knowledge  of  political 
and  social  conditions  in  Europe,  served  dur- 
ing the  Peace  Conference  as  technical  ad- 
viser to  the  American  Commission  to  Nego- 
tiate Peace.  His  article  is,  of  course,  a  rec- 
ord at  first  hand. 

*  *  * 

Mr.  Stewart's  entertaining  paper  has 
rallied  to  the  Atlantic  the  support  of  fox- 
hunters  everywhere.  An  old  hand  at  the 
sport  writes  us  from  Bloomington,  Illinois, 
this  interesting  epistle. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Charles  D.  Stewart's  very  interesting  article 
in  the  June  Atlantic,  called  'Belling  a  Fox,'  sets 
down  what  he  calls  three  facts.  From  experience 
in  following  the  trails  of  foxes  in  the  snow  I  can 
confirm  the  first  two  facts,  but  I  am  compelled  to 
differ  from  Mr.  Stewart  regarding  the  third,  which 
is,  'you  cannot  approach  within  gunshot  of  a 
fox.' 

285 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


286 

Several  years  ago,  in  Funk's  Grove,  McLean 
County,  Illinois,  while  I  was  following  the  tracks 
of  a  fox  in  the  snow,  footprints  indicated  that  an- 
other man  had  been  following  the  same  tracks. 
I  met  him  later,  on  another  trip.  He  was  a  young 
farm-hand  named  La  Follette,  and  his  boyhood 
home  had  been  in  Virginia.  He  earned  a  shot- 
gun and  said  he  was  hunting  foxes  by  following 
their  tracks.  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  with  him. 
We  skirted  a  piece  of  dense  woods  and  came  upon 
tracks  leading  into  the  woods,  which  he  pro- 
nounced to  be  'long  tracks,'  and  explained  that 
the  fox  was  starting  off  on  a  long  hunting-trip 
and  it  would  be  useless  to  follow.  The  tracks  led 
straightaway  through  the  woods. 

Later,  in  a  draw,  or  low  place,  we  came  upon 
what  he  called  'short  tracks,'  leading  from  the 
woods  into  open  country.  The  tracks  were  zigzag 
and  advantage  was  taken  of  bare  pieces  of  ice  and 
grass.  La  Follette  stated  that  the  fox  was  ap- 
proaching a  place  to  lie  down,  and  was  seeking  to 
conceal  its  tracks.  Within  a  few  minutes  we  ap- 
proached a  fall-ploughed  field,  where  the  ridges 
were  bare  of  snow,  and  there  was  a  low  hill. 

Asking  that  I  remain  behind,  La  Follette  cau- 
tiously followed  the  tracks  and  stopped  frequently 
to  examine  the  ground  with  an  old-fashioned  spy- 
glass. Two  red  foxes  were  approached  within 
gunshot  as  they  were  apparently  asleep  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  and  were  not  aware  of  the  hunter's 
presence.  They  were  not  seen  until  they  jumped 
up  to  run,  and  both  were  crippled  in  two  shots. 

We  followed  the  more  seriously  crippled  fox 
for  about  two  miles,  but  spent  three  hours  in  cov- 
ering this  distance.  After  examining  the  tracks, 
La  Follette  said  the  fox  would  lie  down  if  not 
pursued  too  closely;  and  we  sat  down  for  over  an 
hour  to  let  it  'get  stiff'  before  the  final  careful 
advance  was  made  which  resulted  in  the  fox  being 
killed.  We  then  took  up  the  trail  of  the  second 
fox,  but  lost  it  later  when  the  snow  melted. 

La  Follette  told  me  that  the  fox  killed  that  day 
was  the  eighth  killed  by  him  that  winter,  and 
made  a  total  of  about  thirty  foxes  killed  by  him 
in  the  same  manner.  He  always  hunted  alone 
and  found  the  foxes  by  tracking  them  in  the  snow. 
Very  truly  yours, 

FRANK  W.  ALDBICH. 


Horrors  as  might  be  pale,  as  usual,  before 
horrors  as  is. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

A  'Contributor'  to  the  June  issue  writes  an 
amusing  article  which  opens  with  these  words: 
'If  "that  blessed  word  Mesopotamia"  were  in 
practical  use  to-day,  it  would  doubtless  suffer  the 
horror  of  becoming  Meso  or  Ma.' 

If  it  were  in  practical  use  to-day!  Is  it  not, 
perhaps,  to  many  thousands  of  British  soldiers 
and  sailors?  At  any  rate  one  of  them,  sending  a 
batch  of  snapshots,  writes  as  follows:  'so  now  you 
know  what  Mespot  looks  like! ' 

This  sounds  quite  'practical,'  and  moderately 
descriptive! 

Yours  truly, 

MARY  KELLOGG  SHERRILL. 


Vernon  Kellogg's  papers  on  Life  and 
Death  have  moved  many  people  to  break 
through  the  artificial  reticences  with  which 
we  hedge  ourselves  in. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

I  find  it  impossible  to  refrain  from  sending  a 
few  words  in  an  attempt  to  express  a  little  of  the 
intense  interest  and  satisfaction  I  have  just  had 
in  reading  'The  Biologist  Speaks  of  Death'  in  the 
June  Atlantic.  While  I  have  always  secretly  felt 
myself  to  be  an  'agnostic'  —  if  so  ignorant  a  be- 
ing as  I  dare  call  herself  anything  —  yet,  since 
the  death  of  the  person  dearer  to  me  than  all 
others,  I  have  read  here  and  there,  listened  here 
and  there  to  things  that  have  made  me  waver  — 
particularly  taken  in  conjunction  with  many 
startling  and  impressive  dreams  of  my  lost  dear 
one.  But  the  condition  of  mind  I  have  been  in 
since  meeting  with  this  loss  has  been  made  a 
thousand  times  more  agonizing  than  before  by 
these  half-doubted,  agitating,  distracting,  un- 
comfortable theories  and  testimonies  that  have 
appeared  in  articles  and  books  dealing  with 
spiritism ;  and  now,  after  reading  this  clearly  ex- 
pressed, authoritative  essay,  I  feel  more  at  ease, 
—  more  at  peace,  —  more  nearly  satisfied  on  this 
terrible  yet  inevitable  problem  than  ever  before; 
and  so  grateful  to  the  author  who  wrote  it  that  I 
felt  impelled  to  try  to  express,  however  clumsily 
and  inadequately,  my  indebtedness  to  him.  The 
part  of  the  article  that  means  perhaps  more  to  me 
than  any  other  begins, '  Sadly  he  answers,  "  I  can 
give  you  no  comfort'"  —  ending  with  the  words 
'  He  does  not  know.'  But  every  word  of  the  article 
has  been  interesting  and  valuable  to  me,  in  my 
perplexity  and  sorrow.  However  undesirable, 
flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  life  seems  —  at  least 
I  have  the  comfort  of  reading  the  Atlantic 
Monthly!  And  this  article  I  have  found  so  en- 
lightening, convincing,  and  —  compared  with 
all  else  I've  read  on  the  subject  —  so  satisfying. 
With  gratitude  unspeakable, 

Believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

O R . 

*  *  * 

Was  ever  self-confession  more  essentially 
complete  than  this,  since  Dogberry  wrote 
himself  down  an  ass? 

PHILADELPHIA,  June  the  Tenth,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

That  vacuous  article  entitled  'What  Consti- 
tutes an  Educated  Person  To-Day,'  which  you 
admitted  to  your  columns  for  June,  in  which  it  is 
stated  that  no  man  can  fairly  be  called  educated 
who  lacks  the  power  to  use  his  native  language 
correctly,  impels  me  to  respond. 

In  the  first  place  I  am  the  fortunate  holder  of  a 
degree  of  A.B.,  with  Honors  in  my  chosen  field;  I 
also  am  a  Master  of  Arts,  a  Master  of  Science 
and  a  Doctor  of  Philosophy,  the  two  latter  de- 
grees having  been  granted  by  Harvard  Univer- 
sity. I  have  taught  at  Harvard  and  have  the 
Professorial  title  from  teaching  in  a  Western  Uni- 
versity. I  am  a  Fellow  of  the  American  Associa- 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


287 


tion  for  the  Advancement  of  Science,  a  member 
of,  among  others,  two  scientific  societies,  mem- 
bership in  which  is  by  invitation  only  and  is  con- 
sidered as  recognition  of  a  certain  ability  to  put 
to  good  use  a  so-called  education.  I  am  also  a 
member  of  Sigma  Xi,  concerning  which  you  prob- 
ably know  nothing  and  for  your  elucidation  I  will 
state  that  it  is  the  equivalent  in  Science  of  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  in  the  arts.  Moreover  I  enjoy  good 
music,  paintings  and  sculpture;  am  fairly  con- 
versant with  good  literature  and  am  able  to  dif- 
ferentiate to  some  extent  the  wheat  from  the 
chaff.  In  addition  I  am  an  Associate  Editor  of  a 
scientific  journal.  Notwithstanding  this  humor- 
ously imposing  list  of  accomplishments  I  lack  the 
power  to  use  my  native  language  correctly  — 
and  what  is  probably  more  awful,  I  don't  give  a 
damn,  and  if  I  lack  education  according  to  the 
standard  set  by  your  contributor  I  am  tickled  to 
death  that  I  lack  the  feeble  and  theoretical  intel- 
ligence that  goes  with  such  education  that  gives 
rise  to  the  mane  sneers  such  as  your  Contributor 
is  allowed  to  publish  in  the  Atlantic.  If  I  admitted 
such  drivel  to  the  columns  of  my  journal  I  would 
be  fired  from  my  job  at  the  next  annual  meeting. 

Come  on,  Atlantic,  what  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Are  you  so  cloyed  with  your  own  self-assumed 
sweetness  that  you  think  the  only  educated  per- 
sons are  those  who  belong  to  your  own  little 
mutual  admiration  society?  I  fail  to  find  in  your 
pages  any  logical  basis  for  the  opinion  that  you 
are  really  high-brow.  You  have  the  patina  only, 
not  the  substance.  Where  are  your  Leigh  Hunts, 
your  Hazlitts,  your  Charles  Lambs,  your  Emer- 
sons?  You  don't  begin  to  come  hah*- way  up  to 
those  writers  in  what  you  publish,  in  so  far  as  fine 
writing  goes. 

Oh  yes,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  have  also 
published  so  far  in  my  youthful  career  some 
thirty-six  (36),  count  'em,  scientific  articles  as  the 
results  of  my  studies,  and  all  of  these  have  ap- 
peared in  reputable  scientific  journals.  They  are 
not  always  in  correct  English,  but  they  get  the 
idea  across. 

AN  UNEDUCATED  PERSON. 

P.S.  I  am  not  signing  my  name  for  the  very 
obvious  reason  that  I  have  no  desire  to  toot  my 
own  horn  except  behind  the  scenes. 


Behind  the  Scenes! 
mercifully  drawn. 


But  the  curtain  is 


What  the  scholar  learns  is  often  over- 
matched by  what  the  teacher  is  taught. 

May  15,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

In  a  recent  examination  of  a  group  of  boys  who 
will  next  year  be  in  college,  I  received  the  fol- 
lowing answers:  — 

1.  Who  was  Florence  Nightingale?  A  singer. 

2.  Who  was  Huckleberry  Finn?  An  Irish  writer. 
He  wrote  '  Mark  Twin.' 

8.  Who  was  Grover  Cleveland?  The  fellow  who 
put  the  fine  tower  on  Princeton. 

4.  Explain  the  use  of  shall  and  will.  Shall  is 
wed  by  -polite  people,  will  by  all  others. 


5.  Where  is  Tyre?  Sidon?  Parts  of  an  auto- 
mobile. 

After  receiving  such  answers,  week  in,  week 
out,  is  it  any  wonder  teachers  forget  all  they  ever 
knew?  Is  it  any  wonder  teachers  lose  then-  sense 
of  humor  and  their  hair?  Et  clamor  meus  ad  te 
veniat? 

COLIN  C.  CLEMENTS. 


The  following  elucidation  of  an  unsolved 
Atlantic  mystery  of  some  months'  standing 
comes  to  us  from  the  professor  of  Romance 
Philology  in  Columbia  University. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

The  alluring  chronicle  which,  under  the  title  of 
'A  Little  Boy's  Utopia,'  appeared  in  your  num- 
ber for  May,  begins  as  follows:  — 

'  My  little  nephew  was  three  and  a  half  when  he 
began  to  talk  about  "the  Stewart  Country,"  and 
between  five  and  six  when  he  gave  us  to  under- 
stand that  the  subject  was  forever  closed.  The 
origin  of  the  name  was  a  mystery  we  never  fath- 
omed [italics  mine].  Asked  why  it  was  called  so, 
he  would  say,  "That  is  its  name,"  with  the  pa- 
tience born  of  answering  many  foolish  questions. 
He  described  it  as  "that  far  land  where  I  lived 
when  Mulla  was  a  little  gayl,  too  little  to  be  my 
Mulla";  and  professed  to  be  able  to  visit  it  at 
will.' 

With  the  flair  of  a  professional  philologist,  — 
who  must  needs  also  be  something  of  a  psycholo- 
gist, —  I  continued,  with  mind  gently  alert,  my 
reading  of  the  article,  in  the  hope  of  discovering 
the  solution  of  the  puzzle  that  had  piqued  for 
years  the  curiosity  and  ingenuity  of  the  child's 
family  circle. 

Internal  evidence  soon  furnished  the  clue. 
About  midway  of  the  brief  narrative  occurs  the 
preparation  of  the  explanation,  in  the  form  of 
quotations  from  the  child's  own  entertaining 
testimony;  and  somewhat  farther  on  in  the  story 
is  given  the  complete  though  unconscious  con- 
firmatory evidence  of  the  aunt  who  tells  the  tale. 

' "When  I  lived  in  the  Stewart  Country"  —  1 
can  hear  the  change  of  tone  that  marked  the 
familiar  opening:  it  was  a  kind  of  half -sad  dron- 
ing. ...  "I  sat  on  the  grass  and  my  Stewart 
Country  lamb  climbed  up  into  the  tree  and  threw 
the  oynges  down  to  me."  .  .  .  "My  Stewart 
Country  lamb"  was  the  hero  of  many  of  those 
wonderful  tales.' 

Now  for  the  aunt's  corroborative  contribu- 
tion:— 

'One  day  a  relic  of  some  past  era  of  domestic 
art  was  unearthed  from  the  store-room  —  a  huge 
pincushion  of  white  canton  flannel  in  the  shape 
of  an  animal.  But  what  animal?  The  question 
was  being  discussed  in  the  language  of  ^  the  old 
primers.  "Is-it-a-cat?  No-it-is-a-goat."  Some- 
one was  trying  to  lift  it  by  an  imaginary  tail,  to 
see  if  it  was  a  guinea  pig.  The  little  boy  sat  gaz- 
ing at  the  object  in  a  kind  of  trance. 

'All  at  once  his  arms  opened  wide.  "My 
Stewart  Country  lamb!'" 

Is  the  demonstration  sufficiently  convincing? 

'One  day  a  relic  of  some  past  era  of  domestic 


'288 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


art  was  unearthed  from  the  store-room,  .  .  . 
"My  Store- Room  Country  Lamb!'"  (My  Sto- 
woom  Tountwy  lamb.) 

Observe  that  the  child  could  not  pronounce  the 
letter  r  (witness  'gayl'  and  'oynge')  either  in 
'store-room'  or  in  'Country'  —  which  is  pre- 
cisely why  the  chronicler,  unconsciously  true  to  a 
well-recognized  principle  in  the  science  of  palae- 
ography, has  inserted  an  imagined  r  in  the  imagin- 
ary word  'Stewart,'  on  the  erroneous  supposi- 
tion that  in  view  of  the  child's  lisp  in  the  word 
'tountwy'  there  ought  to  be  an  r  in  'Stewart.' 
As  for  the  final  t  in  'Stewart,'  it  is  simply  the 
initial  t  of  the  child's  pronunciation  of  'tountwy.' 

—  The  study,  by  the  way,  of  childish  mutilations 
or  modifications  of  speech,  and  the  possibility  of 
their  perpetuation  in  the  vocabulary  of  adults, 
such  as  the  childish  reduplication  of  Old  French 
ante  (English  aunt),  ante-ante,  modern  French 
tante,  is  lately  coming  into  its  own. 

But  to  return  to  the  '  Stewart  Country.'  This 
mysterious,  fascinating  Store-room  Country  of 
Aladdin's  lamps  and  Seven-League  boots  and  all 
the  untold  wealth  of  quaint  and  curious  discarded 
treasures,  was  what  my  own  children  used  to  call 
the  Story-Room.  The  one-time  children  are  now, 
alas,  all  flown  from  the  parental  roof-tree,  but  in 
the  far-flung  ends  of  the  earth  to  which  the  At- 
lantic penetrates,  they  will  doubtless  all  be  proud 
to  find  themselves  here  immortalized  in  its  classic 
columns.  HENRY  ALFRED  TODD. 

*  *  * 

Poetry   is   eternal,   and  —  who   knows? 

—  the  poet  may  be,  too. 

OAKLAND,  CALIFORNIA,  May  14, 1921. 
GENTLEMEN,  — 

I  am  herewith  sending  you  a  poem  of  mine  for 
your  magazine.  Should  you  deem  my  poem 
worthy  of  publication,  I  should  appreciate  your 
sending  some  remuneration  to  me,  in  order  that 
I  might  buy  some  more  paper  and  ink  for  the 
purpose  of  sending  you  some  more  of  my  literary 
efforts.  Yours  truly, 

*  *  * 

Gradually  the  Atlantic  is  finding  its  niche. 

HOPEWELL,  VIRGINIA,  June  10, 1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

I  am  Employment  Manager  for  a  company  that 
is  hiring  in  fifty  girls  a  week,  and  I  have  several 
times  made  trips  through  the  State  to  get  a  line  on 
girl-power. 

^  I  arrived  the  other  night  in  a  town  about  eleven 
o'clock  at  night,  and  found  three  hotels  abso- 
lutely filled  up.  I  had  my  Atlantic  under  my  arm, 
as  I  had  been  reading  it  on  the  train.  As  I  stood 
at  the  counter,  wondering  what  to  do,  —  as  there 
was  no  Y.  W.  in  the  town,  —  the  clerk  asked  me 
to  come  to  one  side  as  he  wanted  to  speak  with 
me.  When  I  went  over  to  him,  he  said,  'Are  you 
with  the  "Y"?'  I  said,  'No.'  He  said,  'Well, 
I  saw  you  with  that  magazine  and  I  know  you 
must  be  all  right,  so  I  wanted  to  let  you  know 
that  I  have  a  room  here  that  the  Travelers'  Aid 
takes  by  the  month,  and  she  is  away  for  four 
days,  so  I'm  going  to  let  you  have  it.' 


The  same  thing  happened  again,  in  another 
town;  for  drummers  seem  to  be  very  busy  hunt- 
ing business  these  days  and  they  fill  up  the  hotels. 
When  I  found  I  could  n't  get  in  a  hotel,  I  tele- 
phoned to  a  dormitory  run  by  a  big  cotton  mill 
for  their  employees.  It  was  a  veritable  palace  of 
a  dormitory.  When  I  arrived,  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  the  watchman  let  me  in  and  the  head 
worker  of  the  dormitory  politely  greeted  me  and 
told  me  how  to  find  my  quarters.  As  she  turned 
to  go,  she  saw  I  had  in  my  hand  an  Atlantic,  and 
she  said,  '  We  don't  usually  take  in  strangers  this 
way  at  this  time  of  the  night,  but  I  judged  from 
your  voice  over  the  telephone  that  you  were  a 
lady,  and  now  I  see  you  with  your  Atlantic.  I 
know  you  are  a  person  we  will  be  glad  to  have 
with  us.' 

And  this  is  Virginia,  and  not  Massachusetts! 

Hereafter,  I  shall  always  carry  an  Atlantic  un- 
der my  arm  in  my  travels. 

MARY  L.  MORRIS, 
Woman  Employment  Supervisor. 
*  *  * 

Here  is  a  letter  which  supplements  ad- 
mirably a  recent  Atlantic  discussion. 

AKRON,  OHIO,  June  28,  1921. 
GENTLEMEN,  — 

To  your  illuminating  articles  and  letters  on  the 
foreign-born  in  America,  permit  me  to  add  a  let- 
ter which  to  me  evidences  the  pathetic  desire  of 
the  sender  to  be  identified  with  his  adopted  coun- 
try. Wladyslaw  F.  Meszkowski,  a  faithful  soldier 
of  Uncle  Sam,  writes:  — 

'Dec.  23,  1920. 
'Dear  Mr.  Captain  C.  Southworth,  — 

Have  receiving  your  tip  (Armistice  Anniver- 
sary) card  and  glad  to  return  enswer  with  fully 
thanks  now  captain  I  am  I  getting  along  mostly 
fine  and  working  hard  to  keep  my  living  so  —  I 
most  tell  you  captain  when  I  got  descharge  I  went 
to  school  for  a  while  and  after  a  took  civil  service 
court  school  which  does  help  me  and  now  I  am 
working  a  little  job  in  mashinerry  work.  I  may 
be  great  successful  some  day  latter  on.  I  am  sin- 
gle yet  and  wont  decided  to  be  a  maried  before  I 
can  eorining  something  or  receive  a  batter  posi- 
tion. .  .  .  'Yours 

'WALTER  FRANK 

'This  is  my  new  address.  This  name  I  am  us- 
ing in  working  sociation.  Meszkowski  is  known 
just  as  same.' 

I  am  sure  that  many  others  who  served  during 
the  late  war  could  tell  of  many  instances  of  the 
pride  our  foreign-born  ex-soldiers,  or  at  least  some 
of  them,  have  in  their  certificates  of  honorable 
discharge.  Not  that  all  of  them  were  anxious  to 
fight,  —  and  after  all,  who  were?  —  but  having 
served,  they  feel  that  they  are  no  longer  '  Dagoes ' 
or  'Hunkies.'  Surely  all  who  love  America  will 
try  to  see  that  they  are  not  disillusioned.  Let 
us  join  Walter  Frank  in  the  hope  that  he  may  be 
'  great  successful  some  day,'  and  in  the  meantime 
let  us  help  some  other  Walter  Frank  maintain  his 
new  self-respect  and  pride. 

Very  truly  yours, 

CONSTANT  SOUTHWORTH. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


SEPTEMBER,  1921 


PHILANTHROPIC  DOUBTS 


BY  CORNELIA  J.    CANNON 


FOR  thirty  years  the  philanthropists 
of  America  have  indulged  in  a  perfect 
orgy  of  charitable  activity.  They  have 
developed  and  expanded  every  form  of 
humanitarian  service  common  to  the 
civilized  nations,  and  have  searched 
the  world  and  their  own  imaginations 
for  types  of  moral  and  physical  ailment 
to  which  the  philanthropies  of  old  were 
oblivious,  in  order  that  they  might  still 
further  improve  society,  and  have  even 
wider  openings  for  the  spread  of  their 
social  enthusiasms.  They  have  organ- 
ized to  deal  with  every  form  of  human 
need,  and  have  established  institutions 
to  rectify  every  variety  of  human  de- 
fect. They  have  had  oversight,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  of  those  unfor- 
tunates who  anywhere  along  the  way 
have  fallen  out  of  balanced  adjustment 
to  their  environment.  Pre-natal  clinics, 
baby-welfare  stations,  orphan  asylums, 
charity  hospitals,  penny-saving  socie- 
ties, child-hygiene  associations,  home- 
economics  organizations,  social-hy- 
giene boards,  dental  clinics,  and  settle- 
ment houses  have  dotted  the  land.  The 
socially  minded  have  concerned  them- 
selves with  the  unmarried  mother,  the 
crippled,  the  blind,  the  insane,  the 
deaf,  the  traveler,  the  tubercular;  they 
have  agitated  for  better  housing,  for 

VOL.  IK—NO,  s 
A 


home  nursing,  for  backyard  play- 
grounds; they  have  enunciated  a  phil- 
osophy of  the  family,  developed  a  tech- 
nique of  case-work,  and  formulated 
methods  for  conducting  the  philan- 
thropic enterprises  which  have  been 
generally  accepted  as  an  essential  part 
of  our  organization .  of  society.  It  has 
been  social  heresy  to  inveigh  against  or 
even  question  the  fundamental  impor- 
tance of  these  charities.  Indifferent  to  a 
protest  so  feeble  as  to  be  practically 
unheard,  institutions  for  social  uplift 
have  followed  our  spread  across  the  con- 
tinent like  prairie  tumble-weed  blown 
by  an  autumn  gale. 

But  something  has  happened  in  the 
last  year  or  so.  The  apparently  solid 
support  of  these  societies  has  shown 
signs  of  giving  way.  The  expensive 
philanthropies,  manned  by  profession- 
ally trained  and  highly  paid  experts 
doing  careful  individual  work  with  the 
maladjusted,  have  been  supported  by  a 
lavish  public.  The  gifts  came  from  the 
possessors  of  old  wealth,  who  had  been 
trained  to  accept  philanthropic  obliga- 
tions as  paramount,  a  sort  of  first  lien 
on  property,  and  from  the  possessors  of 
new  wealth,  seeking  outlets  for  their 
surplus.  The  money  came  compara- 
tively easily.  A  mushroom  tradition  of 


290 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


the  ethical  beauty  of  dying  poor  gave 
impetus  to  the  generous  impulses  of 
the  donors.  Rich  Americans  have 
'  gone  in '  for  philanthropy  as  the  Eng- 
lish gentleman  goes  in  for  sport.  Each 
man  has  adopted  his  pet  charity,  has 
preyed  upon  his  friends  for  help,  and 
been  preyed  upon  in  turn. 

This  impulse  of  giving  did  not  always 
imply  personal  sacrifice.  'Give  till  it 
hurts'  was  a  slogan  developed  by  the 
war  emergency.  In  the  piping  days  of 
peace  such  drastic  advice  would  have 
defeated  its  own  ends.  'Give  as  much 
as  you  comfortably  can'  is  about  as 
strong  a  stimulus  as  we  can  stand  to- 
day. Of  late  the  charitable  institu- 
tions, perhaps  in  desperation,  have  as- 
sumed a  truculent  tone,  an  air  of 
authoritative  activity,  of  -an  implied 
right  to  our  donations,  that  has  robbed 
us  of  the  grace  of  generosity.  We  con- 
fess to  a  harried  feeling  in  the  presence 
of  the  grim  alternatives  daily  offered  to 
us,  of  either  surrendering  our  money  or 
accepting  a  major  responsibility  for  the 
downfall  of  philanthropic  institutions. 

Must  we  bear  the  burden  of  moral 
obloquy  imposed  upon  us  by  the  anx- 
ious philanthropists,  or  is  there  some 
justifiable  limit  to  our  charitable  efforts 
to  help  our  less  fortunate  brethren? 
May  it  not  be  just  possible  that  this 
revolt  of  the  giving  public  is  not  alto- 
gether selfish,  but  is  the  harbinger  of 
a  moral  revolution? 


II 

A  survey  of  the  philanthropic  quan- 
dary discloses  some  new  elements  in  the 
complex.  Thousands  of  families  in  the 
past  had  incomes  with  a  comfortable 
surplus,  which  was  available  for  the 
support  of  an  elaborate  system  of  phil- 
anthropies. These  surpluses  have  fallen 
into  the  remorseless  grasp  of  the  col- 
lector of  surtaxes.  Our  national,  and 
only  legitimate,  community-chest  now 


offers  sanctuary  to  the  moneys  that 
used  to  be  lavished  on  the  widow  and 
orphan.  This  is  a  consideration  that 
might  be  easily  overlooked,  and  yet  is 
a  factor  of  significance  as  a  sign  of  the 
times.  We  have  seen  fit,  for  the  com- 
mon good,  to  appropriate  from  the 
pockets  of  our  citizens  sums  so  gigantic 
that  they  make  the  large  donations  of 
recent  years  to  the  cause  of  philan- 
thropy seem  like  a  tiny  star  in  a  giant 
galaxy. 

If  we  can  tax  so  heavily  for  purposes 
of  war  without  raising  a  word  of  pro- 
test, would  it  not  be  possible  to  do 
something  commensurate  for  purposes 
of  peace  without  reaping  the  whirlwind? 
The  money  has  passed  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  philanthropists.  Has  the 
responsibility  associated  with  its  for- 
mer use  passed  with  it?  After  all,  whose 
duty  is  it  to  see  that  this  is  a  better 
world?  Is  it  not  the  natural  burden  of 
the  people  who  inhabit  the  earth  — 
not  of  a  selected  few,  but  of  all  the 
people?  Can  we  not  look  forward  to  a 
day  when  our  philanthropic  obligations 
will  be  brought  to  our  attention,  not  by 
an  appeal  from  boards  of  directors,  but 
by  a  tax-,bill  from  the  properly  con- 
stituted authorities? 

Whatever  the  future  may  hold  for 
us,  the  community  of  the  present  will 
no  longer  support  private  charities  on 
the  scale  and  in  the  manner  it  has  done 
in  the  past.  We  are  forced  to  ask  our- 
selves whether  the  basis  of  the  philan- 
thropic movement  is  sound;  whether  it 
is  doing  an  essential  work;  and  whether 
that  work  can  be  carried  on  in  the  face 
of  a  general  refusal  on  the  part  of  the 
public  to  back  the  philanthropists. 

What  lies  at  the  root  of  the  philan- 
thropic impulse?  The  moralist  would 
say  brotherly  love.  But  it  is  a  love  that 
takes  a  very  different  attitude  from 
that  we  show  toward  our  blood  broth- 
ers. It  could  hardly  be  called  friend- 
ship, for  it  assumes  no  equal  give  and 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


291 


take.  Might  it  be  a  subconscious  re- 
sponse to  the  doctrine  drilled  into  a 
Christian  nation,  'Thou  art  thy  broth- 
er's keeper '  ?  Or  is  it  an  obscure  expres- 
sion of  some  primitive  herd-instinct, 
coming  up  with  us  from  the  palaeozoic 
ooze,  determining  alike  the  conduct  of 
the  Neanderthal  Man  and  of  Edith 
Cavell?  The  impulse  is  not  only  not 
simple,  but  is  probably  extremely  com- 
plex. There  are  in  it  elements  of  kindly 
condescension,  of  a  sympathetic  fellow 
feeling,  and  of  ardent  generosity. 

We  can  imagine  the  philanthropist 
saying  to  himself,  'Here  is  a  world  ad- 
mittedly imperfect,  and  here  are  we 
humanitarians  eager  to  set  it  right. 
What  exception  can  be  taken  to  our 
urge  toward  betterment?  What  if  it 
does  perpetuate  in  our  minds  and  in 
the  community's  the  differences  of  man 
from  man?  The  differences  are  there, 
and  closing  our  eyes  to  them  does  not 
eliminate  them.  We  are  willing  to  give 
our  time,  our  money,  and  our  enthus- 
iasm to  bring  health  and  happiness  to 
our  brothers  who  are  poor  and  suffering. 
It  is  impossible  that  the  community 
wishes  to  repudiate  us.  We  are  the 
exemplars,  however  imperfect,  of  the 
Christian  ideal  which  is  the  basis  of  our 
civilization.' 

We  have  many  things  to  say  in  reply 
to  him.  An  enthusiastic  friend  of  a 
blind  man  offered  to  bring  another 
blind  man  to  see  him,  thinking  thereby 
to  give  pleasure  to  both.  'No,'  said  the 
blind  man,  'I  do  not  wish  to  meet 
people  on  the  ground  of  my  infirmities.' 
Our  philanthropist's  first  handicap  lies 
here.  His  human  contacts  are  on  the 
basis  of  infirmities,  poverty,  ignorance, 
sin,  never  on  the  basis  of  any  mutual 
interest  or  responsibility.  It  is  not  'our 
baby-welfare  clinic,'  to  which  we  all 
bring  our  babies,  but  'your  baby-wel- 
fare clinic,'  to  which  I  bring  my  baby 
to  be  told  how  I  should  take  care  of  it. 
It  is  not  '  our  home-economics  associa- 


tion,' but  'your  home-economics  club,' 
to  which  I  am  invited  to  come  and 
learn  the  wider  use  of  corn-meal. 

Environment  has  perhaps  favored 
you  more  than  it  has  me;  but  I  also 
have  a  contribution  to  make  to  our 
mutual  betterment,  if  you  can  only 
bring  yourself  to  count  me  in.  It  is  not 
enough  for  you  to  love  humanity.  You 
must  have  a  delicate  respect  for  the 
soul  of  humanity,  that  sensitive  instru- 
ment which  registers  progress  in  terms 
of  the  individual's  victory  over  himself. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  lifted  up  by  you 
or  anyone  else;  I  wish  to  lift  myself. 
Even  though  the  height  I  attain  by  my 
own  efforts  be  not  so  lofty,  the  founda- 
tions of  my  character  are  firmer  and 
are  better  able  to  resist  the  assaults  of 
temptation. 

A  fastidious  respect  for  our  brother's 
personality  makes  heavy  drafts  on  our 
tolerance  —  too  heavy  at  times  to  be 
honored.  So  we  fail  in  our  efforts  to 
help,  and  ascribe  our  failure  to  the  ob- 
duracy of  the  beneficiary,  or  to  inferior 
traditions  inherited  from  alien  races. 
We  are  willing  to  admit  that  our  mu- 
nicipal government  is  very  bad,  but  we 
aver  that  it  is  better  for  us  to  manage 
it  inefficiently  for  ourselves  than  to 
allow  anyone  else  to  manage  it  for  us, 
however  admirable  the  immediate  re- 
sults might  be.  When,  however,  it 
comes  to  the  decisions  of  a  man's  life 
by  which  his  character  is  to  be  built 
up,  if  he  happens  to  be  poor,  we  may 
remove  from  him  the  opportunity  for 
choice  by  a  pressure  he  is  unable  to 
withstand.  We  show  a  Gargantuan 
daring  in  assuming  responsibility  for 
lives  alien  to  our  own.  How  much  good 
are  we  justified  in  hoping  or  expecting 
will  come  of  it?  Of  course,  each  reader 
will  instantly  think  of  cases  he  or  she 
has  known  in  which  lives  have  been 
markedly  altered  for  the  better  by  con- 
tacts formed  in  philanthropic  associa- 
tion. There  are  perhaps  many,  but  how 


292 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


large  do  these  cases  bulk  in  the  total 
number  of  individuals  dealt  with?  How 
do  such  successes  balance  the  effort, 
money,  enthusiasm,  and  vital  energy 
that  have  gone  into  these  attempts  at 
human  reconstruction?  In  our  own  per- 
sonal lives,  who  has  influenced  us  save 
those  whose  family  relations,  social 
status,  and  range  of  interests  most 
closely  approximate  our  own?  We 
should  regard  as  an  impertinence,  if 
done  to  us,  the  invasion  of  spiritual 
privacy  that  the  more  tolerant  victims 
of  misfortune  accept  as  part  of  their 
disability.  They  act  upon  our  advice 
if  they  must,  they  disregard  it  if  they 
can,  but  they  preserve  untouched  the 
inner  citadel  of  their  personality, 
whence  their  fighting  forces  may  sally 
forth  once  the  siege  is  raised.  Could 
we  accomplish  as  much  with  as  well- 
bred  dignity? 

A  serious  defect,  seemingly  inherent 
in  the  organization  of  philanthropic 
effort,  is  the  intense  individualism  of 
each  unit  and  the  frequent  jealousy  or 
disregard  of  one  another.  It  may  be 
the  fault  of  their  virtues,  each  organi- 
zation having  an  almost  fanatical  sense 
that  it  holds  the  key  to  human  regen- 
eration. To  the  outsider  it  looks  like  a 
lot  of  ants  tugging  from  all  sides  at  a 
dead  beetle.  The  beetle  does  not  move, 
and  the  ants  use  a  prodigious  amount 
of  energy,  to  no  avail.  Cooperation  is 
a  word  often  on  the  lips  of  the  social 
worker,  but  not  always  understood. 
Indeed,  such  fundamental  cooperation 
as  has  been  achieved  has  usually  been 
accomplished  by  forming  an  additional 
cooperating  agency  to  accomplish  it. 
And  yet,  duplication  of  effort  or  fail- 
ure to  recognize  reasonable  limits  to 
the  number  of  philanthropic  estab- 
lishments is  a  spoliation  of  the  whole 
community. 

A  more  fundamental  danger,  and  one 
to  which  the  best  are  prone,  is  reluc- 
tance to  let  go  and  cease  functioning 


when  the  need  is  past.  Vested  funds, 
rooted  traditions,  personal  zeal,  often 
conspire  to  keep  alive  institutions 
which  have  served  their  day  and  whose 
continued  existence  is  only  an  incubus 
on  the  community.  It  is  a  rare  board 
of  directors  that  will  admit  the  failure 
of  its  experiment  or  recognize  that 
changing  conditions  demand  an  en- 
tirely new  alignment  if  an  institution 
is  to  fulfill  its  purpose.  Occasionally  a 
day  nursery  does  close  its  doors  and 
fight  for  mothers'  pensions,  or  an  or- 
phan asylum  lets  its  plant  lie  idle  while 
it  places  out  its  charges  in  homes;  but 
do  not  the  chimneys  of  many  a  mis- 
taken charity  pour  out  the  smoke  of  a 
high-priced  coal  on  a  world  that  has 
long  ceased  to  have  any  need  for  such 
an  organization?  No  intrenched  idea 
seems  more  difficult  to  dislodge  than 
this  passion  for  a  philanthropy  for  its 
own  sake.  Endowments  perpetuate 
what  should  be  only  temporary;  they 
give  immortality  to  the  normally  trans- 
itory; until  our  land  is  weighted  down 
with  foundations  and  institutions  which 
fetter  the  free  spirit  of  a  changing 
world. 

Ill 

Are  the  philanthropic  societies  doing 
an  essential  work?  In  every  communi- 
ty there  are  the  discerning  who  have 
eyes  to  see  an  evil  and  imaginations  to 
vision  a  good  that  can  be  brought  out 
of  it.  They  gather  round  them  the  few 
whom  they  can  inspire  with  their 
enthusiasm,  and  try  out  the  new  idea. 
These  are  the  social  pioneers,  the  lead- 
ers to  whom  we  all  look  for  guidance. 
In  so  far  as  charitable  societies  catch 
the  spirit  of  these  adventurers  and  hold 
the  ideal  of  their  own  labor  as  pioneer- 
ing, they  do  a  vital  work,  and  in  the 
future,  as  in  the  past,  will  be  essential  to 
social  progress.  But  the  assumption  of 
many  philanthropic  associations,  that 
they  are  to  go  on  forever,  that  they 


PHILANTHROPIC    DOUBTS 


293 


are  as  permanent  a  part  of  the  run- 
ning of  a  democracy  as  the  ballot-box 
itself,  robs  their  effort  of  much  of  its 
significance. 

'Yes,'  the  philanthropist  may  say, 
'that  is  all  very  well;  but  if  we  do  not 
care  for  the  orphans,  who  will?  If  we 
do  not  stand  by  the  unmarried  mothers, 
who  will  befriend  them?  If  we  do  not 
maintain  day  nurseries,  how  can  needy 
widows  go  out  to  work?' 

In  a  civilization  so  complex  as  ours 
it  is  not  feasible  that  we  should  depend 
on  these  small  philanthropic  groups  to 
keep  the  great  machine  going  and  the 
grosser  injustices  from  being  done,  and 
it  is  impossible  that  we  should  continue 
to  be  mendicants  for  their  bounty.  It 
is  not  self-respecting  for  any  communi- 
ty to  let  the  few  shoulder  the  responsi- 
bilities of  the  many.  What  are  we  going 
to  do  about  it?  The  public  is  bringing 
the  whole  matter  to  an  issue  by  refusing 
any  longer  to  support  private  charities 
on  the  present  scale,  whether  that  scale 
is  regarded  as  extravagant  or  not.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  remains  a  mass 
of  good-will,  energy,  and  devotion  to 
the  bettering  of  the  world,  available 
for  the  common  service.  How  can  such 
money  as  there  is,  and  such  energy,  be 
employed  to  the  best  advantage?  How 
can  what  is  prescient  in  the  philan- 
thropic movement  be  preserved,  and 
what  is  unsocial  be  eliminated? 

If  you  compare  a  city  which  has  a 
full  quota  of  philanthropic  societies  to 
care  for  every  type  of  human  sin  and 
weakness  with  one  which  has  practi- 
cally nothing,  you  will  not  necessarily 
find  any  superiority  in  the  more  richly 
equipped.  Of  course,  you  may  say, 
'What  would  the  first  city  be  with- 
out the  institutions?  Its  problems  are 
graver  than  those  of  the  second  city, 
and  its  evil  is  held  in  check  only  by  the 
activities  of  the  generously  inclined.' 
But  are  not  a  community's  standard 
and  quality  primarily  due  to  its  educa- 


tional opportunities,  its  living  condi- 
tions, its  civic  enthusiasm,  its  moral 
standards,  its  homogeneity  of  feeling, 
and  not  to  the  efforts  that  any  one 
group  may  make  to  improve  any  other 
group? 

The  status  of  the  philanthropies  dur- 
ing the  war  was  a  revelation  like  that 
made  by  a  dazzling  streak  of  lightning. 
During  those  momentous  years  there 
were  high  wages,  prohibition,  and 
plenty  of  work  for  everyone.  The 
demands  on  the  charitable  societies 
dropped  fifty  per  cent  and  more.  The 
poor  and  the  sick  seemed  to  be  no  more 
with  us.  The  question  forced  itself 
upon  us, '  Is  it  possible  that  the  philan- 
thropies have  been  on  the  wrong  tack, 
that  fair  wages  and  decent  living  condi- 
tions are  the  basis  of  a  sound  civiliza- 
tion, and  that  the  philanthropists  are 
but  poulticing  a  surface  sore?'  There 
were  some  few  associations  which  saw 
in  the  light  of  this  great  experiment  the 
portent  of  their  own  ultimate  dissolu- 
tion. Though  of  making  philanthro- 
pies there  seems  no  end,  of  ending  them 
there  seems  to  be  no  beginning,  so  that 
the  total  number  in  existence  has  not 
been  appreciably  reduced  by  the  world- 
shaking  convulsions  of  the  war. 

A  new  orientation  has,  however, 
taken  place  in  the  public  mind  toward 
the  philanthropist  as  the  sensitive 
register  of  human  suffering,  and  the 
chief  guide  to  the  alleviation  of  human 
misery.  We  are  beginning  to  recognize 
that  the  same  passion  for  humanity 
that  inspires  one  man  to  lavish  money 
on  baby  welfare,  rescue  homes  for  girls, 
and  Christmas  dinners  for  the  poor 
makes  another  man  a  radical.  The 
impulses  in  both  cases  are  the  same, 
but  the  second  man  is  trying  to  think 
more  fundamentally  than  the  first. 
His  methods  may  be  clumsy  and  his 
suggested  solution  crude,  but  his  aim 
is  to  remove  the  causes  of  human  de- 
spair, not  to  risk  the  loss  of  precious 


294 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS' 


time  by  attempting  to  modify  their 
tragic  consequences. 

The  philanthropists  belong  to  a  class 
on  which  the  injustices  of  our  present 
basis  of  society  have  not  borne  heavily. 
They  serve  unconsciously  as  a  bulwark 
of  the  status  quo,  for  whose  defects  they 
are  ready  and  eager  to  apply  pallia- 
tives. They  are  the  great  menders  and 
patchers-up  of  society,  not  the  sur- 
geons who  cut  deep  into  the  festering 
sore  and  scrape  the  bone.  They  express 
the  tenderness  and  pity  of  man,  not  his 
reasoning  intelligence.  Their  technique 
is  developed  to  a  high  degree  of  perfec- 
tion, but  their  philosophy  lags  far  be- 
hind. They  know  better  how  to  do  a 
thing  than  why.  We  must  turn  to  them 
for  methods,  the  fruit  of  long  and  care- 
ful experiment;  but  as  yet  they  have 
offered  us  no  fundamental  basis  for  the 
work  of  human  improvement.  It  is  not 
through  their  eyes  that  we  shall  see  life 
steadily  and  see  it  whole. 

IV 

The  interlocutor  queries,  'What  are 
we  here  for? '  and  instead  of  being  satis- 
fied with  the  exemplary  reply,  'To  help 
others,'  invites  disaster  by  persisting, 
'But  what  are  the  others  here  for?' 
Here  is  the  Achilles  heel  of  the  philan- 
thropic movement.  In  the  soul  of  the 
philanthropist  stirs  a  passion  for  bet- 
terment, a  real  desire  that  life  shall  be 
more  endurable  for  us  all.  But  in  the 
method  he  employs  he  ignores  partici- 
pation by  the  'others.'  He  uses  the 
ways  of  an  aristocracy  instead  of  those 
native  to  a  democracy. 

The  major  indictment  against  phil- 
anthropy is  that  it  has  ignored  the 
opportunities  democracy  offers  for  re- 
forms from  within.  It  has  distracted 
our  minds  and  attention  from  commun- 
ity responsibility  for  the  removal  of 
social  defects.  It  has  encouraged  us  to 
leave  reforms  to  the  activity  of  self- 


appointed  groups.  Its  reforms  have 
tended  to  be  superficial,  because  it  has 
everywhere  selected  for  its  leaders 
those  interested  in  philanthropy,  but 
not  in  democracy.  The  typical  lover 
of  his  kind  will  pour  out  money  for  the 
starving  Chinese  though  he  may  hesi- 
tate to  contribute  to  campaign  expen- 
ses for  public-school  associations.  The 
novice  can  catch  the  thrill  of  teaching 
folk-dancing  to  the  tenement-house 
child  or  distributing  bread  tickets  to  the 
poor;  but  an  offer  to  pay  the  expenses 
of  a  board  of  health  'clean-up  cam- 
paign '  requires  imagination  of  a  differ- 
ent order. 

Yet  a  great  people  committed  to  the 
experiment  of  organizing  a  democratic 
society  fails  in  so  far  as  it  refuses  to  use 
the  forms  appropriate  to  democracy. 
Here  about  us  are  all  the  types  of  com- 
munity effort  that  we  have  so  far 
evolved:  boards  of  health,  school  com- 
mittees, overseers  of  the  poor,  courts, 
probation  systems,  boards  of  parole, 
poorhouses,  commissioners  for  the 
blind,  public  libraries,  departments  for 
the  care  of  defectives,  for  the  care  of 
children,  for  giving  mothers'  pensions, 
for  the  supervision  of  public  safety,  for 
the  treatment  of  the  tubercular,  hospi- 
tals, dispensaries,  parks  and  play- 
grounds —  and  yet  how  few  philan- 
thropists try  loyally  to  work  out  their 
problems  through  this  wealth  of  agen- 
cies before  organizing  associations  of 
their  own. 

And  where  is  the  reformer  who  ever 
feels  that,  once  a  law  is  passed  and  a 
department  created,  there  is  any  fur- 
ther responsibility  on  his  shoulders? 
Yet,  if  we  had  the  wit  to  see  it,  our 
responsibility  is  then  but  just  begin- 
ning. City  and  county  and  state  offi- 
cials are  only  our  leaders;  we  are  the 
rank  and  file,  who  must  stand  back  of 
them  if  they  are  to  be  truly  effective. 
An  autocracy  does  not  need  the  coop- 
eration of  its  citizens;  it  is  not  organ- 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


295 


ized  to  depend  on  that;  but  the  failures 
of  democracy  are  the  failures  of  citizens 
to  play  their  part.  The  governing  de- 
partments belong  to  us.  Their  success- 
es are  ours;  their  mistakes  disgrace  us. 
Think  what  a  board  of  health  might 
accomplish  if  the  citizens  made  an 
effort  to  work  wholeheartedly  with  it! 
Think  what  a  street-cleaning  depart- 
ment might  be  in  a  city  where  every 
inhabitant  felt  as  responsible  for  the 
sidewalk  and  street  in  front  of  his 
property  as  for  his  parlor  floor!  Think 
of  the  quality  a  community  might  ac- 
quire with  a  school  system  which  was 
the  pride  and  anxious  concern  of  every 
parent  in  the  city! 

Where  are  the  members  of  the  com- 
munity who  might  have  leisure  and 
money  to  band  their  fellows  together 
and  work  unrestingly  with  the  public 
officials  to  build  the  City  Beautiful? 
They  are  supporting  attractive  homes 
for  the  aged  poor,  while  wages  are  too 
low  to  allow  a  worker  to  save  for  the 
future;  they  are  establishing  asylums 
for  illegitimate  children,  while  public 
dance-halls  are  not  safeguarded;  they 
are  forming  classes  to  teach  English  to 
foreigners  to  whom  the  evening  schools 
are  open;  they  are  spending  large  sums 
to  teach  music  to  children,  while  the 
school  department  is  too  impoverished 
to  give  a  class  more  than  two  hours' 
instruction  a  day. 

These  efforts  may  be  good  in  them- 
selves, but  a  community  must  make 
its  investments  with  some  sense  of 
proportion.  Enthusiasm  for  the  indi- 
vidual may  be  a  blunder.  Suppose  that 
through  our  failure  to  carry  on  some 
charity  individuals  do  suffer  here  and 
there.  There  are  bound  to  be  sufferers 
at  best;  but  one  is  blind  indeed  who 
does  not  see  that  more  misery  may  be 
saved  in  the  end  by  the  more  broadly 
conceived  plan.  Even  a  very  slight 
enlargement  of  the  department  for 
child-care  in  a  board  of  health  would 


accomplish  more  for  the  welfare  of  our 
youthful  citizens  than  the  work  any 
private  society  for  the  care  of  babies 
could  do  in  twenty  years. 

Has  philanthropy  any  place,  then,  in  a 
modern  community?  The  concern  of 
the  philanthropist  is  legitimately  with 
those  social  responsibilities  not  yet 
assumed  by  all.  A  group  of  persons 
dedicating  themselves  to  the  study  of 
existing  evils,  to  the  practice  of  admit- 
tedly temporary  demonstrations  of  im- 
proved methods  for  combatting  these 
evils,  and  to  a  determination  never  to 
shoulder  any  permanent  responsibility 
for  the  carrying-out  of  reforms,  has  a 
very  important  place  in  society  to-day. 
If  such  a  group  of  social  experimenters 
has,  after  a  suitable  interval  of  time, 
failed  to  persuade  the  community  of  the 
value  of  the  suggested  reforms  so  that 
the  authorities  are  ready  to  adopt 
them,  it  should  feel  no  false  pride  in 
abandoning  the  venture.  The  experi- 
ment may  have  been  impracticable; 
other  forces  in  the  community  may 
have  been  attacking  the  problem  from 
a  more  advantageous  position;  or  pub- 
lic sympathy,  without  which  no  reform 
is  possible,  may  have  been  lacking.  In 
any  case  the  paddle-wheels  are  beating 
empty  air,  and  it  behooves  the  reform- 
ers to  conserve  their  fuel  till  the  tide 
comes  in.  Such  an  attitude  requires 
a  very  high  order  of  self-effacement, 
though  one  surely  not  beyond  the  ca- 
pacities of  true  lovers  of  their  kind. 

The  reluctance  of  organized  socie- 
ties to  surrender  their  work  to  the  com- 
munity itself  is  not  always  due  to  an 
exaggerated  sense  of  the  importance 
of  their  own  contribution,  but  may  be 
inspired  by  a  very  real  fear  of  a  conse- 
quent lowering  of  standards.  The  ap- 
prehension is  understandable,  but  it  is 
shortsighted.  How  many  persons  who 
have  seriously  tried  to  cooperate  with 
public  servants  have  found  them  im- 
possible to  work  with?  In  some  com- 


296 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


munities  there  is  political  corruption  of 
a  serious  nature.  This  does  not,  how- 
ever, justify  turning  to  private  charity 
as  a  way  out.  It  might  serve  the  poor 
and  suffering  of  such  a  city  much  better 
if  all  the  charitable  institutions  closed 
their  doors  and  used  their  time  and 
money  to  establish  and  back  a  good 
government.  In  most  of  our  cities  the 
government,  though  often  inefficient 
and  unenlightened,  is  not  corrupt,  or 
beyond  the  influence  of  the  citizens 
who  have  no  private  axe  to  grind.  The 
worst  failures  are  due  to  the  fact  that, 
as  soon  as  the  officials  are  elected,  the 
public  forgets  all  about  them  and  leaves 
them  to  the  companionship  of  the  few 
who  come  to  abuse  and  the  many  who 
come  to  get  some  favor  for  themselves 
or  their  friends.  Public  servants  can 
hardly  credit  their  senses  when  citizens 
come  with  a  desire  to  back  them  in 
doing  a  difficult  task,  or  to  help  them 
in  their  efforts  to  carry  on  their  work 
efficiently.  Citizens  have  no  one  except 
themselves  to  thank  if  an  official,  left 
to  the  mercies  of  the  self-seeking,  be- 
comes careless  in  self-defense  or  cor-, 
rupt  through  evil  associations. 

Think  of  the  daily  battle  the  officers 
of  a  board  of  health  have  to  fight!  They 
are  the  bane  of  every  vicious  element 
in  a  city,  the  enemy  of  every  man  who 
wishes  to  break  the  sanitary  laws. 
Every  dishonest  landlord,  every  filthy 
tenant  hates  them.  They  are  hounded 
by  peddlers  who  wish  to  be  exceptions 
to  the  law;  by  the  dealers  who  prefer 
to  leave  their  trash  on  the  sidewalk;  by 
butchers  who  are  unwilling  to  screen 
their  premises;  by  stable-keepers  who 
refuse  to  remove  manure;  by  irate  par- 
ents who  see  no  sense  in  quarantine; 
by  the  gentry  who  spit  on  the  side- 
walk; and  by  lodging-house  keepers 
who  do  not  think  eight  sleeping  in  a 
hall  bedroom  excessive.  The  law-abid- 
ing citizens  leave  the  board  of  health 
alone. 


Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  officials 
feel  that  the  hand  of  man  is  against 
them,  and  sometimes  weaken  in  play- 
ing such  a  losing  game?  If  only  the 
people  could  realize  that  the  board  of 
health  is  their  creation,  trying  in  the 
face  of  mountainous  difficulties  to  carry 
out  their  orders  and  make  the  com- 
munity a  place  of  safety  for  them  and 
their  children,  they  might  feel  a  share 
in  the  responsibilities,  a  pride  in  the 
achievements,  and  a  sense  of  personal 
failure  in  the  mistakes.  Real  contact  on 
the  part  of  citizens  with  governmental 
problems  often  brings  home  the  fact 
that  the  defects  which  loom  large  are 
due  to  a  lack  of  money,  of  public  back- 
ing, and  of  legal  authority  —  circum- 
stances beyond  the  control  of  the  of- 
ficial, but  within  the  power  of  his 
employer,  the  public. 

The  high  standards  of  our  heavily 
endowed  and  well-managed  philan- 
thropies may  be  beyond  our  station  in 
life.  A  democracy  has  to  surrender 
a  certain  perfection  of  efficiency.  We 
deplore  it,  though  we  know  the  com- 
pensations are  great.  We  make  our 
mistakes,  but  we  learn  from  our  fail- 
ures and  develop  a  power  that  would 
be  withheld  from  us  if  we  were  per- 
petually guarded  from  error  by  superior 
intelligences. 

The  taking  over  by  towns  and  states 
of  the  responsibility  for  the  care  and 
prevention  of  tuberculosis,  a  work  ably 
initiated  all  over  the  country  by  the 
anti-tuberculosis  associations,  undoubt- 
edly meant  in  some  places  an  inferior 
quality  in  the  treatment  given;  but 
the  comprehensiveness  of  the  work 
that  is  being  done  and  the  promise  that 
the  activity  throughout  the  country 
makes  for  an  eventual  control  of  the 
dread  disease,  is  something  no  private 
organization,  however  efficient  and 
ably  run,  could  have  hoped  to  attain. 
Yet  anti-tuberculosis  associations  con- 
tinue to  exist,  refusing  to  recognize  that 


PHILANTHROPIC   DOUBTS 


297 


their  pioneer  work  is  done  and  that 
their  outposts  should  be  moved  further 


on. 


Legal  aid  societies  have  figured  as 
charities  since  their  inception.  Only 
recently  a  profoundly  significant  change 
of  attitude  has  begun  to  show  itself  in 
the  minds  of  those  cognizant  of  the 
flaws  in  the  relation  between  justice  and 
the  poor.  Legal  advice  for  those  with 
small  means  is  being  accepted  as  a  part 
of  the  public  administration  of  justice, 
a  responsibility  of  the  people  as  a  whole, 
not  a  benefit  conferred  by  the  rich  on 
their  less  fortunate  fellows.  The  very 
fact  that  the  impecunious  client  be- 
comes a  part  of  the  system  itself  brings 
him  the  assistance  of  the  public  agen- 
cies of  our  juridical  machinery,  which 
are  not  so  readily  available  to  the  pri- 
vate organization.  The  needs  of  the 
litigant  become  of  primary  concern  to 
those  responsible  both  for  protecting 
his  rights  and  for  enforcing  the  decrees 
of  the  law-makers. 

In  the  educational  world  the  kinder- 
gartens have  passed  through  somewhat 
the  same  cycle.  They  were  begun  as 
an  experiment,  by  private  enthusiasts, 
then  given  a  grudging  hospitality  by 
our  public-school  system,  and  finally 
accepted  in  their  entirety  as  an  essen- 
tial part  of  the  educational  course  in  all 
progressive  communities.  And  yet  oc- 
casional settlement  houses  have  main- 
tained kindergartens  close  to  those  of 
adjacent  schools,  on  the  ground  that  the 
school  was  crowded  or  the  teachers  not 
so  skilled  as  their  own.  Did  the  idea 
of  lending  an  extra  room  for  the  use  of 
the  public  school,  or  bringing  commu- 
nity pressure  to  bear  to  increase  school- 
equipment  and  to  improve  the  quality 
of  the  teachers,  lie  beyond  the  range  of 
possibilities  in  the  minds  of  these  set- 
tlement directors?  Such  institutions 
have  kept  up  their  old  routine,  instead 
of  using  their  freedom  to  try  new  ways 
of  bringing  light  into  dark  places.  The 


amount  of  public  money  available  for 
experiments  is  always  small.  The  tax- 
payer is  perhaps  justifiably  reluctant 
to  have  his  money  used  for  purposes 
which  may  prove  to  be  Utopian;  so  that 
many  promising  but  untried  methods 
must  wait  on  the  generosity  and  ini- 
tiative of  private  enthusiasts  for  their 
testing  out.  This  makes  the  plodding 
work  of  an  institution  which  accepts 
itself  as  a  fixed  part  of  the  social  uni- 
verse so  deeply  disappointing. 

The  Workmen's  Compensation  acts 
can  hardly  be  said  to  be  the  result  of  an 
enlightened  refusal  on  the  part  of  the 
private  charities  to  bear  the  burden 
of  the  tragedies  of  industry,  but  they 
lifted  from  the  philanthropic  agencies 
burdens  which  the  industry  should  it- 
self bear.  The  acts  suddenly  made  the 
problem  distinct.  They  drew  the  atten- 
tion of  the  industries  to  the  cost  of  acci- 
dents, which  had  been  previously  borne 
by  the  families  of  the  victims  and  the 
philanthropies  of  the  community,  and 
had  now  become  a  heavy  drag  on  the 
profits  of  production.  The  expense  was 
quickly  recognized  as  excessive,  and 
intelligent  efforts  were  made  to  reduce 
it.  The  most  spectacular  effect  has  been 
the  greatly  increased  demand  for  safety 
appliances,  medical  and  nursing  care 
in  factories,  and  a  final  and  perhaps 
determining  pressure  for  the  prohibi- 
tion amendment.  The  philanthropist 
might  have  gone  on  indefinitely  carry- 
ing the  load ;  but  when  the  responsibil- 
ity for  faulty  industrial  conditions  was 
thrown  on  the  community  at  large, 
through  additional  cost  of  the  products 
of  industry,  something  fundamental 
took  place. 

The  Mothers'  Pension  acts  have  had 
a  similar  history.  They  have  removed 
a  crushing  weight  from  the  shoulders 
of  women  with  young  children,  and 
placed  it  on  the  shoulders  of  the  tax- 
payers. The  tax-payers,  however,  per- 
form a  double  function.  They  not  only 


293 


PHILANTHROPIC    DOUBTS 


provide  money  for  the  pensions,  but 
make  and  enforce  the  laws  as  well. 
They  have  not  been  content  with  dol- 
ing out  groceries  and  paying  rent,  but 
have  made  new  laws  about  deserting 
husbands,  and  have  stimulated  the 
activity  of  the  courts  and  the  extra- 
diting agents  to  return  these  evaders  to 
the  bearing  of  their  responsibilities.  In 
our  capacity  as  the  governing  body  in  a 
democracy,  we  go  far  beyond  any  indi- 
vidual's ability  to  achieve.  We  become 
supermen,  and  can  accomplish  the 
seemingly  impossible. 

Education  used  to  be  regarded  as  a 
philanthropy.  Charitable  schools  cast 
their  turbid  shadow  on  mid- Victorian 
literature.  It  was  a  form  of  charity 
which  was  withheld  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  working  classes,  lest  it  make 
them  restless  and  dissatisfied,  and  was 
given  out  only  in  quantities  which  were 
expected  to  add  to  the  usefulness  but 
not  to  the  ambition  of  the  lower  ranks 
of  society.  Democracy  has  discredited 
education  as  a  philanthropy,  and  rec- 
ognized it  as  the  right  of  every  poten- 
tial citizen,  the  only  insurance  against 
the  anarchy  of  ignorance,  and  the  sole 
safeguard  of  the  institutions  of  a  free 
people. 

The  public  schools  offer  to  all  the 
children  of  the  Republic  the  oppor- 
tunity to  prepare  for  citizenship  to- 
gether —  the  rich  and  the  poor,  those 
with  long  traditions  of  culture  and 
those  with  long  traditions  of  toil  —  in 
the  atmosphere  and  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  community  institution.  If 
the  schools  as  they  exist  to-day  are  not 
good  enough  for  one  man's  children, 
they  are  not  good  enough  for  any  man's 
children,  and  the  enlightened  lover  of 
his  kind  must  throw  the  money,  inter- 
est, and  enthusiasm  he  may  be  putting 
into  the  private  schools  into  the  public. 
Whatever  improvement  he  can  there 
achieve  will  better  the  education  of 
hundreds  of  children  instead  of  tens, 


and  will  not  lapse  with  the  passing  of 
his  interest.  Citizens  interested  in  edu- 
cation, who  devote  themselves  to  the 
building  up  of  private  and  parochial 
schools,  have  not  been  touched  by  the 
Americanization  movement  and  have 
never  fundamentally  grasped  the  Amer- 
ican idea.  The  place  for  them  to  help 
is  in  the  school-system  itself,  where  the 
problem  is  acute,  the  laboratory  pre- 
pared, and  where  an  outside  intelligent 
interest  is  of  value  in  keeping  alive  the 
professional  enthusiasm  which  may  be 
repressed  by  the  insistent  demands  of 
the  daily  duty.  No  money  can  return 
larger  dividends  in  real  accomplish- 
ment than  that  added  to  the  bud- 
get of  our  public  schools;  nor  can  any 
community  interest  more  certainly 
strengthen  the  best  elements  in  our 
civilization  than  that  devoted  to  the 
improvement  of  the  public  education. 


What  is  our  moral  responsibility  to 
our  brothers,  fortunate  and  unfortu- 
nate alike?  If  we  give  the  best  educa- 
tion we  can  to  every  citizen,  if  we  keep 
the  community  health  at  the  highest 
possible  level,  and  provide  ample  oppor- 
tunities for  innocent  pleasure;  if  we 
strengthen  the  churches  and  safeguard 
working  conditions  in  our  industries; 
if  we  provide  the  most  favorable  en- 
vironment that  lies  within  our  power, 
cannot  we  trust  the  individual  to  work 
out  his  own  destiny?  Even  those  social 
workers  who  devote  most  time  and  at- 
tention to  work  with  the  individual  find 
that  the  problem  of  human  difficulty 
is  largely  one  of  faulty  character.  Is 
not  the  remedying  of  that  defect  be- 
yond the  power  as  well  as  the  province 
of  any  self-constituted  group  in  the 
community?  Must  we  not  leave  those 
changes  to  the  interplay  of  the  influ- 
ences of  a  man's  family,  church,  friends, 
teachers,  and  fellow  workmen,  in  an 


PHILANTHROPIC    DOUBTS 


299 


environment  as  wholesome  for  all  of 
us  as  our  united  efforts  can  make  it? 
The  new  keeper  of  his  brother  is  the 
man  who  looks  to  bettering  his  home 
town,  not  to  giving  his  old  coat  to  the 
beggar.  At  the  Judgment  Seat  we  may 
be  asked, '  What  did  you  do  to  improve 
your  city  government?'  and  not  be 
allowed  to  introduce  evidence  as  to  our 
distribution  of  the  scraps  from  our 
table.  Our  task  is,  not  buttressing  the 
weaknesses  of  our  fellows  with  our 
strength,  but  organizing  the  energies 
of  man  to  reconstruct  his  world. 

The  dream  of  our  people  is  the  com- 
ing in  of  true  democracy.  Dreaming 
does  not  bring  the  realization  nearer. 
In  the  organization  of  human  society 
the  pronouncement,  'Let  there  be 
peace,'  is  of  no  value  unless  it  is  accom- 
panied by  some  concrete  suggestion  as 
to  how  this  desirable  end  may  be  at- 
tained. The  philanthropist's  contribu- 
tion must  be  experimental  work  on 
happier  methods  of  living  together. 
There  is  no  particular  dignity  or  virtue 
in  giving  money  to  a  soup-kitchen  or 
in  giving  clothes  to  the  children  of 
the  unemployed.  But  there  is  a  tonic 
in  working  in  one's  home,  one's  busi- 
ness, and  one's  community  to  prevent 
unemployment. 

The  genius  of  the  American  people 
is  never  going  to  allow  itself  to  be 
daunted  by  such  a  problem.  A  nation 
that  could  devise  the  traction  plough, 
tame  the  wilderness,  and  build  the 
Panama  Canal  has  inventive  ability 
enough  to  make  continuous  mutual 
service  a  possibility.  Each  man's  work 
means  every  other  man's  additional 
comfort  and  leisure.  The  problem  of 
uninterrupted  employment  is  surely  no 
more  occult  than  the  problems  of  organ- 
ization and  distribution  that  our  great 
corporations  have  successfully  wrestled 
with.  But  so  long  as  we  placate  our 
intelligence  and  pacify  our  consciences 
by  our  philanthropies,  we  put  off  the 


day  of  attack  on  the  sources  of  poverty 
and  distress. 

The  game  of  democracy  cannot  be 
played  from  the  grand  stand.  The 
humanitarian  finds  it  fatally  easy  to  sit 
on  the  side-lines  and  criticize.  He  may 
be  willing  to  sponge  the  combatants' 
faces  and  run  no  risk  of  getting  dirt  on 
his  clothes,  but  to  play  the  people's 
game,  he  must  get  into  the  ring  and  be 
willing  to  take  knockout  blows  and  still 
come  back.  The  only  place  where  the 
game  can  be  played  is  within  the  organ- 
izations of  our  towns,  our  counties,  our 
states,  and  our  nation.  And  the  only 
way  it  can  be  played  is  by  citizens 
fighting  together  as  fellow  sufferers 
against  the  forces  of  corruption  and 
destruction  that  lie  in  wait  for  us. 

The  social  workers,  the  professionals 
of  the  philanthropic  movement,  are 
themselves  becoming  weary  of  their 
dependence  on  the  uncertain  generosity 
of  the  patrons  of  the  poor.  Many  of 
them,  especially  the  more  thoughtful, 
have  felt  an  inner  skepticism  as  to  the 
fundamental  character  of  their  work, 
even  while  they  have  developed  a  tech- 
nique which  they  feel  is  their  real  con- 
tribution to  the  solution  of  the  social 
riddle.  The  primary  interest  of  the  best 
of  them  is  not  so  much  that  of  keeping 
their  own  particular  institutions  alive, 
as  of  animating  the  community  as  a 
whole  with  the  spirit  they  have  devel- 
oped, and  transferring  to  the  public 
agencies  the  methods  worked  out  by 
years  of  experiment  in  private  enter- 
prises. 

The  community  organizations  deal 
with  masses;  and,  as  masses  are  sim- 
ply the  sum-total  of  individuals,  the 
perfection  of  the  result  depends  on  the 
intelligence  with  which  each  depend- 
ent's difficulty  is  treated.  To  carry 
over  into  public  work  the  professional 
ability,  the  intellectual  enthusiasm, 
and  the  discriminating  judgment  that 
have  characterized  the  activities  of  the 


300 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


best  social  workers,  is  a  responsibility 
of  the  philanthropists  who  pay  their 
taxes  but  who  have  ceased  giving  to 
private  charities.  The  passing  of  laws 
alone  will  never  bring  in  the  millen- 
nium; the  establishment  of  public  com- 
missions to  do  the  work  the  private 
groups  are  now  doing  is  not  enough. 
We  must  feel  a  responsibility,  as  indi- 
viduals and  as  a  nation,  for  the  organ- 


izations we  share  in  common.  We  can 
afford  to  give  over  into  public  control 
our  private  institutions  for  the  service 
of  our  fellow  men,  if  we  continue  to 
exercise  the  same  energy  that  we  have 
devoted  to  them  in  cultivating  the  so- 
cial outlook  of  our  public  officers  and 
in  increasing  the  scientific  and  humani- 
tarian character  of  our  community 
institutions. 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


BY  E.  BARRINGTON 


[From  a  packet  of  letters,  written  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  by  Lady 
Fanny  Armine  to  her  cousin,  Lady  Desmond,  in  Ireland,  I  have  strung  together  one 
of  the  strangest  of  true  stories  —  the  history  of  Maria  Walpole,  niece  of  the  famous 
Horace  Walpole  and  illegitimate  daughter  of  his  brother,  Sir  Edward  Walpole.  The 
letters  are  a  pot-pourri  of  town  and  family  gossip,  and  in  gathering  the  references  to 
Maria  Walpole  into  coherence,  I  am  compelled  to  omit  much  that  is  characteristic 
and  interesting.] 


July,  1757. 

WHY,  Kitty,  my  dear,  what  signifies 
your  reproaches?  I  wish  I  may  never  be 
more  guilty  than  I  am  this  day.  I  laid 
out  a  part  of  your  money  in  a  made-up 
mantua  and  a  petticoat  of  Rat  de  St. 
Maur,  and  for  the  hat,  't  was  the  exact 
copy  of  the  lovely  Gunning's  —  Maria 
Coventry.  And  though  I  won't  flat- 
ter you,  child,  by  saying  your  bloom 
equals  hers  (for  I  can't  tell  what  hers 
may  be  under  the  white  lead  she 
lays  on  so  thick),  yet  I  will  say  that 
your  Irish  eyes  may  ambuscade  to  the 
full  as  well  beneath  it,  though  they 
won't  shoot  an  earl  flying,  like  hers,  be- 
cause you  have  captured  your  baronet 
already! 

But  't  is  news  you  would  have  — 


news,  says  you,  of  all  the  gay  doings  of 
the  town. 

And  how  is  her  Gunning  Grace 
of  Hamilton,  you  ask,  and  do  the 
folk  still  climb  on  chairs  at  Court  to 
stare  at  her?  Vastly  in  beauty,  child. 
She  was  in  a  suit  of  fine  blue  satin  at  the 
last  Birthnight,  sprigged  all  over  with 
white,  and  the  petticoat  robings  broid- 
ered  in  the  manner  of  a  trimming  wove 
in  the  satin.  A  hoop  of  the  richest 
damask,  trimmed  with  gold  and  silver. 
These  cost  fourteen  guineas  a  hoop, 
my  dear.  Who  shall  say  the  ladies  of 
the  present  age  don't  understand  refine- 
ments? Her  Grace  had  diamonds  plas- 
tered on  wherever  they  would  stick, 
and  all  the  people  of  quality  run  mad 
to  have  a  stare  at  so  much  beauty,  set 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


301 


off  with  as  much  glare  as  Vauxhall  on  a 
fete  night,  and  she  as  demure  as  a  cat 
after  chickens. 

But  'tis  always  the  way  with  these 
sudden-come-ups,  they  never  have  the 
easy  carriage  that  comes  from  breeding, 
and  't  is  too  much  to  expect  she  should 
be  a  topping  courtier. 

You  must  know  Horry  Walpole  was 
there,  in  gray  and  silver  brocade,  as 
fine  and  finical  a  gentleman  as  ever, 
and  most  genteelly  lean;  and  says  I  to 
him,  'What  think  you,  Mr.  Walpole, 
of  our  two  coquet  Irish  beauties?  Do 
they  put  out  all  the  fire  of  our  English 
charmers?' 

So  he  drew  himself  up  and  took  a 
pinch  of  rappee  (can't  you  see  him, 
Kitty,  my  girl?),  and  says  he,  — 

'Madam,  to  a  lady  that  is  herself  all 
beauty  and  need  envy  none,  I  may  say 
we  have  a  beauty  to  be  produced 
shortly  to  the  town  that  will  flutter  all 
the  world  excepting  only  the  lady  I 
have  the  honor  to  address.' 

And,  Lord!  the  bow  he  made  me, 
with  his  hat  to  his  heart! 

'La,  man,'  says  I,  'who  Js  she?  But 
sure  I  know.  'T  is  the  Duchess  of 
Queensbury  reduced  a  good  half  in  size 
and  with  a  new  complexion.' 

But  Horry  shook  his  ambrosial  curls. 

'No,  madam,  'pon  honor!  A  little 
girl  with  the  vivacity  of  sixteen  and 
brown  eyes,  brown  hair  —  in  fact,  a 
brown  beauty.' 

And  then  it  flashed  on  me  and  I 
says, — 

'Good  God!  —  Maria!  But  sure  she 
can't  be  presented.  'T  is  impossible!' 
And  could  have  bit  my  silly  tongue  out 
when  't  was  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  like  a 
Frenchman  —  't  is  the  last  grace  he 
picked  up  in  Paris,  and  turned  from  me 
to  the  new  lady  errant,  Miss  Chester, 
who  models  herself  on  the  famous  Miss 
Chudleigh.  But  nothing  could  equal 
the  horrid  indecency  of  Miss  Chud- 


leigh's  habit  at  the  masquerade  at 
Vauxhall  t'other  day!  She  was  Iphi- 
genia  in  a  Greek  undress,  and  says 
Horry,  — 

'Sure,  never  was  a  more  convenient 
thing  —  the  victim  is  prepared  for  the 
priest  to  inspect  the  entrails  without 
more  ado.' 

I  thought  we  should  have  died  laugh- 
ing. 'T  is  only  a  woman  of  breeding 
knows  exactly  where  certainty  should 
stop  and  imagination  take  its  place. 

But,  Kitty  child,  who  do  you  guess 
is  the  new  beauty?  I  give  you  one,  I 
give  you  two,  I  give  you  three!  And  if 
't  was  three  hundred,  you  'd  be  never 
the  wiser.  Why,  Maria  Walpole,  you 
little  blockhead!  Maria,  the  daughter 
of  Sir  Edward  Walpole,  Kerry's  brother. 
What  think  you  of  that?  But  Sir  Ed- 
ward never  was  married,  says  you. 
True  for  you,  Kitty,  but  don't  you 
know  the  story?  No,  to  be  sure. 
There 's  no  scandal  in  Ireland,  for  St. 
Patrick  banished  it  along  with  the 
snakes  and  their  poison,  because  the 
island  that  has  so  many  misfortunes 
would  have  died  of  another. 

Well,  take  your  sampler  like  a  good 
little  girl  and  hearken  to  the  history 
of  the  lovely  Maria  that 's  to  blow  out 
the  Gunning  candles.  Let  me  present 
to  your  la'ship  Sir  Edward  Walpole, 
brother  to  the  Baron  of  Strawberry 
Hill.  A  flourish  and  a  sliding  bow  and 
you  know  one  another!  Sir  Edward, 
who  resembles  not  Horry  in  his  love  for 
the  twittle-twattle  of  the  town,  is  a 
passable  performer  on  the  bass-viol, 
and  a  hermit  —  the  Hermit  of  Pall 
Mall.  But  the  rules  of  that  Hermitage 
are  not  too  severe,  child.  'T  is  known 
there  were  relaxations.  And  notably 
one. 

The  Hermit  some  years  since  was 
lodged  in  Pall  Mall,  and  in  the  lower 
floors  was  lodged  a  dealer  in  clothes, 
with  prentices  to  fetch  and  carry. 

Lord!  says  Kitty,  what's  this  to  the 


302 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


purpose?  Attend,  Madam.  The  cur- 
tain rises! 

T  is  an  old  story:  the  virtuous  pren- 
tice —  and  the  unvirtuous.  There  was 
one  of  them  —  Dorothy  Clement,  a  rus- 
tic beauty,  straw  hat  tied  under  the 
roguish  chin,  little  tucked-up  gown  of 
flowered  stuff,  handkerchief  crossed 
over  the  bosom,  ruffled  elbows.  'T  is 
so  pretty  a  dress,  that  I  protest  I  mar- 
vel women  of  quality  .don't  use  it! 
However,  this  demure  damsel  looked 
up  at  Sir  Edward  under  the  hat,  and 
he  peeped  under  the  brim,  and  when  he 
left  the  house  and  returned  to  his  own, 
what  should  happen  but  the  trembling 
beauty  runs  to  him,  one  fine  day,  for 
protection,  swearing  her  family  and 
master  have  all  cast  her  off  because 
't  was  noted  the  gentleman  had  an  eye 
for  a  charming  face. 

Well,  child,  'tis  known  hermits  do 
not  marry.  'T  is  too  much  to  ask  of 
their  Holinesses.  But  he  set  a  chair  at 
the  foot  of  his  table  for  the  damsel  and 
bid  her  share  his  pulse  and  crusts;  and 
so  't  was  done,  and  whether  in  town  or 
country,  the  Hermitess  kept  him  com- 
pany till  she  died.  Sure  the  Walpoles 
are  not  too  fastidious  in  their  women, 
excepting  only  Horry  of  Strawberry 
Hill,  who  has  all  the  finicals  of  the  others 
rolled  up  in  his  lean  body. 

Well,  Kitty,  there  were  four  children : 
—  a  boy,  —  nothing  to  the  purpose,  — 
and  Laura,  Maria,  and  Charlotte.  And 
the  poor  lasses,  not  having  a  rag  of 
legitimacy  to  cover  'em,  must  needs 
fall  back  on  good  behavior  and  good 
looks.  I  saw  Laura,  a  pretty  girl,  in  the 
garden  at  Englefield  some  years  since, 
when  I  was  airing  in  Lady  Pomfret's 
coach;  and  as  we  looked,  the  little  hoy- 
den Maria  comes  running  up  in  muslin 
and  blue  ribbons,  all  health  and  youth 
and  blooming  cheeks  and  brown  curls 
and  eyes  —  a  perfect  Hebe.  And  't  is 
she  —  the  milliner's  brat  —  that's  to 
borrow  the  Car  of  Love  and  set  the 


world  afire.  But  she  can't  be  presented, 
Kitty;  for  our  high  and  mighty  Royals 
frown  on  vice,  and  not  a  single  creature 
with  the  bar  sinister  can  creep  into 
court,  however  many  may  creep  out. 
And  that's  that! 

And  now  I  end  with  compliments  and 
curtsies  to  your  la'ship,  and  the  glad 
tidings  that  one  of  the  virgin  choir  of 
Twickenham,  those  Muses  to  which  Mr. 
Horace  Walpole  is  Apollo,  has  writ  an 
Ode  so  full  of  purling  streams  and 
warbling  birds,  that  Apollo  says  he  will 
provide  a  side-saddle  for  Pegasus,  and 
no  male  shall  ever  bestride  him  again. 

September,  1758. 

O  la,  la,  la !  Was  you  ever  at  the  Bath, 
child?  Here  am  I  just  returned,  where 
was  great  company,  and  all  the  wits 
and  belles,  and  Miss  Biddy  Green,  the 
great  City  fortune,  run  off  with  Harry 
Howe,  and  her  father  flourishing  his 
gouty  stick  in  the  Pump  Room  and 
swearing  a  wicked  aristocracy  should 
have  none  of  his  honest  guineas.  But 
he'll  soften  when  he  sees  her  presented 
at  court,  with  feathers  stuck  in  her  poll 
and  all  the  city  dames  green  with  spite. 
'T  is  the  way  of  the  world. 

But  to  business.  The  town  is  talking 
with  hundred-woman  power  on  the 
marriage  that  Laura,  —  by  courtesy 
called  Walpole,  —  the  Hermit's  eldest 
daughter,  makes  to-morrow.  'T  will 
astound  you,  Lady  Desmond  your 
Honor,  as  much  as  it  did  your  humble 
servant.  For  Miss  Laura  honors  the 
Church,  no  less,  with  her  illegitimate 
hand,  and  no  less  a  dignitary  than  a  < 
Canon  of  Windsor!  Is  not  this  to  be  a 
receiver  of  stolen  goods?  Does  not  his 
Reverence  compound  a  felony  in  tak- 
ing such  a  bride?  What  say  you?  'T  is 
Canon  Keppel,  brother  to  Lord  Albe- 
marle;  and  mark  you,  Kitty  —  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Keppel  has  the  right  to 
be  presented  where  Miss  Laura  might 
knock  at  the  door  in  vain!  We  come  up 


THE   WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


in  the  world,  child,  but  the  Walpoles 
had  always  that  secret. 

'T  will  set  the  other  charming  daugh- 
ters dreaming  of  bride  cake.  All  the 
world  talks  of  Maria,  a  shining  beauty 
indeed.  Horry  Walpole  is  enchanted 
at  Miss  Laura's  match  —  sure,  an  ille- 
gitimate Walpole,  if  niece  to  the  Baron 
of  Strawberry  is  worth  a  dozen  of  your 
Cavendishes  and  Somersets!  I  laughed 
like  a  rogue  in  my  sleeve  when  says 
Horry  to  me  at  my  drum,  — 

'Colonel  Yorke  is  to  be  married  to 
one  or  both  of  the  Miss  Crasteyns, 
great  city  fortunes  —  nieces  to  the  rich 
grocer.  They  have  two  hundred  and 
sixty  thousand  pounds  apiece.  Nothing 
comes  amiss  to  the  digestion  of  that 
family  —  a  marchioness  or  a  grocer.' 

Says  I,  flirting  my  fan,  — 

'  'T  is  gross  feeding,  sure,  Mr.  Wal- 
pole. Now,  had  it  been  a  royal  illegiti- 
mate.' 

He  looked  daggers,  and  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff  with  an  air.  Never  was  a  man 
with  more  family  pride,  though  he  af- 
fects to  scorn  it. 

What  think  you  of  this  latest  news  of 
Lady  Coventry?  The  people  are  not 
yet  weary  of  gazing  upon  the  Gunning, 
and  stared  somewhat  upon  her  last 
Sunday  was  se'night  in  the  Park.  Would 
you  believe  it,  Kitty,  that  she.  com- 
plained to  the  King,  and  His  Majesty, 
not  to  be  outdone  in  wisdom,  offers  a 
guard  for  her  ladyship's  beauty.  On 
this  she  ventures  into  the  Park  and, 
pretending  fright,  desires  the  assistance 
of  the  officer,  who  orders  twelve  ser- 
geants to  march  abreast  before  her  and 
a  sergeant  and  twelve  men  behind  her; 
and  in  this  pomp  did  the  silly  little  fool 
walk  all  the  evening,  with  more  mob 
about  her  than  ever,  her  blockhead 
husband  on  one  side  and  my  Lord  Pem- 
broke on  the  other!  I'm  sure  I  can't 
tell  you  anything  to  better  this,  so 
good-night,  dear  sister,  with  all  af- 
fectionate esteem. 


April,  1759. 

Great  news,  your  la'ship.  I  am  but 
just  returned  from  a  royal  progress 
to  visit  the  Baron  of  Strawberry  Hill. 
Strawberry  was  in  prodigious  beauty  — 
flowers,  cascades,  and  grottoes  all  dis- 
played to  advantage  in  a  sunshine  that 
equaled  June.  The  company,  her  Gun- 
ning Grace  of  Hamilton,  the  Duchess  of 
Richmond,  and  your  humble  servant. 

Says  Mr.  Horace,  leaning  on  his  am- 
ber cane  and  surveying  us  as  we  sat  in 
the  shell  on  the  terrace,  — 

'Strawberry  Hill  is  grown  a  perfect 
Paphos.  'T  is  the  land  of  beauties,  and 
if  Paris  himself  stood  where  I  do,  he 
could  never  adjudge  the  golden  apple.' 

He  writ  to  George  Montagu  after,  who 
showed  the  letter  about  town,  — 

'There  never  was  so  pretty  a  sight 
as  to  see  the  three  sitting.  A  thousand 
years  hence,  when  I  begin  to  grow  old, 
if  that  can  ever  be,  I  shall  talk  of  that 
event  and  tell  the  young  people  how 
much  handsomer  the  women  of  my 
time  were  than  they  are  now.' 

There's  a  compliment  like  a  fresh- 
plucked  rose  from  the  Lord  of  Straw- 
berry. It  reads  pretty,  don't  it,  child? 
Horry  was  in  vast  wit  —  't  was  like  the 
Northern  Lights  hurtling  about  us  — 
made  us  blink!  The  Duchess  of  Rich- 
mond pretending  she  could  not  recall 
her  marriage-day,  says  Horry,  — 

'Record  it  thus,  Madam.  This  day 
thousand  years  I  was  married ! ' 

'T  was  not  till  a  week  later  I  discov- 
ered this  to  be  a  bon  mot  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne.  His  jewels  are  polished  very 
fine,  but  't  is  not  always  in  the  Straw- 
berry mine  they  are  dug.  But  to  our 
news  —  What  will  your  Honor  pay  me 
for  a  penn'orth? 

'T  is  of  our  beauty,  Maria  —  ahem ! 
Walpole.  The  pretty  angler  has  caught 
her  fish  —  a  big  fish,  a  gold  fish,  even 
a  golden-hearted  fish,  for 't  is  Lord  Wal- 
degrave!  A  belted  earl,  a  Knight  of  the 
Garter,  no  less,  for  the  pretty  milliner's 


304 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


daughter.  You  don't  believe  it,  Kitty? 
Yet  you  must,  for  't  is  true,  and  sure, 
if  beauty  can  shed  a  lustre  over  pud- 
dled blood,  she  has  it.  Lord  Villiers, 
chief  of  the  macaronis,  said,  yesterday 
was  a  week,  — 

'Of  all  the  beauties  Miss  Walpole 
reigns  supreme  —  if  one  could  forget 
the  little  accident  of  birth!  Her  face, 
bloom,  eyes,  teeth,  hair,  and  person  are 
all  perfection's  self,  and  Nature  broke 
the  mould  when  she  made  this  paragon, 
for  I  know  none  like  her.' 

'T  is  true,  but  't  is  so  awkward  with 
these  folk  that  can't  be  presented  nor 
can't  meet  this  one  nor  that.  Still,  I 
have  had  her  much  to  my  routs  and 
drums,  where  't  is  such  an  olla  podrida 
that  it  matters  not  who  comes.  But 
Lady  Waldegrave  may  go  where  she 
will;  and  certainly  the  bridegroom  has 
nothing  to  object  on  the  score  of  birth, 
for  he  comes  from  James  the  Second  by 
the  left  hand,  and  for  aught  I  know  a 
left-hand  milliner  is  as  good  these  Re- 
publican days.  Anyhow,  't  is  so,  and 
Horry,  who  would  have  all  think  him 
above  such  thoughts,  is  most  demurely 
conceited  that  a  Walpole  —  ahem!  — 
should  grace  the  British  peerage.  Re- 
mains now  only  Charlotte,  and  I  dare 
swear  she  will  carry  her  charms  to  no 
worse  market  than  Maria,  though  not 
so  great  a  Venus. 

I  went  yesterday  evening  to  the 
Bluestocking  Circle  at  Mrs.  Mon- 
tagu's fine  house.  I  am  not  become 
learned,  Kitty,  but  't  was  to  hear  the 
lionesses  roar,  and  because  I  knew  the 
Lord  of  Strawberry  would  be  there  and 
was  wishful  to  hear  his  exultations. 
Lord  preserve  us,  child,  what  a  fright- 
ening place!  We  were  ushered  into 
the  Chinese  Room  lined  with  painted 
Pekin  paper,  and  noble  Chinese  vases, 
and  there  were  all  the  lions,  male  and 
female,  in  a  circle  —  the  Circle  of  the 
Universe.  All  the  great  ladies  of  the 
Bluestocking  Court  were  there;  the 


vastly  learned  Mrs.  Carter,  Mrs.  De- 
lany  over  from  Ireland,  the  Swan  of 
Lichfield  Miss  Anna  Seward,  Mrs. 
Chapone,  and  other  lionesses  and  cub- 
esses.  My  dear,  they  sat  in  a  half-moon, 
and  behind  them  another  half-moon 
of  grave  ecclesiastics  and  savants,  and 
Horry  at  the  head  of  them,  in  brown 
and  gold  brocade.  'T  was  not  sprightly, 
Kitty.  'T  is  true  these  women  are  good 
and  learned,  and  some  of  them  well 
enough  in  looks;  but 't  is  so  pretentious, 
so  serious,  —  I  lack  a  word!  —  so  cen- 
sorious of  all  that  does  not  pull  a  long 
face,  that,  when  Mrs.  Montagu  rose  to 
meet  us  with  the  shade  of  Shakespeare 
in  attendance  (for  no  lower  footman 
would  serve  so  majestic  a  lady),  I  had 
a  desire  to  seize  her  two  hands  and  gal- 
lop round  the  room  with  her  that  I 
could  scarce  restrain.  But  sure  she  and 
the  company  had  died  of  it ! 

I  expected  great  information  from 
such  an  assemblage,  but  'twas  but  a 
snip-snap  of  talk  —  remarks  passed 
from  one  to  another,  but  served  as  it 
were  on  massy  plate  —  long  words,  and 
too  many  of  'em.  Dull,  my  dear,  dull! 
And  so  't  will  always  be  when  people 
aim  to  be  clever.  They  do  these  things 
better  in  France,  where  they  have  no 
fear  of  laughter  and  the  women  sparkle 
without  a  visible  machinery.  ?T  was 
all  standing  on  the  mind's  tip-toe  here. 
And  when  the  refreshments  were  served 
I  made  for  Horry  — 

On  silver  vases  loaded  rise 
The  biscuits'  ample  sacrifice. 
And  incense  pure  of  fragrant  tea. 

But  Bluestockingism  is  nourished  on 
tea  as  wit  on  wine. 

'So,  Mr.  Walpole,'  says  I,  'what  is 
this  news  I  hear  of  Miss  Maria?  My 
felicitations  to  the  bridegroom  on  the 
possession  of  so  many  charms.' 

And  Horry  with  his  bow,  — 

'I  thank  your  ladyship's  partiality 
and  good  heart.  For  character  and  cred- 
it, Lord  Waldegrave  is  the  first  match 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


305 


in  England,  and  for  beauty,  Maria 
—  excepting  only  the  lady  I  address. 
The  family  is  well  pleased,  though 
'tis  no  more  than  her  deserts,  and 
't  was  to  be  expected  my  father's  grand- 
child would  ally  herself  with  credit.' 

'T  is  when  Horry  Walpole  gives  him- 
self these  demure  airs  that  I  am  tempted 
to  be  wicked,  Kitty.  For  what  signifies 
talking?  The  girl  is  a  beauty,  but  Nancy 
Parsons  and  Kitty  Fisher  are  beauties, 
too,  and  if  the  court  and  peerage  are 
opened  to  women  of  no  birth,  why 
what's  left  for  women  of  quality? 
'T  is  certain  the  next  generation  of  the 
peerage  bids  fair  to  be  extreme  ill-born, 
and  the  result  may  be  surprising.  But 
I  held  my  tongue,  for  I  have  a  kindness 
for  Horry  and  his  niece,  though  I  laugh 
at  'em. 

I  thought  Mr.  Walpole  looked  ill,  and 
doubted  whether  I  might  hope  to  see 
him  at  my  Tuesday  rout.  Says  he,  — 

*  'T  is  the  gout,  Madam,  that  ungal- 
lant  disorder,  and  had  I  a  mind  to  brag, 
I  could  boast  of  a  little  rheumatism 
too;  but  I  scorn  to  set  value  on  such 
trifles,  and  since  your  ladyship  does  me 
the  honor  to  bespeak  my  company,  I 
will  come  if  't  were  in  my  coffin  and 
pair.  May  I  hope  your  ladyship  will 
favor  us  at  Maria's  nuptials.  Sure  the 
Graces  were  ever  attended  by  Venus 
on  occasions  of  ceremony.' 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  the 
Queen  of  the  Blues  swam  up,  protesting 
and  vowing  she  had  never  seen  such  a 
goddess  as  Miss  Maria  Walpole;  that 
were  she  to  marry  the  Emperor  of  the 
world,  't  would  be  vastly  below  the 
merit  of  such  glowing  charms.  And  so 
forth.  'T  is  a  lady  that  paints  all  her 
roses  red  and  plasters  her  lilies  white, 
and  whether  't  is  malice  I  can't  tell,  but 
believe  't  is  possible  to  blast  by  praise 
as  well  as  censure,  by  setting  the  good 
sense  of  one  half  the  world  and  the  envy 
of  the  other  against  the  victim.  So  she 
shrugged  and  simpered  and  worked 

VOL.  128— NO.  S 


every  muscle  of  her  face,  in  hopes  to  be 
bid  to  the  wedding;  but  Mr.  Walpole 
only  bowed  very  grave  and  precise,  and 
turned  away,  and  I  with  him.  And  no 
more  circles  for  me,  my  dear;  and  here 
I  conclude,  and  my  next  shall  be  the 
epithalamium. 

ISth  May,  1759. 

Kitty,  child,  when  you  was  married, 
did  you  look  about  you  from  under 
your  hat?  —  did  you  take  a  sly  peep  at 
the  World,  the  Flesh,  and  the  Devil, 
and  wonder  which  was  the  bridegroom? 
I  did,  but  I  '11  never  tell  which  he  proved 
to  be!  Well,  Maria  was  married  two 
days  since,  and  Horry  Walpole  favored 
me  to-day  with  a  glimpse  of  the  letter 
he  writ  to  his  friend  Mann  on  the  oc- 
casion. 'T  was  very  obliging;  but  you 
know  all  he  writes  is  writ  with  one  eye 
on  the  paper  and  one  on  posterity,  so 
't  is  no  wonder  if  he  squints  a  little  by 
times.  However,  here's  to  our  letter. 

'The  original  day  was  not  once  put 
off  —  lawyers  and  milliners  all  canoni- 
cally  ready.  They  were  married  in  Pall 
Mall  just  before  dinner,  and  we  all 
dined  there,  and  the  Earl  and  the  new 
Countess  got  into  their  post-chaise  at 
eight  and  went  to  Navestock  alone. 
On  Sunday  she  is  to  be  presented  and 
to  make  my  Lady  Coventry  distracted. 
Maria  was  in  a  white  and  silver  night- 
gown, with  a  hat  very  much  pulled 
over  her  face.  What  one  could  see  of  it 
was  handsomer  than  ever.  A  cold  maid- 
en blush  gave  her  the  sweetest  delicacy 
in  the  world.' 

So  far  our  doting  uncle,  Kitty;  but 
't  is  indeed  a  fair  creature.  I  saw  the 
long  soft  brown  eyes  lifted  once  and 
flash  such  a  look  at  the  bridegroom  —  I 
dare  to  swear  Lord  Waldegrave  wished 
away  then  the  twenty  years  between 
them.  Poor  Lady  Coventry,  indeed! 
Her  race  is  run,  her  thread  is  spun,  her 
goose  is  cooked,  and  any  other  trope 
you  please;  for  what  signifies  all  the 


306 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


white  lead  at  the  'pothecary's  com- 
pared to  the  warm  brown  of  Maria's 
complexion  and  her  long  eyelashes! 

Lady  Elizabeth  Keppel  had  a  gown 
worthy  of  the  Roman  Empress  she 
looks,  with  that  beak  nose  and  nut- 
cracker chin.  'Twas  a  black  velvet 
petticoat,  embroidered  in  chenille,  the 
pattern  a  great  gold  wicker  basket  filled 
to  spilling  over  with  ramping  flowers 
that  climbed  and  grew  all  about  her  per- 
son. A  design  for  a  banqueting  hall 
rather  than  a  woman;  or  indeed  a  com- 
mittee of  Bluestockings  might  have 
wore  it  to  advantage.  She  had  winkers 
of  lace  to  her  head,  and  her  hoop  cov- 
ered so  many  acres  that  one  could  but 
approach  at  an  awful  distance  and 
confidences  were  impossible  —  a  sure 
reason  why  the  modish  ladies  will  soon 
drop  the  hoop. 

I  saluted  the  bride  after  the  cere- 
mony and  says  I,  — 

'  Maria,  my  love,  I  attend  your  pres- 
entation on  Sunday,  and  I  bring  my 
smelling  bottle  for  Lady  Coventry. 
'T  is  already  said  her  guards  will  now 
be  transferred  to  your  ladyship,  toge- 
ther with  a  detachment  from  each  ship 
of  the  Fleet,  to  secure  so  much  beauty.' 

She  has  the  sweetest  little  dimple  in 
either  cheek,  and  twenty  Cupids  hide 
under  her  lashes. 

'  I  have  no  wish,  Madam,  to  dethrone 
my  Lady  Coventry,  if  even  't  were 
possible,'  says  she.  'That  lady  has  oc- 
cupied the  throne  so  long,  that  't  is 
hers  by  right,  and  the  English  people 
never  weary  of -an  old  favorite.' 

'T  was  two-edged,  Kitty,  as  you  see, 
and  I  will  report  it  to  the  other  lovely 
Maria,  and  't  will  be  pretty  to  see  the 
rapiers  flash  between  the  two.1  'T  is  not 
only  the  men  carry  dress  swords,  child. 
But  I  thought  Miss  Maria  a  downy 
nestling,  with  never  a  thought  of  re- 
partee, till  now.  'T  is  born  in  us,  child. 
.It  begins  with  our  first  word  and  is  our 
last  earthly  sigh. 


May,  1759. 

Well,  was  you  at  the  presentation, 
Lady  Desmond,  for  I  did  not  see  your 
la'ship. 

Says  you,  'How  was  that  possible 
with  the  Irish  Sea  between  us?  So  out 
with  the  news ! ' 

The  company  was  numerous  and 
magnificent,  and  Horry  Walpole  in  his 
wedding  garment  of  a  white  brocade 
with  purple  and  green  flowers.  'T  was 
a  trifle  juvenile  for  his  looks,  but  I 
blame  him  not;  for  my  Lady  Towns- 
hend  would  choose  for  him  though  he 
protested  that,  however  young  he  might 
be  in  spirits,  his  bloom  was  a  little  past. 
I  could  see  he  was  quaking  for  his  nup- 
tialities  —  lest  Maria  should  not  be 
in  full  beauty. 

T'  other  Maria  —  Coventry  —  in 
golden  flowers  on  a  silver  ground  — 
looked  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba;  and 
were  not  our  Monarch  anything  but 
a  Solomon,  I  would  not  say  but  — 
A  full  stop  to  all  naughtiness!  But  I 
must  tell  you  her  last  faux  pas,  for  you 
know,  child,  she's  as  stupid  as  she's 
pretty.  She  told  the  King  lately  that 
she  was  surfeited  with  sights.  There 
was  but  one  left  she  could  long  to  see. 
What,  think  you,  it  was?  —  why,  a 
coronation! 

The  old  man  took  it  with  good  hu- 
mor; but  Queen  Bess  had  made  a  divorce 
between  her  lovely  head  and  shoulders 
for  less. 

Well,  into  the  midst  of  this  prodi- 
gious assemblage,  with  Uncle  Horry 
quaking  inwardly  and  making  as  though 
Walpole  nieces  were  presented  every 
day,  comes  the  fair  Waldegrave,  gliding 
like  a  swan,  perfectly  easy  and  genteel, 
in  a  silver  gauze  with  knots  of  silver 
ribbon  and  diamonds  not  so  bright  as 
her  eyes.  I  dare  swear  not  a  man  there 
but  envied  my  Lord  Waldegrave,  and 
many  might  envy  the  beauty  her  hus- 
band, a  good  plain  man,  grave  and 
handsome.  But  the  bride!  She  swam 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


307 


up  to  His  Majesty,  like  Venus  floating 
on  clouds,  and  her  curtsey  and  hand- 
kissing  perfect.  Who  shall  talk  of  blood 
in  future,  when  a  milliner's  daughter 
can  thus  distinguish  herself  in  the  fin- 
est company  in  Europe?  'T  is  true  't  is 
mixed  with  the  Wai  pole  vintage;  but 
when  all 's  said  and  done,  who  were  the 
Walpoles?  If  you  get  behind  the  coarse, 
drinking  Squire  Western  of  a  father, 
you  stumble  up  against  Lord  Mayors 
and  what  not!  So  't  is  a  world's  won- 
der, and  there  I  leave  it. 

As  for  Maria  Coventry  —  do  but 
figure  her!  I  saw  her  pale  under  her 
rouge  when  the  bride  entered,  and  her 
eyes  shot  sparks  of  fire,  like  an  angry 
goddess.  Could  they  have  destroyed, 
we  had  seen  her  rival  a  heap  of  ashes 
like  the  princess  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
I  tendered  her  my  smelling-bottle,  out 
she  dashed  it  from  her,  and  then,  smil- 
ing in  the  prettiest  manner  in  the  world, 
says  to  my  Lord  Hardwicke,  — 

"T  is  said  women  are  jealous  of  each 
other's  good  looks,  my  lord,  but  't  is 
not  so  with  me.  I  am  vastly  pleased 
with  my  Lady  Waldegrave's  appear- 
ance. T  is  far  beyond  what  was  to  be 
expected  of  her  parentage.  She  looks 
vastly  agreeable,  and  I  hope  she  will 
favor  me  with  her  company.' 

'T  was  cleverer  than  I  supposed  her, 
and  sure  enough  she  did  nothing  but 
court  the  bride,  and  now  the  two 
beauties  go  about  to  all  the  sights  and 
routs  together  and  are  the  top  figures  in 
town,  and  all  the  world  feasts  its  eyes 
upon  two  such  works  of  nature  —  and 
Art  it  must  be  added,  so  far  as  Maria 
Coventry  is  concerned;  for  she  is  two 
inches  deep  in  white  lead,  and  the  doc- 
tors have  warned  her  't  will  be  the 
death  of  her. 

Kitty,  I  found  my  first  gray  hair 
yesterday.  'T  is  my  swan-song.  I  am 
done  with  the  beaux  and  the  toasts  and 
the  fripperies.  When  I  spoke  to  Harry 
Conway  at  the  Court,  his  eyes  were  so 


fixed  on  Lady  Waldegrave  that  he  heard 
me  not  till  I  had  spoke  three  times. 
Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  Fanny!  I  shall 
now  insensibly  drop  into  a  spectatress. 
What  care  I!  To  ninety-nine  women 
life  ends  with  their  looks,  but  I  will  be 
the  hundredth,  and  laugh  till  I  die! 

Four  years  later. 

Why,  Kitty,  your  appetite  for  news 
grows  by  what  it  feeds  on.  Sure  you 
are  the  horse-leech's  true  daughter, 
crying,  'Give,  give!'  You  say  I  told 
you  not  of  Charlotte  Walpole's  mar- 
riage. Sure,  I  did.  Maria  married  her 
sister  well  —  to  young  Lord  Hunting- 
tower,  my  Lord  Dysart's  son.  'T  is  a 
girl  of  good  sense.  She  loved  him  not, 
nor  yet  pretended  to,  but  says  she  to 
Maria,  — 

'  If  I  was  nineteen  I  would  not  marry 
him.  I  would  refuse  point-blank.  But 
I  am  two-and-twenty,  and  though  't  is 
true  some  people  say  I  am  handsome, 
't  is  not  all  who  think  so.  I  believe  the 
truth  is,  I  am  like  to  be  large  and  heavy 
and  go  off  soon.  'T  is  dangerous  to  re- 
fuse so  good  a  match.  Therefore  tell 
him,  sister,  I  accept.' 

And  't  was  done.  I  had  this  from 
Maria  herself,  who  took  it  for  an  in- 
stance of  commendable  good  sense;  but 
I  know  not  —  somehow  I  would  have 
a  girl  less  of  a  Jew  with  her  charms. 
Anyhow,  stout  or  no,  she  will  be  my 
Lady  Countess  Dysart  when  his  father 
dies;  and  now  sure,  there  are  no  more 
worlds  left  for  the  Walpole  girls  to 
conquer.  Their  doting  Uncle  Horry 
could  never  predict  such  success.  The 
eldest  girl's  husband  is  now  Bishop  of 
Exeter. 

Poor  Maria  Coventry  is  dead  —  the 
most  lovely  woman  in  England,  setting 
aside  only  t'other  Maria.  'T  was  from 
usage  of  white  lead,  Kitty,  and  tell 
that  to  all  the  little  fools  you  know! 
It  devoured  her  skin,  and  she  grew  so 
hideous  that  at  the  last  she  would  not 


308 


THE  WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


permit  the  doctors  to  see  her  ruined 
face,  but  would  put  out  her  hand  be- 
tween the  curtains  to  have  her  pulse 
took.  She  was  but  twenty-seven. 

Sure,  I  am  Death's  herald,  for  I  must 
tell  you,  too,  my  Lord  Waldegrave  is 
dead,  and  the  beauty  a  widow  after 
but  four  years'  marriage.  I  saw  her  but 
yesterday,  full  of  sensibility  and  lovely 
as  Sigismonda  in  Hogarth's  picture. 
She  had  her  young  daughter,  Lady 
Elizabeth,  in  her  lap,  the  curly  head 
against  her  bosom,  the  chubby  cheek 
resting  on  a  little  hand  against  the 
mother's  breast.  Sure  never  was  any- 
thing so  moving  as  the  two  —  exact  to 
the  picture  Mr.  Reynolds  painted. 

She  has  a  great  tenderness  for  his 
memory,  and  well  she  may,  when  the 
position  he  raised  her  to  is  considered. 
'T  is  like  a  discrowned  queen,  for  her 
jointure  is  small,  and  she  is  now  no 
more  consequence  to  his  party,  so  his 
death  has  struck  away  her  worldly 
glory  at  a  blow.  Indeed,  I  pitied  her, 
and  wiped  away  her  floods  of  tears  with 
tenderness  that  was  unaffected.  But  for 
such  a  young  woman,  I  won't  believe 
the  scene  is  closed.  What  —  are  there 
no  Marquises,  no  Dukes  for  such  per- 
fection? 

But  't  is  brutal  to  talk  so  when  she 
is  crying  her  fine  eyes  out.  I  wipe  my 
naughty  pen  and  bid  you  adieu. 

Two  days  later. 

I  attended  Mrs.  Minerva  Montagu's 
reception,  and  there  encountered  the 
Great  Cham  of  Literature,  Dr.  John- 
son, rolling  into  the  saloon  like  Behe- 
moth. Lady  Waldegrave's  bereavement 
was  spoke  of  and  says  he,  — 

'I  know  not,  Madam,  why  these  af- 
flictions should  startle  us.  Such  beauty 
invokes  ill  fortune,  lest  a  human  being 
suppose  herself  superior  to  the  dictates 
of  Providence.' 

'Certainly  she  is  the  first  woman  in 
England  for  beauty,'  says  I,  very  net- 


tled; 'but  'tis  to  be  thought  she  had 
chose  a  little  less  beauty  and  rather 
more  good  fortune,  had  she  been  con- 
sulted. 'T  is  hard  she  should  be  pun- 
ished for  what  she  could  not  help!' 

'  Let  her  solace  herself  with  her  needle- 
works, Madam.  A  man  cannot  hem  a 
pocket-handkerchief  and  so  he  runs 
mad.  To  be  occupied  on  small  occa- 
sions is  one  of  the  great  felicities  of  the 
female  train  and  makes  bereavement 
more  bearable.' 

'T  is  a  bear  roaring  his  ignorance  of 
the  world,  my  dear.  But  he  has  a  kind 
of  horse  sense  (if  the  female  train  would 
but  let  him  be)  that  makes  him  en- 
durable and  even  palatable  at  times. 

1764. 

Kitty,  my  dear,  have  you  forgot  that, 
when  my  Lord  Waldegrave  died,  I  writ, 
'  Are  there  no  dukes  to  pursue  the  love- 
ly widow?'  Give  honor  to  the  prophet! 
She  refused  the  Duke  of  Portland,  that 
all  the  fair  were  hunting  with  strata- 
gems worthy  of  the  Mohawks.  She  re- 
fused this,  that,  and  t'  other.  And  the 
town  said,  'Pray  who  is  the  milliner's 
daughter,  to  turn  up  her  nose  at  the 
first  matches  in  England?  Has  she  de- 
signs on  the  King  of  Prussia,  —  for  our 
own  young  monarch  is  wed  to  his  Char- 
lotte, —  or  is  it  the  Sultan,  or  His  Holi- 
ness the  Pope  that  will  content  her 
ladyship?' 

No  answer.  But,  Kitty,  't  is  me  to 
smell  a  rat  at  a  considerable  distance, 
and  I  kept  my  nostrils  open!  Our 
handsome  young  King  has  a  handsome 
young  brother,  —  His  Royal  Highness 
the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  —  and  this 
gentleman  has  cast  the  sheep's  eye,  the 
eye  of  passion,  upon  our  lovely  widow! 
What  think  you  of  this?  That  it  can- 
not be?  Then  what  of  the  King  Co- 
phetua  and  other  historic  examples?  I 
would  have  you  know  that  in  the  ten- 
der passion  there's  nothing  that  can- 
not be.  It  laughs  at  obstacles  and  rides 


THE   WALPOLE  BEAUTY 


309 


triumphant  on  the  crest  of  the  impos- 
sible. I  knew  it  long  since,  but 't  is  over 
the  town  like  wildfire  now. 

Meeting  my  Lady  Sarah  Bunbury 
yesterday,  says  she,  — 

'Lady  Fanny,  sure  you  know  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  is  desperately  in 
love  with  my  Lady  Waldegrave.  Now 
don't  mask  your  little  cunning  face  with 
ignorance,  but  tell  me  what's  known. 
What  have  you  heard  from  Horry 
Walpole?' 

'Nothing,  your  la'ship/  says  I,  very 
demure. 

'Well,'  says  she,  "t  is  reported  the 
King  has  forbid  him  to  speak  to  his 
fair  widow,  and  she  is  gone  out  of  town. 
He  has  given  her  two  pearl  bracelets 
worth  five  hundred  pound.  That's  not 
for  nothing  surely.  But  for  what?' 

'Indeed,  't  is  an  ambiguous  gift, 
Madam,'  says  I,  whimsically;  'and  may 
mean  much  or  little.  Give  me  leave  to 
ask  whether  't  is  Pursuit  or  Attainment 
as  your  la'ship  reads  it?' 

But  she  tossed  her  head,  the  little 
gossip,  and  off  she  went. 

I  can  tell  you  thus  much,  Kitty:  the 
Walpoles  are  main  frightened.  It  may 
be  a  cast-back  to  the  principles  of  the 
milliner  mother.  And  there  was  never 
the  difference  between  her  and  Sir  Ed- 
ward Walpole  that  there  is  between 
Maria  and  a  Prince  of  the  Blood.  Her 
birth  is  impossible.  My  Lady  Mary 
Coke  asking  me  if  the  mother  were  not 
a  washerwoman,  says  I, '  I  really  cannot 
determine  the  lady's  profession.'  But, 
spitfire  as  she  is,  't  is  too  true  Maria  is 
playing  with  fire,  and  there  should  be 
nothing  between  him  and  her  mother's 
daughter.  She  is  indeed  more  indis- 
creet than  becomes  her.  His  chaise  is 
eternally  at  her  door,  and,  as  my  Lady 
Mary  says,  she  is  lucky  that  anyone 
else  countenances  her  at  all.  If  they 
do,  't  is  as  much  from  curiosity  as  any 
nobler  emotion.  Indeed  I  fear  her  repu- 
tation 's  cracked  past  repair.  Meeting 


Horry  Walpole  last  night  at  the  French 
Embassador's,  he  was  plagued  with 
staring  crowds,  and  he  made  off  after 
braving  it  a  while.  I  hear  the  King  is 
highly  offended  and  the  Queen  yet 
more.  She  has  a  great  notion  of  birth, 
and  though  poor,  the  Mecklenburg 
family  has  as  good  quarterings  as  any 
Royals  in  Europe.  For  my  part,  Kitty, 
I  know  not.  Yet,  if  we  seek  for  pedigree 
in  horse  and  dog,  't  is  to  be  supposed 
worth  something  in  Adam's  breed  also. 
And  this  ill-behavior  in  Maria  con- 
firms me. 

Yet  I  have  visited  the  fair  sinner,  for 
I  love  her  well.  She  can't  help  neither 
her  birth  nor  her  beauty,  but  sure  her 
kind  heart  is  all  her  own.  She  wept  and 
would  reveal  nothing,  but  asked  me  to 
be  so  much  her  friend  as  to  think  the 
best  of  her.  'T  is  pity  her  tears  were 
wasted  on  a  mere  woman.  The  drops 
beaded  on  her  lashes  like  rain  on  a  rose. 
Well,  God  mend  all!  say  I.  Sure  none 
of  us  have  a  clear  conscience  and  if  any- 
one was  to  come  up  behind  us  and 
whisper,  '  I  know  when,  how,  and  who ! ' 
't  is  certain  there  are  few  women  but 
would  die  of  terror.  Yet  I  did  not  think 
Maria  a  rake  —  though  a  Prince's. 

1770. 

Kitty,  Kitty,  't  is  all  come  out!  But 
I  may  say  the  town  knew  it  after  the 
masquerade  in  Soho,  when  His  Royal 
Highness  appeared  as  Edward  the 
Fourth  and  Maria  as  Elizabeth  Wood- 
ville,  the  pretty  widow  he  made  his 
Queen.  You  '11  allow  't  was  a  delicate 
way  to  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  It 
could  not  longer  be  kept  within  it,  for 
the  lady's  sake,  for  there  is  to  be  a  lit- 
tle new  claimant  one  day  to  the  Crown, 
if  all  the  elder  stem  should  fail.  They 
were  married  four  years  ago,  Kitty! 
Sure  never  was  an  amazing  secret  bet- 
ter kept!  And  I  will  say  she  hath  borne 
much  for  the  Prince's  sake  and  with 
good  sense.  But  think  of  it!  Maria 


310 


THE   WALPOLE   BEAUTY 


No-name  —  the  milliner's  base-born 
daughter  —  to  be  Her  Royal  Highness 
the  Duchess  of  Gloucester,  Princess  of 
Great  Britain!  Was  ever  human  fate  so 
surprising?  'T  was  a  secret  even  from 
her  father  and  uncle,  by  the  Duke's 
command;  but  she  has  now  writ  her 
father  so  pretty  a  letter  that  't  is  the 
town's  talk,  Horry  Walpole  having 
shewed  it  about.  But  Horry  —  have 
you  forgot  his  pride,  hid  always  under 
a  nonchalance  as  if  't  was  nothing?  I 
was  at  Gloucester  House,  where  she 
received  en  princesse,  two  nights  ago; 
and  to  see  Horry  kiss  her  hand  and 
hear  him  address  her  with,  —  '  Madam, 
your  Royal  Highness,'  at  every  word,  — 
sure  no  wit  of  Congreve's  could  ever 
equal  the  comedy!  But  if  looks  were 
all,  she  should  be  Queen  of  England  — 
a  shining  beauty  indeed!  She  wore  a 
robe  in  the  French  taste,  of  gold  tissue, 
her  hair  lightly  powdered,  with  a  ban- 
deau of  diamonds  and  the  Duke's  min- 
iature in  diamonds  on  her  breast.  He, 
looking  very  ill  at  ease,  as  I  must  own, 
stood  beside  her.  The  King  and  our 
little  Mecklenburger  Queen  are  dis- 
tracted, the  royal  ire  withers  all  be- 
fore it;  but  it  can't  be  undone,  though 
they  will  pass  a  Marriage  Act  to  make 
such  escapades  impossible  in  the  future. 


But  the  Walpole  triumph !  'T  is  now 
proved  in  the  face  of  all  the  world  that 
a  Walpole  illegitimate  is  better  than  a 
German  Royalty,  for  he  might  have 
married  where  he  would.  No  doubt  but 
Horry  Walpole  always  thought  so,  yet 
't  is  not  always  we  see  our  family  pride 
so  bolstered. 

Meagre  as  a  skeleton,  he  looked  the 
genteelest  phantom  you  can  conceive, 
in  pure  velvet  and  steel  embroideries. 
For  my  part,  I  am  well  content  and 
wish  Her  Royal  Highness  joy  without 
grimace.  'T  is  true  I  laugh  at  Horry 
Walpole,  for  in  this  town  we  laugh 
at  everything,  from  the  Almighty  to 
Kitty  Fisher;  but  I  have  a  kindness  for 
him  and  for  Maria,  and  had  sooner  they 
triumphed  than  another.  'T  is  not  so 
with  the  town.  O  Kitty,  the  jealousy 
and  malice!  'T  would  take  fifty  letters 
to  tell  you  the  talk,  from  the  Court 
down. 

Well,  Her  Royal  Highness  gave  me 
her  hand  to  kiss,  very  gracious.  She 
will  not  let  her  dignity  draggle  in  the 
mud,  like  others  I  could  name.  But 
whether  she  would  have  been  more  easy 
with  Portland  or  another,  I  will  not 
determine.  The  Fates  alone  know,  and 
sure  they  can't  be  women,  they  keep 
their  secrets  so  well! 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


BY  A.  EDWARD  NEWTON 


I  ONCE  heard  a  charming  woman  say 
at  dinner,  'I  don't  think  I  ever  had 
quite  as  much  fresh  asparagus  as  I 
wanted.'  In  like  manner,  I  don't  think 
I  shall  ever  get  as  much  of  London  as  is 
necessary  for  my  complete  happiness;  I 
love  it  early  in  the  morning  —  before  it 
rouses  itself,  when  the  streets  are  de- 
serted; I  love  it  when  throngs  of  people 
—  the  best-natured  and  politest  people 
in  all  the  world  —  crowd  its  thorough- 
fares; and  I  love  it,  I  think,  best  of  all, 
at  sunset,  when  London,  in  some  of  its 
aspects,  can  be  very  beautiful.  If  I 
were  a  Londoner,  I  should  never  leave 
it,  except  perhaps  for  a  day  or  two  now 
and  then,  so  that  I  could  enjoy  coming 
back  to  it. 

The  terrible  world-upheaval  through 
which  we  have  just  passed  is  responsi- 
ble for  my  not  having  been  in  London 
for  six  years,  and  I  greatly  feared  that 
those  years  might  have  left  some  un- 
happy imprint  upon  the  Old  Lady.  In- 
deed, she  may  have  lost  a  tooth  or  a 
wisp  of  hair;  but  aristocratic  old  ladies 
know  how  to  conceal  the  ravages  of 
time  and  circumstance,  and  as  I  looked 
around  the  railway  station  while  my 
belongings  were  being  stowed  away  in 
the  'left  luggage'  room,  I  saw  only  the 
usual  crowd  quietly  going  about  its 
business. 

Then,  as  I  stepped  into  my  taxi  and 
said,  'Simpson's  in  the  Strand,'  and  was 
being  whirled  over  Waterloo  Bridge, 
I  said  to  myself, '  Nothing  has  changed. 
Nothing  has  changed  except  that  the 


fare,  which  was  once  eightpence,  is  now 
a  shilling/ 

I  said  it  again,  with  not  quite  the 
same  certainty,  when,  after  eating  my 
piece  of  roast  beef  and  a  little  mess  of 
greens  and  a  wonderful  potato,  I  called 
the  head  waiter  and  complained  that 
the  meat  was  tough  and  stringy.  'It 
is  so,'  said  that  functionary,  and  con- 
tinued: 'you  see,  sir,  during  the  war  we 
exhausted'  (with  careful  emphasis  upon 
the  h)  'our  own  English  beef,  and  we  are 
now  forced  to  depend  upon  —  '  I  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eye;  he  was  going  to 
say  America,  but  changed  his  mind  and 
said,  'the  Argentine.' 

'Very  neatly  done,'  I  said,  ordering 
an  extra  half-pint  of  bitter  and  putting 
a  sixpence  in  his  hand ;  '  to-morrow  I  '11 
have  fish.  I'm- very  sure  that  nothing 
can  have  happened  to  the  turbot.' 

It  was  only  a  little  after  one,  when, 
leaving  Simpson's  I  lit  a  cigar  and  turn- 
ed westward  in  quest  of  lodgings.  As 
the  Savoy  was  near  at  hand,  I  thought 
no  harm  would  be  done  by  asking  the 
price  of  a  large  double-bedded  room 
overlooking  the  river,  with  a  bath,  and 
was  told  that  the  price  would  be  five 
guineas  a  day,  but  that  no  such  accom- 
modation was  at  that  moment  avail- 
able. 'I'm  glad  of  it,'  I  said,  feeling 
that  a  temptation  had  been  removed; 
for  I  have  always  wanted  a  room  that 
looked  out  on  the  river;  and,  continuing 
westward,  I  inquired  at  one  hotel  after 
another  until,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to 
feel,  not  alarmed,  but  a  trifle  uneasy, 

311 


312 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


I  secured,  not  just  what  I  wanted,  but  a 
room  and  a  bath  which  would  serve  — 
at  the  Piccadilly. 

I  had  been  kept  waiting  quite  a  little 
time  in  the  lobby,  and  as  I  looked 
about  me  there  seemed  to  be  a  good 
many  foreigners  in  evidence,  a  number 
of  Spaniards  and,  I  suspected,  Germans. 
A  fine  manly  young  fellow,  with  only 
one  arm  (how  many  such  I  was  to  see), 
who  manipulated  the  lift  and  to  whom. 
I  confided  my  suspicions,  replied, '  Yes, 
sir,  I  believe  they  is,  sir;  but  what  are 
you  going  to  do?  They  calls  themselves 
Swiss!' 

But  in  my  anxiety  to  get  to  London, 
I  have  forgotten  to  say  a  word  about 
the  Imperator,  on  which  I  crossed,  or  of 
the  needless  expense  and  delay  to  which 
one  is  subjected  in  New  York,  for  no 
reason  that  I  can  see,  but  that  some 
of  what  Mr.  Bryan  called  'deserving 
Democrats'  may  be  fed  at  the  public 
trough. 

After  being  photographed,  and  get- 
ting your  passport  and  having  it  vised 
by  the  consul  of  the  country  to  which 
you  are  first  going,  and  after  assuring 
the  officials  of  the  Treasury  Depart- 
ment that  the  final  installment  of  your 
income  tax  will  be  paid,  when  due,  by 
your  bank,  —  though  where  the  money 
is  to  come  from,  you  don't  in  the  least 
know,  —  you  finally  start  for  New 
York,  in  order  that  you  may  be  there 
one  day  before  the  steamer  sails,  so 
that  you  may  again  present  your  pass- 
port at  the  Custom  House  for  final  in- 
spection. I  know  no  man  wise  enough 
to  tell  me  what  good  purpose  is  served 
by  this  last  annoyance.  With  trunks 
and  suitcases,  New  York  is  an  expen- 
sive place  in  which  to  spend  a  night, 
and  one  is  not  in  the  humor  for  it;  one 
has  started  for  Europe  and  reached  — 
New  York. 

But  fearful  that  some  hitch  may  oc- 
cur, you  wire  on  for  rooms  and  get  them, 
and '  the  day  previous  to  sailing, '  as  the 


regulation  demands,  you  present  your- 
self and  your  wife,  each  armed  with  a 
passport,  at  the  Custom  House.  Stand- 
ing in  a  long  line  in  a  corridor,  you  even- 
tually approach  a  desk  at  which  sits 
a  man  consuming  a  big  black  cigar. 
Spreading  out  your  passport  before  him 
he  looks  at  it  as  if  he  were  examining 
one  for  the  first  time;  finally,  with  a 
blue  pencil,  he  puts  a  mark  on  it  and 
says,  'Take  it  to  that  gentleman  over 
there,'  pointing  across  the  room.  You 
do  so;  and  another  man  examines  it, 
surprised,  it  may  be,  to  see  that  it  so 
closely  resembles  one  that  he  has  just 
marked  with  a  red  pencil.  He  is  just 
about  to  make  another  hieroglyph  on 
the  passport  when  he  observes  that 
the  background  of  your  photograph  is 
dark,  whereas  the  regulations  call  for 
light.  He  suspends  the  operation;  is  it 
possible  that  you  will  be  detained  at  the 
last  moment?  No!  with  the  remark, 
'  Get  a  light  one  next  time,'  he  makes  a 
little  mark  in  red  and  scornfully  directs 
you  to  another  desk.  Here  sits  another 
man  —  these  are  all  able-bodied  and  pre- 
sumably well-paid  politicians  —  with 
a  large  rubber  stamp;  it  descends,  and 
you  are  free  to  go  on  board  your  ship  — • 
to-morrow. 

The  Imperator  made,  I  think,  only 
one  trip  in  the  service  of  the  company 
that  built  her;  during  the  war  she  re- 
mained tied  up  to  her  pier  in  Ho  bo  ken; 
and  when  she  was  finally  put  into  pas- 
senger service,  she  was  taken  over, 
pending  final  allocation,  by  the  Cunard 
Line.  She  is  a  wonderful  ship  —  with 
the  exception  of  the  Leviathan,  the 
largest  boat  afloat;  magnificent  and 
convenient  in  every  detail,  and  as 
steady  as  a  church.  The  doctor  who 
examines  my  heart  occasionally,  look- 
ing for  trouble,  would  have  had  a  busy 
time  on  her.  I  fancy  I  can  see  him, 
drawing  his  stethoscope  from  his  pocket 
and  suspending  it  in  his  ears,  poking 
round,  listening  in  vain  for  the  pulsa- 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


313 


tion  of  her  engines;  fearful,  no  doubt, 
that  he  was  going  to  lose  his  patient,  he 
would  have  prescribed  certain  drops  in 
water  at  regular  intervals,  and,  finally, 
he  would  have  sent  her  in  a  very  large 
bill. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  I  owe  my  com- 
paratively good  health  to  having  been 
very  abstemious  in  the  matter  of  exer- 
cise. But  it  was  my  habit  to  take  a  con- 
stitutional each  day  before  breakfast; 
this  duty  done,  I  was  able  to  read  and 
smoke  thereafter  with  a  clear  conscience. 
Four  and  a  half  times  around  the  prom- 
enade deck  was  a  mile,  the  steward  told 
me;  and  I  can  quite  believe  it. 

Coming  back  to  earth,  or  rather  sea, 
after  this  flight  into  the  empyrean,  I  am 
bound  to  admit  that  the  Germans  knew 
how  to  build  and  run  ships.  And  the 
beautiful  part  of  the  Imperator  was 
that,  though  you  saw  a  German  sign  oc- 
casionally, not  a  German  word  was 
heard.  How  completely,  for  the  time 
being  at  any  rate,  the  German  nation 
has  been  erased  from  the  sea!  I  some- 
times doubt  the  taste  of  the  English 
singing  'Rule,  Britannia';  it  is  so  very 
true  —  now. 

II 

As  we  entered  Southampton  Water 
after  a  pleasant  and  quite  uneventful 
voyage,  we  saw  almost  the  only  sign  of 
the  war  we  were  destined  to  see.  A  long 
line,  miles  long,  of  what  we  should  call 
torpedo-boat  destroyers,  anchored  in 
midstream,  still  wearing  their  camou- 
flage coloring,  slowly  rusting  themselves 
away. 

We  landed  on  a  clear,  warm  Septem- 
ber afternoon,  and,  Southampton  pos- 
sessing no  charm  whatever,  we  at  once 
took  train  for  Winchester,  which  we 
reached  in  time  to  attend  service  in  the 
austere  old  cathedral.  The  service  was 
impressive,  and  the  singing  better  than 
in  most  cathedrals,  for  the  choir  is 
largely  recruited  from  the  great  school 


founded  centuries  ago  by  William  of 
Wykeham.  After  the  service,  we  stood 
silently  for  a  moment  by  the  tomb  of 
Jane  Austen;  nor  did  we  forget  to  lift 
reverently  the  carpet  that  protects  the 
tablet  let  into  the  tombstone  of  Izaak 
Walton.  After  tea,  that  pleasant  func- 
tion, we  drove  out  to  the  Hospital  of  St. 
Cross,  beautiful  and  always  dear  to  me, 
being,  as  it  is,  the  scene  of  Trollope's 
lovely  story,  The  Warden. 

Seated  at  home  in  my  library,  in 
imagination  I  love  to  roam  about  this 
England,  this  '  precious  stone  set  in  the 
silver  sea,'  which,  however,  now  that 
the  air  has  been  conquered,  no  longer 
serves  it  defensively  as  a  moat;  but  as 
soon  as  I, find  myself  there,  the  lure  of 
London  becomes  irresistible,  and  almost 
before  I  know  it  I  am  at  some  village 
railway  station  demanding  my  'two 
single  thirds'  to  Waterloo  or  Victoria, 
or  wherever  it  may  be. 

So  it  was  in  this  case.  I  did,  however, 
take  advantage  of  the  delightful  weather 
to  make  a  motor  pilgrimage  to  Sel- 
borne,  some  fifteen  miles  across  coun- 
try from  Winchester.  A  tiny  copy  of 
White's  Natural  History  of  Selborne 
came  into  my  possession  some  forty 
years  ago,  by  purchase,  at  a  cost  of  fif- 
teen cents,  at  Leary's  famous  book- 
shop in  Philadelphia;  and  while  I  now 
display,  somewhat  ostentatiously  per- 
haps, Horace  Walpole's  own  copy  of  the 
first  edition,  I  keep  my  little  volume  for 
reading  and  had  it  with  me  on  the 
steamer. 

The  Wakes,  the  house  in  which  Gil- 
bert White  was  born  and  in  which  he 
died,  is  still  standing  on  what  is  by  cour- 
tesy called  the  main  street  of  the  little 
village,  which  is,  in  its  way,  I  suppose, 
as  famous  as  any  settlement  of  its  size 
anywhere.  The  church  of  which  he  was 
rector,  and  in  which  he  preached,  when 
he  was  not  wandering  about  observing 
with  unexampled  fidelity  the  flora  and 
fauna  of  his  native  parish,  stands  near 


314 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


the  upper  end  of  a  tiny  public  square 
called  the  Plestor,  or  play-place,  which 
dates  only  from  yesterday,  that  is  to 
say,  from  1271 !  Originally  an  immense 
oak  tree  stood  in  the  centre;  but  it  was 
uprooted  in  a  great  storm  some  two 
centuries  ago,  and  a  sycamore  now 
stands  in  its  place.  Encircling  it  is  a 
bench  upon  which  the  rude  forefathers 
of  the  hamlet  may  sit  and  watch  the 
children  at  play,  and  on  which  we 
should  have  sat  but  that  we  were  more 
interested  in  the  great  yew  which  stands 
in  the  near-by  churchyard.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  famous  trees  in  England,  —  a 
thousand  years  old,  they  say,  —  and 
looking  old  for  its  age;  but  it  is  so  sym- 
metrical in  its  proportions  that  its  im- 
mense size  is  not  fully  realized  until  one 
slowly  paces  round  it  and  discovers 
that  its  trunk  is  almost  thirty  feet  in 
circumference. 

The  church,  which  has  luckily  es- 
caped the  restorations  so  many  parish 
churches  have  been  compelled  to  under- 
go, is  in  no  wise  remarkable.  Many 
Whites  are  buried  therein;  but  our  par- 
ticular White,  the  one  who  made  Sel- 
borne  notable  among  the  villages  of 
England,  lies  outside  in  the  churchyard, 
near  the  north  wall  of  the  chancel,  the 
grave  being  marked  by  a  half-sunken 
headstone  on  which  one  reads  with  dif- 
ficulty two  simple  letters, '  G.  W.,'  and  a 
date,  '26th  June,  1793';  but  a  tablet 
within  the  church  records  at  greater 
length  his  virtues  and  distinctions. 

m 

There  is  nothing  more  exhausting 
than  the  elegance  of  a  big  hotel;  and  to 
move  from  a  fashionable  caravansary 
in  Philadelphia  to  another  in  London  or 
Paris  is  to  subject  one's  self  to  the  in- 
convenience of  travel,  without  enjoying 
any  of  its  compensations.  One  wants  to 
enjoy  the  difference  of  foreign  countries 
rather  than  their  somewhat  artificial 


resemblances.  At  the  end  of  a  busy  day, 
when  one  is  tired,  one  wants  peace, 
quiet,  and  simplicity  —  at  least,  this 
one  does;  and  so,  when  our  attention 
was  called  to  a  small  apartment  in  Al- 
bemarle  Street,  from  the  balcony  of 
which  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  the 
windows  of  Quaritch's  bookshop,  in  the 
event  that  such  an  act  would  afford  any 
solution  to  the  problem  of  securing  the 
books  I  wanted,  I  closed  the  bargain  in- 
stantly and  was  soon  by  way  of  being 
a  householder  on  a  very  small  scale. 

We  had  been  told  that  'service'  in 
England  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  that  it 
has  disappeared  with  the  war;  but  this 
was  only  one  of  the  many  discouraging 
statements  which  were  to  be  entirely 
refuted  in  the  experience.  No  one  could 
have  been  better  cared  for  than  we,  by  a 
valet  and  maid  who  brushed  our  clothes 
and  brought  us  our  breakfast;  and 
shortly  after  ten  each  morning  we 
started  out  upon  our  wanderings  in 
whatever  direction  we  would,  alert  for 
any  adventure  that  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don might  afford.  This  is  an  inexpen- 
sive and  harmless  occupation,  inter- 
esting in  the  event  and  delightful  in 
retrospect.  Is  it  Liszt  who  conjures 
us  to  store  up  recollections  for  consump- 
tion in  old  age?  Well,  I  am  doing  so. 

I  know  not  which  I  enjoy  most,  beat- 
ing the  pavements  of  the  well-known 
streets,  which  afford  at  every  turn 
scenes  that  recall  some  well-known  his- 
toric or  literary  incident,  or  journeying 
into  some  unexplored  region,  which 
opens  up  districts  of  hitherto  unsus- 
pected interest.  Years  ago,  when  slum- 
ming first  became  fashionable,  one 
never  used  to  overlook  Pettycoat  Lane 
in  far-off  Whitechapel :  of  late  years  it 
has  been  cleaned  up  and  made  respect- 
able and  uninteresting.  But  how  many 
people  are  there  who  know  that  there  is 
a  very  pretty  slum  right  in  the  heart 
of  things,  only  a  short  distance  back 
of  Liberty's  famous  shop  in  Regent 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


315 


Street?  If  interested  in  seeing  how  the 
other  half  lives,  look  it  up  when  you  are 
next  in  London,  and  you  will  be  aston- 
ished at  the  way  in  which  the  pursuit  of 
life,  liberty,  and  happiness  unfolds  it- 
self in  a  maze  of  little  streets  and  courts 
all  jumbled  together.  London  has  al- 
ways been  a  city  in  which  extremes 
meet;  where  wealth  impinges  upon 
poverty.  Nowrhere  can  greater  con- 
trasts be  obtained  than  in  that  terra  in- 
cognita which  lies  just  to  the  south  of 
Soho.  The  world  lives,  if  not  in  the 
open,  at  least  in  the  streets;  and  food, 
fruit,  fish,  and  furbelows  are  exposed 
for  sale  on  barrows  and  trestles  in  what 
appears  to  be  unspeakable  confusion. 
I  had  discovered  this  curious  slum 
years  before  my  friend  Lucas,  that  sym- 
pathetic wanderer  in  London,  called  at- 
tention to  it  in  his  delightful  volume, 
Adventures  and  Enthusiasms. 

But  there  is  to  my  mind  an  even 
choicer  little  backwater,  just  off  Fleet 
Street  —  Nevill's  Court,  which  I  first 
visited  many  years  ago,  during  a  mem- 
orable midnight  ramble  in  company 
with  David  Wallerstein,  a  Philadelphia 
lawyer  and  an  old  friend,  who,  by  rea- 
son of  his  wide  reading,  retentive  mem- 
ory, and  power  of  observation,  seemed 
able  to  better  my  knowledge  of  London 
even  in  a  district  where  I  had  thought 
myself  peculiarly  at  home. 

Nevill's  Court  runs  east  from  Fetter 
Lane.  One  enters  it  by  an  archway, 
which  may  easily  be  passed  unnoticed; 
and  to  one's  great  surprise  one  comes 
suddenly  upon  a  row  of  old  mansions, 
one  of  which  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
once  having  been  the  town  residence  of 
the  Earl  of  ^Yarwick.  '  It  was  a  grand 
house  in  its  day,  sir,'  said  a  young 
woman  in  an  interesting  condition,  who 
was  taking  the  air  late  one  afternoon 
when  I  first  saw  it;  'but  it's  let  out 
as  lodgings  now.  Keir  Hardie,  M.P., 
lodges  there  when  he's  in  London;  he 
says  he  likes  it  here,  it's  so  quiet.' 


'And  how  long  have  you  lived  here?' 
I  inquired. 

'Oh,  sir,  I've  always  lived  about 
'ere  in  this  court,  or  close  to;  I  like  liv- 
ing in  courts,  it's  so  quiet;  it 's  most  like 
living  in  the  country.' 

All  the  houses  look  out  upon  ample, 
if  now  sadly  neglected,  gardens,  through 
the  centre  of  which  flower-bordered 
paths  lead  to  the  front  doors.  Push 
open  one  of  the  several  gates,  —  one  is 
certain  to  be  unlocked,  —  or  peer 
through  the  cracks  of  an  old  oaken 
fence  which  still  affords  some  measure 
of  the  privacy  dear  to  the  heart  of  every 
Englishman,  and  you  will  see  a  bit  of 
vanishing  London  which  certainly  can 
last  but  a  short  time  longer.  The  roar  of 
the  city  is  quite  unheard;  one  has  sim- 
ply passed  out  of  the  twentieth  century 
into  the  seventeenth. 

Oxford  Street  is  to  me  one  of  the 
least  interesting  streets  in  London.  It 
is  a  great  modern  thoroughfare,  always 
crowded  with  people  going  east  in  the 
morning,  and  west  in  the  evening  when 
their  day's  work  is  done.  I  was  walking 
along  this  street  late  one  afternoon, 
when  my  eye  caught  a  sign,  'Hanway 
Street,'  which  instantly  brought  to 
mind  the  publishing  business  conducted 
in  it  more  than  a  century  ago  by  my 
lamented  friend,  William  Godwin.  I 
hoped  to  learn  that  it  was  named  after 
the  discoverer  of  the  umbrella,  but  it  is 
not.  Hanway  Street  is  a  mean,  narrow 
passage  running  north  out  of  Oxford 
Street,  as  if  intent  upon  going  straight- 
way to  Hampstead;  but  it  almost  im- 
mediately begins  to  wobble  and,  finally 
changing  its  mind,  turns  east  and  stops 
at  the  Horse-Shoe  Tavern  in  the  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road. 

My  hour  of  refreshment  having  come, 
I  stopped  there,  too,  and  over  a  mug  of 
ale  I  thought  of  Godwin,  and  as  a  result 
of  my  meditations,  decided  to  follow  up 
the  Godwin  trail.  And  so,  the  inner 
man  refreshed,  I  continued  east  through 


316 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


Holborn  until  I  came  to  Snowhill,  to 
which  street  Godwin  subsequently  re- 
moved his  business  and  his  interesting 
family.  Turning  off  to  the  left,  and 
doubling  somewhat  on  my  tracks,  I  de- 
scended Snowhill,  and  found  myself 
facing  a  substantial  modern  building, 
which  challenged  attention  by  reason 
of  the  rather  unusual  decoration  of  its 
facade.  It  needed  but  a  glance  to  see 
that  this  building  had  been  erected 
on  the  site  of  the  Saracen's  Head  Inn, 
immortalized  by  Charles  Dickens  in 
Nicholas  Nickleby.  Let  into  the  wall 
were  two  large  panels,  one  being  a 
school-scene  bearing  the  legend  'Dothe- 
boys  Hall';  the  other,  a  'Mail  Coach 
leaving  Saracen's  Head.'  Over  the 
arched  doorway  was  a  fine  bust  of 
Dickens,  while  to  the  left  was  a  full- 
length  figure  of  the  immortal  Mr. 
Squeers,  and  on  the  right  a  similar  figure 
of  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

In  the  pleasure  of  my  discovery  I  al- 
most forgot  all  about  Godwin,  whose 
shop  was  once  near-by;  proving  again, 
what  needs  no  proof,  that  many  charac- 
ters in  fiction  are  just  as  sure  of  immor- 
tality as  persons  who  once  moved 
among  us  in  the  flesh.  Then  I  remem- 
bered that  John  Bunyan  had  lived  and 
died  in  this  street,  when  Snowhill  was 
described  as  being  very  narrow,  very 
steep,  and  very  dangerous.  This  led 
me  to  decide  that  I  would  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Bunyan's  tomb  in  Bunhill 
Fields,  which  I  had  not  visited  for  many 
years. 

And  so,  a  few  days  later,  I  found 
myself  wandering  about  in  that  most 
depressing  graveyard,  in  which  thou- 
sands of  men  and  women,  famous  in 
their  time,  found  sepulture — in  some 
cases  merely  temporary,  for  the  records 
show  that,  after  the  passing  of  fifteen 
years  or  so,  their  graves  were  violated 
to  make  room  for  later  generations,  all 
traces  of  earlier  interments  having  been 
erased.  Poor  Blake  and  his  wife  are 


among  those  whose  graves  can  no  longer 
be  identified. 

On  the  day  of  my  visit  it  was  much 
too  damp  to  sit  on  the  ground  and  tell 
sad  stories  of  anything;  but  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  coming  upon  the  tomb  of 
Defoe,  or  that  of  Bunyan,  a  large  altar- 
like  affair,  with  his  recumbent  figure 
upon  it.  An  old  man  whom  I  met  loiter- 
ing about  called  my  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  nose  had  recently  been 
broken  off,  and  told  me  that  it  had  been 
shot  off  by  some  soldier  who  had  been 
quartered  during  the  war  in  the  near-by 
barracks  of  the  Honorable  Artillery 
Company.  It  appears  that  some  mis- 
creant had,  to  beguile  the  time,  amused 
himself  by  taking  pot  shots  at  the  statu- 
ary, and  that  much  damage  had  been 
done  before  he  was  discovered.  I  think 
I  shall  accuse  the  Canadians  of  this  act 
of  vandalism.  It  is  always  well  to  be 
specific  in  making  charges  of  this  kind; 
moreover,  it  will  grieve  my  talented 
friend,  Tait  McKenzie,  the  sculptor, 
who  comes  to  us  from  Scotland  by  way 
of  Toronto,  and  who  thinks  it  a  more 
grievous  crime  to  mutilate  a  statue  than 
to  damage  a  man. 

It  will  have  been  seen  from  the  fore- 
going that  I  am  the  gentlest  of  explorers. 
Give  me  the  choice  of  roaming  the 
streets  of  London  in  search  of  a  scarce 
first  edition  of,  say,  The  Beggar's  Opera, 
—  so  delightfully  performed  month 
after  month  at  the  Lyric  Theatre  in 
Hammersmith,  but  which  lasted  scarce- 
ly a  week  in  New  York,  —  and  a  chance 
to  explore  some  out-of-the-way  country 
with  an  unpronounceable  name,  and 
my  mind  is  made  up  in  a  moment.  I 
have  found  the  race  with  the  sheriff 
sufficiently  stimulating,  and,  on  a  holi- 
day, give  me  the  simple,  or  at  least  the 
contemplative,  life. 

Just  before  leaving  home,  I  had 
lunched  with  my  friend  Fullerton  Wal- 
do; his  face  positively  oeamed  with  hap- 
piness and  his  eye  sparkled.  Why?  Be- 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


317 


cause  he  was  going  to  Russia  to  see  for 
himself  what  the  Bolsheviki  were  doing. 

o 

'  You  will  see  plenty  of  misery,  you  may 
be  sure,'  I  replied.  'Why  look  at  it? 
Why  not  let  the  Russians  stew  in  their 
own  juice?  Ultimately  they  will  come 
home,  those  that  are  left,  wagging  their 
tales  behind  them.' 

But  no,  he  wanted  to  see  for  himself. 
So  we  parted,  each  of  us  going  his  own 
way,  and  both  happy. 

But  I  did  see  one  thing  unusual 
enough  to  have  interested  even  so  so- 
phisticated a  traveler  as  Waldo,  and 
that  was  the  crowd  which,  on  Armistice 
Day,  that  is  to  say,  the  eleventh  of  No- 
vember, 1920,  at  exactly  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  stood  absolutely  silent 
for  two  whole  minutes.  London  is  a 
busy  city;  there  is  a  ceaseless  ebb  and 
flow  of  traffic,  —  not  in  a  few  centres 
and  here  and  there,  as  with  us,  but 
everywhere,  —  and  when  this  normal 
crowd  is  augmented  by  thousands  from 
the  country,  intent  upon  seeing  the  dedi- 
cation of  the  Cenotaph  in  the  centre 
of  Whitehall  and  the  burial  of  the 
unknown  warrior  hi  the  Abbey,  it  is 
a  crowd  of  millions.  And  .this  huge 
crowd,  at  the  first  stroke  of  eleven, 
stood  stock-still ;  not  a  thing  moved,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  here  and  there  a  horse 
turned  its  head,  or  a  bird,  wondering 
what  had  caused  the  great  silence,  flut- 
tered down  from  Nelson's  monument  in 
Trafalgar  Square.  And  so  it  was,  we 
read,  all  over  Britain,  all  over  Australia 
and  Africa,  and  a  part  of  Asia  and 
America:  the  great  Empire,  Ireland 
alone  excepted,  stood  with  bowed  head 
in  memory  of  the  dead.  Not  a  wheel 
turned  anywhere,  not  a  telegram  or 
telephone  message  came  over  the  wires. 

These  English  know  how  to  stage  big 
effects,  as  befits  their  Empire;  with 
them  history  is  ever  and  always  in  the 
making.  And  when  at  last  the  bunting 
fluttered  down  from  the  Cenotaph,  and 
when  the  bones  of  the  Unknown,  with 


the  King  representing  the  nation  as 
chief  mourner,  were  deposited  in  the 
Abbey,  there  formed  a  procession  which 
several  days  afterward,  when  I  sought 
to  join  it,  was  still  almost  a  mile  long! 

IV 

London  can  boast  of  countless  little 
museums,  or  memorials,  to  this  or  that 
great  man;  and  it  is  soon  to  have  an- 
other: Wentworth  Place,  in  Hampstead, 
with  which  the  name  of  Keats  is  so 
closely  connected.  When  this  is  opened 
to  the  public,  —  I  have  visited  it  pri- 
vately, —  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it  will 
take  on  something  of  the  kindly  atmos- 
phere of  the  Johnson  House  in  Gough 
Square,  rather  than  that  of  the  cold  mu- 
seum dedicated  to  that  old  dyspeptic 
philosopher,  Thomas  Carlyle,  in  Chel- 
sea. I  remember  well  when  he  died. 
He  was  said  to  have  been  the  Dr.  John- 
son of  his  time.  Heaven  keep  us!  Car- 
lyle! who  never  had  a  good  or  kindly 
word  to  say  of  any  man  or  thing;  whose 
world,  'mostly  fools,'  bowed  down  be- 
fore him  and  accepted  his  ravings  as 
criticism;  whose  Prussian  philosophy, 
'the  strong  thing  is  the  right  thing,' 
was  exploded  in  the  great  war.  I  have 
lived  to  see  his  fame  grow  dimmer  day 
by  day,  while  Johnson's  grows  brighter 
as  his  wit,  wisdom,  and,  above  all,  his 
humanity,  become  better  known  and 
understood. 

To  Gough  Square,  then,  I  hastened, 
once  I  was  comfortably  installed  in  my 
little  flat,  to  see  if  any  of  the  sugges- 
tions I  had  made  at  a  dinner  given  by 
Cecil  Harmsworth,  in  the  winter  of 
1914,  to  the  Johnson  Club,  to  which  I 
was  invited,  had  been  carried  out.  The 
door  was  opened  to  my  knock  by  an  old 
lady  who  invited  me  in  as  if  I  were  an 
expected  guest.  She  explained  that  it 
was  hoped  that  ultimately  one  room 
would  be  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
Boswell  and  others  of  the  Johnsonian 


318 


MY  OLD   LADY,  LONDON 


circle,  —  Goldsmith,  Garrick,  Mrs. 
Thrale,  Fanny  Burney,  and  the  rest,  — 
and  that  the  whole  house  would  be  per- 
vaded by  the  immortal  memory  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  the  kindest  as  well  as  the 
greatest  of  men;  but  that,  owing  to  the 
war,  not  as  much  had  been  accom- 
plished as  had  been  hoped. 

'And  so,'  I  replied,  'my  suggestions, 
have  not  been  entirely  forgotten.  I  had 
feared  — ' 

'Why,'  continued  the  old  lady,  'can 
you  be  Mr.  Newton  of  Philadelphia?' 

I  could  have  hugged  her;  for,  gentle 
reader,  this  is  much  nearer  fame  than  I 
ever  hoped  for.  What  a  morning  it  was ! 
Mrs.  Dyble  called  for  her  daughter,  and 
I  was  presented,  and  again  found  to  be 
not  unknown;  and  believe  me,  these  two 
women  were  so  absolutely  steeped  in 
Johnson  as  to  shame  my  small  learning 
and  make  me  wish  for  the  support  of 
real  honest-to-God  Johnsonians,  such 
as  Tinker  or  Osgood,  or  my  friend  R.  B. 
Adam,  of  Buffalo,  who  has  the  greatest 
Johnson  collection  in  the  world,  and 
who,  when  next  he  goes  to  London,  has 
a  treat  in  store  which  will  cause  him  to 
forget,  at  least  momentarily,  his  charm- 
ing wife  and  his  young  son;  charming 
wives  and  young  sons  being  not  uncom- 
mon, whereas  Gough  Square  is  unique. 

Any  man  of  fine  heart  and  substan- 
tial means  could  have  bought  the 
Gough  Square  house,  but  it  required  a 
singularly  wise  and  modest  man  to  fit 
it  up  so  simply,  so  in  keeping  with  the 
Johnsonian  tradition;  to  say,  'We  don't 
want  a  cold,  dry-as-dust  museum;  we 
want  the  house  to  be  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble what  it  was  when  the  great  Doctor 
lived  in  it  and  compiled  the  dictionary 
in  its  attic  room.'  So  it  is,  that  17 
Gough  Square,  Fleet  Street,  is  one  of 
the  places  which  it  is  a  delight  to  visit. 
A  fine  Johnsonian  library  has  been 
lent,  and  may  ultimately  be  given,  to 
the  house;  paintings,  portraits,  rare 
prints,  and  autograph  letters  abound; 


and  in  these  interesting  surroundings, 
friends,  literary  societies,  and  clubs 
may  meet  for  the  asking,  and  teas  and 
dinners  may  be  sent  in  from  the  nearby 
Cheshire  Cheese.  And  all  this  might 
have  been  done,  and  yet  the  house 
might  have  lacked  one  of  its  greatest 
charms,  namely,  the  kindly  presence 
and  hospitality  of  two  women,  the  dis- 
covery of  whom,  by  Mr.  Harmsworth, 
was  a  piece  of  the  rarest  good  fortune. 
Mrs.  Dyble  is  a  soldier's  wife,  her  hus- 
band being  a  color  sergeant  in  one  of 
the  crack  regiments;  and  the  story  goes 
that,  during  the  air-raids,  when  the 
Germans  were  dropping  bombs  on  all 
and  sundry,  the  old  lady  went,  not  into 
the  '  tubes '  for  shelter,  but,  to  meet  the 
bombs  half-way,  into  the  attic;  there, 
taking  down  a  copy  of  Boswell,  she  read 
quite  composedly  through  the  night; 
for,  as  she  said,  she  would  not  be  worthy 
of  her  soldier  husband  if  she  were  not 
prepared  to  face  death  at  home  as  he 
was  doing  in  France.  But  how  long, 
I  ask  myself,  will  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Rowell,  a  pretty  widow,  be  content  to 
live  upon  the  memory  of  Dr.  Johnson? 
I  was  especially  pleased  to  convey  to 
the  Johnson  House  a  superb  photo- 
graph of  a  portrait  of  Dr.  Johnson  by 
Reynolds,  which  had  recently  been  ac- 
quired by  Mr.  John  H.  McFadden  of 
Philadelphia.  I  was  sitting  in  my  club 
one  afternoon,  when  Mr.  McFadden 
came  up  and  asked  me  how  I  would  like 
to  see  a  picture  of  Dr.  Johnson  which  he 
had  just  received  from  the  Agnews  in 
London.  Of  course,  I  was  delighted,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  I  was  in  the  small 
but  exquisite  gallery  of  eighteenth-cen- 
tury portraits  which  Mr.  McFadden 
has  collected.  Familiar  as  I  am  sup- 
posed to  be  with  Johnson  portraits,  I 
had  never  seen  the  one  which  was 
shown  me.  It  was  obviously  Dr.  John- 
son; and  as  soon  as  I  returned  home  and 
had  an  opportunity  of  consulting  my 
notes,  I  saw  that  it  was  the  portrait 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


310 


painted  for  Dr.  Taylor  of  Ashbourne. 
So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  it 
has  never  been  engraved  or  even  photo- 
graphed; and  I  told  its  owner  that  he 
owed  it  to  himself  and  all  Johnsonians 
to  have  it  photographed  in  the  best  pos- 
sible manner,  and  to  send  a  copy  to  the 
Johnson  House  at  Lichfield,  and  also  to 
Cecil  Harmsworth.  This  Mr.  McFad- 
den  readily  consented  to  do ;  and  so,  on 
my  arrival  in. London,  I  had  the  pleas- 
ant duty  of  presenting  the  pictures. 
The  portrait  is  of  a  very  old  man;  the 
head  is  bent  forward,  the  face  is  kindly, 
and  about  the  mouth  is  the  tremulous- 
ness  of  age.  I  take  it,  indeed,  to  be  a 
speaking  likeness,  and  it  *pleases  me  to  • 
fancy  that  the  kindly  Doctor  has  just 
made  the  remark  quoted  by  Boswell: 
'  As  I  grow  older,  I  am  prepared  to  call 
a  man  a  good  man  on  easier  terms  than 
heretofore.' 

During  the  war,  when  Germany  was 
dropping  bombs  on  London  and  Eng- 
land was  protesting  that  no  real  mili- 
tary purpose  was  served  thereby  and 
that  the  priceless  treasures  in  the  mu- 
seums that  had  always  been  open  to 
the  public  were  being  endangered,  Ger- 
many characteristically  replied  that 
England  should  not  keep  her  bric-a-brac 
in  a  fortress.  Whether  London  is  a  for- 
tress or  not,  I  do  not  know;  doubtless 
the  Tower  once  was,  and  doubtless  a 
certain  amount  of  bric-a-brac  is  stored 
therein;  but  the  Tower  is  a  fatiguing 
place,  and  I  fancy  I  have  visited  it  for 
the  last  time;  whereas  I  shall  never 
cease  to  delight  in  the  London  Museum, 
filled  as  it  is  with  everything  that  illus- 
trates the  history,  the  social  and  busi- 
ness life  of  a  people  who  by  no  accident 
or  chance  have  played  a  leading  part  in 
the  history  of  the  world. 

This  wonderful  collection  is  housed 
in  what  was  for  years  regarded  as  the 
most  sumptuous  private  residence  in 
London.  It  is  situated  in  Stable  Yard, 
very  near  St.  James's  Palace,  and  not 


so  far  from  Buckingham  Palace  as  to 
prevent  the  late  Queen  Victoria  from 
dropping  in  occasionally  for  a  cup  of 
tea  with  her  friend,  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland,  who  for  many  years  made 
it  her  residence.  The  story  goes,  that 
Her  Majesty  was  accustomed  to  remark 
that  she  had  left  her  house  to  visit  her 
friend  in  her  palace.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
it  is  a  magnificent  structure,  admirably 
fitted  for  its  present  purpose;  and  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  be  one  of  its  first 
visitors  when  it  was  thrown  open  to  the 
public  in  the  spring  of  1914.  The  ar- 
rangement of  the  exhibits  leaves  noth- 
ing to  be  desired;  and  if  one  does  not 
find  the  garments  of  the  present  reign- 
ing family  very  stimulating,  one  can 
always  retire  to  the  basement  and  while 
away  an  hour  or  so  among  the  pano- 
ramas of  Tudor  London,  or  fancy  him- 
self for  a  brief  time  a  prisoner  in  New- 
gate. 

But  the  streets  of  a  great  city  are 
more  interesting  than  any  museum,  and 
it  was  my  custom  generally  to  stroll 
through  St.  James's  Park,  gradually 
working  my  way  toward  Westminster, 
thence  taking  a  bus  to  whatever  part  of 
London  my  somewhat  desultory  plans 
led  me.  One  morning  I  had  just  climbed 
the  steps  which  lead  to  Downing  Street, 
when  a  heavy  shower  forced  me  to 
stand  for  a  few  moments  under  an  arch- 
way, almost  opposite  number  10,  which, 
as  all  the  world  knows,  is  the  very  un- 
imposing  residence  of  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter. Standing  under  the  same  archway 
was  an  admirable  specimen  of  the  Lon- 
don policeman,  —  tall,  erect,  polite, 
intelligent,  imperturbable,  —  and  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  the  exchange  of  a 
'British-made'  cigar  for  the  man's 
views  on  the  war  would  be  no  more 
than  a  fair  exchange.  And  right  here 
let  me  say  that,  all  the  time  I  was  in 
England,  I  did  not  hear  one  word  of 
complaint  or  one  word  of  exultation. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  Bobby's  mind 


320 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


who  won  the  war,  'but  mind  you,  your 
fellows  was  most  welcome,  when  they 
came';  and  I  thought  I  detected  just  a 
trifle  of  sarcasm  in  his  last  words.  '  We 
don't  like  the  Germans,  but  we  don't 
wear  ourselves  out  'ating  'em,'  he  said, 
in  reply  to  my  question. 

Just  here  our  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  an  old  lady,  who  came  up  to 
inquire  at  what  hour  Mrs.  Lloyd 
George  was  going  out.  '  I  'm  not  in  her 
confidence,  ma'am,'  replied  my  friend; 
and  continuing,  he  suggested  that  he 
had  gone  to  bed  hungry  many  a  night 
but  had  n't  minded  in  the  least,  be- 
cause he  knew  that  British  ships  were 
taking  the  American  army  to  France. 
'I've  a  tendency  to  get  'eavy,  hany- 
way,'  he  continued.  His  views  on  the 
League  of  Nations  were  what  one  usu- 
ally heard.  He  'had  no  confidence  a 
man's  neighbors  would  do  more  for  a 
man  than  a  man  would  do  for  himself; 
that  'Wilson  was  a  bit  'eady;  and  the 
American  people  'ad  let  'im  down  some- 
thing terrible.' 

Another  morning,  walking  past  the 
Horse  Guards,  I  noticed  on  approach- 
ing the  Mall  an  enormous  German  can- 
non mounted  on  its  heavy  carriage,  the 
wheels  of  which  must  have  had  at  least 
five-inch  tires.  This  engine  of  death, 
having  shot  its  last  bolt,  was  an  object 
of  the  greatest  interest  to  the  children 
who  constantly  played  about  it.  As  I 
passed  it,  one  little  chap,  probably  not 
over  four  years  of  age,  was  kicking  it 
forcibly  with  his  little  foot,  his  act  be- 
ing regarded  approvingly  the  while  by 
the  Bobby  who  was  looking  on;  but 
when  finally  he  began  to  climb  up  on 
the  wheel,  from  which  he  could  have 
got  a  nasty  fall,  the  policeman  took  the 
little  lad  in  his  arms,  lifted  him  care- 
fully to  the  ground,  and  bade  him  'be 
hoff,'  with  the  remark,  'You'll  be  tear- 
ing that  toy  to  pieces  before  you  are  a 
month  older;  then  we  won't  'ave  noth- 
ing to  remind  us  of  the  war.' 


'  I  should  n't  think  you  were  likely  to 
forget  it,'  I  remarked,  looking  at  his 
decorations  and  handing  him  a  cigar. 

'Well,  sir,'  he  replied,  thanking  me 
and  putting  the  cigar  in  his  helmet, '  it 's 
curious  how  one  thing  drives  another 
out  of  your  mind.  I  was  in  it  for  three 
years,  and  yet,  except  when  I  look  at 
that  gun,  I  can't  rightly  say  I  give  it 
much  thought.' 


I  had  an  experience  one  day,  which  I 
shall  always  remember,  it  was  so  unex- 
pected and  far-reaching.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  back  room  of  Sawyer's  bookshop 
in  Oxford  Street,  talking  of  London, 
and  rather  especially  of  Mr.  W.  W. 
Jacobs's  district  thereof,  in  which  I  had 
recently  made  several  interesting  'short 
cruises,'  in  company  with  his  night 
watchman  (he  who  had  a  bad  shilling 
festooned  from  his  watch-chain,  it  will 
be  remembered),  when  I  felt  rather 
than  saw  that,  while  I  was  talking,  a 
man  had  entered  and  seemed  to  be 
waiting,  and  rather  impatiently,  to  get 
into  the  conversation.  Now  just  how 
it  came  about,  I  don't  exactly  know; 
but  soon  I  found  myself  suggesting 
that  Londoners  know  relatively  little 
of  their  great  city  and  that  it  was  only 
the  enlightened  stranger  who  really 
knew  his  way  about. 

'And  this  to  me,'  said  the  stranger  in 
a  harsh,  strident  voice,  of  such  unusual 
timbre  that  its  owner  could  have  made 
a  whisper  heard  in  a  rolling-mill. 
'Think  of  it,'  he  continued,  turning  to 
Sawyer, '  that  I  should  live  to  be  beard- 
ed in  my  den  —  by  a  —  by  a  —  ' 

He  paused,  not  at  a  loss  for  a  word 
so  much  as  turning  over  in  his  mind 
whether  that  word  should  be  kindly  or 
the  reverse.  This  gave  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  look  at  the  man  who  had  en- 
tered, unasked,  into  the  conversation  in 
very  much  the  same  way  that  I  had 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


321 


entered  into  his  London.  He  was  seem- 
ingly about  sixty  years  of  age,  short 
rather  than  tall,  with  piercing  eyes 
under  bushy  eyebrows,  but  chiefly  re- 
markable for  his  penetrating  voice, 
which  he  used  as  an  organ,  modulating 
it  or  giving  it  immense  power.  One 
felt  instinctively  that  he  was  no  patri- 
cian, but  rather  a  'city  man'  accus- 
tomed to  giving  orders  and  having 
them  obeyed  promptly,  and  having  a 
degree  of  confidence  in  himself  —  say, 
rather,  assurance  —  which  one  associ- 
ates with  Chicago  rather  than  with 
London. 

Now  I  am  conceited  enough  to  think 
that,  with  the  ordinary  mortal,  I  can 
hold  my  own  in  conversation  when  Lon- 
don is  the  subject;  so  almost  before  I 
knew  it,  I  was  trying  to  make  myself 
heard  by  one  who  had  evidently  decided 
to  take  the  lead  hi  the  conversation. 
The  result  was  that  two  men  were  talk- 
ing for  victory  at  the  same  time,  greatly 
to  the  amusement  of  Sawyer. 

Finally  my  stranger-friend  said, 
'Have  you  many  books  on  London?* 

To  which  I  replied,  relieved  that  the 
subject  had  taken  a  bookish  turn,  'Yes, 
about  three  hundred, '  which  number  is, 
say,  a  hundred  and  fifty  more  than  I 
actually  possess. 

'I  have  over  six  thousand,'  said  my 
friend;  'I  have  every  book  of  impor- 
tance on  London  that  ever  has  been 
written.' 

'Yes,'  said  I,  'and  you  have  the  ad- 
vantage in  discovering  first  how  many 
books  I  had.  If  I  had  been  as  keen  as 
mustard,  as  you  are,  I  would  have 
asked  the  question,  and  you  would  have 
said  three  hundred;  then  I  could  have 
said  six  thousand.' 

'Listen  to  him,'  roared  my  friend; '  he 
even  doubts  my  word.  Would  you  like 
to  see  my  books?' 

'Have  you  a  copy  of  Stow?'  I  replied, 
to  try  him  out. 

'Yes,'  answered  my  friend;  'every 

VOL.  128— NO.  S 
B 


edition,  including  a  presentation  copy 
of  the  first  edition  of  1598,  with  an  in- 
scription to  the  Lord  Mayor.' 

Now,  presentation  copies  of  the  Sur- 
vay,  properly  regarded  as  the  first  book 
on  London,  are  very  rare;  I  had  never 
seen  one,  and  I  replied  that  nothing 
would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to 
see  his  books.  When  and  how  could  a 
meeting  be  arranged? 

'Shall  we  say  next  Thursday  after- 
noon?' 

'Very  good,  but  where?' 

'Now,'  continued  my  friend,  'pay  at- 
tention. Tell  your  second  chauffeur  to 
get  out  your  third  Rolls-Royce  car  —  ' 

'Never  mind  my  chauffeurs  and  my 
Rolls-Royce  cars,'  I  interrupted;  'if  you 
are  on  the  line  of  a  penny  bus,  tell 
me  how  to  reach  you  from  Piccadilly 
Circus.' 

'Good,'  continued  my  friend;  'you 
know  the  Ritz?' 

'From  the  outside,'  I  replied,  'per- 
fectly.' 

'Well,  go  to  the  Bobby  who  stands 
outside  the  Ritz,  and  ask  him  to  tell  you 
what  bus  to  take  to  Clapham  Junction; 
and  when  you  get  there,  just  ask  any 
Bobby  to  direct  you  to  John  Burns's  on 
the  north  side  of  Clapham  Common.' 

John  Burns!  Had  I  heard  aright? 
Was  it  possible  that  I  was  actually  talk- 
ing to  John  Burns,  the  great  labor  lead- 
er, who  had  once  marched  a  small  army 
of  'Dockers'  from  the  East  End  of 
London  to  Westminster,  and  who  had 
finally  become  an  all-powerful  Member 
of  Parliament,  and  Privy  Councillor, 
and  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade 
and  of  the  Local  Government  Board; 
John  Burns,  without  whose  approval 
not  a  statue,  not  a  pillar-box  or  a  fire- 
plug had  been  located  for  the  past 
twenty  years,  and  who  had,  when  the 
war  broke  out,  resigned  all  his  offices  of 
honor  and  emolument  because  he  could 
not  conscientiously  go  along  with  the 
government!  As  I  recovered  from  my 


322 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


astonishment,  John  Burns,  with  a  fine 
sense  of  dramatic  values,  had  disap- 
peared. I  looked  at  his  name  and  ad- 
dress written  in  his  own  hand  in  my  lit- 
tle engagement-book.  'Well,'  said  I  to 
myself,  'that  looks  like  a  perfectly  good 
invitation;  John  Burns  will  be  expect- 
ing me  about  half-past  four,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  disappoint  him.' 

A  few  days  later,  at  the  hour  ap- 
pointed, we  descended  from  a  taxi  and 
found  our  friend  awaiting  us  at  his 
front  gate.  Across  the  roadway  stretch- 
ed Clapham  Common,  itself  not  with- 
out historic  interest;  but  it  was  a  cold, 
raw  day  in  late  October,  and  the  inside 
of  a  city  home  is  always  more  interest- 
ing than  the  outside.  As  I  removed  my 
coat,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  I  had  not 
been  deceived  in  the  number  of  his 
books.  There  were  books  everywhere, 
about  fifteen  thousand  of  them.  All 
over  the  house  were  open  shelves  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  with  here  and  there  a 
rare  old  cabinet  packed  with  books, 
which  told  the  life-story  of  their  owner. 
Books  are  for  reading,  for  reference, 
and  for  display.  John  Burns  had  not 
stinted  himself  in  any  direction.  Throw- 
ing open  the  door  of  a  good-sized  room 
in  which  a  fire  (thank  God!)  was  burn- 
ing brightly,  Burns  said  briefly,  'Lon- 
don, art  and  architecture  in  this  room; 
in  the  room  beyond,  political  economy, 
housing  and  social  problems.  Rare 
books  and  first  editions  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Now  come  upstairs:  here  is  bio- 
graphy and  history.'  Then,  throwing 
open  the  door  of  a  small  room,  he  said, 
'This  is  my  workshop;  here  are  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  pamphlets,  care- 
fully indexed.'  On  landing  at  the  head 
of  the  stair,  he  said,  'Newton,  I've 
taken  a  fancy  to  you,  and  I  'm  going  to 
let  you  handle  —  carefully,  mind  you 
—  the  greatest  collection  of  Sir  Thomas 
More  in  the  world;  over  six  hundred 
items,  twice  as  many  as  there  are  in  the 
British  Museum.  Here  they  are,  manu- 


scripts, letters,  first  editions.'  And 
then,  dropping  the  arrogance  of  the  col- 
lector who  had  made  his  point,  he  took 
up  a  little  copy  of  Utopia,  which  he  had 
bought  as  a  boy  for  sixpence,  and  said, 
'This  book  has  made  me  what  I  am; 
for  me  it  is  the  greatest  book  in  the 
world;  it  is  the  first  book  I  ever  bought, 
it  is  the  corner-stone  of  my  library,  the 
foundation  on  which  I  have  built  my 
life.  Now  let  us  have  tea!' 

During  this  pleasant  function  I  plied 
my  host  with  question  after  question; 
and  he,  knowing  that  he  was  not  being 
interviewed,  was  frankness  itself  in  his 
replies.  His  judgment  of  the  great  men 
of  England  with  whom  he  had  worked 
for  a  lifetime  was  shrewd,  penetrating, 
and  dispassionate;  and,  above  all,  kind- 
ly; their  conduct  of  the  war,  his  reason 
for  not  going  along  with  the  nation  (he 
and  Lord  Morley  were  the  two  con- 
spicuous men  in  England  who,  upon  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  retired  into  private 
life)  was  forceful  if,  to  me,  unconvinc- 
ing; and  I  quoted  Blake's  axiom,  that  a 
man  who  was  unwilling  to  fight  for  the 
truth  might  be  forced  to  fight  for  a  lie, 
without  in  the  least  disturbing  his 
equanimity.  My  remark  about  Blake 
served  to  send  the  conversation  in  an- 
other direction,  and  we  were  soon  dis- 
cussing Blake's  wife,  whose  maiden 
name  he  knew,  and  his  unknown  grave 
in  Bunhill  Fields,  as  if  the  cause  and 
effect  of  the  great  war  were  questions 
that  could  be  dismissed.  Seeing  a  large 
signed  photograph  of  Lord  Morley  on 
the  wall,  and  a  copy  of  his  Life  of  Glad- 
stone and  his  own  Recollections  on  the 
shelves.,  I  voiced  my  opinion  that  his 
friend  was  the  author  of  five  of  the  dull- 
est volumes  ever  written,  an  opinion  I 
would  be  glad  to  debate  with  all  comers. 

In  reply  to  my  question  as  to  how 
he  had  accomplished  so  much  reading, 
leading  as  he  has  done  for  so  many 
years  the  life  of  a  busy  public  man,  he 
answered, '  I  read  quickly,  have  a  good 


MY  OLD  LADY,  LONDON 


memory,*  (there  is  no  false  modesty 
about  John  Burns)  'and  I  never  play 
golf.' 

'Well,  I  am  like  you  in  one  respect.' 
'What's  that?'  he  asked;  and  then, 
with  a  laugh,  'You  don't  play  golf,  I 
suppose.' 

What  I  thought  was  my  time  to  score 
came  when  he  began  to  speak  French, 
which  I  never  understand  unless  it  is 
spoken  with  a  strong  English  accent. 
This  gave  me  a  chance  to  ask  him  wheth- 
er he  had  not,  like  Chaucer's  nun,  stud- 
ied at  Stratford  Atte  Bowe,  as  evident- 
ly 'the  French  of  Paris  was  to  him 
"unknowe." '  He  laughed  heartily,  and 
instantly  continued  the  quotation. 
But  anyone  who  attempts  to  heckle 
John  Burns  has  his  work  cut  out  for 
him;  a  man  who  has  harangued  mobs 
in  the  East  End  of  London  and  else- 
where, and  held  his  own  against  all 
comers  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
who  has  received  honorary  degrees  for 
solid  accomplishment  from  half  a  dozen 
universities,  is  not  likely  to  feel  the  pin- 
pricks of  an  admirer.  And  when  the 
time  came  for  us  (for  my  wife  was  with 
me)  to  part,  as  it  did  all  too  soon,  it  was 
with  the  understanding  that  we  were  to 
meet  again,  to  do  some  walking  and 
book-hunting  together;  and  anyone 
who  has  John  Burns  for  a  guide  in 
London,  as  I  have  had,  is  not  likely 


soon  to  forget  the  joys  of  the  experience. 
Holidays  at  last  come  to  an  end. 

If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 
To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work. 

We  came  home  and,  greetings  exchan- 
ged, our  first  impressions  were  those  of 
annoyance.  As  a  nation,  we  have  no 
manners;  one  might  have  supposed  that 
we,  rather  than  the  English,  had  had  our 
nervous  systems  exposed  to  the  shock 
of  battle;  that  we,  rather  than  they,  had 
been  subject  to  air-raids  and  to  the 
deprivations  of  war;  that  we  had  be- 
come a  debtor  rather  than  a  creditor 
nation.  We  found  rudeness  and  surli- 
ness everywhere.  The  man  in  the  street 
had  a  'grouch,'  despite  the  fact  that  he 
was  getting  more  pay  for  less  work  than 
any  other  man  in  the  world;  and  that 
the  President  had  told  him  that  he  had 
an  inalienable  right  to  strike.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  that  'labor 
would  have  to  liquidate'  —  to  use  a 
phrase  to  which,  in  the  past,  I  have 
greatly  objected.  No  question  was  civ- 
illy answered.  The  porter  who  carried 
our  bags  took  a  substantial  tip  with  a 
sneer,  and  passed  on.  It  may  be  that 
America  is  '  the  land  of  the  free  and  the 
home  of  the  brave';  but  we  found  the 
streets  of  our  cities  dangerous,  noisy, 
hideous,  and  filthy.  It  is  not  pleasant 
to  say  these  things,  but  they  are  true. 


BACK-YARD  ARCILEOLOGY 


BY  WAEREN   K.  MOOREHEAD 


DURING  the  past  fifty  years  citizens 
and  institutions  of  New  England  and 
New  York  have  contributed  large  sums 
for  archaeological  expeditions  in  remote 
sections  of  the  New  and  Old  Worlds.  I 
suppose  it  is  not  inaccurate  to  state 
that  certain  individuals  of  New  Eng- 
land were  pioneers  in  financing  Mexi- 
can, Central  American,  and  South 
American  expeditions  for  the  Peabody 
Museum.  Dr.  Winslow's  labors  aroused 
much  interest  in  the  study  of  early 
European  and  Egyptian  cultures,  and 
other  researches  which  were  begun  by 
the  English,  French,  or  Italians.  To- 
day, the  explorer  seeking  funds  for  a 
survey  of  ruins  in  Yucatan  finds  ready  re- 
sponse to  his  appeal  for  contributions. 
In  short,  our  American  public  —  par- 
ticularly here,  east  of  the  Hudson — is 
more  or  less  educated  in  archaeologi- 
cal matters.  The  subject  has  become  of 
popular  interest.  We  read  with  avidity 
articles  in  the  National  Geographical 
Magazine  concerning  peoples  of  remote 
corners  of  the  globe  —  although  these 
same  descriptions,  printed  thirty  years 
ago,  would  have  bored  us.  Everybody 
knows  about  the  cave-man,  and  what 
he  did ;  our  Sunday  newspapers  regularly 
announce  the  discovery  of  another  'new 
buried  city.'  Even  the  movies  portray 
expeditions  of  all  kinds,  some  slightly 
'  scientific,'  and  others  made  in  the  foot- 
hills out  from  Los  Angeles,  or  in  the 
mountains  and  woods  a  mile  from  the 
business  section  of  Saranac  Lake. 

Last,  but  not  least,  Mr.  Wells  has 
delved  —  or  his  assistants  have  —  into 
archseologic  lore,  and  we  find  the  whole 

324 


'beginnings  of  the  human  race'  con- 
densed into  a  few  pages,  in  order  that 
the  tired  business  man,  or  weary  pro- 
fessional person,  or  the  general  public, 
may  absorb  the  leading  facts  of  pre-his- 
tory,  as  well  as  history  itself,  quickly 
and  conveniently. 

People  not  only  buy,  but  they  actu- 
ally read,  books  treating  in  more  enter- 
taming  fashion  of  archaeological  discov- 
eries and  primitive  peoples.  I  recall 
that,  thirty  years  ago,  a  scientist  im- 
mediately lost  caste,  did  he  write  for 
the  public.  Following  the  prevalent 
custom  of  that  time,  his  works  were  dull 
and  pedantic.  Few*  persons  outside  the 
cult  to  which  he  belonged  knew  him  or 
his  books;  for  it  was  considered  bad 
form  for  him  to  do  that  which  would  in- 
terest mankind  at  large.  To-day,  most 
of  us  believe  that  our  work  is  a  part  of 
the  generally  accepted  educational  sys- 
tem; that  it  should  be  presented  in  an 
attractive  form,  in  order  that  it  may 
reach  the  largest  number  of  readers. 
While  much  nonsense  has  undoubtedly 
been  published  in  the  press  and  maga- 
zines, and  a  great  deal  of  sensational 
and  unscientific  information  dissemi- 
nated by  the  movies,  yet,  on  the  whole, 
people  are  better  informed  to-day  con- 
cerning the  early  history  of  our  race, 
and  of  primitive  man  in  general,  than 
they  were  two  decades  ago. 

Permit  me  to  hasten,  at  this  junc- 
ture, to  assure  the  anxious  scholar  that 
I  do  not  claim  there  are  more  masters  of 
archaeology  to-day  than  formerly;  what 
I  wish  to  convey  is  the  impression  that 
our  public  has  a  more  intelligent  inter- 


BACK-YARD  ARCHAEOLOGY 


325 


est  In  the  subject.  This  is  indicated  in 
the  correspondence  files  of  the  average 
archaeologist.  Let  him  compare  letters 
of  1890  with  those  of  to-day,  and  he  will 
observe  that  the  correspondent  to-day, 
when  addressing  the  museum  curator 
or  a  field-man,  is  somewhat  familiar 
with  the  subject.  We  have  fewer 'crank' 
communications.  It  has  been  three 
years  since  one  of  these  came  to  our 
Department;  yet  in  one  month  during 
1895  I  received  two  letters  from  persons 
who  wished  to  know  my  'formulae'  for 
making  'mineral  rods,  by  means  of 
which  buried  treasures  are  found.' 

Formerly,  most  persons  supposed  that 
a  museum  was  a  place  where  'relics' 
were  bought  and  then  exhibited  to 
gaping  and  curiosity-seeking  visitors. 
This  changed  attitude  toward  the  mu- 
seum may  be  traced  to  our  museum  prop- 
aganda; to  the  work  of  the  Association 
of  Museums,  to  the  spread  and  influ- 
ence of  children's  museums,  —  popular 
among  their  elders,  as  well,  —  and  to 
the  many  illustrated  talks  on  natural 
history  and  related  topics. 

New  England's  part  in  lifting  archae- 
ological research  (and  museum  study) 
out  of  the  narrow  rut  of  the  specialist 
and  placing  it  upon  the  hill,  that  its 
light  might  not  be  hidden,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  be  seen  of  men,  is  consider- 
able. Indeed,  New  England  occupies 
a  place  of  distinction  as  the  patron  of 
archaeology  and  research.  Was  it  not  at 
Salem,  away  back  in  1803,  that  the 
trading-  and  whaling-vessel  masters 
brought  their  'curios'  and  ship-models 
home  and  exhibited  them?  Most  fitting 
is  it  that  the  museum  there,  after  a  cen- 
tury of  honorable  existence,  should  dis- 
play these  priceless  objects  of  the  long 
ago.  Here,  Professor  Morse,  and  at 
Cambridge,  Professor  Putnam,  began 
their  work  in  the  early  eighteen-sixties. 
Morse's  popular  lectures,  sparkling 
with  humor,  filled  with  worth-while  in- 
formation, stimulated  interest  and  had  a 


far-reaching  result.  Putnam  preached 
thorough  science  in  exploration,  and 
gathered  about  him  many  young  stu- 
dents. These  men  are  to-day  heads  of, 
or  occupy  positions  of  standing  in,  a 
dozen  of  the  larger  museums  in  this  and 
other  countries. 

Yet  all  the  interest  on  the  part  of 
the  young  scientists  who  went  forth, 
and  of  the  men  who  gave  funds,  and  of 
the  public,  seemed  to  centre  in  places 
away  from  and  not  in  New  England. 
With  a  few  exceptions  —  notably  Mr. 
C.  C.  Willoughby's  explorations  in 
Maine  —  no  one  thought  that  there 
was  and  is  such  a  thing  as  the  archae- 
ology of  New  England.  Obviously,  the 
reason  they  all  neglected  the  home  ter- 
ritory is  not  far  afield.  We  have  no 
mounds,  no  cliff-dwellings  or  ruined 
cities.  We  even  lack  caverns  and  cave- 
man! Thus  we  possess  nothing  cal- 
culated to  appeal  to  the  imagination. 
Wealthy  people  would  give  money  for 
investigations  of  visible  monuments. 
They  had  seen  pictures  of  remains  in  the 
West,  the  South,  and  Asia.  Putnam 
could  secure  little  money  for  work 
hereabouts.  He  was  told  that  there 
was  neither  romance  nor  charm  in 
New  England  exploration.  As  a  nat- 
ural sequence,  archaeologists,  with  one 
accord,  went  West,  South,  or  abroad, 
with  the  result  that,  until  systematic 
explorations  were  undertaken  in  1912, 
we  knew  less  about  our  own  land 
(archaeologically)  than  we  did  about 
regions  five  thousand  miles  away. 

In  1909  I  visited  my  friend  Director 
Willoughby  of  the  Peabody  Museum, 
and  consulted  with  him  concerning 
work  in  our  home  field.  It  had  been 
neglected;  yet  here  we  might  find  the 
beginnings  of  Algonquin  culture,  Es- 
kimo influence,  tribes  of  pre-Pilgrim 
days,  and  so  forth.  There  were  far- 
reaching  possibilities.  Our  trustees  kind- 
ly voted  the  necessary  funds,  and  I 
applied  methods  used  in  Ohio,  Arizona, 


326 


BACK-YARD  ARCHAEOLOGY 


and  New  Mexico  to  the  State  of  Maine. 
In  short,  we  ran  a  Western  survey  in 
the  East. 

For  nine  years  we  have  worked  hard, 
carrying  large  crews  to  the  most  distant 
points  in  Maine  and  elsewhere;  it  is 
now  time  to  render  the  public  an  ac- 
count of  our  stewardship.  During  this 
period  we  have  traveled  over  5000  miles 
in  our  large,  twenty-foot  canoes.  We 
have  found  seventeen  Indian  cemeteries 
of  the  prehistoric  period,  and  taken  out 
the  contents  of  440  graves.  Our  men 
mapped  over  200  village,  camp,  or 
shell-heap  sites  in  Maine  alone.  The 
grand  total  of  artifacts  in  stone,  bone, 
shell,  and  clay  is  rising  17,000;  and  all 
this  in  one  state  of  New  England  where 
there  were  supposed  to  be  few  '  Indian 
remains.'  We  found  one  shell-heap  (in 
the  Bar  Harbor  region,  near  Lemoine) 
over  700  feet  long  and  five  feet  deep,  in 
places,  and  averaging  over  two  feet  of 
debris.  From  this  heap  the  men  took 
5000  articles  of  prehistoric  manufac- 
ture, and  two  years  later  reexplored  for 
another  museum,  and  secured  2500 
more.  So  far  as  I  am  aware,  the  total 
of  7500  stone,  clay,  bone,  and  shell  ob- 
jects (all  human  handiwork)  from  one 
site  is  exceeded  by  only  five  other  sites 
in  the  whole  United  States,  and  these 
are  in  the  thickly  settled  mound-builder 
and  cliff-pueblo  regions  of  the  West. 

Our  stone-gouges  from  Maine  graves 
evince  a  skill  in  stone-working,  grind- 
ing, and  polishing  not  excelled  else- 
where in  the  world.  That  is,  the  Maine 
gouges  are  easily  the  highest  Stone-Age 
art  in  gouge  manufacture.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  axes  or  hatchets,  but  of  the 
long  polished  gouges. 

We  find  slender  spears  14  to  22  inches 
in  length,  beautifully  wrought  and 
scarcely  thicker  than  a  lead  pencil. 
The  famous  prehistoric  Japanese  spears 
are  much  shorter  and  of  less  fine  work- 
manship. One  polished  dagger  of  slate, 
with  a  wide  blade  and  handle  carefully 


worked  out,  is  the  equal  of  any  similar 
specimen  I  have  observed  from  Europe 
or  Asia. 

These  graves  are  of  such  antiquity 
that  no  bones  remain  therein.  There 
are  eight  distinct  types  of  tools  found, 
—  all  stone,  —  and  great  quantities  of 
powdered  red  hematite  occur  in  each 
grave,  seldom  less  than  one  or  two 
quarts,  and  frequently  half  a  bushel. 
No  large  deposit  of  soft  hematite  occurs 
in  Maine,  save  at  Katahdin  Iron  Works; 
and  analysis  indicates  that  the  Indians 
brought  it  from  that  source,  probably 
in  canoes,  possibly  overland,  to  their 
villages  farther  south.  None  of  the 
ochre  masses  has  been  found  in  shell- 
heaps  along  the  coast,  or  in  caches,  or  at 
their  village  sites.  We  therefore  con- 
clude that  it  was  used  in  mortuary 
ceremonies. 

These  types  of  stone  artifacts  per- 
sistently occur  in  the  'Red  Paint  Peo- 
ple's '  graves,  but  in  more  recent  Algon- 
quin burials  they  are  totally  absent. 
We  have  proved  the  existence  of  a  very 
ancient  culture,  different  from  any  other 
in  this  country. 

My  purpose  in  mentioning  these  dis- 
coveries at  some  length  is  merely  to  call 
attention  to  the  interesting  and  un- 
known field  that  we  have  at  hand.  It  is 
now  proposed  to  spend  the  next  eight 
years  in  intensive  exploration  of  ancient 
Indian  places  in  Connecticut,  Rhode 
Island,  and  Massachusetts,  with  the 
cooperation  of  local  historical  and  sci- 
entific societies  and  certain  individuals. 
We  shall  attempt  —  at  least,  in  some 
small  measure  —  to  reconstruct  the  life 
of  our  aborigines  in  pre-Colonial  times; 
and  at  best  our  task  is  beset  with  diffi- 
culties. There  are  no  prominent  monu- 
ments indicating  where  we  shall  exca- 
vate. Our  results  are  obtained  through 
persistent  testing  of  one  region  after 
another,  for  the  surface  indications  are 
meagre.  Land  has  been  cultivated 
hereabouts  for  the  past  two  and  a  half 


BACK-YARD  ARCHAEOLOGY 


327 


centuries,  and  most  of  the  village-site 
indications  forever  destroyed.  We  look 
for  flint,  chert,  or  quartz  chips,  burned 
stone,  and  discolored  soil.  Then  we 
sink  holes  in  search  of  ash-pits  and  pot- 
tery, which  are  signs  of  a  large  or  per- 
manent Indian  town.  Upon  a  knoll,  or 
the  slope  of  a  hill,  near-by,  should  be  the 
cemetery,  and  we  set  the  men  at  work 
searching  for  that.  It  has  been  care- 
fully estimated  that  in  one  hundred 
farms  or  estates  examined,  we  find  one 
site.  Thus,  the  percentage  is  ninety- 
nine  to  one  against  us  —  not  a  very 
attractive  proposition  if  measured  by 
commercial  standards. 

Dr.  Thomas  Wilson,  for  many  years 
Curator  of  Anthropology  in  the  Smith- 
sonian, was  wont  to  utter  a  sentiment 
somewhat  as  follows:  'Evidences  of 
prehistoric  occupation  of  a  given  area 
are  found,  not  in  proportion  as  they  ex- 
ist, but  rather  as  men  search.'  This  is 
especially  true  of  New  England.  Be- 
cause of  the  scarcity  of  remains  and  the 
long  labor  necessary  to  discover  sites, 
zest  and  charm  are  added  to  our  ex- 
plorations. The  element  of  chance  is 
not  so  much  a  factor  as  the  element 
of  discovery  of  new  types.  Common 
broken  bones  from  the  shell-heaps,  if 
occurring  in  lower  layers,  when  studied 
by  Dr.  Allen,  proved  to  be  those  of  the 
extinct  mink,  prehistoric  dog,  and  ex- 
tinct seal.  Our 'Red  Paint  People' cul- 
ture may  be  the  beginnings  of  Eskimo 
culture  —  certainly,  it  is  unlike  any- 
thing else  on  our  continent. 

Descending  the  St.  John  River,  in  ex- 
treme northern  Maine,  a  region  of  un- 
broken forests,  with  no  sign  of  human 
habitation  save  the  occasional  aban- 
doned logging-camp,  we  discover  pot- 
tery at  a  point  farther  north  in  Maine 
than  it  has  been  previously  reported. 
We  land  at  the  mouth  of  Big  Black 
River,  near  the  Quebec  line,  and  find  a 
spruce  forest  growing  over  ancient  ash- 
pits, and  that  here  man  tarried  some 


time  and  manufactured  stone  knives 
and  weapons. 

We  voyaged  down  the  Penobscot  and 
stopped  at  Mattawamkeag.  Here  once 
stood  a  village  of  large  extent,  inhabited 
at  different  times;  for  we  discovered 
one  type  of  implement  on  the  west  bank 
and  other  and  different  forms  on  the 
east  bank.  Upon  the  high  hill  to  the 
north  were  buried  the  later  Abenaki  of 
the  Jesuit  mission;  we  found  some  of 
their  simple  graves,  but  ceased  excavat- 
ing, as  it  has  not  been  our  custom  to 
excavate  in  cemeteries  where  Indians 
were  buried  with  church  rites.  Tradi- 
tion has  it  that  one  of  the  priests  was 
mortally  wounded  when  the  mission 
was  destroyed  by  Massachusetts  troops; 
and  on  the  retreat  of  the  English,  the 
Indians  searched  the  ruins,  found  the 
chapel-bell,  and  buried  it  alongside  the 
good  Father  in  a  simple  grave  oh  that 
hill. 

Many  interesting  things  are  to  be  ob- 
served in  New  England  archaeology. 
Pipes  were  not  so  common  as  in  the 
West  or  South,  and  the  pottery  is  far 
inferior  to  that  of  the  Iroquois  and 
southern  Algonquins.  Thus,  smoking 
was  not  in  general  use  and  the  ceramic 
art  was  undeveloped.  The  stone  axe 
probably  came  in  from  the  West,  and 
does  not  appear  to  be  native  to  the 
region. 

Our  greatest  Indian  population  lay 
along  the  coast,  the  lower  Connecticut 
Valley,  Martha's  Vineyard,  and  Rhode 
Island.  It  is  here  that  the  larger  villages 
of  Pequots,  Narragansetts,  Podunks, 
and  others  were  located.  On  the  large 
town-sites  and  in  the  cemeteries  one 
should  be  able  to  discover  articles  in- 
dicating tribal  commerce  with  bands 
living  in  New  York  or  New  Jersey,  and 
also  to  obtain  specimens  of  aboriginal 
art,  since  the  more  skilled  workmen 
would  naturally  locate  in  the  populous 
communities.  Hence,  when  the  survey 
inspects  the  site  of  King  Philip's  town, 


328 


BACK-YARD  ARCHAEOLOGY 


the  Pequots'  fort,  and  similar  spots,  it 
is  hoped  that  lower  layers  of  the  ash- 
pits will  prove  rich  in  evidence.  There 
must  have  been  Indian  towns  in  New 
England  long  before  the  Smith,  Cabot, 
and  other  visitations.  Whence  these 
people  came,  and  their  relationship  to 
Long  Island  and  New  Jersey  Algon- 
quins  —  all  these  and  similar  questions 
may  not  be  solved,  but  we  shall  cer- 
tainly obtain  more  reliable  data  upon 
their  migrations  or  origins. 

New  England  is  thickly  settled,  and 
most  Indian  sites  are  to-day  occupied 
by  towns.  Where  once  were  wigwams, 
lawns  stretch  down  to  the  sea.  One 
would  suppose  that  we  might  encounter 
opposition  in  securing  permission  to  ex- 
cavate, yet  the  contrary  is  true.  In 
twelve  years  of  expeditions,  we  have 
requested  hundreds  of  owners  to  allow 
us  to  excavate,  and  have  been  refused 
but  ten  times.  This  is  a  remarkable 
record.  One  lady  at  Bar  Harbor  stated 
that  I  could  open  trenches,  provided  no 
dirt  was  left  on  her  lawn.  We  brought 
our  tent-flies  into  service,  used  a  sod- 
cutter,  rolled  the  turf  and  stacked  it  on 
one  tent,  the  earth  on  another.  We 
dug  large  pits,  filled  them  carefully,  re- 
placed the  sod,  and  wet  it  down.  My 
men,  proud  of  a  good  job,  have  always, 
with  one  accord,  agreed  that  she  paid 
them  their  greatest  compliment.  We 
worked  three  hours;  she,  meanwhile, 
played  auction  bridge  with  her  friends 
in  the  cottage.  When  we  had  finished, 
she  came  out,  looked  over  the  lawn, 
and  asked  me  when  we  were  to  begin 
digging! 

At  Orland,  Maine,  a  cemetery  ex- 
tended under  a  large  barn,  filled  with 
new  hay.  The  owner  consented  to  ex- 
plorations, provided  his  hay  was  not 
left  out  over-night.  We  secured  extra 
labor,  moved  the  stock,  vehicles,  and 
hay  outside,  took  up  the  floor,  and 
found  seventeen  graves.  These  were 
opened  and  photographed.  Then  the 


floor  was  relaid,  the  stock  led  back,  hay 
put  in  the  mow,  and  work  finished  be- 
fore dark.  We  have  taken  up  trees  and 
flower-beds,  moved  pens  and  sheds, 
worked  under  a  saw-mill,  and  even  dug 
in  railroad  yards.  One  wealthy  lady 
would  not  permit  us  to  complete  an  im- 
portant cemetery  because  the  pine- 
needles  covering  the  sand  might  be  dis- 
turbed. These  had  fallen  from  'runt' 
pines  out  on  an  ocean-swept  point,  and 
were  of  no  size.  I  offered  to  send  the 
men  with  a  team  into  a  heavy  pine 
growth  a  mile  distant  and  bring  her  a 
wagon  load  of  larger  needles;  but  in 
vain.  Nature  had  deposited  those  pine 
'spills,'  and  they  must  remain.  Hence, 
we  were  compelled  to  desist;  but  local 
people  dug  there  Sundays,  undermined 
her  precious  trees,  and  they  all  fell! 
Therefore,  she  lost  both  trees  and  nee- 
dles, and  the  cemetery  was  lost  to 
science. 

There  is  a  charm  in  New  England 
archaeological  research.  Most  explorers 
prefer  difficult  tasks,  and  finding  evi- 
dences of  our  prehistoric  American 
predecessors  in  this  region  is  not  easy. 
It  is  pleasant,  this  voyaging  along  in 
the  canoe,  carrying  a  crew  of  State 
o'  Maine  men,  who  have  accompanied 
us  on  many  a  trip  —  the  Susquehan- 
na,  Texas  deserts,  Connecticut,  Lake 
Champlain,  New  Brunswick,  and  all 
the  Maine  rivers.  We  land  at  a  conve- 
nient spot,  and  set  up  camp  in  thirty- 
two  minutes.  All  hands  help  the  cook, 
and  we  get  four  tents  erected  and  bag- 
gage stored  within  that  time.  Then  we 
scatter  and  look  for  surface  signs.  The 
farmers  or  villagers  come  to  camp,  and 
our  mission  is  explained.  They  are  very 
accommodating  and  kind  —  only  the 
foreigners  living  in  the  lower  Connecti- 
cut have  caused  us  trouble. 

One  might  suggest  that  explorers  in 
distant  lands  face  dangers,  and  that  our 
work,  contrasted  with  theirs,  is  both 
simple  and  easy.  I  have  worked  in  the 


BACK-YARD  ARCHEOLOGY 


329 


Southwest  in  early  days,  before  the 
automobile,  and  personally  know  one's 
sufferings  in  sand-storms,  how  one 
feels  when  without  water  in  the  desert. 
I  have  had  trouble  with  horse-thieves, 
been  in  quicksand,  and  experienced 
kindred  discomforts.  Yet,  in  July  or 
August  in  the  North  Woods,  the  'five 
standard  flies '  have  made  life  miserable 
for  the  survey,  and  have  caused  more 
real  inconvenience  than  we  ever  expe- 
rienced on  that  famous  Far  Western 
Painted  Desert.  The  running  of  our 
canoes,  one  at  a  time,  safely  through 
the  worst  part  of  the  fifteen-mile  falls 
on  the  Connecticut,  by  Ralph  Dorr, 
was  a  performance  unsurpassed  by  any- 
thing ever  witnessed  by  us  on  the  West- 
ern surveys.  Navigating  three  long 
open  canoes  in  a  heavy  sea-fog,  from 
Bangor  to  Castine  hi  one  day,  consti- 
tuted a  record  of  which  the  crew  may 
justly  be  proud. 

So,  if  one  should  suppose  that  there 
are  no  'adventures'  possible  in  line  of 
duty  (for  we  never  take  unnecessary 
risks)  in  New  England  explorations, 
that  person  should,  if  possible,  join  us 
on  our  last  trip  to  Maine  to  be  made  this 
summer,  when  we  hope  to  examine  the 
upper  Aroostook  and  head  of  the  East 
Branch,  and  from  thence  travel  across 
northern  Maine  to  the  upper  St.  John 


waters,  turn  southeast,  and  work  down 
to  the  Rangeleys. 

There  are  not  many  indications  of 
ancient  Indian  occupation  in  that  re- 
gion, for  natives  could  exist  with  less 
hardships  nearer  the  coast.  As  the 
colonists  spread  inland,  there  was  an  In- 
dian migration  northward;  but  there  is 
no  evidence  of  long-continued  residence 
north  of  the  central  portion  of  the  state. 
Indeed,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  the  In- 
dian occupation  of  much  of  Maine  and 
Canada  is  comparatively  recent. 

Quite  likely  the  next  few  years  of  ex- 
ploration along  the  lower  Connecticut 
River,  and  the  coast  from  New  Haven 
to  Providence  (including  a  strip  some 
twenty  miles  back  from  salt  water), 
will  prove  that  we  had  a  considerable 
Indian  population  prior  to  the  Smith 
and  Cabot  voyages.  The  relationship 
of  these  tribes  to  other  Algonquins  is  to 
be  carefully  studied,  through  a  compar- 
ison of  artifacts.  Archaeology  alone 
must  furnish  the  evidence,  since  lan- 
guages and  folk-lore  of  native  Ameri- 
cans living  prior  to  1600  are  unknown. 

A  few  years  hence,  the  pages  of  New 
England  Indian  history  previous  to  Eu- 
ropean contact  will  have  been  written. 
We  shall  then  realize  that  our  aborigi- 
nes played  no  unimportant  part  in  the 
life  of  the  American  red  race. 


PIONEERS 


BY  MRS.  A.  DEVEREUX 


[The  following  authentic  letters,  which  the  Atlantic  has  been  privileged  to  copy  from 
the  yellowing  sheets  still  in  the  writer's  possession,  tell  a  story  of  the  pioneer  spirit 
which  ought  to  be  preserved.  No  introduction  is  necessary,  but  the  reader  should  know 
that  the  writer  was,  in  1865,  a  wife  of  ten  years.  Mrs.  Devereux  still  lives,  at  the 
age  of  ninety-three.] 


COLUMBUS,  NEBRASKA,  October  15,  1865. 
(Geographical  centre  of  the  United  States) 

DEAR  MOTHER,  — 

I  have  a  long  story  to  tell  you,  of  why 
I  am  here  with  Will,  in  this  small,  rough 
prairie  village,  so  small  and  remote,  I  am 
sure  you  have  never  heard  of  it  before. 
It  is  90  miles  from  our  home  in  Council 
Bluffs,  with  no  nearer  settlement  of  any 
size  in  any  direction,  and  hundreds  of 
miles  from  any  railroad,  and  I  doubt  if 
the  view  from  our  window  would  im- 
press you  very  favorably,  yet  it  seems 
very  good  to  us  to  be  here. 

My  last  letter  to  you  told  of  Will's 
successful  return  journey  from  Denver, 
as  far  as  Cottonwood  Springs;  from 
Fort  Kearney  later  he  wrote  of  greatly 
improved  health:  he  would  be  home 
ready  for  duty  in  two  weeks  more,  com- 
ing on  slowly  to  get  the  full  benefit  of 
longer  outdoor  life  in  the  early  Oc- 
tober days;  and  his  enthusiasm  over 
wagon-travel  and  camping-out  for 
health  was  greater  than  ever.  Ranches 
were  not  so  far  apart,  and  the  ranch 
women  could  bake  his  bread,  which, 
he  owned,  with  his  own  baking  in  the 
Dutch  oven,  had  been  often  very  poor. 
Nor  need  he  wait  to  join  the  slow  prog- 
ress of  pack-trains,  as  he  was  forced  to 
do  farther  West,  where  the  Indians  were 
dangerous  and  an  escort  of  soldiers  was 
furnished.  He  would  enjoy  camping  by 

330 


himself  in  freedom  and  quiet,  and  he 
would  soon  be  home. 

At  4  o'clock  P.M.  of  the  very  day  this 
letter  reached  me,  a  telegram  came  from 
Grand  Island,  saying,  'Very  ill  by  the 
roadside;  come  at  once  and  bring  the 
doctor.'  You  can  imagine  how  dazed  I 
was  for  an  instant,  and  then  the  impulse 
to  move  heaven  and  earth  to  reach 
him  quickly;  but  where  Grand  Island 
was,  or  how  I  was  to  get  there,  I  knew 
no  more  than  if  I  had  not  lived  two 
years  at  one  of  the  gateways  to  that 
great  plain  stretching  500  miles  west 
to  Denver. 

I  called  to  a  passing  friend,  who,  for- 
tunately, was  a  woman  of  presence  of 
mind,  and  had  been  to  Denver  herself. 
She  recalled  at  once  the  important  fact 
that  it  was  the  day  for  the  Overland 
coach,  which  only  every  other  day  left 
Omaha  at  evening  for  Denver;  and  it 
was  nearly  time  for  the  last  boat  on  the 
ferry  to  Omaha,  and  the  ferry  was  two 
miles  away. 

'Send  me  the  doctor  and  someone  to 
take  me  to  Omaha,'  was  all  that  I  wait- 
ed to  say;  and  hastened  to  put  the  few 
things  in  my  bag  I  could  think  of. 

She  found  our  good  friend  and  bank- 
er, Mr.  Deming,  at  the  first  corner,  in 
his  buggy,  and  he  drove  to  the  door  at 
once,  and  offered  to  see  me  started  on 
the  coach;  and  best  of  all,  a  need  I  had 


PIONEERS 


331 


not  yet  thought  of,  he  could  furnish  me 
funds  for  the  journey,  and  arrange,  as 
we  drove  on,  for  any  emergency  which 
should  call  for  more.  It  was  impossible 
for  the  doctor  to  go  with  me,  but  he 
came  to  me,  and  gave  me  all  the  advice 
he  could. 

In  half  an  hour  from  the  time  the 
telegram  reached  me,  we  were  on  our 
way,  and  I  had  a  little  tune  to  collect 
myself  before  reaching  the  ferry.  I  was 
so  absorbed  in  going  over  that  terrible 
telegram,  to  gain  some  new  light  on  it, 
that  I  had  no  fear  or  hesitation  about 
taking  the  journey,  nor  did  I  recall 
what  little  I  knew  about  such  rough 
travel  in  the  unsettled  West,  or  what  it 
might  demand  of  my  strength,  if  not  of 
my  courage;  and  I  wondered,  vaguely, 
why  Mr.  Deming  should  ask  me  if  I 
were  sure  I  had  better  try  to  go.  Of 
course  I  must  go. 

We  reached  Omaha  just  in  time,  and 
Mr.  Deming  secured  the  whole  of  the 
back  seat  of  the  coach  for  me;  and  as  I 
crawled  into  it  at  9  o'clock,  in  the  dark- 
ness, I  heard  the  driver  say,  'Two 
nights  and  a  day  will  bring  her  there'; 
and  the  dim  lanterns  outside  showed 
me  Mr.  Deming's  pale  and  frightened 
face  as  we  rolled  away. 

It  was  well  fear  was  not  added  to  my 
anxiety.  The  rapid  movement  of  the 
four  horses  gave  me  relief,  and  the  in- 
tense silence  of  the  black  night  left  me 
free  to  think;  for  though  Mr.  Deming 
said  with  trembling  voice,  as  he  shut 
the  coach-door,  'A  lady  going  to  her 
sick  husband;  won't  you  be  kind  to 
her?'  and  I  was  conscious  of  persons  in 
the  other  seats,  I  thought  no  more  of 
them,  and  set  about  making  myself 
comfortable  enough  for  one  who  could 
not  sleep.  I  rolled  the  ill-smelling  blan- 
ket into  pillows,  and  made  a  tent-cover 
from  head  to  foot  of  the  big  mosquito 
net  that  my  thoughtful  friends  insisted 
I  should  take,  as  I  left  home. 

When  day  dawned,  we  had  left  the 


rolling  hills  between  Omaha  and  the 
Elkhorn  behind  us,  and  were  passing 
rapidly  over  the  plains  of  the  Platte 
valley.  I  had  grudged  the  delays  of  the 
night,  when  they  stopped  to  change 
horses,  for  every  hour  made  one  less  of 
that  terrible  sum  of  '  two  nights  and  a 
day,'  before  I  could  reach  Will,  'ill  by 
the  roadside';  but  when  the  light  be- 
came  clearer  in  the  coach,  there  was  a 
moment's  sense  of  repugnance,  but  no 
fear,  when  I  met  the  eyes  of  three  of 
the  roughest-looking  men  I  had  ever 
seen,  staring  at  me.  They  had  not 
spoken  a  word  through  the  long  night, 
I  believe  in  kindness  to  a  lone  woman, 
though  they  seemed  not  only  coarse, 
but  dull.  They  rarely  spoke  to  each 
other  during  the  time  I  was  with  them, 
and  never  to  me;  and  when  awake, 
seemed  filled  with  astonishment  at  my 
presence  there. 

At  the  noon  station  a  new  passenger 
took  the  vacant  seat  in  front  of  me,  and 
it  was  very  pleasant  to  see  the  unmis- 
takable signs  of  a  more  cultivated  type 
of  man.  He  was  kind  to  me,  giving  me 
helpful  attentions  at  the  rough  stage- 
stations,  where  we  tried  to  eat.  Once 
he  insisted,  without  any  complaint  of 
mine,  that  a  basin  of  water  should  be 
placed  on  a  chair  inside  the  shanty  for 
my  use,  instead  of  my  sharing  with  the 
men  the  towels  and  basin  on  the  bench 
outside  the  door.  A  sense  of  being  pro- 
tected by  this  good  man  encouraged  a 
little  sleep,  and  the  slow  hours  wore  on. 

Toward  night  I  began  to  inquire 
about  Grand  Island,  supposing  that  I 
was  to  go  on  to  that  station,  and  should 
reach  it  next  morning.  But  when,  later, 
the  driver  was  changed  with  the  horses, 
the  new  one  came  to  the  coach-door 
and  asked,  'Is  there  a  woman  here, 
going  to  her  sick  husband?'  To  my 
eager  inquiries  of  what  he  could  tell  me 
about  Will,  he  could  only  say,  'They 
told  me  to  watch  out  for  ye,  and  leave 
ye  at  Lone  Tree;  get  there  in  the  night 


332 


PIONEERS 


some  time.'  This,  I  found,  was  eight 
miles  east  of  Grand  Island,  from  which 
the  telegram  came. 

After  midnight  I  began  to  peer  into 
the  darkness  with  beating  heart,  full  of 
vague  and  terrible  fears.  I  think  my 
friend  in  the  coach  was  anxious,  too, 
with  too  much  sympathy  to  sleep;  for 
he  was  good  to  me  in  a  silent  way, 
which  helped  me  to  wait  quietly. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the 
coach  suddenly  stopped,  and  we  knew 
it  was  not  to  change  horses;  it  was  too 
quiet.  The  coach-door  opened,  and  in 
silence  my  neighbor  sprang  out,  and  I 
silently  followed.  The  driver  bade  us 
make  for  a  dim  light  not  far  away;  it 
was  a  lantern  hanging  under  Will's 
wagon,  standing  by  the  roadside.  My 
friend  helped  me  to  climb  into  the  dark 
opening  under  the  canvas  cover,  from 
which  a  voice  strangely  unnatural  call- 
ed faintly,  'I  thought  you  would  never 
come;  now  let  me  go  to  sleep.' 

Instinctively  I  knew  there  was  peril, 
though  I  could  not  distinguish  his  face. 

The  stranger  exclaimed,  'I  can't 
leave  you  so;  this  is  dreadful;  I  will 
stay.' 

But  I  knew  Will  must,  first  of  all, 
get  rest  that  night.  No  doubt  he  had 
forced  himself  to  keep  awake  until  the 
coach  came  by.  I  hope  the  man  knew  I 
was  grateful  for  his  kindness,  but  I 
could  only  whisper,  'Go  on;  I  can  do; 
send  me  a  physician  if  you  can  find  one.' 
Later  on,  I  did  get  comfort  at  a  critical 
time,  through  his  remembrance  of  us, 
though  he  found  no  physician. 

I  crawled  along  the  wagon-bed  until 
I  came  to  Will's  head,  and  sat  down  on 
the  straw  and  soothed  him  to  sleep. 
He  was  too  ill  to  tell  me  anything  about 
himself,  only  feebly  saying  once,  'I 
shall  get  well  now.' 

When  it  was  light  enough  to  see,  I 
crept  out  the  front,  and  found  the 
wagon  was  drawn  up  beside  an  old 
empty  hut,  and  near-by  was  a  newly 


built  log-cabin,  and  a  long  sod-barn, 
and  no  other  habitation  in  sight.  Two 
half-grown  boys  came  out  of  the  new 
cabin,  and  I  went  in  to  find  someone  to 
get  me  the  nourishment  I  must  have  for 
Will,  and  food  for  myself,  and  to  learn 
something  about  him. 

A  frowzy,  dull-eyed  woman  met  me; 
her  yellow  face  and  yellow  hair  and 
lank  figure  told  me  the  kind  of  emigrant 
she  was.  She  seemed  to  have  not  a 
particle  of  interest  in  the  sick  man  out- 
side; had  I  been  some  unknown  species 
of  human  kind,  she  could  not  have  ap- 
peared more  dazed.  A  coarse-featured 
girl  of  eighteen,  maybe,  joined  her,  and 
paying  no  attention  to  my  wants,  they 
continued  to  stand  silent,  and  stare  at 
my  face,  my  clothes,  and  my  hair. 

I  think  nothing  up  to  that  time  came 
so  near  breaking  my  courage  as  the  si- 
lent stare  of  that  dull,  passionless  wo- 
man. I  knew  then  that  I  was  little  bet- 
ter than  alone,  on  the  wide  prairie,  with 
a  very  sick  man. 

I  begged  for  fire,  and  hot  water,  and 
milk,  and  gamed  by  degrees  from  them, 
that  Will  had  come  to  their  cabin  a 
week  before  and  given  his  horses  to  the 
care  of  the  sons,  because  he  was  ill,  and 
had  sent  one  of  them  back  to  Grand 
Island  with  the  dispatch  to  me,  later; 
and  they  had  made  soup  for  him  once, 
when  he  said  they  must.  Did  I  think 
he  would  die?  and,  Was  it  a  catching 
sickness? 

I  knew  as  little  as  they  what  his  sick- 
ness was;  but  I  meant  that  he  should 
not  die,  and  that  they  should  give  me 
help,  though  I  did  not  say  so.  The  hot 
milk  I  gave  him  revived  him,  and  he 
slept  again,  while  I  searched  his  box  of 
stores,  and  made  myself  a  homelike  cup 
of  tea  on  their  old  broken  cook-stove. 
A  spider  and  a  kettle  were  all  the  uten- 
sils they  had;  but  I  cleaned  up  Will's 
saucepans,  and  then  looked  about  me. 
He  could  not  stay  longer  in  that  wagon. 
I  could  not  climb  in  and  out,  and  care 


PIONEERS 


333 


for  him.  They  insisted  there  was  no 
place  for  him  in  their  cabin,  and  indeed 
he  needed  quiet  and  good  air,  which 
he  would  not  have  there;  but  I  found 
in  the  old  hut  a  bedstead  frame,  with 
boards  across  it,  and  on  them  a  ragged 
hay-bed. 

The  floor  of  the  hut  was  like  that  of 
an  old  barn,  and  the  sod-roof  was  bro- 
ken La  spots,  but  was  shelter  enough  for 
those  mild  sunny  days.  I  asked  for 
fresh  hay  for  the  bed,  and  in  perfect 
silence  they  did  just  what  I  bade  them 
to  do,  and  then  stood  again  and  stared 
at  me. 

The  bed  was  the  sole  piece  of  furni- 
ture in  the  hut,  and  there  was  not  much 
more  in  the  newer  cabin.  I  looked  about 
for  a  box  to  serve  as  a  chair,  but  none 
could  be  found.  A  cask  of  onions  and 
one  of  oats  stood  at  one  side  of  the 
small  square  room,  and  the  chickens 
ran  in  and  out  of  the  broken  door,  freely, 
all  day.  When  the  boys  came  to  their 
breakfast,  I  got  them  to  carry  Will  to 
the  hut  on  the  mattress-bed  in  his 
wagon,  on  which  he  had  slept  during 
his  two  months'  journey;  and  on  my 
taking  off  his  heavy  clothing,  he  slept 
more  quietly,  but  could  tell  me  little 
about  himself. 

I  gradually  learned  that,  after  his 
last  letter  to  me,  he  had  failed  for  some 
nights  to  get  good  sleep.  Mosquitoes 
appeared  in  swarms,  and  horse-thieves 
were  about,  so  that  Punch  and  Judy 
had  to  be  watched  at  night.  He  felt 
himself  growing  ill,  and  pushed  on, 
hoping  at  least  to  get  to  Columbus,  the 
nearest  place  he  could  find  advice  and 
care.  But  that  was  60  miles  farther 
east,  and  when  his  strength  gave  out 
entirely,  he  stopped  beside  this  cabin, 
because  there  was  a  barn  where  his 
horses  could  be  made  safe.  How  he  had 
lived  since  he  sent  the  dispatch,  he  did 
not  know.  He  thinks  the  women  brought 
him  water,  and  he  wanted  nothing  more. 
He  was  waiting  for  me. 


I  made  a  seat  for  myself  on  the  foot 
of  his  bed,  with  his  overcoat  as  a  pil- 
low, and  watched,  and  fed  him  with  all 
the  nourishing  things  I  could  contrive 
from  our  limited  stores,  and  did  not 
know  enough  to  know  that  he  had  a 
low  malarial  fever,  fast  assuming  a 
typhus  form.  He  insisted  that  he  need- 
ed nothing  but  rest,  and  in  his  weak 
state  I  dared  not  experiment  with  the 
few  medicines  I  had  with  me.  I  ate  in 
the  other  cabin,  with  the  silent  family, 
living  mostly  on  rice  and  crackers,  and 
tea  of  my  own  making;  their  bacon  and 
mashed  potatoes,  with  the  bacon  fat 
stirred  into  the  potato  until  it  was  al- 
most a  soup,  was  intolerable  to  me;  and 
badly  made  hot  soda  bread,  with  cof- 
fee, was  all  they  had  besides  to  eat. 

They  came  west  from  Southern  In- 
diana. The  women  wore  home-made 
linsey-woolsey  gowns,  with  straight, 
scant  skirts,  and  I  envied  them,  as  I 
went  about  in  the  dust  with  full  skirts 
and  hoops;  so  I  packed  away  the  hoops, 
and  sewed  up  my  skirts  in  festoons, 
and  laid  aside  my  small  hat,  which 
seemed  so  absurd  a  covering  in  that 
spot,  and  went  bareheaded  to  and  fro  in 
the  sun. 

One  evening  the  boys  came  in  with 
an  antelope  thrown  across  one  of  their 
ponies,  which  they  had  shot  at  some 
distance,  somewhere,  and  I  thought 
Will  could  have  soup,  and  I  could  have 
a  change  in  food;  but  before  morning 
they  had  it  all  packed  in  salt,  and  the 
stew  they  made  for  dinner  had  a  dread- 
ful taste. 

All  day  long  the  sun  shone  from  a 
cloudless  sky.  A  few  rods  in  front  of  our 
door,  the  perfectly  level  trail  to  Den- 
ver stretched  in  a  yellow  line  of  dust  to 
the  limits  of  the  horizon,  east  and  west. 
Four  or  five  miles  away,  a  brown  spot 
indicated  a  cabin,  and  a  dun  fringe  of 
low  trees,  still  farther  away,  marked 
a  stream;  otherwise,  the  circle  of  the 
horizon  bounded  an  unbroken  plain, 


334 


PIONEERS 


green  as  m  summer,  but  utterly  silent 
and  unvaried,  except  when  clouds  of 
dust  rose  in  the  west,  and  long  lines  of 
oxen  came  slowly  by  the  door,  some- 
times as  many  as  sixteen  pairs  fastened 
behind  each  other,  drawing  as  many 
huge  white-covered  empty  wagons  on 
their  return  trip  to  Omaha.  Made 
up  in  this  fashion,  one  or  more  men 
could  manage  the  train  returning;  and 
in  these  days  of  emigration  west,  wagon- 
drivers  could  be  readily  found  to  go 
to  Denver;  but  few  wished  to  return. 
Every  day  the  stage-coach  passed,  east 
or  west,  and  it  seemed  a  friendly  link 
between  us  and  the  world,  150  miles 
away. 

The  mail  was  carried  the  alternate 
day  on  a  buckboard  with  a  single  seat, 
sometimes  shared  with  the  driver  by  a 
passenger.  After  ten  days  of  hope  and 
despair,  I  saw  plain  signs  of  increasing 
weakness  in  Will,  and  watched  eagerly 
for  the  buckboard  to  pass  at  noon. 
I  must  get  advice  from  someone,  if 
only  from  the  stage-man.  It  seemed  odd 
that  it  should  halt  before  I  went  out, 
and  a  passenger  should  spring  out  and 
come  at  once  to  me,  asking,  'How  is 
your  husband?'  I  knew  at  a  glance  he 
was  an  Eastern  man  and  a  gentleman; 
and  oh!  the  intense  relief  to  my  over- 
strained nerves  just  the  sight  of  him 
gave  me,  utter  stranger  as  he  was. 

In  a  few  words  he  explained:  he  had 
heard  of  our  desolate  state  from  the 
man  who  was  kind  to  me  in  the  coach 
when  I  came  to  Will;  he  was  not  sure 
he  should  find  us  still  there,  butf  he 
would  inquire.  He  was  engineer  of  the 
force  then  at  work  at  points  east  and 
west,  surveying  the  line  of  the  Union 
Pacific  Railroad. 

I  could  not  speak  of  our  great  need, 
but  he  turned  away  and  ordered  the 
man  to  go  on  without  him.  I  protested, 
'You  will  lose  your  place  in  the  stage, 
and  cannot  get  away  from  here,  maybe 
for  days.' 


'I  can  walk,  and  nine  miles  farther  on 
I  have  a  corps  of  men,  and  can  overtake 
them.' 

'But  you  will  have  no  place  to  sleep, 
and  little  to  eat.' 

'I  shall  do;  and  this  is  dreadful  for 
you  and  your  husband,'  he  said,  and 
bade  the  stage-man  go  on.  He  told  me 
he  knew  nothing  at  all  of  sickness,  and 
Will  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  sight  of 
a  strange  face;  so  he  sat  down  on  the 
wagon-tongue  outside,  and  I  went  back 
to  the  hut  with  more  courage. 

He  brought  me  my  food  to  the  door; 
and  when,  at  evening,  the  mosquitoes 
grew  worse  than  usual,  he  built  a 
smudge  of  damp  grass  before  the  door, 
and  all  night  I  saw  him  at  intervals, 
pacing  backwards  and  forwards  beside 
it.  He  could  not  rest  in  the  wagon 
even,  for  there  were  no  blankets,  and  the 
mosquitoes  had  taken  possession.  To- 
ward morning  Will  revived,  and  I  could 
leave  him,  to  consult  with  my  new 
friend  a  moment.  He  said  I  must  send 
one  of  those  boys  back  twenty-five  miles 
to  Wood  River,  where  there  was  said  to 
be  a  physician;  and  he  undertook  the 
task  of  getting  the  boy  off. 

Then,  finding  he  could  do  little  for 
us,  and  the  coach  going  east  fortunate- 
ly having  a  vacant  seat,  he  took  it, 
charging  me,  if  we  needed  assistance 
later,  either  there  or  on  our  way  east, 
to  send  someone  to  hunt  up  a  surveying- 
party,  and  he  would  give  orders  to 
them,  along  the  line,  to  go  at  once  at 
my  call.  This  gave  me  much  comfort; 
for  a  vague,  horrible  sense  had  been 
growing  clearer  to  me  of  what  might  be 
my  needs  if  Will  did  not  improve  in 
that  desolate  land,  sixty  miles  from  an 
Eastern  settlement. 

The  doctor  came  next  day;  he  proved 
to  be  a  German,  from  a  small  cattle- 
ranch,  with  little  knowledge  of  English, 
and  less  of  medicine.  He  looked  at  Will 
in  astonishment  and  then  at  me,  and 
fairly  gasped  as  he  exclaimed,  'What- 


PIONEERS 


335 


ever  sent  such  a  man  as  he  out  here?' 
Will's  pale,  refined  face  certainly  was 
not  that  of  the  ordinary  '  freighter '  he 
had  prescribed  for. 

He  finally  said  that  he  did  n't  know 
what  to  do  for '  his  kind,'  and  he  thought 
'he  would  die  if  he  did  n't  get  out  of 
here,'  and  he  'minded  he  would  any- 
way'; and  then  he  turned  away  indif- 
ferently, and  went  to  gossip  with  the 
woman  in  the  cabin. 

That  coarse  bluntness  was  needed  to 
settle  my  mind.  We  must  move  east 
early  next  morning,  and  that  man 
should  go  with  us  and  drive.  He  pro- 
tested that  he  could  not.  He  must  go 
back  to  his  cattle.  But  I  still  had  some 
faith  in  his  medical  knowledge,  and 
meant  he  should  go  with  us,  and  set 
about  getting  ready.  Will  was  too  ill  to 
counsel  me  about  arrangements,  and 
the  wagon  was  ready  to  start  before  I 
disturbed  him,  to  tell  him  my  plans. 

My  firmness  about  its  being  best  to 
go  gave  him  courage  to  allow  us  to  move 
him  carefully  into  his  old  place  in  the 
wagon ;  and  when  I  turned  to  the  doctor, 
who  still  doggedly  declared  he  could 
not  go,  and  told  him  to  get  into  the 
driver's  seat  at  once,  he  obeyed,  as  if  I 
had  some  right  to  control  him. 

With  our  small  store  of  brandy  at 
hand,  I  climbed  in  beside  Will,  and  we 
moved  on  slowly.  At  first  the  motion 
exhausted  him;  but  he  was  certainly 
no  worse  when  we  halted  at  noon,  four 
or  five  miles  on ;  and  at  the  end  of  a  short 
day's  journey,  we  found,  at  a  ranch, 
a  comfortable  lounge  in  the  living- 
room  of  the  family,  which  made  a  bed 
for  him;  and  he  took  milk  more  freely, 
and  slept  quietly;  and  I  lay  on  the 
floor  beside  him,  and  slept,  too. 

It  was  strange  how  little  sleep  I 
needed,  and  how  little  I  minded  the 
roughness  of  everything. 

Still  under  protest  that  his-  cattle 
would  suffer  for  care,  the  German 
helped  me  make  things  comfortable  for 


the  second  day's  journey,  and,  to  my 
relief,  went  with  us,  though  sulky  and 
silent.  As  for  nursing  or  giving  advice 
to  his  patient,  the  man  was  utterly  in- 
capable; but  I  believed  he  could  drive 
and  care  for  the  horses;  and,  in  my 
anxiety,  I  had  failed  to  take  carefully 
the  direction  in  which  the  surveying- 
party  were  to  be  found,  and  no  one 
seemed  to  know  anything  about  them, 
nor  could  we  make  any  delay  with 
safety,  to  find  help  from  them.  We 
must  make  a  longer  drive  that  day,  to 
reach  shelter  at  night;  but  the  death- 
like look  had  gone  from  poor  Will's 
face,  and  the  smooth  prairie  trail  gave 
little  jar  to  the  spring  wagon,  as  the 
horses  never  moved  faster  than  a  steady 
walk. 

Noontime  brought  us  to  the  best  sod- 
house  I  had  seen;  it  was  really  a  com- 
fortable home.  There  were  no  floors, 
but  the  ground  was  hard  and  polished, 
and  the  inside  walls  were  covered  with 
white  cotton  cloth,  and  a  ceiling,  made 
of  the  cloth,  was  suspended  under  the 
roof  of  sod-covered  poles.  I  made  tea 
and  toast  for  Will  on  the  good  cook- 
stove,  and  ate  with  relish,  myself,  the 
good  dinner  that  the  wholesome-look- 
ing women  of  the  house  prepared  for 
the  doctor  and  me;  for  though  it  was 
not  a  stage-station,  in  that  new  coun- 
try all  houses  'keep,'  as  the  people  say. 
At  night,  the  house  where  we  had 
planned  to  stay  was  more  pretentious, 
but  I  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  ranch 
men  and  women  who  came  out  to  help 
us;  and  having  my  choice  between  a  bed 
in  the  living-room  of  the  family  and  one 
in  an  empty  old  cabin  near-by,  I  chose 
the  latter.  The  door  would  not  shut, 
the  bed  was  not  clean,  the  dirt-floor 
was  no  better  than  the  roadway,  and 
the  dust  from  the  old  sod-roof  above  us 
lay  in  black  ridges  on  our  faces  next 
morning;  but  it  was  enough  that  Will 
was  certainly  gaming  strength. 

The  weather  was  still  soft  and  mild, 


336 


PIONEERS 


and  the  sun  shone  all  day;  the  air  was  a 
tonic,  and  Will  dozed  away  the  hours 
in  comfort.  I  had  been  able  to  buy  an 
empty  soap-box,  of  which  I  made  a  bet- 
ter seat  for  myself,  and  we  started,  with 
good  courage,  on  our  last  day's  ride 
to  Columbus,  where  we  should  find  a 
hotel  and  a  good  physician,  and  could 
dismiss  our  German,  and  rest  until  Will 
was  well  enough  to  go  home. 

But  a  new  trouble  met  me.  Our  dri- 
ver had  found  whiskey  at  the  ranch,  and 
brought  a  bottle  away  with  him.  He 
soon  fell  asleep  and,  after  a  little,  tum- 
bled in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon, 
under  the  high  seat.  I  could  not  reach 
the  reins  nor  dare  I  alarm  Will,  who  was 
sleeping  and  had  observed  nothing.  I 
only  hoped  the  man  would  continue  to 
sleep,  for  the  dear  horses  were  old 
friends,  and  I  knew  they  would  keep  to 
the  trail,  and  turn  all  right  if  they  should 
meet  a  train,  which  was  not  likely  to 
happen,  as  at  this  season  they  were  all 
going  east.  Before  we  reached  the 
crossing  at  the  Loup  River,  not  far  from 
Columbus,  which  was  a  difficult  ford 
and  my  dread  all  the  anxious  day,  the 
man  had  slept  off  his  stupor  enough  to 
climb  to  his  seat  and  take  the  reins 
again;  and  to  my  great  relief,  another 
single  wagon,  like  our  own,  was  about 
to  crawl  down  the  steep  bank  into  the 
deepest  portion  of  the  current.  Our 
Punch  and  Judy  did  not  need  guiding 
to  follow  the  lead;  and  we  went  safely 
on  across  the  many  islands  and  chan- 
nels of  the  wide  river,  dangerous,  some 
of  them,  from  quicksands,  if  you  lost  the 
trail,  and  soon  after  drew  up  before 
this  house,  where  I  am  writing  to  you; 
and  it  seems  a  palace  to  me,  though  it 
really  is  a  dingy  two-story  building, 
very  bareand  common-looking.  Freight- 
ers and  stage-drivers,  dressed  in  rather 
uncouth  style,  lounged  on  the  dirty  nar- 
row porch;  but  I  climbed  down  from 
the  rear  of  the  wagon,  in  my  soiled, 
oddly  draped  cotton  dress,  with  a  con- 


fidence in  their  good-will  that  I  did  not 
find  misplaced.  A  dozen  strong  men 
came  forward  to  lift  Will  out,  and  take 
off  the  horses,  and  unpack  the  wagon  — 
not  employees  of  the  house,  but  its 
guests  on  the  porch;  and  if  I  had  sug- 
gested to  them  to  take  that  drunken 
doctor  away  and  hang  him,  I  think  they 
would  have  done  it. 

An  Ohio  woman  kept  the  hotel;  she 
had  heard  of  us  from  the  stage-men,  and 
a  word  secured  us  a  room  up  the  stairs, 
in  her  barrack-like  house,  though  it  was 
already  overfull  of  men. 

The  wretch  who  had  kept  me  in  fear 
all  day,  and  could  then  stand  with  dif- 
ficulty, was  paid  and  dismissed.  He  had 
seemed  to  obey  me  in  coming,  as  if  I 
owned  the  world;  and  I  am  sure  he  be- 
lieved I  owned  it  all  when  I  paid  him 
what  he  asked  for  coming;  but  it  mat- 
tered little  to  me  so  long  as  we  were  safe 
and  among  friends,  and  Will  was  bet- 
ter. I  ate  my  supper  with  pleasure, 
though  the  forty  rough  men  seated  at 
the  table  with  me  seemed  much  embar- 
rassed at  my  presence.  I  recognized 
respect  for  me  in  my  helpless  state, 
when  they  scarcely  lifted  their  eyes 
from  the  table,  and  spoke  to  each  other 
in  whispers. 

But  oh,  dear!  when  I  came  back  to 
our  room,  hoping  to  find  Will  resting 
and  happy,  he  was,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  illness,  wildly  delirious.  The  sight 
of  so  many  people,  and  the  bustle  and 
noise  of  the  house,  after  the  worries 
of  the  day,  were  too  much  for  his  weak 
state.  I  sent  in  haste  for  the  physician 
here  whom  I  had  heard  of,  and  when  he 
came,  I  saw  I  could  rely  on  his  aid  and 
his  knowledge.  He  gave  a  quieting 
medicine,  and  this  morning,  as  I  sit  be- 
side Will,  writing,  he  is  quite  himself, 
resting  and  stronger. 

Daylight  has  shown  the  room  to  be 
exceedingly  dirty;  the  house  has  been 
full  of  disbanded  soldiers  going  east 
from  stations  and  camps  north  of  the 


PIONEERS 


337 


Platte  River.  The  bed  was  unfit  for 
decent  people,  and  we  grow  more  par- 
ticular when  we  reach  settlements.  As 
there  seem  to  be  few,  if  any,  women 
attendants  in  the  house,  I  have  taken 
the  room  in  hand  myself  a  little.  I 
succeeded  in  getting  a '  bucket '  of  warm 
water  and  a  mop,  and  have  taken  up 
a  good  deal  of  the  dust,  and  no  doubt 
some  fleas  and  other  vermin.  We  hope 
soon  to  be  able  to  go  on  home. 

I  have  not  dared  to  write  to  you  be- 
fore this.  To  think  of  you  and  my 
Eastern  home,  and  put  in  words,  during 
the  past  two  weeks,  what  has  taken  all 
my  strength  and  courage  to  face,  would 
have  weakened  my  self-control.  Now 
I  write  full  of  hope  and  in  comparative 
comfort. 

COUNCIL  BLUFFS,  IOWA 
October  30,  1865. 

It  is  two  weeks  since  I  wrote  to  you, 
soon  after  reaching  Columbus,  and  we 
thought  a  day  or  two  would  see  us  on 
our  way  to  our  home;  but  Will  did  not 
mend  as  fast  as  we  hoped  he  would. 
Sometimes  I  lost  hope;  but  had  I  not 
escaped  with  him  alive,  from  those 
desolate  prairies  behind  us,  the  very 
'valley  of  the  shadow  of  death'!  We 
had  the  aid  of  a  kind  and  intelligent 
physician,  and  the  essential  comforts  of 
life. 

I  cooked  Will's  food  on  the  kitchen 
stove  myself;  but  I  was  hi  no  way  dis- 
heartened,, nor  did  my  appetite  fail  me, 
when  I  saw  the  process  of  cooking  the 
food  for  the  public  table;  I  even  helped 
pull  out  some  of  the  flies  from  the  bat- 
ter of  soaked  bread,  which  stood  on 
the  cooking-table  ready  to  be  fried  in- 
to great  balls,  hi  spiders  full  of  grease, 
and  knew,  when  I  ate  them  later  for 
supper,  that  not  a  few  remained.  To 
show  daintiness,  or  seem  to  be  differ- 
ent from  those  about  me,  would  repel 
the  kindness  so  freely  given,  which  was 
our  support  and  help. 

When  I  could  leave  Will,  I  went  to  the 

VOL.  118— NO.  $ 


porch  and  talked  with  the  stage-dri- 
vers, as  they  came  in,  about  the  90-mile 
journey  still  before  us  —  learning  how 
many  miles  we  would  be  forced  to  travel 
in  a  day  to  reach  the  stage-stations  at 
night;  for  our  experience  had  taught  us 
the  wisdom  of  staying  at  public  places 
on  the  road.  That  we  were  not  mo- 
lested the  night  our  German  doctor 
found  the  whiskey,  at  that  lonely  way- 
side ranch,  was  fortunate. 

But,  after  ten  days  without  much 
change,  we  both  grew  restive;  there 
were  so  many  things  to  make  our  going- 
on  more  and  more  imperative. 

It  was  the  last  of  October;  these  con- 
stant days  of  sunshine  must  soon  end. 
What  if  November  winds  and  cold 
storms  set  in  early?  We  had  no  cloth- 
ing warm  enough  for  late  traveling  on 
the  plains,  and,  to  my  great  satisfaction, 
Will  had  come  to  see,  what  I  had  long 
known,  that  at  his  best,  even  in  our 
pleasant  city  home,  he  would  not  be 
equal  to  the  demands  of  Western  life 
upon  his  physical  strength,  and  we  must 
go  back  to  New  York  before  winter. 
A  coach-ride  from  Council  Bluffs  to 
Des  Moines,  of  150  miles,  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  at  that  season,  and  the  only 
other  way  to  reach  the  nearest  railroad 
was  by  the  Missouri  River;  and  if  we 
delayed  too  long  at  Columbus,  the  last 
boat  of  the  season  would  leave  for  St. 
Joseph,  Missouri.  We  must  go  on. 

The  anxiety  and  thinking  kept  Will 
from  getting  strong;  but  he  could  not 
yet  walk,  much  less  drive  horses,  and 
I  could  find  no  one  to  hire.  Every  man 
who  could  work  was  out  on  the  prairie 
with  hay-machines,  cutting  and  curing 
hay  for  the  keeping  of  the  great  trains 
of  oxen  and  mules,  which,  coming  and 
going  to  and  from  the  far  West,  made 
Columbus  a '  refitting '  station,  as  Coun- 
cil Bluffs  is  called  an  'outfitting  one.' 
Huge  stacks  of  hay,  high  and  long,  and 
long  barns,  built  of  sod  and  stacked 
over  with  hay,  stretched  in  every  direo 


338 


PIONEERS 


tion  from  the  little  cluster  of  cabins 
near  the  hotel,  which  made  what  we 
call  a  village  and  they  call  a  town. 
They  had  been  cutting  hay  since  July, 
and  would  keep  on  till  the  frost  drove 
them  in;  but  there  were  not  men  enough 
to  do  the  work  of  getting  in  the  hay  still 
needed. 

There  was  a  camp  of  soldiers  sta- 
tioned a  few  miles  away,  and  someone 
mentioned  that  a  convalescent  soldier, 
an  under-officer,  had  received  a  fur- 
lough, and  would  be  glad  of  the  free 
passage  east,  and  would  be  a  suitable 
person  to  help  us.  I  wrote  at  once  to 
the  commandant  of  the  post,  and  re- 
ceived a  courteous  reply,  that  the  man 
would  come  the  next  morning  and  go 
with  us  as  we  wished;  so,  without  delay, 
I  made  everything  ready,  and  Will  grew 
bright  at  the  prospect  of  moving  on. 
Our  good  friends,  the  stage-drivers, 
brought  him  to  the  porch  next  morning 
before  they  went  out  with  their  coaches, 
and  our  horses  were  put  on  the  wagon, 
already  loaded  up  and  before  the  door. 
Good-byes  were  said  to  our  hostess  and 
her  barkeeper,  who  stood  smilingly  in 
the  doorway  (after  confirming  to  us 
our  previous  surmises,  that  they  would 
soon  make  a  united  head  to  the  house), 
and  we  waited  for  our  soldier. 

He  came  with  a  note  from  the  com- 
mandant, saying  there  had  been  a  mis- 
take. The  soldier's  papers  required 
him  to  report  by  the  Southern  route  at 
Leavenworth,  and  he  could  not  go  with 
us! 

Will  grew  faint  with  disappointment, 
and  exclaimed,  'I  shall  certainly  die  if 
I  stay  here.'  One  glance  at  his  despair- 
ing face,  and  then  at  our  trusty  horses, 
and  a  look  at  the  sunny  sky,  and  a 
thought  of  those  stage-drivers  who  had 
promised  to  meet  us  at  the  stations,  and 
I  said,  'I  will  drive  myself;  help  him 
in/ 

Will  did  not  object,  and  in  ten  min- 
utes he  was  in  his  old  place  on  the  mat- 


tress and  pillows,  and  his  voice  sounded 
quite  strong  and  cheery  as  he  called  to 
tell  me  how  to  climb  over  the  high  sides 
of  the  wagon,  to  reach  the  seat,  perched 
up  so  high  that  the  canvass  cover 
almost  touched  my  head;  and  I  felt 
elated  and  happy  as  I  gathered  the 
reins  in  my  bare  hands,  and  turned  into 
the  trail  to  commence  our  four  days' 
journey,  and,  in  a  few  moments  more, 
left  all  signs  of  habitation  behind  us. 

I  knew  a  good  deal  more  about  prairie 
traveling  than  when  I  came  out.  I  had 
not  yet  resumed  my  hoops;  the  demands 
of  fashion  at  Columbus,  proud  and  cen- 
tral city  as  it  claimed  to  be,  had  not 
required  it.  I  had  completed  that  morn- 
ing a  most  satisfactory  bargain,  some 
days  under  consideration,  with  a  stage- 
driver's  wife,  who  had  come  for  a  few 
days  to  the  hotel,  for  her  last  summer's 
Shaker  sunbonnet,  with  a  buff  cham- 
bray  cape  and  strings,  in  exchange  for 
my  quite  stylish  and  new  hat.  I  was  to 
pay  her  two  dollars  in  cash  besides,  for 
she  was  not  sure  that  the  hat  was  quite 
the  thing.  'Most  uns  wore  Shakers.' 
At  the  last  moment,  she  yielded.  I  knew 
the  comfort  of  that  deep  shade  and 
fast  strings,  under  the  bright  sun  and 
prairie  winds;  not  that  my  complexion 
needed  shade:  I  was  already  brown  as 
the  prairie  dust,  and  my  gloves  were 
long  ago  worn  out.  A  heavy  flannel 
shirt  of  Will's,  put  on  under  my  dress, 
may  have  looked  a  trifle  clumsy,  but 
gave  me  warmth  and  left  my  arms  free. 

I  was  a  little  dismayed  when  Punch 
began  to  go  lame  after  a  mile  or  so.  I 
dared  do  a  good  many  things,  but  not  to 
lift  his  foot  to  see  what  was  the  matter, 
and  Will  must  not  be  worried.  But  he 
soon  cast  a  shoe,  and  I  climbed  down 
and, recovered  it;  the  soft,  stoneless  soil 
could  do  no  harm,  and  the  first  station- 
master  put  it  on  again. 

Our  lunch-box  was  well  filled  and  I 
made  tea  on  the  station  stove,  while  the 
men  hastened  to  take  off  the  horses  and 


PIONEERS 


339 


care  for  them.  When  our  stage-man 
John  came  swinging  up  later,  on  his 
coach  from  the  East,  he  gave  a  ringing 
whoop  at  sight  of  us,  and  said  I '  would 
do,'  which  gave  me  satisfaction. 

And  from  that  time  on,  for  the  whole 
four  days,  we  were  under  the  special 
care  of  the  stage-men.  They  looked  after 
the  horses  and  our  comfort,  in  every 
way  possible  to  them.  It  was  not  one 
man,  for  of  course  we  could  not  keep  up 
with  the  coach,  and  the  men  were  fre- 
quently changed;  but  going  east  and 
going  west,  all  knew  about  us,  and 
passed  us  on  to  each  other,  so  that  a 
bed  was  ready  for  us,  and  men  waiting 
to  lift  Will  out  tenderly  and  carry  him 
to  it,  at  every  night  station. 

The  stations  were  sometimes  very 
rough  places,  sometimes  only  one  room 
for  living  and  sleeping;  but  the  one  cur- 
tained bed  was  always  ours;  at  least  it 
was  Will's;  and  if  it  was  only  a  lounge, 
I  spread  our  blankets  on  the  floor  for 
myself,  as  I  had  done  farther  west.  It 
did  not  ruffle  me  in  the  least,  if  one  or 
two  men  snored  lustily  in  another  cor- 
ner of  the  room;  I  had  learned  to  trust 
kind  hearts  under  very  rough  exteriors. 
All  our  good  Johns  waved  their  hands 
to  us,  as  they  passed  us  on  the  road; 
and  each  day's  travel  was  laid  out  for 
us  by  one  of  them  each  morning. 

One  day  we  were  told  not  to  go  to  the 
regular  stage-station  at  night;  it  was 
too  rough;  but  to  leave  the  trail  at  a 
certain  point  and  make  for  a  house 
in  sight,  two  miles  across  the  prairie, 
where  we  would  get  a  good  room  and 
bed.  The  owner  knew  we  were  coming, 
how,  we  could  not  tell,  and  welcomed 
us  like  friends;  and  when  Will  found  he 
could  sit  at  the  table  with  us,  and  taste 
the  fried  bacon,  our  host  looked  at  him 
with  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  and 
swore  big  oaths  at  him  roundly,  to 
show  how  glad  he  was.  Later,  the  tall 
figure  of  our  John  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  our  room,  and  he  too  cried  like  a 


child  because  Will  called  out  'Hullo' 
in  a  good  full  voice.  The  man  had  walk- 
ed across  the  prairie  several  miles,  'to 
see  if  they  was  square  with  the  horses,' 
he  said,  but  really  to  see  if  we  were  all 
right.  I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  the 
comfort  these  men  were  to  us.  They 
scorned  any  reward  for  their  services, 
and  had  few  words  to  say;  if  we  express- 
ed gratitude,  they  turned  away  shyly 
and  disappeared;  they  still  looked  at  us 
in  that  wondering  sort  of  way,  I  sup- 
pose because  we  showed  plain  marks  of 
being  'tender-feet,'  as  newcomers  from 
the  East  are  called. 

I  was  never  frightened  at  our  loneli- 
ness on  the  prairie,  even  when  one  day 
they  told  us  there  would  be  a  stretch  of 
16  miles  without  a  house.  One  day,  I 
was  startled  for  a  moment,  at  a  sudden 
apparition,  behind  a  slight  rise  of 
ground,  of  a  dozen  Indians,  coming  in 
single  file,  at  right  angles  across  our 
trail;  and  the  horses,  too,  showed  signs 
of  fear;  but  their  squaws  were  with 
them  with  loaded  ponies,  and  I  knew 
we  were  beyond  dangerous  Indian 
ground,  and  they  were  soon  out  of 
sight. 

Once,  at  our  noon  halt,  we  found  no 
men  at  home  at  the  station,  only  a 
young  German  woman  who  could  not 
speak  English;  and  as  the  usual  custom 
for  travelers  was  to  water  and  feed  their 
own  horses,  I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do ; 
for  to  lift  a  pail  of  water  to  those  thirsty, 
eager  horses,  was  beyond  my  strength 
and  my  courage  as  well;  but  the  woman 
came  to  my  help,  and  did  it  all  with 
ease. 

Until  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
we  had  been  following  the  unbroken 
trail  on  the  level  prairie;  then  we  came 
to  a  large  stream  with  deeply  worn 
banks,  and,  to  my  dismay,  some  of  the 
planks  of  the  long  bridge  were  upset, 
and  it  was  impassable.  I  could  not 
leave  the  horses  nor  could  I  lift  the 
heavy  planks  to  replace  them.  It  was 


340 


PIONEERS 


nearing  sundown;  what  could  we  do  if 
darkness  found  us  in  that  place?  The 
coach  had  already  passed  us,  and  not  a 
train  or  house  was  in  sight.  For  the 
first  time  my  teeth  chattered  with  fear. 

A  half-hour's  waiting,  and  two  men  in 
an  open  spring  wagon  came  rapidly  up 
beside  us.  Spring  wagons  are  unusual 
on  the  plains.  The  slow-moving  heavy 
white-covered  wagons  we  call  'prairie 
schooners'  are  commonly  used,  and 
they  can  be  seen  at  a  long  distance.  I 
thought  this  one  had  dropped  from  the 
sky,  and  still  more,  when  the  men  came 
quickly  to  speak  to  us,  and  in  the  tone 
and  language  of  the  far  East,  asked  us 
how  we  were.  They  were  entire  stran- 
gers, but  belonged  to  the  surveying- 
party,  of  whom  we  had  seen  and  heard 
nothing  since  that  morning  at  Lone 
Tree,  when  our  friend  left  us  after  his 
night's  vigil.  They  had  been  told  by 
their  chief  to  look  out  for  us,  and  had 
been  expecting  to  find  us  at  some  point 
farther  west,  days  before  that  time. 
Just  when  all  other  help  failed  us,  they 
appeared,  and  we  were  soon  safely  on 
our  way,  to  the  last  night  station  of  our 
journey. 

The  last  day  was  a  difficult  one  for  me, 
though  Will  was  already  so  nearly  well 
he  needed  but  little  care,  reclining 
cheerfully  on  his  cushions,  telling  me 
stories  and  enjoying  the  sunshine. 

But  the  country  changed  to  high 
rolling  prairie  after  leaving  the  valley 
of  the  Elkhorn  River,  and  the  frequent 
long  descents  were  perfectly  smooth,  like 
ice,  and  the  worn  shoes  of  the  horses 
obliged  me  to  'put  on  the  brake.'  It 
was  hard  to  reach  it,  and  harder  to 


press  it  down.  Then  the  front  bow  of 
the  wagon  cover  had  broken,  and  left 
the  canvas  to  flap  about  my  face,  and 
the  sun  beat  in  my  eyes,  altogether 
bringing  on  a  violent  headache.  For 
the  first  time  in  all  the  four  weeks  of 
care  and  labor,  I  came  near  giving  out; 
and  the  nearer  we  came  to  thickly 
settled  country  and  town  life,  the  less 
we  could  expect  of  personal  interest  in 
us.  We  were  being  lost  in  the  edges  of 
the  rushing,  busy  life  of  that  world, 
which  seemed  to  commence  at  the  Mis- 
souri River;  and  Heaven,  which  had 
been  so  near,  and  Angelic  care,  in  the 
shape  of  good  Johns  and  civil  engineers, 
no  longer  seemed  about  us.  When  at 
last,  we  took  our  places  in  the  line  of 
white-topped  wagons,  waiting  their 
turn  to  cross  the  river  on  the  ferry- 
boat at  Omaha,  I  hoped  I  might  never 
again  see  the  valley  of  the  Platte.  We 
realized,  too,  when  we  were  unrecog- 
nized by  friends  on  the  boat  with  us, 
that  we  were  filling  well  the  role  of 
emigrant  'poor  white,'  whose  faded- 
out,  shabby  look  had  often  excited 
half  pity,  half  contempt  in  us,  in  the 
streets  of  Council  Bluffs. 

When  we  drew  up  at  last,  at  our  own 
door,  safe  and  nearly  sound,  amid  the 
congratulations  of  the  kindest  of  neigh- 
bors and  friends,  I  still  kept  in  mind 
the  tender,  almost  worshipful  respect 
and  care  of  our  stage-driver  friends. 

And  now  Punch  and  Judy,  our  faith- 
ful horses,  are  to  be  sold,  and  a  few  days 
must  see  us  on  our  way  down  the 
Missouri,  for  November's  chill  air  is 
here,  and  our  faces  are  set  towards 
New  York  and  home. 


1321-1921 
BY  CHARLES  H.  GRANDGENT 

As  age,  their  shadow,  follows  life  and  birth, 
So  autumn  shadowed  summertime  and  spring 
And  day  was  yielding  fast  to  equal  night, 
When,  homeward  soaring  from  the  rustling  shore 
Where  weary  Po  exchanges  life  for  peace, 
His  spring-born  spirit  fled,  so  long  ago. 

Six  slowly  winding  centuries  ago, 

Reborn  was  he  in  everlasting  birth, 

To  taste  the  food  for  which  he  hungered,  peace, 

At  marriage  suppers  set  in  endless  spring, 

Shoresman  eternal  on  the  radiant  shore 

Which  never  saw  its  sun  engulft  in  night. 

A  sinful  world  of  self-created  night 

He  left  behind,  so  many  years  ago, 

A  world  where  hatred  ruled  from  shore  to  shore 

And  men,  despite  their  gentle  Saviour's  birth, 

Like  ancient  Adam  forfeited  their  spring, 

For  greed  and  discord  bartering  their  peace. 

To  light  the  day  of  universal  peace, 
God-sent  he  dawned  upon  our  bloody  night, 
Greatest  of  poets  since  the  primal  spring 
Flasht  forth  into  existence  long  ago. 
Benignant  stars  presided  o'er  his  birth, 
That  he  might  speak  to  every  listening  shore. 

Still  rings  his  voice  on  ocean's  either  shore, 
And  when  he  speaks,  our  Muses  hold  their  peace 


342  THE   FOURTEENTH   OF   SEPTEMBER,  1321-1921 

And  wonder  if  the  world  shall  see  the  birth 
Of  man  like  him  before  the  Judgment  night, 
For  all  he  died  so  many  years  ago 
When  this  our  iron  age  was  in  its  spring. 

Ere  winter  blossom  into  balmy  spring, 

Ere  peace  prevail  on  any  mortal  shore 

(So  taught  the  Tuscan  poet  long  ago), 

Justice  must  reign:  in  it  alone  is  peace. 

The  Hound  shall  chase  the  Wolf  into  the  night, 

Then  earth  and  heaven  shall  witness  a  rebirth. 

Heaven  gave  him  birth,  one  ever  blessed  spring, 
Whose  lamp  through  all  the  night  illumes  our  shore. 
He  found  his  peace  six  hundred  years  ago. 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


BY  STUART  P.  SHERMAN 


BOTH  the  contemporary  and  the  his- 
torical Puritan  are  still  involved  in 
clouds  of  libel,  of  which  the  origins  lie 
in  the  copious  fountains  of  indiscrim- 
inating  abuse  poured  out  upon  the  Puri- 
tans of  the  seventeenth  century  by  great 
Royalist  writers  like  Butler,  Dryden, 
and  Ben  Jonson.  The  Puritan  of  that 
day  was  ordinarily  represented  by  his 
adversaries  as  a  dishonest  casuist  and 
a  hypocrite.  To  illustrate  this  point,  I 
will  produce  a  brilliantly  malevolent 
portrait  from  Jonson's  comedy,  Bar- 
tholomew Fair. 

This  play  was  performed  in  London 
six  years  before  the  Pilgrims  landed  at 


Plymouth;  and  it  helps  one  to  under- 
stand why  the  migratory  movement  of 
the  day  was  rather  to  than  from  Amer- 
ica. Jonson  presents  a  group  of  Puri- 
tans visiting  the  Fair.  Their  names 
are  Zeal-of-the-land  Busy,  Dame  Pure- 
craft,  and  Win-the-fight  Little-wit  and 
his  wife.  Roast  pig  is  a  main  feature  of 
the  Bartholomew  festivities;  and  the 
wife  of  Win-the-fight  Little-wit  feels  a 
strong  inclination  to  partake  of  it. 
Her  mother,  Dame  Purecraft,  has  some 
scruples  about  eating  in  the  tents  of 
wickedness,  and  carries  the  question  to 
Zeal-of-the-land  Busy,  asking  him  to 
resolve  their  doubts.  At  first  he  replies 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


343 


adversely,  in  the  canting,  sing-song  na- 
sal fashion  then  attributed  to  the  Puri- 
tans by  their  enemies:  — 

'Verily  for  the  disease  of  longing,  it 
is  a  disease,  a  carnal  disease,  or  appe- 
tite .  .  .  and  as  it  is  carnal  and  inci- 
dent, it  is  natural,  very  natural;  now 
pig,  it  is  a  meat,  and  a  meat  that  is 
nourishing  and  may  be  longed  for,  and 
so  consequently  eaten;  it  may  be  eaten; 
very  exceedingly  well  eaten:  but  in  the 
Fair,  and  as  a  Bartholomew  pig,  it  can- 
not be  eaten;  for  the  very  calling  it  a 
Bartholomew  pig,  and  to  eat  it  so,  is  a 
spice  of  idolatry,  and  you  make  the 
Fair  no  better  than  one  of  the  high- 
places.  This,  I  take  it,  is  the  state  of 
the  question:  a  high-place.' 

Master  Little-wit  remonstrates,  say- 
ing, 'But  in  state  of  necessity,  place 
should  give  place,  Master  Busy.'  And 
Dame  Purecraft  cries:  'Good  brother 
Zeal-ofrthe-land  Busy,  think  to  make  it 
as  lawful  as  you  can.' 

Thereupon,  Zeal-of-the-land  Busy  re- 
considers, as  follows:  — 

'Surely,  it  may  be  otherwise,  but  it 
is  subject  to  construction,  subject,  and 
hath  a  face  of  offence  with  the  weak, 
a  great  face,  a  foul  face;  but  that  face 
may  have  a  veil  put  over  it,  and  be 
shadowed  as  it  were;  it  may  be  eaten, 
and  in  the  Fair,  I  take  it,  in  a  booth, 
the  tents  of  the  Wicked:  the  place  is 
not  much,  not  very  much,  we  may  be 
religious  in  the  midst  of  the  profane,  so 
it  be  eaten  with  a  reformed  mouth,  with 
sobriety  and  humbleness;  not  gorged  in 
with  gluttony  or  greediness,  there's  the 
fear:  for,  should  she  go  there,  as  taking 
pride  in  the  place,  or  delight  in  the  un- 
clean dressing,  to  feed  the  vanity  of  the 
eye,  or  lust  of  the  palate,  it  were  not 
well,  it  were  not  fit,  it  were  abominable 
and  not  good.' 

Finally,  Zeal-of-the-land  Busy  not 
only  consents,  but  joins  the  rest,  say- 
ing, '  In  the  way  of  comfort  to  the  weak, 
I  will  go  and  eat.  I  will  eat  exceeding- 


ly and  prophesy;  there  may  be  a  good 
use  made  of  it  too,  now  I  think  on  it: 
by  the  public  eating  of  swine's  flesh,  to 
profess  our  hate  and  loathing  of  Juda- 
ism, whereof  the  brethren  stand  taxed. 
I  will  therefore  eat,  yea,  I  will  eat  ex- 
ceedingly.' 

The  entire  passage  might  be  regarded 
as  a  satirical  interpretation  of  Calvin's 
chapter  on  Christian  Liberty.  In  this 
fashion  the  anti-Puritan  writers  of  the 
seventeenth  century  habitually  depict- 
ed the  people  who  set  up  the  Common- 
wealth in  England  and  colonized  Mas- 
sachusetts. In  the  eyes  of  unfriendly 
English  contemporaries,  the  men  who 
came  over  in  the  Mayflower  and  their 
kind  were  unctuous  hypocrites. 

That  charge,  though  it  has  been  re- 
vived for  modern  uses,  no  longer  stands 
against  the  seventeenth-century  Puri- 
tans. Under  persecution  and  in  power, 
on  the  scaffold,  in  war,  and  in  the  wilder- 
ness, they  proved  that,  whatever  their 
faults,  they  were  animated  by  a  pas- 
sionate sincerity.  When  the  Puritan 
William  Prynne  spoke  disrespectfully 
of  magistrates  and  bishops,  Archbishop 
Laud,  or  his  agents,  cut  off  his  ears  and 
threw  him  back  into  prison.  As  soon  as 
he  could  get  hold  of  ink  and  paper, 
Prynne  sent  out  from  prison  fresh  at- 
tacks on  the  bishops.  They  took  him 
out  and  cut  off  his  ears  again,  and 
branded  him  'S.L.,'  which  they  in- 
tended to  signify  'Seditious  Libeller'; 
but  he,  with  the  iron  still  hot  in  his  face 
and  with  indignation  inspiring,  per- 
haps, the  most  dazzling  pun  ever  re- 
corded, interpreted  the  letters  to  mean, 
Stigmata  Laudis.  When  the  Puritans 
came  into  power,  Prynne  issued  from 
his  dungeon  and  helped  cut  off,  not  the 
ears,  but  the  heads  of  Archbishop  Laud 
and  King  Charles.  After  that,  they  said 
less  about  his  insincerity.  Prynne  and 
his  friends  had  their  faults;  but  lack  of 
conviction  and  the  courage  of  their  con- 
viction were  not  among  them. 


344 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


When,  a  hundred  years  ago,  Macau- 
lay  wrote  his  famous  passage  on  the 
Puritans  hi  the  essay  on  Milton,  he 
tried  to  do  them  justice;  and  he  did 
brush  aside  the  traditional  charge  of 
hypocrisy  with  the  contempt  which  it 
deserves.  But  in  place  of  the  picture 
of  the  oily  hypocrite,  he  set  up  another 
picture  equally  questionable.  He  paint- 
ed the  Puritan  as  a  kind  of  religious 
superman  of  incredible  fortitude  and 
determination,  who  'went  through  the 
world,  like  Sir  ArtegaPs  iron  man  Talus 
with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling 
down  oppressors,  mingling  with  human 
beings,  but  having  neither  part  nor  lot 
in  human  infirmities,  insensible  to  fa- 
tigue, to  pleasure,  and  to  pain,  not  to 
be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be 
withstood  by  any  barrier.' 

Now  this  portrait  of  Macaulay's  is 
executed  with  far  more  respect  for  the 
Puritan  character  than  Jonson  exhib- 
ited in  his  portrait  of  Zeal-of-the-land 
Busy.  But  it  is  just  as  clearly  a  carica- 
ture. It  violently  exaggerates  certain 
harsh  traits  of  individual  Puritans  under 
persecution  and  at  war;  it  suppresses 
all  the  mild  and  attractive  traits;  and 
Carlyle,  with  his  hero-worship  and  his 
eye  on  Cromwell,  continues  the  exag- 
geration in  the  same  direction.  It  gives 
an  historically  false  impression,  because 
it  conveys  the  idea  that  the  Puritans 
were  exceptionally  harsh  and  intolerant 
as  compared  with  other  men  in  their  own 
times. 

For  example,  the  supposedly  harsh 
Puritan  Cromwell  stood  for  a  wide  lati- 
tude of  religious  opinion  and  toleration 
of  sects  at  a  time  when  the  Catholic 
Inquisition  had  established  a  rigid  cen- 
sorship and  was  persecuting  Huguenots 
and  Mohammedans  and  Jews,  and  tor- 
turing and  burning  heretics  wherever 
its  power  extended.  It  is  customary 
now  to  point  to  the  Salem  witchcraft 
and  the  hanging  of  three  Quakers  in 
Boston  —  who  incidentally  seem  to 


have  insisted  on  being  hanged  —  as 
signal  illustrations  of  the  intolerance 
of  Puritanism  and  its  peculiar  fanati- 
cism. But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  these 
things  were  merely  instances  of  a  com- 
paratively mild  infection  of  the  Puri- 
tans by  a  madness  that  swept  over 
the  world.  In  Salem  there  were  twenty 
victims,  and  the  madness  lasted  one 
year.  In  Europe  there  were  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  victims;  and  there  were 
witches  burned  in  Catholic  Spain, 
France,  and  South  America  a  hundred 
years  after  the  practice  of  executing 
witches  had  been  condemned  among 
the  Puritans.  Comparatively  speaking, 
the  Puritans  were  quick  to  discard  and 
condemn  the  common  harshness  and  in- 
tolerance of  their  times. 

The  Puritan  leaders  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  were,  like  all  leaders, 
exceptional  men;  but  if  looked  at  close- 
ly, they  exhibit  the  full  complement  of 
human  qualities,  and  rather  more  than 
less  than  average  respect  for  the  rights 
and  the  personality  of  the  individual, 
since  their  doctrines,  political  and  reli- 
gious, immensely  emphasized  the  im- 
portance and  sacredness  of  the  indi- 
vidual life.  They  had  iron  enough  in 
their  blood  to  put  duty  before  pleasure; 
but  that  does  not  imply  that  they  ban- 
ished pleasure.  They  put  goodness 
above  beauty;  but  that  does  not  mean 
that  they  despised  beauty.  It  does  not 
set  them  apart  as  a  peculiar  and  abnor- 
mal people.  In  every  age  of  the  world, 
in  every  progressing  society,  there  is, 
there  has  to  be,  a  group,  and  a  fairly 
large  group,  of  leaders  and  toilers  to 
whom  their  own  personal  pleasure  is  a 
secondary  consideration  —  a  considera- 
tion secondary  to  the  social  welfare  and 
the  social  advance.  On  the  long  slow 
progress  of  the  race  out  of  Egypt  into 
the  Promised  Land,  they  prepare  the 
line  of  march,  they  look  after  the  arms 
and  munitions,  they  bring  up  the  sup- 
plies, they  scout  out  the  land,  they  rise 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


345 


up  early  in  the  morning,  they  watch  at 
night,  they  bear  the  burdens  of  leader- 
ship, while  the  children,  the  careless 
young  people,  and  the  old  people  who 
have  never  grown  up,  are  playing  or 
fiddling  or  junketing  on  the  fringes  of 
the  march.  They  are  never  popular 
among  these  who  place  pleasure  first; 
for  they  are  always  rounding  up  strag- 
glers, recalling  loiterers,  and  preaching 
up  the  necessity  of  toil  and  courage  and 
endurance.  They  are  not  popular;  but 
they  are  not  inhuman.  The  violet  smells 
to  them  as  it  does  to  other  men;  and 
rest  and  recreation  are  sweet.  I  must 
illustrate  a  little  the  more  intimately 
human  aspect  of  our  seventeenth-cen- 
tury group. 

n 

It  is  a  part  of  the  plot  of  our  droll 
and  dry  young  people  to  throw  the  op- 
probrium of  the  present  drought  upon 
the  Puritans.  These  iron  men,  one  in- 
fers from  reading  the  discourses,  for  ex- 
ample, of  Mr.  Mencken,  banished  wine 
as  a  liquor  inconsistent  with  Calvinistic 
theology,  though,  to  be  sure,  Calvin 
himself  placed  it  among  'matters  in- 
different.' And  the  Puritans,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  used  both  wine  and  tobacco 
—  both  men  and  women.  If  Puritan- 
ism means  reaction  in  favor  of  obsolete 
standards,  our  contemporary  Puritans 
will  repeal  the  obnoxious  amendment; 
and  all  who  are  thirsty  should  circulate 
the  Puritan  literature  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  Read  your  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
and  you  will  find  that  Christian's  wife, 
on  the  way  to  salvation,  sent  her  child 
back  after  her  bottle  of  liquor.  Read 
Winthrop's  letters,  and  you  will  find 
that  Winthrop's  wife  writes  to  him  to 
thank  him  for  the  tobacco  that  he  has 
sent  to  her  mother.  Read  Mather's 
diary,  and  you  will  find  that  he  sug- 
gests pious  thoughts  to  be  meditated 
upon  by  the  members  of  his  household 
while  they  are  engaged  in  home-brew- 


ing. Read  the  records  of  the  first  Bos- 
ton church,  and  you  will  find  that  one 
of  the  first  teachers  was  a  wine-seller. 
Read  the  essays  of  John  Robinson,  first 
pastor  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  you  will  find 
that  he  ridicules  Lycurgus,  the  Spar- 
tan law-giver,  for  ordering  the  vines 
cut  down,  merely  'because  men  were 
sometimes  drunken  with  the  grapes.' 
Speaking  of  celibacy,  Robinson  says, 
'Abstinence  from  marriage  is  no  more 
a  virtue  than  abstinence  from  wine  or 
other  pleasing  natural  thing.  Both  mar- 
riage and  wine  are  of  God  and  good  in 
themselves.' 

Since  I  do  not  wish  to  incite  a  religious 
and  Puritanical  resistance  to  the  Vol- 
stead Act,  I  must  add  that  Robinson, 
in  that  tone  of  sweet  reasonableness 
which  characterizes  all  his  essays,  re- 
marks further: '  Yet  may  the  abuse  of  a 
thing  be  so  common  and  notorious  and 
the  use  so  small  and  needless  as  better 
want  the  small  use  than  be  in  contin- 
ual danger  of  the  great  abuse.'  And 
this,  I  suppose,  is  exactly  the  ground 
taken  by  the  sensible  modern  prohibi- 
tionist. It  is  not  a  matter  of  theological 
sin  with  him  at  all.  It  never  was  that. 
It  is  now  a  matter  of  economics  and 
aesthetics,  and  of  the  greatest  happiness 
and  freedom  to  the  greatest  number. 

These  iron  men  are  accused  of  be- 
ing hostile  to  beauty,  the  charge  being 
based  upon  the  crash  of  a  certain  num- 
ber of  stained-glass  windows  and  altar 
ornaments,  which  offended  them,  how- 
ever, not  as  art,  but  as  religious  sym- 
bolism. Why  fix  upon  the  riot  of  soldiers 
in  war-time  and  neglect  to  inquire: 
Who,  after  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  in 
all  the  seventeenth  century,  most  elo- 
quently praised  music  and  the  drama? 
Who  most  lavishly  described  and  most 
exquisitely  appreciated  nature?  Who 
had  the  richest  literary  culture  and  the 
most  extensive  acquaintance  with  po- 
etry? Who  published  the  most  mag- 
nificent poems?  The  answer  to  all  these 


346 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


questions  is,  of  course,  that  conspicu- 
ous Puritan,  the  Latin  secretary  to 
Oliver  Cromwell,  John  Milton. 

In  a  letter  to  an  Italian  friend,  Mil- 
ton writes:  'God  has  instilled  into  me, 
if  into  anyone,  a  vehement  love  of  the 
beautiful.  Not  with  so  much  labor  is 
Ceres  said  to  have  sought  her  daughter 
Proserpine,  as  it  is  my  habit  day  and 
night  to  seek  for  this  idea  of  the  beau- 
tiful .  .  .  through  all  the  forms  and 
faces  of  things.'  With  some  now  nearly 
obsolete  notions  of  precedence,  Milton 
did  place  God  before  the  arts.  But  was 
he  hostile  to  the  arts?  The  two  most 
important  sorts  of  people  in  the  state, 
he  declares,  are,  first,  those  who  make 
the  social  existence  of  the  citizens  'just 
and  holy,'  and,  second,  those  who  make 
it  'splendid  and  beautiful.'  He  insists 
that  the  very  stability  of  the  state  de- 
pends upon  the  splendor  and  excellence 
of  its  public  institutions  and  the  splen- 
did and  excellent  expression  of  its  social 
life  —  depends,  in  short,  as,  I  have  in- 
sisted, upon  the  cooperation  of  the 
Puritans  and  the  artists,  upon  the  in- 
tegrity of  the  national  genius. 

These  iron  men  are  said  to  have  been 
devoid  of  tenderness  and  sympathy  in 
personal  relations.  But  this  does  not 
agree  with  the  testimony  of  Bradford, 
who  records  it  in  his  history  that,  in  the 
first  winter  at  Plymouth,  when  half  the 
colony  had  died  and  most  of  the  rest 
were  sick,  Myles  Standish  and  Brew- 
ster,  and  the  four  or  five  others  who 
were  well,  watched  over  and  waited  on 
the  rest  with  the  loving  tenderness  and 
the  unflinching  fidelity  of  a  mother. 

These  people  had  fortitude;  but  was 
it  due  to  callousness?  Were  they  really, 
as  Macaulay  intimates,  insensible  to 
their  own  sufferings  and  the  sufferings 
of  others?  Hear  the  cry  of  John  Bun- 
yan  when  prison  separates  him  from 
his  family:  'The  parting  with  my  wife 
and  poor  children  hath  often  been  to 
me  in  this  place  as  the  pulling  the  flesh 


from  my  bone;  and  that  not  only  be- 
cause I  am  somewhat  too  fond  of  these 
great  mercies,  but  also  because  I  should 
have  often  brought  to  my  mind  the 
many  hardships,  miseries,  and  wants 
that  my  poor  family  was  like  to  meet 
with,  should  I  be  taken  from  them,  es- 
pecially my  poor  blind  child,  who  lay 
nearer  my  heart  than  all  I  had  besides. 
O  the  thought  of  the  hardship  I  thought 
my  blind  one  might  go  under,  would 
break  my  heart  to  pieces.' 

Finally,  these  iron  men  are  grievously 
charged  with  a  lack  of  romantic  feeling 
and  the  daring  necessary  to  act  upon  it. 
Much  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by 
romance.  If  you  mean  by  romance,  a 
life  of  excitement  and  perilous  adven- 
ture, there  are  duller  records  than  that 
of  the  English  Puritans.  Not  without 
some  risk  to  themselves,  not  without  at 
least  an  occasional  thrill,  did  these  pious 
villagers  decapitate  the  King  of  Eng- 
land, overturn  the  throne  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  pull  up  stakes 
and  settle  in  Holland,  sail  the  uncharted 
Atlantic  in  a  cockleshell,  and  set  up  a 
kingdom  for  Christ  in  the  howling  wil- 
derness. I  don't  think  that  dwellers  in 
Gopher  Prairie  or  Greenwich  Village 
have  a  right  to  call  that  life  precisely 
humdrum. 

Add  to  this  the  fact  that  the  more 
fervent  Puritans  were  daily  engaged  in 
a  terrifically  exciting  adventure  with 
Jehovah.  Some  women  of  to-day  would 
think  it  tolerably  interesting,  I  should 
suppose,  to  be  married  to  a  man  like 
Cotton  Mather,  who  rose  every  day 
after  breakfast,  went  into  his  study, 
put,  as  he  said,  his  sinful  mouth  in  the 
dust  of  his  study  floor,  and,  while  the 
tears  streamed  from  his  eyes,  conversed 
directly  with  angels,  with  'joy  un- 
speakable and  full  of  glory.'  If  a  Puri- 
tan wife  was  pious,  she  was  engaged  in 
a  true  'eternal  triangle';  when  Win- 
throp  left  home,  his  wife  was  committed 
by  him  to  the  arms  of  her  heavenly 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


347 


lover.  If  she  were  not  pious,  she  stole 
the  records  of  his  conversation  with 
angels,  and  went,  like  Mather's  wife, 
into  magnificent  fits  of  jealousy  against 
the  Lord  of  Hosts.  The  resulting  at- 
mosphere may  not  have  been  ideal;  but 
it  is  not  to  be  described  as  'sullen 
gloom';  it  was  not  humdrum  like  a 
Dreiser  novel;  it  was  tense  with- the  ex- 
citement of  living  on  the  perilous  edge 
of  Paradise. 

Did  these  Puritan  husbands  lack 
charm,  or  devotion  to  their  women?  I 
find  that  theory  hard  to  reconcile  with 
the  fact  that  so  many  of  them  had  three 
wives.  Most  of  us  modern  men  feel 
that  we  have  charm  enough,  if  we  can 
obtain  and  retain  one,  now  that  higher 
education  of  women  has  made  them  so 
exacting  in  their  standards  and  so 
expensive  to  maintain.  Now,  Cotton 
Mather  had  three  wives;  and  when  he 
was  forty  or  so,  in  the  short  interim  be- 
tween number  two  and  number  three, 
he  received  a  proposal  of  marriage  from 
a  girl  of  twenty,  who  was,  he  thought, 
the  wittiest  and  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  colony.  I  conclude  inevitably  that 
there  was  something  very  attractive  in 
Cotton  Mather.  Call  it  charm;  call  it 
what  you  will;  he  possessed  that  which 
the  Ladies'  Home  Journal  would  de- 
scribe as  '  What  women  admire  in  men.' 

As  a  further  illustration  of  the  'sul- 
len gloom  of  their  domestic  habits,' 
take  the  case  of  John  Winthrop,  the 
pious  Puritan  governor  of  Massachu- 
setts. After  a  truly  religious  courtship, 
he  married  his  wife,  about  1618,  against 
the  wishes  of  her  friends.  We  have  some 
letters  of  the  early  years  of  their  life  to- 
gether, in  which  he  addresses  her  as 
'My  dear  wife,'  'My  sweet  wife,'  and 
'My  dear  wife,  my  chief  joy  in  this 
world.'  Well,  that  is  nothing;  at  first, 
we  all  do  that. 

But  ten  years  later  Winthrop  pre- 
pared to  visit  New  England,  without 
his  family,  to  found  a  colony.  While 


waiting  for  his  ship  to  sail,  he  writes 
still  to  his  wife  by  every  possible  mes- 
senger, merely  to  tell  her  that  she  is  his 
chief  joy  in  all  the  world;  and  before  he 
leaves  England  he  arranges  with  her 
that,  as  long  as  he  is  away,  every  week 
on  Tuesday  and  Friday  at  five  o'clock 
he  and  she  will  think  of  each  other 
wherever  they  are,  and  commune  in 
spirit.  When  one  has  been  married  ten 
or  twelve  long  years,  that  is  more  ex- 
traordinary. It  shows,  I  think,  roman- 
tic feeling  equal  to  that  in  Miss  Lulu 
Bett,  or  Poor  White,  or  Moon-Calf. 

Finally,  I  will  present  an  extract  from 
a  letter  of  this  same  John  Winthrop  to 
this  same  wife,  written  in  1637,  when 
they  had  been  married  twenty  years. 
It  is  an  informal  note,  written  hurriedly, 
in  the  rush  of  business :  — 

SWEETHEART,  — 

I  was  unwillingly  hindered  from  com- 
ing to  thee,  nor  am  I  like  to  see  thee 
before  the  last  day  of  this  weeke :  there- 
fore I  shall  want  a  band  or  two:  and 
cuffs.  I  pray  thee  also  send  me  six  or 
seven  leaves  of  tobacco  dried  and  pow- 
dered. Have  care  of  thyself  this  cold 
weather,  and  speak  to  the  folks  to  keep 
the  goats  well  out  of  the  garden.  .  .  . 
If  any  letters  be  come  for  me,  send 
them  by  this  bearer.  I  will  trouble  thee 
no  further.  The  Lord  bless  and  keep 
thee,  my  sweet  wife,  and  all  our  family; 
and  send  us  a  comfortable  meeting.  So 
I  kiss  thee  and  love  thee  ever  and  rest 
Thy  faithful  husband, 

JOHN  WINTHROP. 

If,  three  hundred  years  after  my 
death,  it  is  proved  by  documentary  evi- 
dence that  twenty  years  after  my  mar- 
riage I  still,  in  a  familiar  note,  mixed  up 
love  and  kisses  with  my  collars  and  to- 
bacco —  if  this  is  proved,  I  say,  I  shall 
feel  very  much  surprised  if  the  historian 
of  that  day  speaks  of  the  'sullen  gloom 
of  my  domestic  habits.' 


348 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


m 


But  now,  three  hundred  years  after 
Winthrop's  time,  what  is  actually  being 
said  about  the  Puritans?  In  spite  of 
abundant  evidences  such  as  I  have  ex- 
hibited, our  recent  Pilgrim  celebration 
was  a  rather  melancholy  affair.  From 
the  numerous  commemoratory  articles 
which  I  have  read,  I  gather  that  there 
are  only  three  distinct  opinions  about 
the  Puritan  now  current  —  every  one 
of  them  erroneous. 

The  first,  held  by  a  small  apologetic 
group  of  historians  and  Mayflower 
descendants,  is,  that  the  Puritan  was  a 
misguided  man  of  good  intentions. 
Since  he  was  a  forefather  and  has  long 
been  dead,  he  should  be  spoken  of  re- 
spectfully; and  it  is  proper  from  time  to 
time  to  drop  upon  his  grave  a  few  dried 
immortelles.  The  second  opinion  is, 
that  the  Puritan  was  an  unqualified 
pest,  but  that  he  is  dead  and  well 
dead,  and  will  trouble  us  no  more  for- 
ever. The  third,  and  by  far  the  most 
prevalent,  is,  that  the  Puritan  was 
once  a  pest,  but  has  now  become  a 
menace;  that  he  is  more  alive  than 
ever,  more  baleful,  more  dangerous. 

This  opinion  is  propagated  in  part  by 
old  New  Englanders  like  Mr.  Brooks 
Adams,  who  have  turned  upon  their  an- 
cestors with  a  vengeful  fury,  crying, 
'Tantum  religio  potuit  suadere  malo- 
rum.'  And  I  noticed  only  the  other  day 
that  Mr.  Robert  Herrick  was  speaking 
remorsefully  of  Puritanism  as  an  'an- 
cestral blight'  in  his  veins.  But  the 
opinion  is  still  more  actively  propa- 
gated by  a  literary  group  which  comes 
out  flatfootedly  against  the  living  Puri- 
tan as  the  enemy  of  freedom,  of  science, 
of  beauty,  of  romance;  as  a  being  with 
unbreakable  belief  in  his  own  bleak  and 
narrow  views;  a  Philistine,  a  hypocrite, 
a  tyrant,  of  savage  cruelty  of  attack, 
with  a  lust  for  barbarous  persecution, 
and  of  intolerable  dirty-mindedness. 


Despite  the  'plank*  of  universal 
sympathy  in  the  rather  hastily  con- 
structed literary  platform  of  these 
young  people,  it  is  manifest  that  they 
are  out  to  destroy  the  credit  of  the 
Puritan  in  America.  We  are  not  ex- 
ceptionally rich  in  spiritual  traditions. 
It  would  be  a  pity,  by  a  persistent  cam- 
paign of  abuse,  to  ruin  the  credit  of  any 
good  ones.  One  of  the  primary  func- 
tions, indeed,  of  scholarship  and  let- 
ters is  to  connect  us  with  the  great 
traditions  and  to  inspire  us  with  the 
confidence  and  power  which  result 
from  such  a  connection.  Puritanism, 
rightly  understood,  is  one  of  the  vital, 
progressive,  and  enriching  human  tradi- 
tions. It  is  a  tradition  peculiarly  neces- 
sary to  the  health  and  the  stability  and 
the  safe  forward  movement  of  a  demo- 
cratic society.  When  I  consider  from 
what  antiquity  it  has  come  down  to  us 
and  what  vicissitudes  it  has  survived,  I 
do  not  fear  its  extermination;  but  I  re- 
sent the  misapprehension  of  its  char- 
acter and  the  aspersion  of  its  name. 
Perhaps  our  insight  into  its  true  nature 
may  be  strengthened  and  our  respect 
renewed,  if  we  revisit  its  source  and  re- 
view its  operations  at  some  periods  a 
little  remote  from  the  dust  and  dia- 
tribes of  contemporary  journalism. 

IV 

A  good  many  ages  before  Rome  was 
founded,  or  Athens,  or  ancient  Troy, 
or  Babylon,  or  Nineveh,  there  was  an 
umbrageous  banyan  tree  in  India,  in 
whose  wide-spreading  top  and  popu- 
lous branches  red  and  blue  baboons, 
chimpanzees,  gorillas,  orang-outangs, 
and  a  missing  group  of  anthropoid  apes 
had  chattered  and  fought  and  flirted 
and  feasted  and  intoxicated  themselves 
on  cocoanut  wine  for  a  thousand  years. 
At  some  date  which  I  can't  fix  with  ac- 
curacy, the  clatter  and  mess  and  wran- 
gling of  arboreal  simian  society  began  to 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


349 


pall  on  the  heart  of  one  of  the  anthro- 
poid apes.  He  was  not  happy.  He  was 
afflicted  with  ennui.  He  felt  stirring 
somewhere  in  the  region  of  his  diaphragm 
a  yearning  and  capacity  for  a  new  life. 
His  ideas  were  vague;  but  he  resolved 
to  make  a  break  for  freedom  and  try 
an  experiment.  He  crawled  nervously 
out  to  the  end  of  his  branch,  followed 
by  a  few  of  his  friends,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment; then  exclaimed  abruptly,  'Here's 
where  I  get  off, '  dropped  to  the  ground, 
lighted  on  his  feet,  and  amid  a  pelting 
of  decayed  fruit  and  cocoanut  shells 
and  derisive  shouts  of  'precisian'  and 
'hypocrite,'  walked  off  on  his  hind-legs 
into  another  quarter  of  the  jungle  and 
founded  the  human  race.  That  was  the 
first  Puritan. 

In  the  beginning,  he  had  only  a  nar- 
row vision;  for  his  eyes  were  set  near 
together,  as  you  will  see  if  you  examine 
his  skull  in  the  museum.  He  had  a  vi- 
sion of  a  single  principle,  namely,  that 
he  was  to  go  upright,  instead  of  on  all 
fours.  But  he  gradually  made  that 
principle  pervade  all  his  life;  for  he 
resolutely  refrained  from  doing  any- 
thing that  he  could  not  do  while  going 
upright.  As  habit  ultimately  made  the 
new  posture  easy  and  natural,  he  found 
that  there  were  compensations  in  it; 
for  he  learned  to  dd  all  sorts  of  things  in 
the  erect  attitude  that  he  could  not  do, 
even  with  the  aid  of  his  tail,  while  he 
went  on  all-fours.  So  he  began  to  re- 
joice in  what  he  called  'the  new  free- 
dom.' But  to  the  eyes  of  the  denizens 
of  the  banyan  tree,  he  looked  very  ri- 
diculous. They  called  him  stiff-necked, 
strait-laced,  unbending,  and  inflex- 
ible. But  when  they  swarmed  into  his 
little  colony  of  come-outers,  on  all 
fours,  and  began  to  play  their  monkey- 
tricks,  he  met  them  gravely  and  said: 
'Walk  upright,  as  the  rest  of  us  do,  and 
you  may  stay  and  share  alike  with  us. 
Otherwise,  out  you  go.'  And  out  some 
of  them  went,  back  to  the  banyan  tree; 


and  there,  with  the  chimpanzees  and 
the  red  and  blue  baboons,  they  still 
chatter  over  their  cocoanut  wine,  and 
emit  from  time  to  time  a  scream  of  simi- 
an rage,  and  declare  their  straight- 
backed  relative  a  tyrant,  a  despot,  and 
a  persecutor  of  his  good  old  four-footed 
cousins. 

You  may  say  that  this  is  only  a  fool- 
ish fable.  But  it  contains  all  the  essen- 
tial features  of  the  eternal  Puritan: 
namely,  dissatisfaction  with  the  past, 
courage  to  break  sharply  from  it,  a 
vision  of  a  better  life,  readiness  to  ac- 
cept a  discipline  in  order  to  attain  that 
better  life,  and  a  serious  desire  to  make 
that  better  life  prevail  —  a  desire  re- 
flecting at  once  his  sturdy  individualism 
and  his  clear  sense  for  the  need  of  social 
solidarity.  In  these  respects  all  true 
Puritans,  in  all  ages  and  places  of  the 
world,  are  alike.  Everyone  is  dissatis- 
fied with  the  past;  everyone  has  the 
courage  necessary  to  revolt;  everyone 
has  a  vision;  everyone  has  a  discipline; 
and  everyone  desires  his  vision  of  the 
better  life  to  prevail. 

How  do  they  differ  among  themselves  ? 
They  differ  in  respect  to  the  breadth 
and  the  details  of  their  vision.  Their 
vision  is  determined  by  the  width  of 
their  eyes  and  by  the  lights  of  their  age. 
According  to  the  laws  of  human  devel- 
opment, some  of  the  lights  go  out  from 
time  to  time,  or  grow  dim,  and  new 
lights  appear,  and  the  vision  changes 
from  age  to  age. 

What  does  not  change  in  the  true 
Puritan  is  the  passion  for  improvement. 
What  does  not  change  is  the  immortal 
urgent  spirit  that  breaks  from  the  old 
forms,  follows  the  new  vision,  seriously 
seeks  the  discipline  of  the  higher  life. 
When  you  find  a  man  who  is  quite  satis- 
fied with  the  past  and  with  the  routine 
and  old  clothes  of  his  ancestors,  who 
has  not  courage  for  revolt  and  adven- 
ture, who  cannot  accept  the  discipline 
and  hardship  of  a  new  life,  and  who 


350 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


does  not  really  care  whether  the  new 
life  prevails,  you  may  be  sure  that  he  is 
not  a  Puritan. 

But  who  are  ihe  Puritans?  Aristotle 
recognized  that  there  is  an  element  of 
the  Puritan  in  every  man,  when  he  de- 
clared that  all  things,  by  an  intuition 
of  their  own  nature,  seek  their  perfec- 
tion. He  classified  the  desire  for  per- 
fection as  a  fundamental  human  im- 
pulse. Still,  we  have  to  admit  that  in 
many  men  it  must  be  classified  as  a 
victoriously  suppressed  desire.  We  can 
recognize  men  as  Puritans  only  when 
they  have  released  and  expressed  their 
desire  for  perfection. 

Leopardi  declared  that  Jesus  was  the 
first  to  condemn  the  world  as  evil,  and 
to  summon  his  followers  to  come  out 
from  it,  in  order  to  found  a  community 
of  the  pure  in  heart.  But  this  is  an  his- 
torical error.  Unquestionably  Jesus  was 
a  Puritan  in  relation  to  a  corrupt  Jewish 
tradition  and  in  relation  to  a  corrupt 
and  seriously  adulterated  pagan  tradi- 
tion. But  every  great  religious  and 
moral  leader,  Christian  or  pagan,  has 
likewise  been  a  Puritan:  Socrates,  Plato, 
Zeno,  Confucius,  Buddha.  Every  one 
of  them  denounced  the  world,  asked 
his  followers  to  renounce  many  of  their 
instinctive  ways,  and  to  accept  a  rule 
and  discipline  of  the  better  life  —  a  rule 
involving  a  purification  by  the  suppres- 
sion of  certain  impulses  and  the  libera- 
tion of  others. 

There  is  much  talk  of  the  austerities 
of  the  Puritan  households  of  our  fore- 
fathers, austerities  which  were  largely 
matters  of  necessity.  But  two  thousand 
years  before  these  forefathers,  there 
were  Greek  Stoics,  and  Roman  Stoics, 
and  Persian  and  Hindu  ascetics,  who 
were  far  more  austere,  and  who  prac- 
tised the  ascetic  life  from  choice  as  the 
better  life.  There  is  talk  as  if  Protes- 
tant Calvinism  had  suddenly  in  modern 
times  introduced  the  novel  idea  of  put- 
ting religious  duty  before  gratification 


of  the  senses.  But  a  thousand  years 
before  Knox  and  Calvin,  there  were 
Roman  Catholic  monasteries  and  her- 
mitages, where  men  and  women,  with  a 
vision  of  a  better  life,  mortified  the 
flesh  far  more  bitterly  than  the  Cal- 
vinists  ever  dreamed  of  doing.  If  con- 
tempt of  earthly  beauty  and  earthly 
pleasure  were  the  works  of  Puritanism, 
then  the  hermit  saints  of  Catholicism 
who  lived  before  Calvin  should  be  recog- 
nized as  the  model  Puritans.  But  the 
hermit  saint  lacks  that  passion  for  mak- 
ing his  vision  prevail,  lacks  that  prac- 
tical sense  of  the  need  for  social  solidar- 
ity, which  are  eminent  characteristics 
of  the  true  Puritan,  both  within  and 
without  the  Roman  Church. 

In  the  early  Middle  Ages  the  Roman 
Church,  which  also  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  need  for  social  solidarity,  strove 
resolutely  to  keep  the  Puritans,  whom  it 
was  constantly  developing,  within  its 
fold  and  to  destroy  those  who  escaped. 
If  I  follow  the  course  of  those  who  suc- 
cessfully left  the  fold,  it  is  not  because 
many  did  not  remain  within;  it  is  be- 
cause the  course  of  those  who  came  out 
led  them  more  directly  to  America.  In 
the  fourteenth  century,  John  Wycliffe, 
the  first  famous  English  Puritan,  felt 
that  the  Roman  Church  had  become 
hopelessly  involved  with  the  'world' 
on  the  one  hand,  and  with  unnatural, 
and  therefore  unchristian,  austerities 
on  the  other,  and  that,  in  both  ways,  it 
had  lost  the  purity  of  the  early  Chris- 
tian vision  of  the  better  life.  To  obtain 
freedom  for  the  better  life,  he  became 
convinced  that  one  must  come  out  from 
the  Roman  Church,  and  must  substi- 
tute for  the  authority  of  the  pope  the 
authority  of  the  Bible  as  interpreted  by 
the  best  scholarship  of  the  age.  He  re- 
volted, as  he  thought,  in  behalf  of  a  life, 
not  merely  more  religious,  but  also 
more  actively  and  practically  moral, 
and  intellectually  more  honest.  For 
him,  accepting  certain  traditional  doc- 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


351 


trines  meant  acquiescence  in  ignorance 
and  superstition.  His  followers,  with 
the  courage  characteristic  of  their  tradi- 
tion, burned  at  the  stake  rather  than 
profess  faith  in  a '  feigned  miracle.'  True 
forerunners,  they  were,  of  the  man  of 
science  who  'follows  truth  wherever  it 
leads.' 

A  hundred  and  fifty  years  later  the 
English  Church  as  a  whole  revolted  from 
the  Roman,  on  essentially  the  grounds 
taken  by  Wycliffe;  and  under  Mary  its 
scholars  and  ministers  by  scores  burned 
at  the  stake  for  their  vision  of  the  bet- 
ter life,  which  included  above  all  what 
they  deemed  intellectual  integrity.  At 
that  time,  the  whole  English  Church 
was  in  an  essentially  Puritan  mood,  dis- 
satisfied with  the  old,  eager  to  make  the 
new  vision  prevail,  fearless  with  the 
courage  of  the  new  learning,  elate  with 
the  sense  of  national  purification  and 
intellectual  progress. 

But  the  word  Puritan  actually  came 
into  use  first  after  the  Reformation. 
It  was  applied  in  the  later  sixteenth 
century  to  a  group  within  the  English 
Church  which  thought  that  the  na- 
tional church  had  still  insufficiently 
purged  itself  of  Roman  belief  and  ritual. 
Among  things  which  they  regarded  as 
merely  traditional  and  unscriptural, 
and  therefore  unwarrantable,  was  the 

i  government  of  the  church  by  bishops, 
archdeacons,  deacons,  and  the  rest  — 
the  Anglican  hierarchy.  And  when 
these  officers  began  to  suppress  their 
protests,  these  Puritans  began  to  feel 
that  the  English  Church  was  too  much 
involved  with  the  world  to  permit  them 
freedom  for  the  practice  of  the  better 
life.  Accordingly,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  they  revolted  as  nonconform- 

,  ists  or  as  separatists;  and  drew  off  into 
religious  communities  by  themselves, 
with  church  governments  of  representa- 

|  tive  or  democratic  character,  the  prin- 
ciples of  which  were  soon  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  political  communities. 


If  I  recall  here  what  is  very  familiar,  it 
is  to  emphasize  the  swift,  unresting  on- 
ward movement  of  the  Puritan  vision 
of  the  good  life.  The  revolt  against  the 
bishops  became  a  revolution  which 
shook  the  pillars  of  the  Middle  Ages 
and  prepared  the  way  for  modern  times. 
The  vision,  as  it  moves,  broadens  and  be- 
comes more  inclusive.  For  the  seven- 
teenth-century Puritan,  the  good  life  is 
not  merely  religious,  moral,  and  intel- 
lectual; it  is  also,  in  all  affairs  of  the 
soul,  a  self-governing  life.  It  is  a  free 
life,  subject  only  to  divine  commands 
which  each  individual  has  the  right  to 
interpret  for  himself.  The  Puritan 
minister  had,  to  be  sure,  a  great  influ- 
ence; but  the  influence  was  primarily 
due  to  his  superior  learning.  And  the 
entire  discipline  of  the  Puritans  tended 
steadily  toward  raising  the  congrega- 
tion to  the  level  of  the  minister.  Their 
daily  use  of  the  Bible,  their  prompt  in- 
stitution of  schools  and  universities, 
and  the  elaborate  logical  discourses  de- 
livered from  the  pulpits  constituted  a 
universal  education  for  independent 
and  critical  free-thought. 

Puritanism  made  every  man  a  rea- 
soner.  And  much  earlier  than  is  gen- 
erally recognized,  the  Puritan  mind 
began  to  appeal  from  the  letter  to  the 
spirit  of  Scripture,  from  Scripture  to 
scholarship,  and  from  scholarship  to 
the  verdict  of  the  philosophic  reason. 
Says  the  first  pastor  of  the  Pilgrims: 
'He  that  hath  a  right  philosophical 
spirit  and  is  but  morally  honest  would 
rather  suffer  many  deaths  than  call  a 
pin  a  point  or  speak  the  least  thing 
against  his  understanding  or  persua- 
In  John  Robinson  we  meet  a 


sion. 


man  with  a  deep  devotion  to  the  truth, 
and  also  with  the  humility  to  recognize 
clearly  that  he  possesses  but  a  small 
portion  of  truth.  He  conceives,  indeed, 
of  a  truth  behind  the  Bible  itself,  a 
truth  which  may  be  reached  by  other 
means  than  the  Scripture,  and  which 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


352 

was  not  beyond  the  ken  of  the  wise 
pagans.  'All  truth,'  he  (declares,  'is  of 
God.  .  .  .  Whereupon  it  followeth  that 
nothing  true  in  right  reason  and  sound 
philosophy  can  be  false  in  divinity.  .  .  . 
I  add,  though  the  truth  be  uttered  by 
the  devil  himself,  yet  it  is  originally  of 
God.' 

The  delightful  aspects  of  this  'Bibli- 
cal Puritan,'  besides  the  sweetness  of 
his  charity  and  his  tolerance,  are  his 
lively  perception  that  truth  is  some- 
thing new,  steadily  revealing  itself, 
breaking  upon  us  like  a  dawn;  and,  not 
less  significant,  his  recognition  that 
true  religion  must  be  in  harmony  with 
reason  and  experience.  'Our  Lord 
Christ,'  he  remarks  —  quietly  yet 
memorably — 'calls  himself  truth,  not 
custom.' 

Cotton  Mather,  partly  because  of  his 
connection  with  the  witchcraft  trials, 
has  been  so  long  a  synonym  for  the  un- 
lovely features  of  the  culture  of  his 
time  and  place,  that  even  his  bio- 
grapher and  the  recent  editors  of  his 
journal  have  quite  failed  to  bring  out 
the  long  stride  that  he  made  toward 
complete  freedom  of  the  mind.  If  the 
truth  be  told,  Mather,  like  every  Puri- 
tan of  powerful  original  force,  was  some- 
thing of  a  '  heretic.'  For  many  years  he 
followed  a  plainly  mystical '  inner  light.' 
His  huge  diary  opens  in  1681  with  a 
statement  that  he  has  come  to  a  direct 
agreement  with  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
and  that  no  man  or  book,  but  the  spirit 
of  God,  has  shown  him  the  way.  He 
goes  directly  to  the  several  persons  of 
the  Trinity,  and  transacts  his  business 
with  them  or  with  their  ministering  an- 
gels. There  is  an '  enthusiastic '  element 
here;  but  one  should  observe  that  it  is 
an  emancipative  element. 

Experience,  however,  taught  Mather 
a  certain  distrust  of  the  mystical  inner 
light.  Experience  with  witches  taught 
him  a  certain  wariness  of  angels.  In 
1711,  after  thirty  years  of  active  serv- 


ice in  the  church,  Mather  writes  in  his 
diary  this  distinctly  advanced  criterion 
for  inspiration:  — 

'  There  is  a  thought  which  I  have  often 
had  in  my  mind;  but  I  would  now  lay 
upon  my  mind  a  charge  to  have  it  of- 
tener  there:  that  the  light  of  reason  is 
the  law  of  God;  the  voice  of  reason  is 
the  voice  of  God;  we  never  have  to  do 
with  reason,  but  at  the  same  time  we 
have  to  do  with  God;  our  submission  to 
the  rules  of  reason  is  an  obedience  to 
God.  Let  me  as  often  as  I  have  evident 
reason  set  before  me,  think  upon  it; 
the  great  God  now  speaks  to  me.' 

Our  judgment  of  Mather's  vision 
must  depend  upon  what  reason  told 
Mather  to  do.  Well,  every  day  of  his 
life  reason  told  Mather  to  undertake 
some  good  for  his  fellow  men.  At  the 
beginning  of  each  entry  in  his  diary  for 
a  long  period  of  years  stand  the  letters 
'G.D.,'  which  mean  Good  Designed  for 
that  day.  'And  besides  all  this,'  he  de- 
clares, 'I  have  scarce  at  any  time,  for 
these  five-and-forty  years  and  more,  so 
come  as  to  stay  in  any  company  with- 
out considering  whether  no  good  might 
be  done  before  I  left  it.'  One  sees  in 
Mather  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
Puritan  passion  for  making  one's  vision 
of  the  good  life  prevail.  'It  has  been  a 
maxim  with  me,'  he  says, '  that  a  power 
to  do  good  not  only  gives  a  right  unto 
it,  but  also  makes  the  doing  of  it  a  duty. 
I  have  been  made  very  sensible  that  by 
pursuing  of  this  maxim,  I  have  entirely 
ruined  myself  as  to  this  world  and  ren- 
dered it  really  too  hot  a  place  for  me  to 
continue  in.' 

Mather  has  here  in  mind  the  crucial 
and  heroic  test  of  his  Puritan  spirit. 
Toward  the  end  of  his  life,  in  1721, 
an  epidemic  of  smallpox  swept  over 
Boston.  It  was  generally  interpret* 
by  the  pious  as  a  visitation  of  Gc 
Mather,  a  student  of  science  as  well 
of  the  Bible  had  read  in  the  Trans- 
actions of  the  Royal  Society  reports  of 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


353 


successful  inoculation  against  smallpox 
practised  in  Africa  and  among  the 
Turks.  He  called  the  physicians  of 
Boston  together,  explained  the  method, 
and  recommended  their  experimenting 
with  it.  He  also  published  pamphlets 
in  favor  of  inoculation.  He  was  vio- 
lently attacked  as  opposing  the  decrees 
of  God.  In  the  face  of  a  storm  of  op- 
position he  inoculated  his  own  child, 
who  nearly  died  of  the  treatment. 
None  the  less,  he  persisted,  and  invited 
others  to  come  into  his  house  and  re- 
ceive the  treatment,  among  them  a  fel- 
low minister.  Into  the  room  where  the 
patient  lay,  was  thrown  a  bomb  intended 
for  Mather,  which  failed,  however,  to 
explode.  To  it  was  attached  this  note: 
'Cotton  Mather,  you  dog,  damn  you; 
I  '11  inoculate  you  with  this,  with  a  pox 
to  you!' 

Mather  stood  firm,  would  not  be  dis- 
suaded, even  courted  martyrdom  for 
the  new  medical  truth.  'I  had  rather 
die,'  he  said,  'by  such  hands  as  now 
threaten  my  life  than  by  a  fever;  and 
much  rather  die  for  my  conformity  to 
the  blessed  Jesus  in  essays  to  save  life 
than  for  some  truths,  tho'  precious  ones, 
to  which  many  martyrs  testified  for- 
merly in  the  flames  of  Smithfield.' 

Here,  then,  please  observe,  is  the  free 
Puritan  mind  in  revolt,  courageously 
insisting  on  making  his  new  vision  of 
the  good  life  prevail,  resolutely  under- 
taking the  discipline  and  dangers  of  ex- 
periment, and,  above  all,  seeking  what 
he  calls  the  will  of  the  '  blessed  Jesus,' 
not  in  the  Bible,  but  in  a  medical  re- 
port of  the  Royal  Society;  thus  fulfill- 
ing the  spirit  of  Robinson's  declaration 
that  'Our  Lord  Christ  calls  himself 
truth,  not  custom ' ;  and  illustrating  Rob- 
inson's other  declaration  that  true  re- 
ligion cannot  conflict  with  right  rea- 
son and  sound  experience.  In  Mather, 
the  vision  of  the  good  life  came  to  mean 
a  rational  and  practical  beneficence  in 
the  face  of  calumny  and  violence.  For 

VOL.  1S8  —  NO.  3 

c 


his  conduct  on  this  occasion,  he  deserves 
to  have  his  sins  forgiven,  and  to  be 
ranked  and  remembered  as  a  hero  of 
the  modern  spirit. 

He  hoped  that  his  spirit  would  de- 
scend to  his  son;  but  the  full  stream 
of  his  bold  and  original  moral  energy 
turned  elsewhere.  There  was  a  Boston 
boy  of  Puritan  ancestry,  who  had  sat 
under  Cotton  Mather's  father,  who  had 
heard  Cotton  Mather  preach  in  the 
height  of  his  power,  and  who  said  years 
afterward  that  reading  Cotton  Mather's 
book,  Essays  to  do  Good,  'gave  me  such 
a  turn  of  thinking,  as  to  have  an  in- 
fluence on  my  conduct  through  life; 
for  I  have  always  set  a  greater  value  on 
the  character  of  a  doer  of  good,  than  on 
any  other  kind  of  reputation;  and  if  I 
have  been  ...  a  useful  citizen,  the 
public  owes  the  advantage  of  it  to  that 
book.'  This  boy  had  a  strong  common 
sense.  To  him,  as  to  Mather,  right  rea- 
son seemed  the  rule  of  God  and  the  voice 
of  God. 

He  grew  up  hi  Boston  under  Mather's 
influence,  and  became  a  free-think- 
ing man  of  the  world,  entirely  out  of 
sympathy  with  strait-laced  and  stiff- 
necked  upholders  of  barren  rites  and 
ceremonies.  I  am  speaking  of  the  great- 
est liberalizing  force  in  eighteenth- 
century  America,  Benjamin  Franklin. 
Was  he  a  Puritan?  Perhaps  no  one 
thinks  of  him  as  such.  Yet  we  see  that 
he  was  born  and  bred  in  the  bosom  of 
Boston  Puritanism;  that  he  acknow- 
ledges its  greatest  exponent  as  the 
prime  inspiration  of  his  life.  Further- 
more, he  exhibits  all  the  essential  char- 
acteristics of  the  Puritan:  dissatisfac- 
tion, revolt,  a  new  vision,  discipline, 
and  a  passion  for  making  the  new  vision 
prevail.  He  represents,  in  truth,  the 
reaction  of  a  radical,  a  living  Puritan- 
ism, to  an  age  of  intellectual  enlighten- 
ment. 

Franklin  began  his  independent  ef- 
fort in  a  revolt  against  ecclesiastical 


354 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


authority,  as  narrow  and  unrealistic. 
Recall  the  passage  in  his  Autobiography 
where  he  relates  his  disgust  at  a  sermon 
preached  on  the  great  text  in  Philip- 
pians:  Whatsoever  things  are  true, 
honest,  just,  pure,  lovely,  or  of  good 
report,  if  there  be  any  virtue,  or  any 
praise,  think  on  these  things.  Franklin 
says  that,  in  expounding  this  text,  the 
minister  confined  himself  to  five  points: 
keeping  the  Sabbath,  reading  the  Scrip- 
tures, attending  public  worship,  par- 
taking of  the  sacraments,  and  respect- 
ing the  ministers.  Franklin  recognized 
at  once  that  there  was  no  moral  life  in 
that  minister,  was  'disgusted,'  and  at- 
tended his  preaching  no  more.  It  was 
the  revolt  of  a  living  Puritanism  from  a 
Puritanism  that  was  dead. 

For,  note  what  follows,  as  the  conse- 
quence of  his  break  with  the  church. 
'  It  was  about  this  time  that  I  conceived, ' 
says  Franklin,  'the  bold  and  arduous 
project  of  arriving  at  moral  perfection. 
I  wished  to  live  without  committing 
any  fault  at  any  time,  and  to  conquer 
all  that  either  natural  inclination,  cus- 
tom, or  company  might  lead  me  into.' 
Everyone  will  recall  how  Franklin  drew 
up  his  table  of  the  thirteen  real  moral 
virtues,  and  how  diligently  he  exercised 
himself  to  attain  them.  But,  for  us,  the 
significant  feature  of  his  enterprise  was 
the  realistic  spirit  in  which  it  was  con- 
ceived :  the  bold  attempt  to  ground  the 
virtues  on  reason  and  experience  rather 
than  authority;  the  assertion  of  his 
doctrine  'that  vicious  actions  are  not 
hurtful  because  they  are  forbidden,  but 
forbidden  because  they  are  hurtful,  the 
nature  of  man  alone  considered.' 

Having  taken  this  ground,  it  became 
necessary  for  him  to  explore  the  nature 
of  man  and  the  universe.  So  Puritan- 
ism, which,  in  Robinson  and  Mather, 
was  predominantly  rational,  becomes  in 
Franklin  predominantly  scientific.  With 
magnificent  fresh  moral  force,  he  seeks 
for  the  will  of  God  in  nature,  and  ap- 


plies his  discoveries  with  immense  prac- 
tical benevolence  to  ameliorating  the 
common  lot  of  mankind,  and  to  dif- 
fusing good-will  among  men  and  na- 
tions. Light  breaks  into  his  mind  from 
every  quarter  of  his  century.  His  vision 
of  the  good  life  includes  bringing  every 
faculty  of  mind  and  body  to  its  highest 
usefulness.  With  a  Puritan  emancipa- 
tor like  Franklin,  we  are  not  obliged  to 
depend,  for  the  opening  of  our  minds, 
upon  subsequent  liberators  devoid  of 
his  high  reconstructive  seriousness. 

I  must  add  just  one  more  name,  for 
the  nineteenth  century,  to  the  history 
of  our  American  Puritan  tradition. 
The  original  moral  force  which  was  in 
Mather  and  Franklin  passed  in  the 
next  age  into  a  man  who  began  to 
preach  in  Cotton  Mather's  church, 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  descendant  of 
many  generations  of  Puritans.  The 
church  itself  had  now  become  Unitarian : 
yet,  after  two  or  three  years  of  service, 
Emerson,  like  Franklin,  revolted  from 
the  church;  the  vital  force  of  Puritan- 
ism in  him  impelled  him  to  break  from 
the  church  in  behalf  of  his  vision  of  sin- 
cerity, truth,  and  actuality.  'Whoso 
would  be  a  man,'  he  declares  in  his 
famous  essay  on  Self-Reliance,  'must 
be  a  nonconformist.  He  who  would 
gather  immortal  palms  must  not  be 
hindered  by  the  name  of  goodness,  but 
must  explore  if  it  be  goodness.' 

No  American  ever  lived  whose  per-  • 
sonal  life  was  more  exemplary;  or  who 
expressed  such  perfect  disdain  of  out- 
worn formulas  and  lifeless  routine. 
There  is  dynamite  in  his  doctrine  to 
burst  tradition  to  fragments,  when 
tradition  has  become  an  empty  shell. 
'Every  actual  state  is  corrupt,'  he  cries 
in  one  of  his  dangerous  sayings;  'good 
men  will  not  obey  the  laws  too  well.' 
To  good  men  whose  eyes  are  wide  and 
full  of  light,  there  is  always  breaking  a 
new  vision  of  right  reason,  which  is  the 
will  of  God,  and  above  the  law.  Emer- 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


355 


son  himself  broke  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  and  in  the  face  of  howling  Pro- 
Slavery  mobs  declared  that  John  Brown 
would  'make  the  gallows  glorious  like 
the  cross.' 

That  is  simply  the  political  aspect  of 
his  radical  Puritanism.  On  the  aesthetic 
side,  Emerson  disregarded  the  existing 
conventions  of  poetry  to  welcome  Walt 
Whitman,  who  saluted  him  as  master. 
Emerson  hailed  Walt  Whitman  be- 
cause Whitman  had  sought  to  make 
splendid  and  beautiful  the  religion  of 
a  Puritan  democracy;  and  a  Puritan 
democracy  is  the  only  kind  that  we  have 
reason  to  suppose  will  endure. 

Let  these  two  examples  of  Emerson's 
revolt  and  vision  suffice  to  illustrate 
the  modern  operation  of  the  Puritan 
spirit,  its  disdain  for  formalism  and 
routine. 

Now,  our  contemporary  leaders  of  the 
attack  against  the  modern  Puritan  de- 
clare that  modern  Puritanism  means 
campaigns  of  'snouting  and  suppres- 
sion.' That,  we  should  now  be  pre- 
pared to  assert,  is  precisely  and  dia- 
metrically opposite  to  what  modern 
Puritanism  means.  Modern  Puritanism 
means  the  release,  not  the  suppression, 
of  power,  welcome  to  new  life,  revolt 
from  decay  and  death.  With  extrava- 
gant asceticism,  with  precisianism,  mod- 
ern Puritanism  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do. 

What  made  the  teaching  of  Emerson, 
for  example,  take  hold  of  his  contem- 
poraries, what  should  commend  it  to 
us  to-day,  is  just  its  unfailingly  positive 
character;  its  relish  for  antagonisms  and 
difficulty;  its  precept  for  the  use  of  the 
spur;  its  restoration  of  ambition  to  its 
proper  place  in  the  formation  of  the 
manly  character;  its  power  to  free  the 
young  soul  from  the  fetters  of  fear  and 
send  him  on  his  course  like  a  thunder- 
bolt; and,  above  all,  its  passion  for 
bringing  the  whole  of  life  for  all  men 
to  its  fullest  and  fairest  fruit;  its  pas- 


sion for  emancipating,  not  merely  the 
religious  and  moral,  but  also  the  intel- 
lectual and  the  political  and  social  and 
ffisthetic  capacities  of  man,  so  that  he 
may  achieve  the  harmonious  perfection 
of  his  whole  nature,  body  and  soul.  To 
this  vision  of  the  good  life,  Puritanism 
has  come  by  inevitable  steps  in  its  pil- 
grimage through  the  ages. 

What  have  I  been  trying  to  demon- 
strate by  this  long  review  of  the  Puritan 
tradition?  This,  above  all:  that  the 
Puritan  is  profoundly  in  sympathy 
with  the  modern  spirit,  is  indeed  the 
formative  force  in  the  modern  spirit. 

The  Puritan  is  constantly  discarding 
old  clothes;  but,  being  a  well-born  soul, 
he  seeks  instinctively  for  fresh  raiment. 
Hence  his  quarrel  with  the  Adamite, 
who  would  persuade  him  to  rejoice  in 
nakedness  and  seek  no  further. 

Man  is  an  animal,  as  the  Adamites 
are  so  fond  of  reminding  us.  What  es- 
capes their  notice  is,  that  man  is  an 
animal  constituted  and  destined  by  his 
nature  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  in  search 
of  a  shrine;  and  till  he  finds  the  shrine, 
constrained  by  his  nature  to  worship 
the  Unknown  God.  This  the  Puritan 
has  always  recognized.  And  this,  pre- 
cisely, it  is  that  makes  the  Puritan  a 
better  emancipator  of  young  souls  than 
our  contemporary  Adamite. 

A  great  part  of  our  lives,  as  we  all 
feel  in  our  educational  period,  is  oc- 
cupied with  learning  how  to  do  and  to 
be  what  others  have  been  and  have  done 
before  us.  But  presently  we  discover 
that  the  world  is  changing  around  us, 
and  that  the  secrets  of  the  masters  and 
the  experience  of  our  elders  do  not 
wholly  suffice  to  establish  us  effectively 
in  our  younger  world.  We  discover 
within  us  needs,  aspirations,  powers,  of 
which  the  generation  that  educated  us 
seems  unaware,  or  toward  which  it  ap- 
pears to  be  indifferent,  unsympathetic, 
or  even  actively  hostile.  We  perceive 
gradually  or  with  successive  shocks  of 


356 


WHAT  IS  A  PURITAN? 


surprise  that  many  things  which  our 
fathers  declared  were  true  and  satis- 
factory are  not  at  all  satisfactory,  are 
by  no  means  true,  for  us.  Then  it 
dawns  upon  us,  perhaps  as  an  exhilarat- 
ing opportunity,  perhaps  as  a  grave  and 
sobering  responsibility,  that  in  a  little 
while  we  ourselves  shall  be  the  elders, 
the  responsible  generation.  Our  salva- 
tion in  the  day  when  we  take  command 
will  depend,  we  believe,  upon  our  dis- 
entanglement from  the  lumber  of  heir- 
looms and  hereditary  devices,  and  upon 
the  free,  wise  use  of  our  own  faculties. 
At  that  moment,  if  we  have  inherited, 
not  the  Puritan  heirlooms,  but  the  liv- 
ing Puritan  tradition,  we  enter  into  the 
modern  spirit.  By  this  phrase  I  mean, 
primarily,  the  disposition  to  accept 
nothing  on  authority,  but  to  bring  all 
reports  to  the  test  of  experience.  The 
modern  spirit  is,  first  of  all,  a  free  spirit 
open  on  all  sides  to  the  influx  of  truth, 
even  from  the  past.  But  freedom  is  not 
its  only  characteristic.  The  modern 
spirit  is  marked,  further,  by  an  active 
curiosity,  which  grows  by  what  it  feeds 
upon,  and  goes  ever  inquiring  for  fresh- 
er and  sounder  information,  not  content 
till  it  has  the  best  information  to  be  had 
anywhere.  But  since  it  seeks  the  best, 
it  is,  by  necessity,  also  a  critical  spirit, 


constantly  sifting,  discriminating,  re- 
jecting, and  holding  fast  that  which  is 
good,  only  till  that  which  is  better  is 
within  sight.  This  endless  quest,  when 
it  becomes  central  in  a  life,  requires 
labor,  requires  pain,  requires  a  measure 
of  courage;  and  so  the  modern  spirit, 
with  its  other  virtues,  is  an  heroic  spirit. 
As  a  reward  for  difficulties  gallantly 
undertaken,  the  gods  bestow  on  the 
modern  spirit  a  kind  of  eternal  youth, 
with  unfailing  powers  of  recuperation 
and  growth. 

To  enter  into  this  spirit  is  what  the 
Puritan  means  by  freedom.  He  does 
not,  like  the  false  emancipator,  merely 
cut  us  loose  from  the  old  moorings  and 
set  us  adrift  at  the  mercy  of  wind  and 
tide.  He  comes  aboard,  like  a  good  pi- 
lot; and  while  we  trim  our  sails,  he  takes 
the  wheel  and  lays  our  course  for  a 
fresh  voyage.  His  message  when  he 
leaves  us  is  not,  'Henceforth  be  master- 
less,'  but,  'Bear  thou  henceforth  the 
sceptre  of  thine  own  control  through 
life  and  the  passion  of  life.'  If  that  mes- 
sage still  stirs  us  as  with  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet,  and  frees  and  prepares  us, 
not  for  the  junketing  of  a  purposeless 
vagabondage,  but  for  the  ardor  and  dis- 
cipline and  renunciation  of  a  pilgrim- 
age, we  are  Puritans. 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


BY  EDGAR  J.   GOODSPEED 


MY  academic  orbit  is  not  too  rigid  to 
permit  an  occasional  deviation  into  the 
outer  world.  At  such  times  I  direct  my 
steps  into  the  neighboring  City  of  De- 
struction, where,  in  a  lofty  building,  is 
one  of  those  centres  of  light  and  leading 
which  punctuate  the  darkness  of  the 
metropolis.  The  structure  is  not  exter- 
nally remarkable,  but  the  modest  frac-t 
tion  of  it  assigned  to  my  activities  is 
certainly  no  ordinary  apartment. 

The  extraordinary  thing  about  my 
classroom  is  its  sides.  One  is  formed  by 
a  vast  accordion  door,  loosely  fitting, 
as  is  the  manner  of  such  doors.  It 
faithfully  conceals  the  persons  behind 
it  and  their  every  action,  while  it  as 
faithfully  transmits  all  they  may  have 
to  say.  Theirs  is  an  eloquent  conceal- 
ment. From  the  sounds  that  well 
through  the  ample  interstices  of  that 
door,  we  gather  that  it  is  psychology 
that  is  going  on  in  the  adjoining  room. 
The  fascinating  affirmations  of  that 
most  intimate  science  break  in  upon 
our  occasional  pauses  with  startling  ef- 
fect. It  is  thus  beyond  doubt  that  theol- 
ogy should  always  be  inculcated  to  a 
psychological  obbligato,  an  accompani- 
ment of  the  study  of  the  mind. 

Even  more  unusual  is  the  other  side 
of  the  room.  From  floor  to  ceiling  it  is 
all  of  plate-glass,  not  meanly  divided 
into  little  squares,  but  broadly  spaced, 
so  that  you  are  hardly  conscious  it  is 
there.  Through  it  you  may  behold,  as 
in  an  aquarium,  a  company  of  men  and 
women  going  through  many  motions  but 


making  no  sound.  A  tall  romantic 
youth,  presumably  the  teacher,  stands 
before  them,  and  they  rise  up  and  sit 
down  for  no  perceptible  reason  and  to 
no  apparent  purpose.  One  of  them  will 
get  up  and  stand  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  will  as  suddenly  and  causelessly  sit 
down  again.  At  other  times,  even  more 
distressing,  they  are  all  motionless. 
Lips  move,  but  they  give  forth  no  sound. 
It  is  like  a  meeting  of  the  deaf-and-dumb 
society.  Worst  of  all,  they  will  some- 
times unanimously  and  quite  without 
warning  rise  in  their  places,  simultane- 
ously adjust  their  wraps,  and  silently 
depart.  It  is  as  if  they  all  suddenly 
realize  that  they  have  had  enough  of  it. 
You  know  that  you  have.  There  is 
something  weird  in  all  this  soundless 
action,  this  patient  motiveless  mechani- 
cal down-sitting  and  uprising,  something 
far  more  distracting  even  than  in  those 
disembodied  psychological  voices  that 
murmur  in  our  ears. 

But  much  more  disturbing  than 
either  of  these  extraordinary  neighbors 
of  our  reflections  is  their  combination. 
The  sounds  that  come  through  the  door 
do  not  tally  with  the  sights  that  come 
through  the  glass.  What  you  hear 
bears  no  relation  to  what  you  see.  It 
does  not  even  contradict  it.  There  is  a 
war  in  your  members.  Your  senses  do 
not  agree. 

And  yet  you  are  haunted  by  the  no- 
tion that  what  you  are  hearing  has 
something  to  do  with  what  you  are  see- 
ing. When  someone  asks  a  question 

357 


358 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


behind  the  door  at  your  left  and  some- 
one makes  a  motion  beyond  the  glass 
at  your  right,  you  instinctively  try  to  re- 
late the  two.  But  in  vain;  there  is  no  re- 
lation. Especially  when  all  the  visibles 
get  up  and  leave,  it  seems  as  if  it  must 
be  because  of  something  the  audibles 
have  said.  Nevertheless,  the  audibles 
go  right  on  psychologizing,  entirely 
oblivious  of  the  visibles'  departure. 

Reflection  has  satisfied  me  that  much 
confusion  of  the  modern  mind  is  due  to 
the  incongruity  of  what  we  hear  and 
what  we  see.  The  conditions  of  my 
quaint  lecture-room  are  typical.  You 
look  about  upon  a  community  of  earn- 
est hard-working  people,  soberly  doing 
their  daily  work  at  business  and  at 
home.  But  you  pick  up  the  Home  Edi- 
tion, and  read  of  a  very  different  world 
of  violence  and  vice.  All  its  men  are 
scoundrels  and  its  women  quite  different 
from  those  you  see,  to  say  the  least. 
You  have  long  been  assured  that  this 
is  the  Age  of  Reason;  but  observation 
finds  little  to  support  the  claim.  The 
Age  of  Impulse  would  seem  as  good  a 
guess.  You  hear  that  the  League  of  Na- 
tions is  dead,  but  on  visiting  the  movies 
you  are  astonished  to  see  it  in  session 
and  to  find  that  it  yet  speaketh.  You 
are  told  on  all  hands  that  everything 
about  the  war  was  a  failure,  and  yet,  as 
a  whole,  it  seems  to  have  accomplished 
its  immediate  end.  You  hear  much 
lamentation  over  the  sensationalism  of 
the  press,  but  as  you  read  it,  it  is  its 
conventionality  that  oftener  leaves  you 
mourning.  The  newspapers  show  you  a 
comfortable  view  of  the  steel  strike, 
but  the  cook's  brother,  who  was  one  of 
the  strikers,  tells  you  something  en- 
tirely different.  With  a  laudable  desire 
to  preserve  your  reason,  you  do  your 
best  to  cultivate  the  virtues  of  blind- 
ness, deafness,  insensibility,  and  unbe- 
lief. Yet  you  are  sometimes  just  a  lit- 
tle bewildered.  Your  universe  is  not 
unified. 


The  most  disturbing  thing  is  not  that 
things  seen  and  things  heard  contradict 
each  other:  that  we  might  learn  to  al- 
low for.  The  great  trouble  is  that  they 
seem  to  bear  no  relation  to  each  other 
at  all.  Most  political  talk  is  of  this  de- 
scription. It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
case.  It  is  like  the  effort  of  a  young 
friend  of  mine  who,  on  being  asked  to 
translate  a  well-known  passage  of  Epic- 
tetus,  produced  the  following:  — 

'If  teachings  are  no  longer  the  rea- 
sons of  all  things,  and  who  has  false  doc- 
trines, how  much  should  be  the  cause, 
and  as  such  the  destruction.' 

That  mythical  creature,  the  Amer- 
ican of  British  fiction,  so  boldly  por- 
trayed by  Mr.  Chesterton,  Mr.  Buchan, 
Mr.  Oppenheim,  and  Mr.  Doyle,  much 
as  we  love  and  enjoy  him,  is,  it  must  be 
confessed,  little  known  save  by  reputa- 
tion on  this  side  of  the  sea.  He  is  fiction 
in  the  strictest  sense.  Like  Mr.  De 
Quincey's  unfortunate  reporter,  non 
est  inventus.  But  he  is  not  the  less  popu- 
lar among  us  for  being  an  imported 
article.  He  is  so  rich,  so  ready,  so  un- 
spoiled, so  clear-eyed,  clean-limbed, 
nasal-toned,  poker-faced,  and  best  of 
all  (true  to  the  great  traditions  of  his 
country),  so  quick  on  the  trigger! 

The  trouble  is  not  merely  that  the 
things  we  hear  we  never  see,  but  that 
the  things  we  see  we  never  hear.  For 
how  extraordinary  is  the  sensation  when 
you  hear  of  something  you  have  seen! 
Perhaps  it  is  only  an  accident.  Do  you 
not  yearn  to  rise  up  and  cry  out, '  I  saw 
that!  I  was  there'?  It  is  because,  for 
once,  things  seen  coincide  with  things 
heard. 

Brain-proud  men  of  science  sourly  say 
that  Greek  is  dead.  But  to  the  Grecian 
mind  it  is  refreshing  to  observe  that 
familiarity  with  Greek  is  now  extraor- 
dinarily widespread  in  this  country. 
This  is  all  the  more  fascinating  at  a 
time  when  the  practical  educators  have 
triumphantly  excluded  the  study  of 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


359 


Greek  from  most  institutions  of  learn- 
ing, as  an  impractical  subject,  not  suit- 
ed to  the  training  of  a  materialistic 
people. 

As  I  look  about  the  world  in  which  I 
live,  I  observe  that  every  high-school 
boy  or  girl  knows  his  Greek  letters.  He 
does  not  have  to  be  compelled  to  learn 
them.  He  wishes  to  learn  them.  He 
would  feel  humiliated  if  he  did  not  learn 
them.  He  would  be  looked  down  upon 
by  his  companions  as  a  person  without 
social  ideals.  His  college  brothers  are 
equally  conversant  with  the  eponym 
of  all  alphabets.  So  are  their  sisters  and 
their  sweethearts.  They  may  not  know 
the  rule  of  three  or  the  multiplication 
table;  they  may  be  without  a  single 
formula  of  chemistry  or  a  solitary  prin- 
ciple of  physics;  but,  rely  upon  it,  they 
will  know  their  Greek  letters.  Their 
parents  will  know  them,  too.  They  will 
learn  them  at  their  children's  knee,  in 
all  docility  and  eagerness,  for  fear  of 
disgracing  themselves  and  their  off- 
spring by  not  always  and  everywhere 
distinguishing  the  illustrious  Tau  Omi- 
cron  Pi's  from  the  despised  Nu  Upsi- 
lon  Tau's.  The  fact  is,  it  is  difficult  to 
be  even  a  successful  delivery  boy  in 
our  community  without  knowing  one's 
Greek  letters. 

I  doubt  whether  the  Greek  alphabet 
was  ever  more  widely  and  favorably 
known  than  now.  In  our  midst  the  cele- 
brated Cato  could  not  have  survived 
till  eighty  without  learning  it. 

I  shudder  to  think  what  anguish  this 
must  cause  the  practical  educators 
aforesaid,  as  they  walk  abroad  and  see 
every  house  boldly  and  even  brazenly 
labeled  with  the  hated  letters.  Even 
their  own  favorite  students,  who  show 
promise  in  the  use  of  test-tubes  and 
microscopes,  insist  upon  labeling  them- 
selves with  more  of  the  Greek  alphabet. 
Why  will  they  not  be  content  to  call 
their  honor  societies  by  some  practical 
Anglo-Saxon  name,  like  the  Bread  and 


Brick  Club,  or  the  Gas  and  Gavel? 
But  no!  These  rational  considerations 
have  no  force  with  our  youth.  Nothing 
will  satisfy  them  but  more  Greek  let- 
ters. I  have  seen  a  man  use  twelve  of 
them,  or  just  half  the  alphabet,  to  set 
forth  his  social  and  learned  affiliations. 

Of  course,  to  us  Greek  professors, 
shambling  aimlessly  about  the  streets 
with  nothing  to  do,  these  brass  signs 
are  like  the  faces  of  old  friends  (no  of- 
fense, I  hope),  and  remind  us  of  the 
names  of  the  books  of  Homer,  if  noth- 
ing more. 

But  the  Greek  renaissance  has  gone 
much  further  than  the  alphabet.  It 
pervades  science.  It  is  positively  non- 
plussing to  hear  one's  scientific  friends 
rambling  on  in  the  language  of  Aris- 
totle and  Euclid,  with  their  atoms  and 
ions,  their  cryoscopes  and  cephalalgias, 
their  sepsis,  analysis,  and  autopsies. 
The  fact  is,  they  really  talk  very  little 
but  Greek,  which  is  one  reason  why  we 
all  admire  them  so.  They  are  greatest 
when  they  are  most  Greek;  and  were 
their  Greek  vocabulary  suddenly  taken 
from  them,  half  their  books  would 
shrivel  into  verbs.  Three  fourths  of 
them  are  indeed  teaching  Greek  as  hard 
as  they  can,  though  mercifully  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact. 

The  Greek,  on  seeing  a  queer  animal, 
waited  till  it  was  dead  and  then  counted 
its  toes.  He  thus  soon  knew  enough  to 
make  a  distinction  between  genus  and 
species,  which  zoologists  are  still  talk- 
ing about.  Whence  it  comes  about  that 
our  little  Greek  friends,  the  lion,  the 
elephant,  the  rhinoceros,  and  the  hip- 
popotamus, are  household  favorites 
still.  Consistent  people  who  object  to 
Greek  will  expunge  these  words  from 
their  vocabulary. 

The  Greek  conquest  of  our  social 
youth  and  of  our  grizzled  age  is  noth- 
ing, however,  to  its  triumphs  in  com- 
merce. Here  both  letters  and  vocabu- 
lary come  into  their  own.  It  must  be 


360 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


admitted  that  we  English-speaking 
people  are  poor  word-makers.  Only  in 
moments  of  rare  inspiration  do  we 
achieve  a  Nabisco  or  a  Mazola.  But  in 
this  age  of  new  creations  one  of  Adam's 
chief  needs  is  names  for  the  bewildering 
things  he  sees  about  him.  How  indis- 
pensable to  us  inarticulate  moderns  is 
the  voluble  Greek!  Like  one  who  hides 
a  thimble  for  you  to  find,  he  has  named 
everything  in  advance,  and  all  we  have 
to  do  is  to  discover  it.  From  Alpha 
Beer  to  Omega  Oil,  from  Antikamnia  to 
Sozodont,  the  Greek  has  taught  us 
names.  Even  automobile  is  half  Greek, 
which  is  really  what  makes  it  desirable. 
Who  would  want  an  ipsomobile?  And 
Solon  and  moron,  those  twin  pillars  of 
the  journalistic  vocabulary,  without 
which  no  newspaper  could  exist  a  week, 
are  pure  Grecian.  When  I  attend  the 
funeral  of  Greek,  therefore,  as  I  am 
constantly  invited  to  do,  I  am  com- 
forted to  observe  old  Greek  himself  and 
his  whole  family,  thinly  disguised,  head- 
ing the  chief  mourners. 

II 

Nowhere  is  the  contrast  between 
things  seen  and  things  heard  more  strik- 
ing than  in  language.  Very  conscien- 
tious people  have  observed  this  and, 
fearful  of  seeming  something  other  than 
they  are,  have  evolved  phonetic  spell- 
ing. Witty  people  like  Max  Beerbohm 
and  Josh  Billings  have  observed  it  too, 
and  made  such  use  of  it  as  'Yures  til 
deth,'  and  '  "The laibrer  iz  werthi ov hiz 
hire,"  an  that  iz  aul.'  Children  are  pro- 
ficient here.  One  I  know  recently  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  his  'Dere  ant  LN.' 
'Nit  mittenz  ar  the  kynd,'  as  they  spell 
at  Lake  Placid.  An  intelligent-looking 
man  steps  in  front  of  you  at  the  club, 
and  murmurs  a  deferential  'Skewmy,' 
to  which  you  suavely  reply,  'Dough- 
meshnit.'  No  one  has  ever  been  able  to 
reproduce  conversation  in  print.  The 


gulf  between  the  words  we  see  and  the 
words  we  say  is  too  great.  Feeble  ef- 
forts in  this  direction  are  sometimes 
made  by  ambitious  writers,  but  the 
truth  is  that,  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  printed  page,  we  all  speak  in  dialect. 

The  fact  is,  almost  everything  we 
hear  is  more  or  less  conventionalized  in 
type  or  in  telling.  People  exchange  frag- 
ments of  news,  or  funny  stories  of  a 
few  familiar  types.  Newspaper  items 
can  easily  be  grouped  under  five  or  six 
thoroughly  conventional  heads.  An  ob- 
servant friend  once  remarked  that  the 
women  of  literature  were  mere  pallid 
contrivances  compared  to  the  actual 
ones  we  know,  and  I  was  really  startled 
to  perceive  that  he  was  right.  Even 
in  books  no  one  will  go  to  the  pains  of 
relating  things  as  unconventionally  as 
they  really  happen.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  stereotypes,  and  we  expect  and 
desire  them.  In  reality,  of  course,  things 
happen  much  more  intricately  than 
anyone  will  bother  to  report  them,  or 
to  hear  them  reported.  This  is  prob- 
ably what  is  meant  when  we  say  that 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  It  is 
vastly  more  complex. 

Take  a  simple  example.  As  you  plod 
homeward  of  an  autumn  morning, 
fatigued  by  the  labors  of  the  profes- 
sorial day,  you  are  met  by  a  colleague  of 
high  degree,  who  declares  that  he  has 
been  looking  for  you.  Will  you  go  and 
meet  the  Cardinal?  Like  the  Sage  of 
Concord,  you  like  a  church,  you  like  a 
cowl,  and  you  are  careful  not  to  say 
No,  as  you  conceal  your  gratification 
and  fence  for  more  definite  information. 
You  fortify  yourself  by  the  reflection 
that  you  have  encountered  cardinals 
and  dukes  before  this,  and  struggle  to 
remember  which  is  His  Eminence  and 
which  His  Grace.  It  seems  that  the 
Archbishop  is  to  bring  the  Cardinal  out 
from  the  other  end  of  town,  and  at  one- 
fifteen  they  will  hesitate  at  a  certain 
down-town  corner  long  enough  to  pick 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


361 


you  up.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  carry 
your  cap  and  gown,  to  mark  you  off 
from  the  passing  throng.  And  you  would 
better  give  the  motor-cycle  man  who 
will  lead  the  way  a  memorandum  of  the 
route  he  is  to  follow. 

You  do  not  decline.  You  move  on 
homeward,  thinking  quite  without  ef- 
fort of  some  flattering  things  you  will 
say  to  the  Archbishop  and  some  ob- 
servations you  will  address  to  the  Cardi- 
nal. In  particular,  you  decide  to  ask 
him  if,  when  the  German  Cardinal 
condescendingly  remarked,  'We  will 
not  speak  of  war,'  he  really  did  answer, 
'  We  will  not  speak  of  peace.'  Your  sim- 
ple preparations  are  soon  made,  and 
you  make  your  way  down-town  in  some 
preoccupation. 

Promptness  has  been  said  to  be  the 
courtesy  of  princes  and  you  do  not  wish 
to  disappoint  a  Prince  of  the  Church. 
At  one-five  you  take  your  stand  at  the 
curb  beside  the  streaming  boulevard. 
Traffic  is  at  its  highest.  You  are  less  in- 
conspicuous than  you  could  wish,  for 
no  one  else  is  carrying  an  academic  cap 
in  his  hand  and  a  doctor's  gown  upon 
his  arm.  But  to  conceal  these  accoutre- 
ments may  defeat  the  purpose  of  your 
vigil.  It  is  precisely  by  a  wave  of  that 
Oxford  cap  that  you  are  to  bring  the 
whole  proud  sacerdotal  cortege,  motor- 
cycles and  all,  to  a  stop.  You  scan  each 
south-bound  car  with  eagerness.  It  be- 
comes one-fifteen.  The  Archbishop  is 
the  soul  of  promptitude.  He  should  be 
almost  here.  You  perceive  approaching 
a  particularly  stately  limousine,  which 
conforms  to  your  preconceived  ideas  of 
the  archiepiscopal  in  automobiles.  It 
proves  to  be  empty.  You  have  now 
scanned  hundreds  of  passing  cars.  It  is 
one-twenty  —  one-twenty-five  —  one- 
thirty.  Great  Heavens!  Have  you 
missed  the  Cardinal's  car,  Archbishop 
and  all?  Even  in  your  dawning  dismay 
habits  of  scientific  observation  reassert 
themselves.  The  stately  limousine  you 


had  once  taken  for  his  reappears,  from 
the  same  direction  as  before  and  still 
empty.  You  are  not  mistaken.  You 
recognize  the  chauffeur.  You  almost 
think  he  recognizes  you.  It  strikes  you 
that  these  cars  that  you  have  been  see- 
ing are  not  all  different  ones,  but  are 
simply  circling  about  before  you,  like 
Caesar's  army  on  the  stage. 

It  is  two  o'clock.  You  despair.  The 
party  has  eluded  you.  It  has  probably 
already  arrived  at  the  University,  hav- 
ing gone  out  some  other  way.  After  all, 
why  should  you  have  escorted  the  Car- 
dinal out?  He  is  escorted  everywhere 
by  two  archbishops,  five  motor-cops, 
five  plain-clothes  men,  and  a  civilian 
guard  of  honor.  This  should  suffice. 
He  is  indeed  a  stranger  in  the  city,  but 
he  can  hardly  go  astray.  You  begin  to 
feel  sadly  superfluous,  yet,  following  a 
Casabiancan  instinct,  you  stay  on.  A 
friend  who  has  observed  your  situation 
goes  into  the  club  and  telephones.  He 
returns  to  inform  you  that,  owing  to 
the  Cardinal's  fatigue,  the  programme 
has  been  postponed  one  hour.  It  is  two- 
ten.  You  observe  that  it  is  just  time 
for  him  now  to  be  appearing.  The 
stately  and  mysterious  limousine,  al- 
ready twice  seen,  now  passes  for  the 
third  time.  It  is  still  vacant. 

The  mystery  of  it  fascinates  you.  Is 
it  inextricably  caught  in  the  circling 
current,  like  some  flying  Dutchman  on 
wheels,  powerless  to  make  a  port?  It 
occurs  to  you  that,  if  the  cars  before 
you  are  in  some  instances  merely  run- 
ning around  in  circles,  the  foot-pas- 
sengers behind  you  may  be  doing  the 
same  thing.  Two-twenty-five,  and 
again  that  silent,  vacant,  funereal  limou- 
sine sweeps  by,  for  the  fourth  tune.  It 
is  getting  on  your  nerves.  Is  it  possible 
that  public-spirited  owners  send  their 
limousines  on  idle  afternoons  to  circle 
showily  about  the  Avenue,  hour  after 
hour,  to  swell  the  concourse  and  thus 
contribute  their  mite,  as  it  were,  to  the 


362 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


gayety  of  nations  ?  Or  is  this  mysterious 
vehicle,  with  its  hawk-like  circling, 
bent  on  some  sinister  errand  of  abduc- 
tion, or  worse? 

But  at  this  instant  a  police-gong 
clangs  down  the  thronging  street.  Five 
motor-cops  appear,  and  in  the  car  be- 
hind them  a  mediaeval  saint,  a  modern 
archbishop,  and  divers  celebrities  such 
as  one  sees  in  guards  of  honor.  One 
knows  them  instinctively  by  their  tall 
hats,  and  observes  that  there  are  still 
occasions  for  such  hats  —  the  cardinal 
points  of  existence,  as  it  were.  But  you 
have  scarcely  registered  this  observation 
and  handed  the  leading  motor-police- 
man his  typewritten  instructions,  when 
you  are  aware  that  one  of  the  hats  is 
pointing  you  to  the  second  car.  You 
turn  swiftly  to  it.  The  gentlemen  in  it 
spring  out  with  surprising  agility  and 
make  a  place  for  you  among  them.  The 
cortege  has  hardly  stopped.  The  nim- 
ble gentlemen  spring  in  again  (the  car  is 
an  open  one),  and  you  are  off. 

You  experience  a  momentary  disap- 
pointment that  you  are  not  to  hobnob 
with  the  illustrious  prelates,  but  bend 
your  attention  upon  their  distinguished 
representatives  about  you.  They  are 
little  given  to  conversation.  If  they  are 
not  communicative,  neither  are  they 
inquisitive.  They  are  of  a  negative  de- 
meanor. They  drive  at  a  frightful 
speed,  shepherding  all  other  traffic  to 
the  curb  out  of  their  way  as  they  ad- 
vance. They  achieve  this  flattering  ef- 
fect by  blowing  a  siren,  sounding  a  loud 
gong,  and  hurling  deep-throated  objur- 
gations, much  deeper  than  you  are  ac- 
customed to,  at  anyone  who  crosses 
their  path.  Who  are  these  supreme 
autocrats,  you  ask  yourself?  Mere 
money  could  not  behave  thus.  A  sus- 
picion crosses  your  mind  and  you  ask 
what  car  this  is.  You  are  informed  that 
it  is  the  Police  Car! 

Of  course,  you  do  in  the  end  meet  the 
Cardinal  and  set  his  feet  upon  the  long 


carpet  pontifically  stretched  for  his  re- 
ception. That  is  all  there  is  to  be  said 
about  it.  You  did  meet  the  Cardinal, 
and  you  'acted'  (admirable  word!)  as 
his  escort.  But  as  you  look  back  upon 
that  day,  that  bald  statement  does  not 
summarize  or  even  adumbrate  its  im- 


pressions. 


m 


In  one  respect  alone  that  I  detect 
does  observation  agree  with  rumor. 
Both  are  generally  inconclusive.  Miss 
Repplier  has  recently  remarked  how 
frequently  one  who  reads  is  told  the  be- 
ginnings of  things  and  left  to  conjecture 
the  end.  It  is  just  as  true  of  life.  We 
are  always  wondering  what  'finally' 
became  of  this  man  and  that,  once  of 
our  acquaintance,  and  of  this  move- 
ment or  that,  once  brought  to  our  ears. 
Life  and  print  are  alike  full  of  mysteri- 
ous fragments,  which  we  have  not  time 
to  fit  into  their  exact  places  in  the  gen- 
eral order. 

Domestic  rearrangements  drove  me, 
on  a  recent  winter  night,  to  go  to  rest 
in  a  room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  over- 
looking what  I  call  the  garden.  Before 
retiring  I  put  up  a  window,  so  that  a 
refreshing  whiff  of  the  stock-yards 
might  perfume  my  dreams  and  reassure 
me  that  there  was  no  immediate  danger 
of  famine. 

The  night  was  cold,  and  my  efforts  at 
slumber  were  frustrated  by  a  strange, 
steadily  recurring  sound  like  a  man 
shoveling  coal  or  clearing  frozen  slush 
from  a  sidewalk.  But  the  hour,  between 
eleven  and  twelve,  seemed  an  improb- 
able time  for  such  operations.  About 
midnight,  however,  it  ceased  and  I  fell 
asleep. 

The  next  morning  I  mentioned  the 
sound  to  a  member  of  the  family  who 
had  also  been  sleeping  on  the  garden- 
side  of  the  house,  and  she  declared  that 
she  too  had  noticed  it  and  been  much 
mystified  about  it.'  It  did  not  seem  a 


THINGS  SEEN  AND  HEARD 


363 


reasonable  time  to  shovel  off  the  hard- 
ened snow  —  for  it  was,  of  course,  hard- 
est at  night,  when  the  thermometer  was 
low.  What  was  my  astonishment,  how- 
ever, when  I  retired  on  the  following 
night,  to  hear  the  same  harsh,  grating, 
sound  patiently  repeated  for  an  hour  or 
two  toward  midnight.  I  thought  again 
of  the  possibility  that  it  was  coal  that 
was  being  shoveled.  Perhaps  some  poor 
unfortunate  neighbor  was  hoarding 
coal,  and  his  enjoyment  took  the  form 
of  shoveling  his  hoard  over  and  over, 
and  gloating  over  it  through  the  mid- 
night hours.  This  theory  appealed  to 
me  strongly  as  I  lay  awake  and  listened 
to  the  sound,  until  I  noticed  that  the 
shoveled  stuff,  whatever  it  was,  made 
no  sound  when  it  fell.  It  therefore  could 
not  be  coal. 

It  must,  of  course,  be  snow,  or  at 
least  must  fall  upon  a  bed  of  snow, 
which  made  it  noiseless.  But  why  this 
tireless  shoveling  of  hardened  snow 
from  the  concrete  walks  night  after 
night  in  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of 
the  night?  Was  it  some  wretch  who  had 
formerly  neglected  his  sidewalks  and  so 
wrought  an  involuntary  homicide,  who 
now,  sleepless  with  remorse,  must  pick 
away  with  ringing  shovel  at  the  icy 
crust  till  midnight  came  to  his  relief? 
I  never  learned. 

Should  these  lines  ever  meet  the  eye 


of  an  elderly  seafaring  man,  a  pigeon- 
tamer  by  trade,  who  called  upon  me 
last  Saturday  on  his  way  home  to 
Pittsburgh  from  his  second  mother-in- 
law's  funeral  five  miles  from  Madison, 
Wisconsin,  which  he  had  attended  be- 
cause he  considered  a  wife  the  best 
friend  a  man  has  in  the  world,  and  his 
second  wife,  with  whom  he  had  become 
acquainted  through  advancing  her  eight 
dollars  to  enable  her  to  reach  Pitts- 
burgh, was  one  whom  he  could  not  sur- 
pass if  he  married  a  thousand  times; 
but  in  returning  from  which  to  Chicago 
by  train,  overcome  by  grief  and  fatigue, 
he  had  been  robbed  of  all  his  money  ex- 
cept fourteen  dollars  and  was  forced  in 
consequence  to  seek  out  his  old  employ- 
er, a  professor  variously  pronounced 
Riddle,  Griggle,  and  Gridley,  but  spell- 
ed Lelley,  in  default  of  finding  whom  or 
the  grand  master  of  his  fraternal  order 
in  Englewood,  he  was  reduced  to  bor- 
rowing enough  money  to  make  up  the 
price  of  a  ticket  to  Pittsburgh,  or  four 
dollars  and  eighty-seven  cents,  from  me, 
a  perfect  stranger  —  I  should  be  glad 
to  hear  from  him  again.  Till  when,  I 
shall  continue  to  reflect  on  the  dis- 
parity of  what  I  have  seen  with  what  I 
have  heard.  Perhaps  he  was  an  actor 
out  of  work.  If  so,  the  performance 
was  worth  something,  and  it  certainly 
had  a  plot. 


AT  THIRTY 


BY  EMMA  LAWEENCE 


LINDA  MAINWARING  awoke  to  con- 
sciousness on  the  morning  of  her  thir- 
tieth birthday  rather  reluctantly.  It 
was  a  day  she  had  dreaded;  for  although 
her  twenties  had  been  somewhat  tur- 
bulent, she  had,  on  the  whole,  enjoyed 
them;  and  they  had  been,  at  least,  in- 
tensely interesting.  She  was  a  person 
with  great  zest  for  life;  but  now,  as  she 
lay  in  her  bed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  passed  through  every  emotional 
crisis,  in  the  last  ten  years,  that  a  woman 
is  capable  of;  and  that  there  was  very 
little  left  that  life  could  hold  besides 
stodgy  and  comfortable  existence. 

It  was  a  long  time  that  she  lay  there, 
thinking,  before  she  rang  the  bell  which 
would  summon  her  maid,  her  mail,  and 
her  breakfast.  She  rather  wondered 
that,  at  the  end  of  thirty  years,  she  felt 
so  tremendously  fit,  so  interested  and 
eager  for  whatever  the  future  might 
hold  for  her,  so  fearful  that  it  might  con- 
tain nothing  that  would  not  prove  an 
anti-climax  to  all  she  had  already  ex- 
perienced. She  was  rather  given  to  self- 
analysis,  and  it  interested  her  to  com- 
pare the  woman  she  was  to-day  with  the 
girl  who,  ten  years  before,  had  married 
Harry  Mainwaring.  She  told  herself 
with  some  humor  that,  in  spite  of  many 
lost  illusions  and  the  added  years,  she 
greatly  preferred  herself  at  thirty. 

'What  a  horrible  little  thing  I  must 
have  been,'  she  thought,  'half-doll  and 
half-animal;  and  if  I  had  any  brains, 
they  were  sound  asleep.  Yet  how  im- 
portant and  how  confident  I  felt;  how 

364 


convinced  that  no  one  else  was  capable 
of  such  ideals  or  of  such  love  as  Harry's 
and  mine.' 

This  trend  of  thought  brought  her  to 
considering  another  situation  which  the 
day  held  for  her.  To-day  her  divorce 
became  absolute;  from  to-day  on,  she 
would  be  as  free  to  plan  her  own  life, 
dream  her  own  dreams,  think  her  own 
thoughts,  as  she  had  been  before  she 
married.  Only  the  voices  of  her  three 
little  girls,  whom  she  could  faintly  hear 
chattering  at  their  schoolroom  break- 
fast, could  make  her  married  life  vivid 
to  her.  Financially  she  had  always  been 
less  dependent  on  Harry  than  he  on 
her;  the  house  she  lived  in  she  had  been 
born  in  and  been  married  from.  Yet 
she  felt  entirely  free  from  bitterness  for 
the  experiences  of  the  past  ten  years. 
Nothing  could  be  entirely  regretted 
that  had  helped  to  transform  the  sen- 
sual little  doll  that  had  been  Linda  Em- 
mett  into  the  clear-eyed,  clean- witted 
Linda  Mainwaring.  There  was  no  room 
for  bitterness  in  her,  no  room  for  resent- 
ment for  the  forces  that  had  tempered 
her,  the  fire  that  had  left  her  pliable. 

She  marveled  that  Harry  cared  to 
use  this  glorious  new  freedom  that  she 
was  reveling  in,  to  form  other  bonds. 
He  was  to  be  married  at  noon  to  a  wo- 
man in  whom  Linda,  from  a  slight  ac- 
quaintance, could  discover  nothing  to 
equal  this  thrill  of  youth,  recaptured 
through  freedom.  Passion  was  so  dead 
in  her  that  she  was  apt  to  forget  it  as  a 
factor  in  other  people's  lives;  and,  as  a 


AT  THIRTY 


365 


matter  of  fact,  so  distasteful  was  the 
memory  of  her  own  experience,  she 
made  a  point  of  ignoring  it.  What  could 
Harry  possibly  find  in  marriage  with  a 
commonplace  little  woman,  she  won- 
dered, to  compensate  for  this  magnifi- 
cent liberty? 

While  she  wondered  at  his  desire  to 
reenter  the  holy  state  of  matrimony, 
she  resented  it  not  at  all.  She  was,  in 
fact,  rather  grateful  to  the  woman  who, 
in  making  herself  responsible  for  Har- 
ry's future,  rendered  Linda  infinitely 
freer  than  the  judge's  decree  alone  could 
have  done.  But  she  was  sorry  on  the 
children's  account  for  the  newspaper 
notoriety  which  the  wedding  would 
evoke.  Philippa,  aged  eight,  was  too 
wise  a  child  to  be  put  off  much  longer 
with  evasions;  and  in  a  house  full  of 
servants  with  careless  tongues,  an  in- 
telligent child  could  learn  a  good  deal 
about  her  parents.  The  divorce  itself 
had  been  very  decently  conducted,  and 
the  little  arrangement  which  made 
Harry  beneficiary  for  life  of  a  trust  fund 
created  for  the  children,  on  condition 
that  he  gave  up  all  claim  to  them,  had 
never  been  made  public.  It  had  always 
been  a  quality  of  Harry's  that  Linda 
had  despised,  —  though  it  had  worked 
times  innumerable  to  her  advantage,  — 
that  money  was  an  argument  he  could 
never  resist;  and  when  she  had  signed 
the  check  for  the  sum  for  which  her 
lawyer  was  to  be  trustee,  she  realized 
gratefully  that  she  fully  compensated 
Harry  for  any  loss  he  might  sustain. 

She  was  free,  then.  Thirty  years  old 
and  free;  not  only  from  marital  ties  — 
spinsters  of  thirty  are  free  from  those, 
but  they  are  still  prisoners  in  the  house 
of  life,  peering  with  curious  eyes  into 
love's  garden,  trying  surreptitiously  to 
inhale  the  fragrance  and  see  the  colors 
of  the  flowers.  Linda  had  lived  in  the 
garden  the  whole  season,  and  watched 
the  flowers  from  fresh  bud  to  withered 
stalk;  now  the  gate  at  the  end  was  ajar, 


and  she  stood  gazing  with  eager  eyes  on 
a  far  horizon. 

Thirty  years  old  and  free  —  when 
the  power  of  youth  and  the  wisdom 
which  experience  can  give  meet  for  a 
brief  space.  There  was  so  much  to  do 
and  so  much  to  do  with.  Linda  felt 
that,  at  this  moment,  the  vitality  of 
her  body  found  its  complement  in  the 
virility  of  her  mind.  The  dark  room 
suddenly  seemed  to  stifle  her;  there  was 
not  time,  with  all  she  wanted  to  ac- 
complish, for  mornings  in  bed  and  break- 
fast on  a  tray;  those  had  belonged  to 
that  half-numbed  creature  whom  cir- 
cumstance had  so  nearly  wrecked.  She 
would  have  to  steer  her  boat  clear  from 
the  sluggish  current  it  had  drifted  into; 
she  wanted  to  find  the  fast-flowing  river 
where  there  were  other  boats  to  com- 
pete with;  and  of  what  use  her  certifi- 
cate of  pilot,  if  she  could  not  avoid  the 
rapids? 

n 

The  maid  came  in  response  to  her  bell, 
and  in  a  moment  the  room  was  flood- 
ed with  sunlight.  Hermence  brought 
a  handful  of  letters  and  papers  before 
the  breakfast-tray  appeared;  people 
were  making  a  point  of  being  nice  to 
Linda  —  a  fact  she  appreciated,  though 
their  attentions  bored  her.  Her  mail 
was  full  of  notes  from  women,  includ- 
ing invitations  with  their  birthday  con- 
gratulations. There  was  one  letter 
which  really  interested  her,  and  that 
was  from  a  man.  It  read :  — 

MY  DEAR  LINDA,  — 

You  must  admit  that  I've  respected 
your  wish  to  be  let  alone  for  the  past 
few  months;  but  isn't  it  tune  to  let 
down  the  bars  a  little?  Aren't  you 
making  a  mistake  in  thinking  you  can 
build  up  your  life  again  irrespective  of 
your  friends?  Even  if  you  blame  a  few 
people  (and,  by  the  way,  a  remarkably 
silly  set  of  people)  who  happened  to  be 


366 


AT  THIRTY 


your  intimates  for  a  few  years,  you 
can't  eschew  the  whole  race  of  your 
contemporaries  and  expect  to  make  very 
much  of  the  time  left  you.  It's  rather 
ridiculous  in  you,  Linda,  to  despise  all 
motion  because  you  could  n't  keep  up 
with  a  fast  set.  So,  unless  you  abso- 
lutely forbid  me,  I'm  coming  out  to  see 
you  to-morrow.  For  one  reason,  it's 
your  birthday;  and  for  another,  there 
are  n't  any  rules  in  the  etiquette  book 
on  how  to  behave  on  your  husband's 
wedding-day;  and  at  least  you  can  talk 
to  me,  which  you  can't  to  Philippa  or 
Tiny. 

Yours  always, 

LEIGH  VANE. 

Linda  digested  this  with  her  break- 
fast. She  had  long  ago  ceased  to  won- 
der that  Leigh  Vane  rushed  in  upon 
ground  where  the  most  tactful  of  min- 
istering angels  could  not  have  trodden; 
yet  she  knew  he  was  as  wholesome  for 
her  as  are  sun  and  air  for  a  fever  pa- 
tient. Many  times  in  the  past  few  years 
he  had  opened  windows  letting  in  light 
to  the  sick-room  of  her  almost  morbid 
brain.  In  a  way,  his  letter  took  the  edge 
off  the  mood  in  which  she  found  her- 
self prepared  to  face  life;  only  a  short 
time  ago  she  had  felt  that  she  was  ready 
for  whatever  the  future  held  for  her; 
but  she  realized  now  that  she  had  want- 
ed nothing  so  disturbing  to  her  tran- 
quillity as  this  meeting  with  Vane  to 
happen  at  once.  She  was  quite  willing 
to  enjoy  her  peace  superficially,  with- 
out stirring  any  of  the  depths  of  thought 
which  he  invariably  discovered  in  her; 
nor  did  she  want  to  be  scolded  for 
the  philosophy  of  little  resistance  upon 
which  she  planned  to  erect  her  life. 
Vane,  who  appreciated  only  what  he 
gained  by  his  own  labor,  was  not  always 
sympathetic  to  Linda's  moods.  She  had 
once  told  him  that  he  made  accom- 
plishment his  God,  and  had  lost  all  tem- 
perament in  his  mania  for  efficiency. 


As  she  dressed  for  riding,  she  regard- 
ed herself  very  critically.  In  the  past 
months  she  had  been  a  bit  slack  about 
her  personal  appearance,  but  she  real- 
ized that  her  physical  attractiveness 
was  no  less  an  asset  than  her  mentality. 
She  certainly  did  not  look  thirty:  she 
was  still  essentially  young  in  the  slim- 
ness  of  her  figure  and  the  contour  of  her 
face;  the  hair  was  bright  and  luxuriant; 
and  if  the  light  eyes  were  a  little  hard, 
the  mouth  was  adorable.  She  was, 
moreover,  lucky  in  that  supreme  gift 
of  wearing  her  clothes  well  and  in  being 
blessed  with  a  skin  that  every  color  be- 
came. She  was  considered  a  beauty,  but 
in  reality  she  was  more  dependent  on  a 
certain  dramatic  quality  than  on  any 
perfection  of  line. 

She  had  ordered  her  horse  at  ten,  and 
there  was  much  to  be  attended  to  now 
she  was  up  and  dressed.  Her  house,  her 
servants,  and  the  welfare  of  her  children 
brought  duties  which  she  treated  with 
serious  consideration,  though  the  result 
produced  so  smooth  a  mechanism  that 
a  casual  critic  might  have  failed  to  rec- 
ognize the  personality  which  lay  be- 
hind it. 

It  was  a  delightful  day.  The  sun 
beat  down  with  the  first  radiance  that 
everything  alive  must  respond  to;  the 
fresh  wind  from  the  northwest  seemed 
to  be  engaged  in  a  gigantic  house- 
cleaning  to  remove  any  traces  of  the  old 
tenant  before  spring  took  up  her  defi- 
nite abode.  Linda,  mounted  on  a  young 
chestnut  thoroughbred,  enjoyed  her 
ride  hugely.  It  made  her  feel  even  more 
enthusiastic  about  life  in  general  and 
her  own  in  particular,  than  she  had  in 
the  confining  walls  of  her  house.  In  this 
riot  of  sun  and  air,  face  to  face  with  this 
colossal  transformation  that  the  world 
undertook  every  year,  her  own  imme- 
diate problems  took  on  their  relative 
proportions.  Harry's  marriage,  her  own 
birthday,  her  meeting  with  Leigh 
Vane,  all  proved  themselves  in  Nature's 


AT  THIRTY 


367 


scheme  of  things  as  trivial  as  the  dan- 
delions that  were  beginning  to  star  the 
fields  she  rode  through.  It  was  enough 
for  the  moment  just  to  live  and  enjoy, 
to  let  the  sun  reawaken  all  that  the  win- 
ter of  her  discontent  had  felt  die  within 
her;  enough  to  let  this  clean  wind  fresh- 
en the  habitation  of  her  mind  and  make 
it  fit  for  the  Linda  Mainwaring  who  was 
preparing  to  abide  there. 

Her  thoughts  were  distracted  from 
herself  by  a  chance  meeting  with  a 
neighbor,  a  man  too  closely  connected 
with  the  old  order  of  her  existence  to 
render  him  entirely  welcome.  He  was 
the  husband  of  a  woman  who  had  once 
been  a  boon  companion  of  the  Main- 
warings;  and  though  Linda  had  often 
felt  that  he  did  not  entirely  endorse 
her,  he  apparently  was  making  an  ef- 
fort to  be  cordial  to-day,  probably  be- 
cause he  approved  of  Harry  still  less. 
As  he  was  riding  for  exercise,  he  joined 
her,  making  civil  remarks  about  the 
weather.  It  was  obviously  difficult  for 
him  to  bring  his  conversation  down  to 
any  local  topic  for  fear  of  wounding  her 
susceptibilities;  but  at  last  he  ventured 
to  mention  a  mutual  friend  who  was  not 
too  closely  connected  with  the  some- 
what unsavory  memories  they  shared 
in  common. 

'  I  see  that  your  friend  Leigh  Vane  is 
slated  for  great  things,'  he  said.  'If 
they  run  him  for  governor  and  he  does 
pull  it  off",  at  his  age,  there 's  no  telling 
where  he'll  end  up.' 

She  was  interested  at  once. 

'Are  they  considering  running  him, 
then?  I  have  n't  seen  Leigh  for  ages; 
and  while  I  knew  he  was  always  dab- 
bling in  politics,  I  had  no  idea  they 
really  took  him  as  seriously  as  that.' 

'He  is  very  well  thought  of  in  the 
state  to-day,'  the  neighbor  told  her. 
'He  did  a  big  thing  in  keeping  out  of  the 
congressional  election  last  year,  and  the 
powers  that  be  are  n't  always  ungrate- 
ful. He  ought  to  have  a  chance,  be- 


cause, if  a  good  man  is  put  up  for  our 
party,  he  '11  poll  a  good  many  votes  from 
the  Democrats.  Their  man,  you  see,  is 
a  renegade  from  the  Roman  Church,  and 
so  Leigh  has  a  hope  of  that  vote.' 

'I  do  hope  he'll  win  out,'  Linda  said. 
'He's  exactly  the  type  of  man  who 
ought  to  go  in  for  politics  hi  this  coun- 
try at  a  time  like  this.  I  must  leave  you 
here,'  she  added,  'as  I'm  going  home 
through  the  woods.  It's  been  awfully 
nice  to  see  you.' 

She  nodded  and  turned  her  horse, 
starting  off  briskly  through  the  sun- 
dappled  path,  glad  to  be  alone  again. 

She  had  lunch  with  the  little  girls 
and  their  governess.  When  the  clock 
struck  twice,  as  they  finished,  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  their  father  was 
already  the  husband  of  another  woman. 
As  the  two  younger  girls  left  the  din- 
ing-room with  Mademoiselle,  Philippa 
dawdled  behind,  apparently  eager  to 
converse  with  her  mother.  She  wait- 
ed, with  the  intuitive  tact  that  children 
sometimes  display,  until  they  were 
alone  in  the  room,  before  she  put  the 
question  which  had  been  troubling  her 
ever  since  she  had  overhead  a  con- 
versation between  the  servants  that 
morning. 

'Mother,'  she  said,  'how  can  Daddy 
marry  somebody  else?  Caroline  told 
Hermence  this  morning  it  was  a  wonder 
you  felt  like  riding  horseback  at  the 
very  hour  of  your  husband's  wedding.' 

Linda  had  been  expecting  some  such 
question,  but  it  found  her  with  no  ready 
answer.  She  was  almost  tempted  to 
evade  it,  to  chide  Philippa  for  listening 
to  the  servants'  gossip;  but  she  knew 
that  would  in  no  way  check  the  ideas 
forming  hi  the  busy  little  head. 

'I  am  sorry  you  heard  Caroline,'  she 
said  at  last.  'I  had  hoped  you  need 
know  nothing  about  it  until  you  were 
older,  when  of  course  I  should  have  ex- 
plained it  to  you  myself.  You  knew 
that  Daddy  did  n't  live  here  with  us* 


368 


AT  THIRTY 


any  more  because  Daddy  and  I  are  not 
married  any  longer.' 

'  Is  n't  he  our  father  any  more? '  asked 
Philippa. 

'Yes,  he's  your  father  still,  and  be- 
cause he's  your  father  you  must  always 
love  him  and  believe  the  best  of  him. 
You  see,  when  he  and  I  were  married, 
we  loved  each  other  very  much,  so  it 
was  right  for  us  to  be  married  and  have 
you  and  Tiny  and  Nancy  for  children; 
but  after  we  found  we  did  n't  care,  it 
became  wrong  to  live  together  the  way 
people  do  who  love  each  other.' 

'Did  you  get  unmarried?'  queried 
Philippa. 

'So  we  got  unmarried,'  answered  her 
mother.  'Only  it's  called  getting  di- 
vorced, and  that  left  Daddy  free  to 
marry  again,  someone  whom  he  did 
love.' 

'How  do  you  get  di  —  divorced?'  the 
child  asked.  'Is  it  like  a  wedding?  Do 
you  go  to  church  and  have  music  and 
flowers  and  wear  a  white  dress  like 
Aunt  Tina's?' 

'  It  is  n't  like  a  wedding  at  all,  dear. 
When  people  are  married,  it  is  a  very 
happy  time;  but  there  is  nothing  happy 
about  a  divorce.  It  is  very  sad  when 
two  people,  who  planned  to  live  all  their 
lives  together,  find  they  don't  love  each 
other  enough  to  make  it  possible.' 

'Are  you  very  sad,  mother?' 

She  wished  she  could  answer  truth- 
fully that  she  was.  It  seemed  so  ter- 
rible to  have  to  explain  the  sordid  trag- 
edy of  divorce,  and  to  admit  that  it  had 
left  her  almost  untouched.  All  the  ar- 
guments which  she  had  used  a  few 
months  before  in  justifying  the  course 
she  had  determined  to  pursue  appeared 
so  futile  in  the  face  of  Philippa's  be- 
wildered gaze. 

'I'm  not  very  sad  any  longer,'  she 
answered  at  last.  'You  see,  I  have  you 
three  girls  to  make  me  happy;  and  if  I 
had  never  married  Daddy,  I  should 
never  have  had  you.  And  we  will  hope 


that  Daddy  will  be  very  happy,  too, 
won't  we?' 

She  tried  to  smile  and  started  to  rise 
from  her  chair,  hoping  that  her  rather 
lame  explanation  had  satisfied  the  child; 
but  Philippa  had  one  more  question. 

'Then  will  you  marry  somebody, 
too?' 

This  time  Linda  was  able  to  laugh. 

'Oh,  dear,  no,'  she  said.  'I  don't 
want  to  marry  anybody.  We  shall  all 
be  very  contented  here  just  as  we  al- 
ways have  been.  Run  along  now,  my 
darling,  and  remember  that  mother  has 
been  telling  you  things  she  does  n't 
want  you  to  talk  about  with  anyone, 
not  even  Mademoiselle  or  the  little 
girls.  If  there's  anything  you  don't 
understand,  you're  to  ask  me.' 

Ill 

They  left  the  dining-room  together, 
Philippa  to  prepare  for  her  afternoon 
drive  in  the  pony-cart,  and  Linda  to 
read  up  on  any  political  news  she  could 
find  before  Vane  should  appear.  She 
discovered,  however,  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  keep  her  mind  on  the 
printed  pages,  so  often  did  her  thoughts 
revert  to  her  conversation  with  Philip- 
pa.  She  had  not  meant  to  make  light 
to  the  child  of  the  sanctity  of  marriage; 
yet  it  seemed  impossible  to  explain  the 
enormity  of  the  step  she  and  Harry 
had  taken,  and  she  doubted  whether 
Philippa's  psychology  would  not  be 
more  affected  if  she  found  her  parents 
in  a  position  which  they  themselves 
questioned. 

But  her  pleasure  in  the  day  had 
gone,  and  Vane  found  her  as  he  very 
possibly  expected  to  find  her  when  he 
had  chosen  this  particular  time  to  prove 
his  friendship.  It  would  have  surprised 
and  probably  shocked  him  had  he  dis- 
covered Linda  in  her  mood  of  the  morn- 
ing. As  it  was,  he  had  the  satisfaction 
of  drawing  her  out  of  herself  by  talking 


AT  THIRTY 


to  her  openly  of  his  own  prospects.  He 
had  a  delightful  personality,  and  as  he 
always  took  it  for  granted  that  women 
are  no  less  interested  in  the  broader 
topics  of  life  than  men,  he  took  the  same 
pains  to  talk  well  to  them. 

When  he  had  broken  down  the  bar- 
riers of  her  reserve,  and  they  were  again 
on  their  old  footing,  he  began  to  ques- 
tion her  about  herself.  He  approved 
her  attitude:  she  had  been  dignified 
and  yet  she  had  won  the  sympathy  of 
everyone,  simply  by  making  no  bid  for 
it.  He  found  her  distinctly  improved, 
and  told  her  so. 

'You've  grown  up/  he  told  her;  'not 
old,  you  understand,  because,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  you  look  younger  than  ever, 
but  you  strike  one  now  as  an  intelli- 
gent adult  being.' 

'I'd  like  to  strike  you  as  an  adult 
being,'  she  answered,  making  a  little 
face  at  him;  but  she  was  not  displeased 
to  be  again  talking  personalities  with  a 
man  who  was  interested  in  her.  She 
told  him  how  keen  she  was  to  make  up 
for  all  the  time  she  had  lost  on  things 
which  had  proved  so  deplorably  worth- 
less, and  how  eager  she  felt  to  recon- 
struct her  life  on  more  rugged  lines. 

'  One  part  of  life  is  so  entirely  over,' 
she  said,  'and  that's  the  only  part  I 
know  anything  about.  It's  rather  hard 
to  know  where  to  begin  afresh.' 

'  Meaning,  I  suppose,'  Vane  answered, 
'that  your  career  as  a  wife  is  closed? 
My  dear  Linda,  you  have  only  just 
learned  how  to  be  a  wife  for  a  man;  not 
a  boy,  you  understand,  but  a  grown-up 
man  who  wants  a  grown-up  woman. 
Not,'  he  added,  'that  your  present 
frame  of  mind  is  n't  a  very  healthy  one 
until  the  right  man  comes  along.  You 
can't  afford  a  second  mistake.' 

This  was  going  a  little  far,  even  for 
Leigh.  Linda  became  intensely  serious. 

'I  wish  you  would  try  to  appreciate 
the  situation,'  she  said.  'You  say  I 
seem  to  have  grown  up,  and  I  assure 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  S 

D 


you  that  it  is  true,  if  it  is  only  in  the 
way  I  look  at  the  things  which  I  ac- 
cepted so  lightly  a  few  months  ago. 
While  I  find  myself  happier  to-day  than 
I  have  been  since  I  outgrew  my  infatua- 
tion for  Harry  and  have  seen  him  with 
the  eyes  of  all  the  people,  yourself  in- 
cluded, who  begged  me  not  to  marry 
him,  I  realize  more  than  ever  before  the 
tragedy  that  has  occurred,  and  I  would 
rather  go  back  to  the  hell  which  made 
up  my  life  until  six  months  ago  than 
have  had  to  make  the  explanation  which 
I  made  to  Philippa  to-day.  So  there  is 
no  need,  Leigh,  for  your  kindly  little 
warning  about  second  mistakes.' 

'My  dear  Linda,'  he  said,  quite  as 
serious  as  she,  'I  don't  want  you  to 
think  that  I,  of  all  people,  have  taken 
this  step  of  yours  as  anything  but  the 
very  best  way  out  of  an  intolerable 
situation,  and  I  trust  with  all  my  heart 
that  it  is  one  which  will  prove  to  be  for 
the  happiness  of  everyone  concerned; 
although  I  understand  you  perfectly 
when  you  say  that  to-day  you  feel  that 
happiness  is  hardly  an  essential  com- 
pared to  your  children's  belief  in  the 
sanctity  of  marriage.  Forgive  me  if  I 
have  offended  by  too  great  frankness  in 
stating  that  I  can't  believe  that  life  is 
over  for  anyone  who  has  developed  un- 
der it  as  magnificently  as  you.' 

Compliments  from  Leigh  were  few 
and  far  between,  and  Linda  treasured 
them  correspondingly.  She  took  his 
proffered  hand. 

'You  will  help  me  to  go  on,  won't 
you?'  she  said.  'I  am  depending  on 
you  to  keep  me  in  touch  with  lots  of 
big  things,  which  are  all  around  you  and 
quite  out  of  reach  of  a  lone  woman.' 

'As  a  start,  I'll  send  you  some  books 
which  may  be  of  interest,'  he  promised. 
'At  least,  I  hope  they'll  prove  so  in- 
volved you'll  have  to  let  me  come  often 
to  explain  them.' 

In  a  few  moments  he  took  his  depart- 
ure, conscious  that  he  felt  more  intense 


370 


AT  THIRTY 


sympathy  for  this  old  friend  than  he 
had  in  all  the  miserable  years  which  had 
followed  her  rash  disregard  of  his  ad- 
vice and  the  advice  of  all  the  people 
who  had  known  both  Linda  and  Main- 
waring.  To  him,  divorce  was  a  very 
hideous  thing;  and  the  fact  that  it  had 
become  so  to  her  made  her  more  ap- 
pealing than  she  had  been  before  she 
had  experienced  it.  Linda,  on  her  side, 
felt  that  her  friendship  with  Leigh  had 
been  put  through  the  acid  test  and  come 
out  pure  gold. 

IV 

She  began  to  pick  up  the  broken 
threads  again,  and  in  the  next  few 
months,  although  she  became  intimate 
with  no  one,  she  resumed  a  normal  in- 
tercourse with  the  people  who  had  been 
lifelong  friends  and  neighbors.  But  be- 
hind her  outer  life  she  continued  to  ex- 
pand and  develop  within  herself.  The 
books  which  Leigh  sent  her  she  not 
only  read,  but  studied;  and  soon  he  was 
coming,  not  only  to  expound  their 
meanings,  but  to  discuss  and  argue 
them  with  her.  That  summer  they  went 
deep  into  a  comprehension  of  Socialism, 
and,  strangely  enough,  it  made  a  strong 
appeal  both  to  the  woman  who  had 
spent  her  whole  life  among  the  frivolous 
by-productsof  capitalism  and  to  the  man 
who  was  running  for  governor,  the 
choice  of  serious  capitalists.  As  the 
work  of  his  campaign  grew  more  en- 
grossing, he  found  tremendous  inspira- 
tion in  Linda's  freshly  awakened  men- 
tal responsiveness;  and  in  meeting  the 
demands  of  her  eager  mind  for  more 
and  ever  more  facts  and  explanations, 
he  developed  a  knowledge  of  the  psy- 
chology of  the  people  whom  he  wanted 
for  his  constituents. 

It  happened  that  year  that  there  was 
no  dearth  of  gubernatorial  material  for 
the  Republicans  to  choose  from,  and 
the  nomination  of  a  candidate  promised 
a  more  bitter  fight  than  the  election  it- 


self. The  state  had  suffered  through  a 
considerable  period  from  a  Democratic 
governor,  who  had  been  sustained  in 
office  by  the  labor  vote  and  the  Roman 
Church,  of  which  he  was  a  member.  He 
had  pushed  representatives  of  that  in- 
stitution on  every  state  board  which 
had  hitherto  kept  clear  of  sectarian  dif- 
ferences; and  he  had  been  very  much  to 
the  fore  in  advocating  parochial  schools 
to  be  supported  by  the  unredeemed  but 
tax-paying  public. 

But,  although  many  people  despised 
the  Governor,  his  policies  did  not  awak- 
en enough  antagonism  in  the  country 
districts,  where  the  Republicans  must 
look  for  their  strength,  to  defeat  him, 
unless  some  defalcation  should  split  his 
own  ranks.  Suddenly,  when  his  ene- 
mies were  despairing,  he  not  only  threw 
ammunition  into  their  hands,  but  caus- 
ed an  explosion  among  his  own  adher- 
ents. Whether  it  was  a  question  of  real 
conviction,  or  pressure  brought  to  bear 
by  some  political  magnate  who  was  in 
matrimonial  difficulties,  could  not  be 
ascertained;  but  without  warning  to 
the  leaders  of  his  party  or  his  Church, 
the  Governor  announced  himself  in 
favor  of  more  uniform  and  lenient  di- 
vorce laws.  The  present  laws,  he  was 
quoted  as  saying,  entailed  suffering 
only  on  the  poor,  while  the  rich  evaded 
them  by  taking  up  residence  in  some 
other  state.  It  was  preposterous,  if  a 
person  could  obtain  divorce  from  a 
criminal,  that  one  could  not  from  a  lu- 
natic; and  if  religious  conviction  made 
divorce  and  remarriage  possible  for  one 
cause,  it  should  do  as  much  for  several 
causes.  He  added  that  the  state  laws 
could  not  affect  people  to  whom  the 
Church  denied  divorce;  that  personal- 
ly, as  a  Catholic,  he  deplored  divorce, 
but  as  governor  of  a  people  of  varying 
creeds,  he  invoked  justice. 

This  last,  which  was  obviously  in- 
tended as  a  sop  to  his  Church,  failed  to 
abate  the  antagonism  that  his  position 


AT  THIRTY 


371 


aroused;  and  even  the  weight  of  such 
an  influential  politician  as  Mr.  Henry 
McFarland  was  unable  to  crush  the  op- 
position which  threatened  to  break  the 
Democratic  strength.  The  fact  that 
McFarland's  wife  had  been  confined  in 
an  institution  for  the  hopelessly  insane 
earned  for  that  gentleman  the  oppro- 
brium of  Henry  the  Eighth;  and  it  was 
hinted,  not  only  that  the  Governor 
had  broken  faith  with  his  Church,  but 
that  his  political  honor  was  not  above 
suspicion. 

It  was  felt  by  Republican  leaders 
that  a  crisis  had  presented  itself  which 
gave  their  party  a  chance  for  reinstate- 
ment; for  while  McFarland  and  his  col- 
leagues were  strong  enough  to  keep  a 
fresh  candidate  from  acquiring  control 
in  their  own  party,  they  were  unable  to 
influence  a  number  of  individuals  who 
loudly  acclaimed  their  disapproval  of 
the  present  Governor's  pretension  to 
another  term.  It  therefore  seemed  not 
only  possible,  but  highly  probable  that, 
should  the  Republican  nominee  prove 
popular  personally,  he  would  stand  an 
excellent  chance. 

To  men  like  Leigh  Vane,  the  present 
opportunity  led  to  a  hope,  not  only  that 
his  party  would  win  the  coming  elec- 
tion, but  that  a  man  of  ideals  and  vision 
could  do  much  more  than  hold  down  the 
office  —  he  could  lead  the  state  back  to 
the  Republican  majority  which  a  fairly 
recent  invasion  of  foreign  labor  had 
temporarily  overthrown.  But  it  would 
need  a  man  who  firmly  believed  in  his 
party  to  accomplish  this,  —  not  a  mere 
opportunist,  —  and  it  would  take  a 
man  of  great  personal  integrity  and  sin- 
cerity, quite  apart  from  his  political 
persuasion,  to  induce  the  wavering  ele- 
ment to  come  over  to  his  side.  Of  the 
present  aspirants  to  the  nomination, 
three  names  stood  out  more  and  more 
prominently  as  the  date  for  decision  ap- 
proached. These  were  Bernard  Fabian, 
Edward  Joyce,  and  Leigh  Vane. 


Fabian  was  one  of  the  largest  em- 
ployers of  labor  in  the  state;  he  was  a 
self-made  man,  who  had  worked  his 
way  up  in  one  of  the  woolen  mills  that 
he  now  controlled. 

Joyce  was  the  more  usual  type.  He 
had  been  through  the  political  mill,  and 
had  given  up  a  profitable  law  practice 
to  enter  politics. 

Though  not  a  capitalist  like  Fabian, 
Vane  came  of  people  who  had  always 
belonged  to  the  moneyed  class.  They 
were  also  people  who  had  served  their 
country  in  various  branches.  His 
grandfather  had  held  the  rank  of  colo- 
nel in  the  Civil  War,  where  his  name 
was  still  remembered  in  the  homes  of 
men  who  had  composed  his  regiment. 
His  son,  Leigh's  father,  was  concluding 
his  useful  if  not  brilliant  term  as  United 
States  Senator  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
Leigh  himself  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  traditions  of  Republicanism,  and 
several  of  the  big  men  of  the  party  had 
been  his  personal  friends  from  child- 
hood. But  his  present  strength  lay  far 
less  in  these  affiliations  than  in  the 
esteem  in  which  the  influential  men  of 
his  own  state  held  him.  Orphaned  and 
well-to-do,  he  had  chosen  a  life  of  rigor- 
ous work  on  a  newspaper,  where  he  had 
never  attempted  to  score  personally, 
but  had  given  freely  of  himself  to  the 
good  of  the  cause.  A  year  before,  he  had 
been  requested  to  contest  the  Congres- 
sional seat  of  his  district,  and  for  a  while 
he  had  been  greatly  tempted;  but  he 
had  proved  himself  big  enough  not  to 
risk  splitting  the  slim  Republican  ma- 
jority; and  he  had  done  such  excellent 
work  in  upholding  the  man  who  might 
have  been  his  rival,  that  he  was  hence- 
forth considered  a  definite  political 
factor. 

Linda  had  made  a  point  of  meeting 
both  Fabian  and  Joyce,  and  assured 
herself  that,  quite  apart  from  her  af- 
fection for  him,  Leigh  was  far  better 
qualified  for  the  office  than  either  of  the 


372 


AT  THIRTY 


others.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman 
who  would  ever  be  a  direct  factor  in 
public  life,  but  her  influence  could  be 
none  the  less  real.  Men  said  things  to 
her,  when  she  expressed  a  wish  to  take 
politics  seriously,  which  they  might  not 
have  said  to  so  casual  a  male  acquaint- 
ance; and  she  was  clever  in  using  the 
information  she  received.  She  secured 
several  bits  of  political  gossip,  which 
were  of  some  value  to  Vane;  and  when 
he  told  her  so,  she  was  conscious  of 
greater  enthusiasm  for  life  than  she  had 
felt  for  years.  And  it  was  not  only  in 
this  way  that  she  helped  him.  He  had 
no  one  very  near  to  him  with  whom  to 
discuss  the  problems  that  his  campaign 
presented;  and  not  only  did  Linda's 
eager  interest  prevent  him  from  feeling 
that  he  was  imposing  them  upon  her, 
but  in  putting  them  before  her,  he  put 
them  more  clearly  to  himself.  If  Linda 
was  a  help  to  him,  he  proved  himself 
invaluable  to  her,  not  only  in  stimu- 
lating her  intellect,  but  in  many  little 
crises  of  her  domestic  life. 

There  were,  of  course,  comparatively 
long  stretches  of  time  when  they  did  not 
see  each  other  at  all,  but  these  made 
them  realize  how  closely  their  interests 
were  attuned.  Perhaps  the  fact  that 
the  whole  situation  was  abnormal  made 
both  Linda  and  Vane  slow  to  realize 
its  normal  consequence.  Summer  burn- 
ed itself  out,  and  the  early  autumn 
brought  new  political  activities,  which 
made  frequent  meetings  impossible. 


It  was  in  October,  after  an  interval 
of  some  weeks,  that  Vane  found  an  op- 
portunity to  dine  and  spend  a  quiet 
evening  with  Mrs.  Mainwaring  —  the 
last  before  his  immediate  prospects 
would  be  determined. 

He  came  down  to  the  country  rather 
early;  he  wanted  to  see  the  children,  he 
said;  and  they,  enchanted  to  see  him, 


swarmed  over  him,  showed  him  every 
new  acquisition  since  his  last  visit, 
played  a  series  of  delightful  games  with 
him,  and  went  reluctantly  upstairs  at 
their  bedtime,  bribed  by  the  promise 
that  he  would  come  and  help  Mummy 
tuck  them  up.  Linda  had  been  more 
audience  than  participant  in  the  games. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  queer  heartache 
when  she  saw  Leigh  with  her  children — 
a  jealousy  for  them,  and  a  knowledge 
that  he  filled  a  place  in  their  lives  she 
could  never  fill. 

He  stood  up  when  they  had  gone, 
smoothing  his  hair  with  his  hands, 
straightening  his  tie,  which  their  last 
mad  game  had  disarranged,  and  met 
Linda's  eyes.  The  expression  in  them 
hurt  him  unbearably  —  it  made  her 
look  so  detached,  so  apart  from  his  own 
healthy,  ambitious  life. 

'I  should  like  some  air  before  dinner,' 
he  said.  '  Is  it  too  cold  for  a  last  look  at 
the  garden,  do  you  think,  before  we  say 
good-night  to  the  children?' 

'It's  not  very  cold.  This  moon 
brought  a  frost,  and  there's  nothing 
left  in  the  garden,  but  it's  delicious 
there,  I  know.' 

She  got  up  from  her  chair;  he  opened 
one  of  the  long  glass  doors  and  followed 
her  out  on  the  terrace;  they  crossed, 
and  descended  some  steps.  It  was  dark 
save  for  the  cold  light  of  the  young 
autumn  moon,  which  cast  hard,  curious 
shadows.  The  garden,  surrounded  by  a 
great  hemlock  hedge,  had  been  a  riot 
of  color  only  a  few  days  before;  but  to- 
night the  flowers  in  the  moonlight  ap- 
peared dry  husks,  ghosts  of  a  vanished 
loveliness. 

They  were  both  very  quiet;  she  was 
thinking  that  once  she  had  stolen  out 
of  the  house  and  danced  in  this  moon- 
lit garden  with  a  vine  twisted  in  her 
hair,  and  a  man  had  pursued  her  and 
kissed  her  in  the  shadow  of  the  hemlock 
hedge,  and  she  had  thought  she  loved 
him.  Vane  was  thinking  what  a  little 


AT  THIRTY 


373 


thing  a  career  was,  compared  to  a  wo- 
man with  eyes  like  that;  a  woman  who 
needed  him  more  than  state  or  party 
could  ever  need  him;  a  woman  he  want- 
ed far  above  the  laurels  of  a  statesman. 
They  gazed  into  the  blackness  of  the 
hemlocks  as  if  they  were  visualizing 
there  the  things  they  were  thinking  of — 
until  at  last  he  broke  the  long  silence. 

'Linda,  my  dear  —  my  dear!'  And 
she  was  in  his  arms,  their  lips  together 
in  their  first  communion.  And  with 
that  kiss  she  was  sealed  his;  with  it  she 
entered  her  kingdom,  the  kingdom  that 
had  never  been  hers  before.  The  dancing 
girl  who  had  been  kissed  in  the  garden 
was  no  part  of  the  woman  in  Vane's 
arms.  Harry  Mainwaring  had  captured 
some  excrescence,  which  her  youth  had 
thrown  off,  but  he  had  never  touched 
the  seed  of  her  soul  that  had  matured 
under  Leigh's  companionship  and  blos- 
somed at  his  kiss. 

He  held  her  until  the  children's  in- 
sistent voices  penetrated  their  fastness, 
when  they  retraced  their  steps  to  the 
house.  Up  in  the  nurseries,  the  little 
girls  in  their  night-clothes  were  eager 
for  another  romp,  but  Leigh  was  in  no 
mood  for  it.  He  was  sweet  with  them, 
tender  even;  but  it  was  he  who  stood 
apart,  a  spectator,  while  they  crowded 
around  Linda  to  say  their  prayers  and 
be  kissed  good-night. 

At  dinner  neither  of  them  spoke 
much,  their  understanding  was  too  deep, 
their  content  too  complete,  to  need 
words.  The  dramatic  touch,  which  no 
woman  lacks,  enabled  Linda  to  start 
fitful  topics  of  conversation  when  the 
servants  were  in  the  room,  as  their 
sense  of  convention  led  them  to  make 
a  pretense  of  eating;  but  it  was  a  re- 
lief to  have  the  meal  over  and  to  find 
themselves  again  in  the  drawing-room, 
free  from  interruptions. 

At  half-past  nine,  when  the  motor 
came  to  take  him  to  the  train,  they  had 
not  begun  to  say  good-night,  to  discuss 


their  next  meeting,  to  plan  any  detail 
of  their  future — the  present  was  glori- 
ously sufficient. 

'  I  '11  write  you  in  the  morning,  Linda; 
to-night,  perhaps,  when  I  get  to  town. 
Good-night,  my  darling — '  And  he 
was  in  the  hall,  struggling  with  the 
overcoat  which  her  old  butler  was  hold- 
ing for  him. 

She  watched  him  through  a  crack 
in  the  door,  eager  to  see  him,  to  see 
his  face  when  he  was  not  aware  of  her. 
He  pulled  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and 
wrote  upon  it  hastily.  She  saw  him 
turn  to  the  servant,  and  heard  him 
speak. ' 

'Mitten,  here's  a  telegram  —  get  it 
off  for  me  to-night,  will  you?  I  meant 
to  send  it  from  the  village,  but  I  can't 
make  my  train  if  I  do.  You  can  send  it 
over  the  telephone,  but  it  must  go  at 
once.  Thanks  awfully.' 

And  he  was  gone,  after  handing  the 
paper  to  the  man.  The  noise  of  the  mo- 
tor became  louder  for  a  moment,  and 
then  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Linda  went  back  to  her  big  chair  be- 
side the  fire,  almost  unconscious  of  any 
movement  she  made.  She  had  ceased 
to  be  mere  flesh  and  blood;  rather  she 
was  a  sunlit  beach  flooded  by  warm 
waves  of  happiness. 

The  entrance  of  Mitten  aroused  her. 

'Beg  pardon,  Miss  Linda,'  he  said 
—  after  Harry's  departure,  he  could 
never  bear  to  call  her  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
and  had  gone  back  to  her  girlhood  ap- 
pellation. '  Mr.  Vane  left  a  message  for 
me  to  send  over  the  telephone,  but 
I  can't  'ardly  make  hout  'is  'andwrit- 
ing.  I  wondered  would  you  mind,  miss, 
being  as  'ow  'e  said  hit  was  most 
himportant?' 

'  I  '11  send  it,  of  course.  You  can  put 
the  lights  out  here,  and  I'll  telephone 
the  message  from  my  room.  Good 
night,  Mitten.' 

'Good-night,  miss.' 

'Lord,'  he  thought  as  she  went  out, 


374 


AT  THIRTY 


'  'ow  'appy  she  looks  —  the  way  she  did 
before  that  skunk  came  foolin'  round 


ere. 


Up  in  her  room,  Linda  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  concentrate  on  the  mechanical 
act  of  forwarding  Leigh's  message.  She 
sat  down  by  her  telephone  and  smoothed 
out  the  paper;  but  it  took  several  read- 
ings for  his  written  words  to  connect 
with  her  mind,  which  happiness  had 
temporarily  drugged. 

Then  suddenly  they  and  their  pur- 
port became  burned  upon  her  brain. 
It  was  addressed  to  his  campaign  man- 
ager and  left  unsigned. 

'Stop  all  activities  to  further  my 
candidacy.  Events  have  arisen  which 
would  render  it  impossible  for  me  to  ac- 
cept the  nomination.  Throw  any  in- 
fluence we  can  control  to  Joyce.  Will 
see  you  to-morrow  morning.' 

If  Linda  had  lost  time  through  being 
unable  to  concentrate  her  thoughts, 
she  made  up  for  it  now.  Thoughts,  un- 
welcome and  at  times  confused,  rushed 
through  her  mind,  bearing  her  down  with 
the  weight  of  their  evidence.  Leigh 
was  giving  up  his  career  because  he  was 
pledged  to  marry  her,  —  Linda  Main- 
waring,  —  a  divorced  woman.  She  was 
that  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  though  in 
her  own  she  was  divorced,  not  only  from 
Mainwaring,  but  from  the  girl  who  had 
married  Mainwaring.  Had  she  known 
Leigh  less  well,  she  might  have  hesi- 
tated, might  have  seen  less  clearly  that, 
should  she  marry  him,  his  thwarted 
career  would  always  prove  a  barrier  be- 
tween them  that  even  their  love  could 
not  surmount.  But  she  knew  him  too 
intimately  to  deceive  herself;  she  was 
fully  aware  of  his  ambitions,  his  con- 
victions as  to  what  a  man  in  his  circum- 
stances owed  to  his  country  and  to  his 
tradition. 

It  was  midnight  when  her  course 
presented  itself  to  her;  so  clearly  did 
she  see  it,  and  so  quickly  must  she  act, 
that  she  was  only  dimly  aware  of  her 


emotions.  Soon  they  would  claim  her, 
they  would  engulf  her  in  utter  misery 
and  despair;  but  for  the  moment,  the 
too  swift  reaction  from  her  bliss  had 
numbed  them. 

She  opened  the  door  that  led  from 
her  fire  and  lamp-lit  room  to  the  dark 
spaciousness  of  the  hall,  felt  her  way 
along  to  the  servant's  portion  of  the 
house,  and  knocked  on  Mitten's  door. 
The  old  man  opened  it  cautiously,  his 
gaunt  figure  and  curious,  lined  face  il- 
lumined in  the  dim  light  which  burned 
on  the  service  stairway. 

'Miss  Linda,  —  you're  not  hill?' 

'No,  —  no,  Mitten,  —  nothing  is  the 
matter.  I  mean,  nothing  with  me. 
Something  has  happened  which  makes 
it  necessary  I  should  get  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Vane  early  to-morrow  morning,  —  his 
message  was  very  important,  —  an  an- 
swer has  come  to  it.  I  want  you  to  go 
to  town  on  the  milk  train  and  take  it 
to  him  yourself;  it  is  very  important. 
Wake  Henry  and  tell  him  he  must  take 
you  to  the  station  at  five;  I'll  have  the 
letter  for  you  then,  —  the  letter  will  be 
quite  ready,  —  it's  very  important.' 

She  was  aware  that  she  was  repeating 
herself,  that  her  voice  sounded  flat  and 
without  emphasis;  but  she  gathered 
from  Mitten's  concerned  replies  that 
he  comprehended  and  would  follow  out 
her  instructions. 

Back  in  her  own  room  she  managed 
to  control  her  voice  sufficiently  to  send 
the  telegram.  Then  she  was  confronted 
with  the  necessity  for  writing  the  letter 
—  the  terrible  letter  which  would  keep 
Leigh  from  her  forever,  the  lying  letter 
which  was  in  itself  a  sin  against  love. 
She  sat  at  her  desk  for  hours,  writing, 
destroying  what  she  had  written,  re- 
writing, drawing  aimless  lines  and  little 
pictures  of  nothing.  It  was  nearly  five 
o'clock  when  she  folded  her  completed 
missive  into  its  envelope  and  reeled 
across  the  room  in  response  to  Mitten's 
knock. 


PRIME 


375 


DEAR  LEIGH,  — 

I  think  I  must  have  been  mad  to- 
night —  life  has  been  so  difficult  that  at 
times  I  have  felt  utterly  defeated,  and 
it  was  one  of  those  moments,  my  dear, 
when  you  called  to  me  in  the  garden. 
All  at  once  it  seemed  to  me  possible,  be- 
cause of  my  deep  affection  for  you,  to 
lay  the  whole  burden  of  my  problems  on 
you.  But  now  I  am  alone  again,  I  am 
sane.  I  care  too  much  for  you  to  be 
willing  that  the  woman  you  marry 
should  go  to  you  defeated,  wanting 
only  rest  and  comfort;  she  shall  go  to 
you  triumphant,  wanting  nothing  but 
your  love.  That  part  of  me  is  gone 
forever,  burned  out  by  the  fire  which 
destroyed  my  youth — what  I  gave  once 
I  shall  never  have  to  give  again;  and 
here  in  this  house  where  so  much  of  my 
drama  has  been  enacted,  I  realize  that 
the  stage  cannot  be  reset,  or  the  play- 


ers recast  for  its  conclusion.  You  have 
been  a  loyal,  helpful,  wonderful  friend 
always;  you  will  not,  I  am  sure,  ask  me 
to  relinquish  that  friendship  because 
for  a  few  short  hours  we  mistook  it  for 
something  else.  You  have  made  me 
more  reliant,  given  me  new  confidence 
to  meet  situations  as  they  arise  in  my 
path.  It  would  be  a  poor  return  to  give 
you  the  husk  of  love;  forgive  me  for  of- 
fering it,  and  forget  that  I  once  thought 
it  could  be  made  to  satisfy  you.  It 
would  be  as  impossible  to  find  within 
myself  anything  more  worthy  of  you 
as  it  would  be  to  recapture  summer  in 
my  frost-touched  garden;  but  there  will 
still  be  warm,  pleasant  days  of  Indian 
summer,  when  our  friendship  will  ripen 
and  deepen. 

With  every   wish  always  for  your 
success  and  happiness, 

LINDA  MAINWARING. 


PRIME 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

YOUR  voice  is  like  bells  over  roofs  at  dawn 

When  a  bird  flies 

And  the  sky  changes  to  a  fresher  color. 


Speak,  speak,  Beloved. 

Say  little  things 

For  my  ears  to  catch 

And  run  with  them  to  my  heart. 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON.  II 


BY  JOSEPH  FORT  NEWTON 


January  1,  1918.  —  Christmas  is 
over,  thank  God !  The  contrast  between 
its  gentle  ideals  and  the  ghastly  reali- 
ties round  about  us  almost  tears  one  in 
two.  Here  we  sing,  'Peace  on  earth 
among  men  of  good-will';  out  there, 
the  killing  of  boys  goes  on.  What  irony! 
Still,  one  remembers  that  it  was  a  hard 
old  Roman  world  in  which  the  Angels 
of  the  first  Christmas  sang  their  anthem 
of  prophecy.  How  far  off  it  must  have 
seemed  that  day;  how  far  off  it  seems  to- 
day. The  world  is  yet  in  twilight,  and 
from  behind  dim  horizons  comes  cease- 
lessly the  thunder  of  great  guns.  A 
frost-like  surface  of  garish  gayety 
sparkles  in  our  cities,  as  anxiety  turns 
to  laughter,  or  to  apathy,  for  relief. 

After  all  these  ages,  must  we  say  that 
the  song  of  Christmas  is  as  vain  as  all 
the  vain  things  proclaimed  of  Solomon? 
No;  it  will  come  true.  It  is  not  a  myth. 
It  is  not  a  mockery.  Surviving  ages  of 
slaughter,  it  returns  to  haunt  us,  prov- 
ing in  this  last  defeat  its  immortality. 
Because  that  music  is  far  off,  we  know 
that  it  is  not  our  own,  but  was  sent  into 
the  world  by  One  who  is  as  far  above  our 
discordant  noises  as  the  stars  are  above 
the  mists.  Whatever  befall,  we  dare 
not  lose  Faith,  dare  not  surrender  to 
Hate,  since  that  would  be  the  saddest  of 
all  defeats.  And  the  children  sang  car- 
ols at  our  doors,  as  in  the  days  of  Dick- 
ens, as  if  to  rebuke  our  misgiving  and 
despair. 

January  7.  —  One  serious  handicap 
besets  a  minister  who  labors  abroad: 
he  cannot  deal  with  public  questions 
with  the  same  freedom  that  he  can  at 

376 


home.  Indeed,  he  can  hardly  touch 
them  at  all  —  when  criticism  is  re- 
quired —  save  as  they  may  be  inter- 
national in  their  range.  Yesterday,  on 
the  national  Day  of  Prayer,  I  made 
protest  in  the  City  Temple  against 
allowing  the  increase  of  brewery  sup- 
plies to  stand,  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
not  cricket  to  destroy  foodstuffs  at  a 
time  when  we  have  no  bread  fit  to  eat 
and  cannot  get  sugar  for  our  children. 
To-day  every  brewery  paper  in  the  king- 
dom jumped  upon  me  with  all  four 
feet,  John  Bull  leading  the  pack.  It 
does  not  matter  if  every  journal  in  the 
land  stands  on  its  hind-legs  and  howls, 
as  most  of  them  are  doing.  What  hurts 
me  is  the  silence  of  the  churches!  The 
majority  of  Free  Churchmen  are  against 
the  traffic,  but  hardly  so  in  the  Estab- 
lished Church.  Indeed,  that  Church  is 
more  or  less  involved  in  the  trade,  at 
least  to  the  extent  of  allowing  its  prop- 
erties to  be  used  by  public  houses. 
Many  of  the  higher  clergy  refused  to 
forego  their  wine  during  the  war,  even 
at  the  request  of  the  King. 

The  situation  is  unlike  anything  we 
know  in  America.  Liquor  is  used  in 
England  much  as  we  use  coffee;  it  is 
intrenched  in  custom,  disinfected  by 
habit,  and  protected  by  respectability. 
Moreover,  the  traffic  is  less  open,  less 
easy  to  get  at  in  England,  and  those  who 
profit  by  it  are  often  of  the  most  aristo- 
cratic and  influential  class  in  the  com- 
munity. There  is,  besides,  a  school  of 
English  political  thought  which  holds 
the  sublime  doctrine  that  the  way  to 
keep  the  workingman  quiet  and  con- 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


377 


tented  is  to  keep  him  pickled  in  beer. 
Any  suggestion  of  abolishing  the  traffic 
is,  therefore,  regarded  as  an  invitation 
to  anarchy,  and  dire  predictions  are 
made.  Almost  anywhere  in  London 
one  sees  a  dozen  baby-carts  at  the  door 
of  a  public  house,  while  the  mothers 
are  inside  guzzling  beer.  Never  before 
have  I  seen  drunken  mothers  trying  to 
push  baby-carts!  Surely  England  has 
an  enemy  behind  the  lines! 

January  12.  —  Had  a  delicious  tilt 
with  Chesterton,  who  apparently  re- 
gards the  Dogma  of  Beer  as  an  article  of 
Christian  faith.  Every  time  I  meet  him 
I  think  of  The  Man  Who  Was  Thursday 

—  a  story  in  which  he  has  drawn  a 
portrait  of  himself.    He  is  not  only 
enormously  fat,  but  tall  to  boot;  a  moun- 
tain of  a  man.  His  head,  seen  from  be- 
hind, looks  larger  than  any  human  head 
has  a  right  to  be.  He  is  the  soul  of  good- 
fellowship,  and  as  the  wine  in  his  glass 
goes  down,  one  may  witness  an  exhibi- 
tion worth  going  miles  to  see.  He  leads 
words  into  the  arena,  first  in  single  file, 
then  four  abreast,  then  in  regiments; 
and  the  feats  they  perform  are  hair- 
raising.   If  he  talks  in  paradoxes,  it  is 
for  the  same  reason  that  more  solemn 
persons  talk  in  platitudes  —  he  cannot 
help  it. 

From  the  Gospel  of  Beer,  the  talk 
turned  to  Wells  and  his  new  theology; 
and  it  was  good  to  hear  Chesterton 
laugh  about  a  God  unfinished  and  still 
in  the  making.  His  epigram  hit  it  off  to 
a  dot.  'The  Christ  of  Wells  is  tidy;  the 
real  Christ  is  titanic.'  We  agreed  that 
the  portraiture  of  Jesus  by  Wells  is  in 
bad  drawing,  being  too  much  like  Wells 
himself;  but  we  remembered  other  por- 
traits by  the  same  hand,  —  Kipps,  Polly, 
and  the  rest,  —  very  ordinary  men 
made  extraordinary  and  individual  and 
alluring  by  the  magic  of  genius. 

One  may  call  Chesterton  many  names, 

—  an  irrationalist,  a  reactionary  ideal- 
ist, a  humorist  teaching  serious  truth  hi 


fun,  —  but  his  rich  humanity  and  ro- 
bust common  sense  are  things  for  which 
to  give  thanks.  He  is  a  prophet  of  nor- 
mal human  nature,  and  his  uproarious 
faith  in  God  is  a  tonic  in  days  like  these. 
If  Dickens  was  the  greatest  American 
ever  born  in  England,  some  of  us  feel 
that  Chesterton  is  the  best  thing  Eng- 
land has  given  us  since  Dickens.  One 
loves  him  for  his  strength,  his  sanity, 
and  his  divine  joyousness.  The  Holy 
Spirit,  said  Hermas,  is  a  hilarious  spirit! 

January  17.  —  Dr.  John  Button,  of 
Glasgow,  preached  in  the  City  Temple 
to-day,  his  theme  being  'The  Temp- 
tation,' that  is,  the  one  temptation  that 
includes  all  others  —  the  spirit  of  cyni- 
cism that  haunts  all  high  moods.  Art- 
fully, subtly  it  seeks  to  lower,  somehow, 
the  lights  of  the  soul,  to  slay  ideals,  to 
betray  and  deliver  us  to  base-minded- 
ness.  Such  preaching !  He  searches  like 
a  surgeon  and  heals  like  a  physician. 
Seldom,  if  ever,  have  I  had  anyone  walk 
right  into  my  heart  with  a  lighted  can- 
dle in  his  hand,  as  he  did,  and  look  into 
the  dark  corners.  For  years  I  had  known 
him  as  a  master  of  the  inner  life,  wheth- 
er dealing  with  the  Bible  At  Close  Quar- 
ters, or  with  those  friends  and  aiders 
of  faith,  like  Browning;  and  there  are 
passages  in  The  Winds  of  God  that  echo 
like  great  music.  As  a  guide  to  those 
who  are  walking  in  the  middle  years  of 
life,  where  bafflements  of  faith  are  many 
and  moral  pitfalls  are  deep,  there  is  no 
one  like  Hutton;  no  one  near  him.  But, 
rich  as  his  books  are,  his  preaching  is 
more  wonderful  than  his  writing.  While 
his  sermon  has  the  finish  of  a  literary 
essay,  it  is  delivered  with  the  enthusi- 
asm of  an  evangelist.  The  whole  man 
goes  into  it,  uniting  humor,  pathos, 
unction,  with  a  certain  wildness  of 
abandon,  as  of  one  possessed,  which  is 
the  note  of  truly  great  preaching.  In 
my  humble  judgment  he  is  the  greatest 
preacher  in  Britain. 

January  23.  —  Just  returned  from  a 


378 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


journey  into  the  Midlands.  At  Man- 
chester I  preached  on  Sunday  in  the 
Cavendish  Street  Chapel,  where  Joseph 
Parker  ministered  before  going  to  the 
City  Temple,  and  lectured  on  'Lin- 
coln and  the  War'  the  following  eve- 
ning. No  man  ever  had  a  more  cordial 
reception  in  any  city.  As  a  preface  to 
my  lecture  I  paid  a  tribute  to  the  Man- 
chester Guardian  as  one  of  the  great  in- 
stitutions of  this  island,  and  expressed 
gratitude  for  its  sympathetic  and  in- 
telligent understanding  of  America  and 
her  President,  in  the  difficult  days  of 
our  neutrality.  The  American  Consul, 
in  seconding  a  vote  of  thanks,  told  an 
interesting  fact  found  in  the  files  of  his 
office.  A  group  of  Manchester  citizens, 
knowing  the  admiration  of  Lincoln  for 
John  Bright,  —  a  Manchester  man,  — 
had  a  bust  of  the  Quaker  statesman 
made,  and  it  was  ready  to  be  sent  when 
the  news  of  the  assassination  came. 
They  cabled  Mrs.  Lincoln,  asking  what 
they  should  do.  She  told  them  to  send 
it  to  Washington;  and  it  is  now  in  the 
White  House. 

As  a  fact,  I  did  not  see  Birmingham 
at  all,  because  a  heavy  fog  hung  over  it 
when  I  arrived  and  had  not  lifted  when 
I  left.  I  could  hardly  see  my  audience 
when  I  rose  to  speak,  and  felt  half- 
choked  all  through  the  lecture.  As  it  was 
my  first  visit  to  Birmingham,  I  began 
by  recalling  the  great  men  with  whom 
the  city  was  associated  in  my  mind. 
The  first  was  Joseph  Chamberlain.  No 
sooner  had  I  uttered  the  name  than 
there  were  hisses  and  cries,  'No,  no! 
John  Bright!'  I  had  forgotten  that 
Bright  ever  sat  for  a  Birmingham  dis- 
trict. The  next  name  was  that  of  John 
Henry,  Cardinal  Newman.  It  was  re- 
ceived at  first  with  silence,  then  with  a 
few  groans.  But  when  I  mentioned  the 
name  of  Dr.  Dale,  there  was  loud  ap- 
plause; for  he  was  not  only  a  mighty 
preacher,  but  a  great  political  influence 
in  the  city.  Then  I  reminded  my  audi- 


ence that,  when  Chamberlain  was  ac- 
cused in  the  House  of  Commons  of 
representing  Dr.  Dale,  he  retorted,  in 
praise  of  the  great  preacher,  that  he  had 
no  mean  constituency.  The  last  man 
named  was  J.  H.  Shorthouse,  the  author 
of  John  Inglesant,  one  of  my  favorite 
books.  If  the  name  was  recognized  at 
all,  there  was  no  sign  of  it. 

January  27.  —  Have  been  on  an- 
other short  tour,  preaching  to  the  men 
in  the  camps,  including  one  of  the 
khaki  colleges  of  the  Canadian  army  at 
Whitley.  Twice,  when  the  men  were 
given  a  choice  between  a  sermon  and  a 
lecture,  they  voted  to  have  a  sermon. 
And  what  they  want  is  a  straight  talk, 
hot  from  the  heart,  about  the  truths 
that  make  us  men;  no  'set  sermon  with 
a  stunt  text,'  as  one  of  them  explained. 
When  I  asked  what  he  meant,  he  said: 
'Such  texts  as  "Put  on  the  whole  ar- 
mor of  God,"  or  "Fight  the  good  fight," 
or  "Quit  you  like  men";  they  are  doing 
that  now.'  But  they  are  being  undone 
the  while  by  a  terrible  shattering  of 
faith,  and  in  many  a  moral  trench- 
fight. 

No  end  of  nonsense  has  been  talked 
about  the  men  in  the  armies,  as  if  put- 
ting on  khaki  made  a  man  a  saint.  No, 
they  are  men  like  ourselves, — our  boys, 
— with  the  passions  and  temptations 
of  the  rest  of  us.  As  one  of  them  put 
it:—  ,<  - 

Our  Padre,  'e  says  I'm  a  sinner, 

And  John  Bull  says  I'm  a  saint; 

And  they  're  both  of  'em  bound  to  be  liars. 

For  I  'm  neither  of  them,  I  ain't. 

I'm  a  man,  and  a  man's  a  mixture, 

Right  down  from  his  very  birth; 

For  part  of  'im  comes  from  'eaven, 

And  part  of  'im  comes  from  earth. 

And  upon  this  basis  —  being  a  man  my- 
self, and  therefore  a  mixture  —  I  talked 
to  them,  without  mincing  words,  about 
the  fight  for  faith'  and  the  desperate 
struggles  of  the  moral  life.  Never  can 
I  forget  those  eager,  earnest,  upturned 
faces,  —  bronzed  by  war  and  weather 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


379 


—  many  of  which  were  soon  to  be  torn 
by  shot  and  shell.    The  difference  in 
preaching  to  men  who  have  seen  little 
of  war,  and  to  those  who  have  been  in 
it  for  two  years  or  more,  is  very  great. 
I  should  know  the  difference  if  blind- 
folded. The  latter  are  as  hard  as  nails. 
Only  now  and  then  does  the  preacher 
know  the  thrill  of  having  dug  under,  or 
broken  through,  the  wall  of  adamant 
in  which  they  shelter  that  shy  and  lone- 
ly thing  they  dare  not  lose. 

February  18.  —  The  American  camp 
at  Winchester.  Preached  four  times 
yesterday  in  a  large  moving-picture 
theatre,  —  packed  to  the  doors,  — . 
and  to-day  I  am  as  limp  as  a  rag.  It 
was  a  great  experience,  talking  to  such 
vast  companies  of  my  own  countrymen 

—  tall,  upstanding,  wholesome  fellows 
from  all  over  the  Union,  among  them 
the   survivors  of  the   Tuscania,    tor- 
pedoed off  the  coast  of  Ireland.   They 
are  in  the  best  of  spirits,  having  lost 
everything  except  their  courage,  as  one 
of  them  said;  every  one  with  a  cold,  and 
all  togged  out  in  every  kind  of  garb  — 
for  those  who  did  not  lose  their  cloth- 
ing had  it  ruined  by  the  sea-water. 

Spent  to-day  in  Winchester,  a  city 
of  magnificent  memories,  about  which 
clusters  more  of  history  and  of  legend 
than  about  any  city  on  this  island,  ex- 
cept London.  It  is  the  city  of  Arthur 
and  the  Round  Table.  Here  the  Saxon 
Chronicles  were  written;  here  King  Al- 
fred lies  buried.  It  is  the  very  birth- 
place of  our  civilization.  The  College 
and  the  St.  Cross  Hospital  have  about 
them  the  air  of  the  Middle  Ages.  But 
the  Cathedral  is  the  gem  of  the  scene, 
having  the  most  beautiful  nave  I  have 
ever  seen.  Less  a  cemetery  than  the  Ab- 
bey, even  an  amateur  architect  can  trace 
the  old  Norman  style,  shading  into  the 
early  English,  and  then  into  the  later 
English  styles,  showing  the  evolution  of 
the  building  while  enshrining  the  his- 
tory of  a  race.  In  the  south  transept  I 


came  upon  the  tomb  of  Izaak  Walton, 
and  I  confess  I  stood  beside  it  with 
mingled  feelings  of  reverence  and  grati- 
tude. Behind  the  tomb  is  a  noble  win- 
dow, not  more  than  fifty  years  old,  into 
which  the  fishing  scenes  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament are  woven  with  good  effect  — 
an  appropriate  memorial  to  the  gentlest 
and  wisest  fisherman  who  has  lived 
among  us  since  Jesus  lodged  with  the 
fishermen  by  the  sea. 

The  afternoon  service  in  the  ancient 
temple  touched  me  deeply,  as  if  those 
who  conducted  it  were  awed  by  the 
presence  of  Eternity,  and  were  carry- 
ing for  a  brief  time  the  Torch  of  Faith, 
changing  but  eternal;  a  faith  natural  to 
humanity,  and  affirmed  and  expressed 
by  the  ordered  beauty  around  them. 
Such  a  building  is  a  symbol  of  that  in 
man  which  refuses  to  be  subdued,  either 
by  the  brute  forces  of  life  or  by  the  an- 
archy hi  his  own  heart;  an  emblem  of 
that  eternal  resolve  to  love  rather  than 
hate,  to  hope  rather  than  despair. 

March  6.  —  Returning  from  Edin- 
burgh, I  broke  my  journey  at  the  an- 
cient city  of  York,  where  the  kindest  of 
welcomes  awaited  me.  Looking  out  of 
my  hotel  window,  I  saw  a  music-shop 
founded  in  1768  —  older  than  the 
American  Republic.  Preached  at  three 
o'clock  at  the  Monkgate  Methodist 
Chapel;  at  five  held  an  institute  for  min- 
isters; and  at  seven  lectured  on  Lincoln 
to  a  huge  audience,  Mr.  Roundtree, 
Member  of  Parliament,  presiding.  The 
Lord  Mayor  presented  me  with  a  reso- 
lution of  welcome,  in  which  the  most 
cordial  good-will  was  expressed  for  the 
people  of  America. 

Earlier  in  the  day  I  was  taken  to  vari- 
ous places  of  historic  interest,  including, 
of  course,  the  beautiful  old  gray  Min- 
ster. Also  to  the  grave  of  John  Wool- 
man,  the  Quaker,  a  brief  biography  of 
whom  I  had  once  written.  I  knew  he 
died  while  on  a  mission  to  England,  but 
I  had  forgotten  that  he  was  buried 


380 


PREACHING   IN   LONDON 


in  York.  Reverently  we  stood  by  the 
grave  of  that  simple  man,  —  daringly 
radical,  but  divinely  gentle,  —  who  was 
the  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  Christ, 
and  whose  life  of  love  and  service,  of 
pity  and  prayer,  made  him  a  kind  of  sad 
St.  Francis  of  the  new  world.  York  is  a 
stronghold  of  the  Society  of  Friends  — 
the  noblest  body  of  organized  mysti- 
cism on  earth.  Aye,  the  war  is  making 
men  either  skeptics  or  mystics,  and  wis- 
dom lies,  methinks,  with  the  mystics 
whose  faith  is  symbolized  in  the  beauti- 
ful Listening  Angel  I  saw  the  other  day 
hi  the  Southwell  Cathedral. 

March  12. —  The  Prime  Minister 
spoke  to  the  Free  Church  Council  in 
the  City  Temple  to-day,  and  it  was  an 
astonishing  performance,  as  much  for 
its  wizardry  of  eloquence  as  for  its 
moral  camouflage.  For  weeks  he  has 
been  under  a  barrage  of  criticism,  as  he 
always  is  when  things  do  not  go  right; 
and  the  audience  was  manifestly  un- 
sympathetic, if  not  hostile.  As  no  one 
knew  what  would  happen,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  he  should  enter  the  pulpit 
during  the  singing  of  a  hymn. 

As  soon  as  he  rose  to  speak,  —  his 
stout  body  balanced  on  tiny,  dwarf- 
like  legs,  —  the  hecklers  began  a  ma- 
chine-gun fire  of  questions,  and  it  looked 
as  if  we  were  in  for  a  war  of  wits.  The 
English  heckler  is  a  joy.  He  does  not 
deal  in  slang  phrases,  but  aims  his  dart 
straight  at  the  target.  In  ten  minutes 
the  Prime  Minister  had  his  audience 
standing  and  throwing  up  their  hats. 
It  was  pure  magic.  I  felt  the  force  of  it. 
But  after  it  was  over  and  I  had  time  to 
think  it  through,  I  found  that  he  had 
said  almost  nothing.  On  the  question  of 
Bread  or  Beer  he  turned  a  clever  rhe- 
torical trick,  and  nothing  else.  The 
Evening  Star  says  that  the  Prime  Min- 
ister is  not  a  statesman  at  all,  but  a 
stuntsman;  and  one  is  half  inclined  to 
agree  with  it.  Certainly  his  genius  just 
now  seems  to  consist  in  his  agility  in 


finding  a  way  out  of  one  tight  corner 
into  another,  following  a  zigzag  course. 
An  enigmatic  and  elusive  personality, 
—  ruled  by  intuitions  rather  than  by 
principles,  —  if  he  never  leaves  me  with 
a  sense  of  sincerity,  he  at  least  gives  me 
a  conservative  thrill.  Despite  his  critics 
the  record  of  his  actual  achievements  is 
colossal,  and  I  know  of  no  other  per- 
sonality in  this  kingdom  that  could  take 
his  place.  Like  Roosevelt,  he  knows 
how  to  dramatize  what  he  does,  making 
himself  the  hero  of  the  story;  and  it  is 
so  skillfully  done  that  few  see  that  the 
hero  is  also  the  showman. 

March  25.  —  At  the  Thursday-noon 
service  on  the  21st,  we  had  news  that  a 
great  battle  had  begun,  but  we  little 
dreamed  what  turn  it  would  take.  In- 
stead of  the  long-expected  Allied  ad- 
vance, it  was  a  gigantic  enemy  drive, 
which  seems  to  be  sweeping  everything 
before  it.  Wave  after  wave  of  the  enemy 
hosts  beat  upon  the  Allied  lines,  until 
they  first  bent  and  then  broke;  the 
British  and  French  armies  may  be  sun- 
dered and  the  Channel  ports  captured. 
All  internal  dissension  is  hushed  in  the 
presence  of  the  common  danger,  and 
one  sees  once  more  the  real  quality  of 
the  British  character,  its  quiet  courage 
shining  most  brightly  when  the  sky  is 
lowering. 

London  is  tongued-tied;  people  look 
at  each  other  and  understand.  If  there 
is  any  panic,  it  is  among  the  politicians, 
not  among  the  people.  Resolute,  all- 
suffering,  unconquerably  cheery,  men 
brace  themselves  to  face  the  worst  — 
it  is  magnificent!  There  was  no  room 
for  the  people  in  the  City  Temple  yes- 
terday; the  call  to  prayer  comes  not 
half  so  imperatively  from  the  pulpit  as 
from  the  human  heart  in  its  intolerable 
anxiety  and  sorrow.  These  are  days 
when  men  gather  up  their  final  reasons 
for  holding  on  in  the  battle  of  life,  seek- 
ing the  ultimate  solace  of  the  Eternal. 

What  days  to  read  the  Bible!   Itself 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


381 


a  book  of  battles,  its  simple  words  find 
new  interpretation  in  the  awful  exegesis 
of  events.  Many  a  Psalm  for  the  day 
might  have  been  written  for  the  day; 
the  leaping  up  of  fires  through  the  crust 
of  the  earth  makes  them  luminous.  As 
we  enter  the  depths,  those  strange  songs 
follow  us.  Doubt,  elation,  anger,  and 
even  hate  are  there  perfectly  expressed. 
To-day,  as  of  old,  the  people  imagine 
a  vain  thing;  the  earth  trembles;  the 
honor  of  God  is  threatened.  The 
Apocalypse,  too,  has  a  new  force,  color, 
and  beauty,  as  we  regard  it  in  the  light 
of  burning  cities.  Its  pictures  are  like 
the  work  of  some  mighty  artist  on  a 
vast,  cloudy  canvas,  dipping  his  brush 
in  earthquake  and  eclipse  and  the  shad- 
ows  of  the  bottomless  pit.  Once  more 
we  see  the  Four  Horses  riding  over  the 
earth.  The  challenge  of  the  Book  of  Job 
is  taken  up  again;  Jeremiah  is  justified 
in  his  sorrow;  and  the  Suffering  Servant 
of  God  is  a  living  figure  in  this  new  cru- 
cifixion of  humanity. 

And  the  Gospels!  Never  has  there 
been  so  complete  a  vindication  of  the 
ethics  of  Jesus.  If,  the  Facts  now  say, 
you  take  the  anti-Christ  point  of  view, 
this  is  what  it  means.  Repent,  or  the 
Kingdom  of  Hell  will  swallow  you  up! 
Thus  the  Galilean  triumphs,  hi  the  ter- 
ror of  denying  his  words,  no  less  than  in 
the  blessing  of  obeying  them:  'Thou 
hast  the  words  of  eternal  life.' 

March  31.  —  Easter  Day!  Dr.  Ren- 
del  Harris  tells  how,  in  the  musty  pages 
of  the  Journal  of  a  learned  society,  he 
came  upon  a  revealing  fact.  It  was  there 
recorded  that,  on  a  morning  in  May, 
1797,  which  broke  calmly  after  a  stormy 
night,  it  was  possible  to  see  from  the 
cliffs  of  Folkestone  even  the  color  of 
the  cottages  on  the  French  mainland. 
In  the  spiritual  world,  also,  there  is  the 
record  of  such  a  day  of  clear  tranquil- 
lity, when  the  fierce  night  of  the  Passion 
had  passed,  and  the  day  of  the  Resur- 
rection dawned  white  and  serene.  On 


that  Day,  and  until  the  Ascension,  — 
when  the  Great  Adventurer  was  wel- 
comed home,  —  the  Unseen  World  was 
known  to  be  near,  homelike,  and  real. 

To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  that  Day 
of  Divine  Lucidity,  when  men  —  plain, 
ordinary  men  like  ourselves  —  saw 
through  the  shadows  into  the  life  of 
things.  Softly,  benignly,  the  Day  of 
Eternal  Life  dawns  upon  a  world  red 
with  war  and  billowed  with  the  graves 
of  those  who  seem  doubly  dead,  because 
they  died  so  young.  Never  did  this 
blessed  day  shine  with  deeper  meaning; 
never  was  its  great  Arch  of  Promise  so 
thronged  with  hurrying  feet.  Blessed 
Day!  When  its  bells  have  fallen  into 
silence,  and  its  lilies  have  faded  into 
dust,  pray  God  there  may  live  in  our 
hearts  the  promise  that,  after  the  win- 
ter of  war,  there  shall  be  a  springtime  of 
peace  and  good-will! 

When  one  thinks  of  the  number  of 
the  fallen,  and  the  heartache  that  fol- 
lows the  evening  sun  around  the  world, 
it  is  not  strange  that  many  seek  com- 
munication, as  well  as  communion,  with 
the  dead  —  longing  to  see  even  in  a 
filmy  vapor  the  outlines  of  forms  famil- 
iar and  dear.  The  pathos  of  it  is  heart- 
breaking! Even  when  one  is  sure  that 
such  use  of  what  are  called  psychical 
faculties  is  a  retrogression,  —  since  gen- 
ius is  the  only  medium  through  which, 
so  far,  Heaven  has  made  any  spiritual 
revelation  to  mankind,  —  it  is  none 
the  less  hard  to  rebuke  it. 

Some  think  Spiritualism  may  become 
a  new  religion,  with  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  as 
its  prophet  and  Sir  Conan  Doyle  as  its 
evangelist.  No  matter;  it  has  done 
good,  and  hi  a  way  too  easily  overlook- 
ed. Nearly  all  of  us  grew  up  with  a 
definite  picture  in  our  minds  of  a  city 
with  streets  of  gold  and  gates  of  pearl; 
but  that  picture  has  faded.  Tune  and 
criticism  have  emptied  it  of  actuality. 
Since  then,  the  walls  of  the  universe 
have  been  pushed  back  into  infinity, 


382 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


and  the  old  scenery  of  faith  has  grown 
dim.  Admit  that  its  imagery  was  crude; 
it  did  help  the  imagination,  upon  which 
both  faith  and  hope  lean  more  heavily 
than  we  are  aware.  Now  that  the  old 
picture  has  vanished,  the  unseen  world 
is  for  many  only  a  bare,  blank  infinity, 
soundless  and  colorless.  These  new 
seekers  after  truth  have  at  least  helped 
to  humanize  it  once  more,  touching  it 
with  light  and  color  and  laughter;  and 
that  is  a  real  service,  both  to  faith  and 
to  the  affections.  Meanwhile,  not  a  few 
are  making  discoveries  in  another  and 
better  way,  as  witness  this  letter: — 

DEAB  MINISTER,  — 

Early  in  the  war  I  lost  my  husband,  and  I 
was  mad  with  grief.  I  had  the  children  to 
bring  up  and  no  one  to  help  me,  so  I  just 
raged  against  God  for  taking  my  husband 
from  my  side  and  yet  calling  Himself  good. 
Someone  told  me  that  God  could  be  to  me 
all  that  my  husband  was  and  more.  And 
so  I  got  into  the  way  of  defying  God  in  my 
heart.  'Now  and  here,'  I  used  to  say,  'this 
is  what  I  want  and  God  can't  give  it  to  me/ 
After  a  while  I  came,  somehow,  to  feel  that 
God  liked  the  honesty  of  it;  liked  this  down- 
right telling  Him  all  my  needs,  though  I  had 
no  belief  that  He  could  help  me.  One  day  I 
had  gone  into  the  garden  to  gather  some 
flowers,  and  suddenly  I  knew  that  my  hus- 
band was  there  with  me  —  just  himself, 
only  braver  and  stronger  than  he  had  ever 
been.  I  do  not  know  how  I  knew;  but  I  knew. 
There  was  no  need  of  a  medium,  for  I  had 
found  God  myself,  and,  finding  Him,  I  had 
found  my  husband  too. 

April  15.  —  No  spring  drive  is  equal 
to  the  drive  of  spring  itself,  when  April 
comes  marching  down  the  world.  Kew 
Garden  is  like  a  bit  of  paradise,  and 
neither  war  nor  woe  can  mar  its  glory. 
How  the  English  love  flowers !  Even  hi 
the  slums  of  London — which  are  among 
the  most  dismal  and  God-forsaken 
spots  on  earth  —  one  sees  in  the  win- 
dows tiny  pots  of  flowers,  adding  a  touch 
of  color  to  the  drab  and  dingy  scene. 
At  the  front,  in  dugouts,  one  finds  old 


tin  cans  full  of  flowers,  gathered  from 
no  one  knows  where.  Each  English 
home  is  walled  in  for  privacy,  —  unlike 
our  American  way,  —  and  each  has 
its  own  garden  of  flowers,  like  a  little 
Eden.  One  of  the  first  things  an  Eng- 
lishman shows  his  guest  is  the  garden, 
where  the  family  spend  much  of  their 
time  in  summer.  April  sends  everybody 
digging  in  the  garden. 

And  such  bird-song!  The  day  begins 
with  a  concert,  and  there  is  an  anthem 
or  a  solo  at  any  hour.  They  sing  as  if 
the  heart  of  the  world  were  a  mystic, 
unfathomable  joy;  and  even  a  pessimist 
like  Thomas  Hardy  wondered  what  se- 
cret the  'Darkling  Thrush'  knew  that 
he  did  not  know;  and,  further,  what 
right  he  had  to  sing  in  such  a  world  as 
this.  After  listening  to  the  birds,  one 
cannot  despair  of  man,  seeing  Nature  at 
the  task  of  endlessly  renewing  her  life. 
His  war,  his  statecraft,  his  science,  may 
be  follies  or  sins;  but  his  life  is  only 
budding  even  yet,  and  the  flower  is  yet 
to  be.  So  one  feels  in  April,  with  a  lilac 
beneath  the  window. 

April  20.  —  Housekeeping  in  Eng- 
land, for  an  American  woman,  is  a  try- 
ing enough  experience  at  any  time;  but 
it  is  doubly  so  in  war-time  when  food 
and  fuel  conditions  are  so  bad.  Until 
the  rationing  went  into  effect,  it  was  a 
problem  to  get  anything  to  eat,  as  the 
shops  would  not  take  new  customers. 
Even  now  the  bread  tastes  as  if  it  had 
been  made  out  of  sawdust;  and  butter 
being  almost  an  unknown  quality,  the 
margarine,  like  the  sins  of  the  King,  in 
Hamlet,  smells  to  heaven.  Shopping  is 
an  adventure.  Literally  one  has  to  deal, 
not  only  with  'the  butcher,  the  baker, 
and  the  candlestick-maker,'  but  with 
the  fish-market,  the  greengrocer,  the 
dry  grocer,  —  everything  at  a  different 
place,  —  so  it  takes  time  and  heroic 
patience,  and  even  then  one  often  comes 
home  empty-handed.  As  a  last  resort, 
we  fall  back  on  eggs  and  peanuts,  — 


PREACHING  IN   LONDON 


383 


monkey-nuts,  the  English  call  them,  — 
to  both  of  which  I  take  off  my  hat.  It 
is  impossible  for  one  person  to  keep 
an  English  house  clean  —  it  is  so  ill- 
arranged,  and  cluttered  up  with  bric-a- 
brac.  There  are  none  of  the  American 
appliances  for  saving  labor — no  brooms ; 
and  the  housemaid  must  get  down  on 
her  knees,  with  a  dustpan  and  hand- 
brush,  to  sweep  the  room.  There  is 
enough  brass  in  the  house  to  keep  one 
able-bodied  person  busy  polishing  it. 
Arnold  Bennett  has  more  than  one  pas- 
sage of  concentrated  indignation  about 
the  time  and  energy  spent  in  polishing 
brass  in  English  houses.  It  is  almost  a 
profession.  One  compensation  is  the 
so  ft- voiced,  well-trained  English  serv- 
ants, and  often  even  they  are  either 
thievish  or  sluttish. 

April  25.  —  Twice  I  have  heard  Ber- 
nard Shaw  lecture  recently,  and  have 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  and 
surprise  of  meeting  him.  My  idea  of 
Shaw  was  a  man  alert,  aggressive,  self- 
centred,  vastly  conceited,  craving  pub- 
licity, laying  claim  to  an  omniscience 
that  would  astonish  most  deities.  That 
is  to  say,  a  literary  acrobat,  standing 
on  his  head  to  attract  attention,  or 
walking  the  tight-rope  in  the  top  of  the 
tent.  But  that  Shaw  is  a  myth,  a  leg- 
end, a  pose.  The  real  Shaw  is  no  such 
man.  Instead,  he  is  physically  finicky, 
almost  old-maidish,  not  only  shy  and 
embarrassed  off  the  platform,  but  awk- 
ward, blushing  like  a  schoolgirl  when 
you  meet  him.  He  is  gentle,  modest, 
generous,  full  of  quick  wisdom,  but  sug- 
gesting lavender,  and  China  tea  served 
in  dainty  old-world  cups.  The  most 
garrulous  man  in  Europe  before  the 
war,  he  was  smitten  dumb  by  the  in- 
sanity of  it,  having  no  word  of  comfort 
or  command.  Unlike  Romain  Holland, 
he  could  not  even  frame  a  bitter  con- 
demnation of  it.  So,  after  one  or  two 
feeble  protests,  he  went  back  into  his 
drawing-room,  pulled  the  blinds  down, 


and  drank  China  tea  out  of  his  dainty 
cups,  leaving  the  world  to  stew  in  its 
own  juice.  Who  can  describe  the  fine- 
ness, the  fatuousness,  the  futility  of 
him!  Whether  prophet  or  harlequin, 
he  has  shot  his  bolt  and  missed  the  mark. 
Of  course,  the  artist  will  live  on  in  his 
work  —  most  vividly,  perhaps,  in  his 
sham-shattering  wit. 

April  30.  —  Few  Americans  realize 
what  the  Throne  and  the  Royal  Family 
mean  in  the  life  of  the  British  people. 
Our  idea  of  the  King  is  colored  by  our 
republican  preconceptions,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  our  prejudices  —  not  knowing 
that  England  is  in  many  ways  more 
democratic  than  America.  The  other 
day,  in  the  City  Temple,  an  American 
minister  spoke  of  the  King  as  '  an  ani- 
mated flag,'  little  dreaming  of  the  thing 
of  which  he  is  a  symbol  and  the  pro- 
found affection  in  which  he  is  held.  There 
is  something  spiritual  in  this  devotion 
to  the  King,  something  mystical,  and 
the  Empire  would  hardly  hold  together 
without  it.  The  Royal  Family  is  really 
an  exaltation  of  the  Home,  which  is 
ever  the  centre  of  British  patriotism. 
Never,  in  their  true  hours,  do  the  Eng- 
lish people  brag  of  Britain  as  a  world- 
power,  actual  or  potential.  It  is  always 
the  home  and  the  hearth,  —  now  to  be 
defended,  —  and  nowhere  is  the  home 
more  sacred  and  tender.  Of  every 
Briton  we  may  say,  as  Bunyan  said  of 
Greatheart:  'But  that  which  put  glory 
of  grace  into  all  that  he  did  was  that 
he  did  it  for  pure  love  of  his  Country.' 
This  sentiment  finds  incarnation  in  the 
Royal  Family,  in  whom  the  Home  rises 
above  party  and  is  untouched  by  the 
gusts  of  passion. 

'  Their  gracious  Majesties '  is  a  phrase 
which  exactly  describes  the  reigning 
King  and  Queen,  though  neither  can  be 
said  to  possess,  in  the  same  measure, 
that  mysterious  quality  so  difficult  to 
define  which,  in  King  Edward  and  Queen 
Alexandra,  appealed  so  strongly  to  the 


384 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


popular  imagination.  Gentle-hearted,  if 
not  actually  shy,  one  feels  that  the  form- 
alism and  ceremony  of  the  Court  ap- 
peal less  to  the  King  than  to  the  Queen, 
whose  stateliness  sometimes  leaves  an 
impression  of  aloofness.  Something  of 
the  same  shyness  one  detects  in  the 
modest,  manly,  happy-hearted  Prince 
of  Wales,  whose  personality  is  so  cap- 
tivating alike  in  its  simplicity  and  its 
sincerity.  At  a^time  when  thrones  are 
falling,  the  British  King  moves  freely 
among  his  people,  everywhere  honored 
and  beloved  —  and  all  who  know  the 
worth  of  this  Empire  to  civilization  re- 
joice and  give  thanks. 

May  19.  —  Dr.  Jowett  began  his 
ministry  at  Westminster  Chapel  to- 
day, —  the  anniversary  of  Pentecost, 
—  welcomed  by  a  hideous  air-raid. 
Somehow,  while  Dr.  Jowett  always 
kindles  my  imagination,  he  never  gives 
me  that  sense  of  reality  which  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  preaching.  One  en- 
joys his  musical  voice,  his  exquisite 
elocution,  his  mastery  of  the  art  of  il- 
lustration, and  his  fastidious  style;  but 
the  substance  of  his  sermons  is  incred- 
ibly thin.  Of  course,  this  is  due,  in  large 
part,  to  the  theory  of  popular  preaching 
on  which  he  works.  His  method  is  to 
take  a  single  idea  —  large  or  small  — 
and  turn  it  over  and  over,  like  a  gem, 
revealing  all  its  facets,  on  the  ground 
that  one  idea  is  all  that  the  average 
audience  is  equal  to.  Of  this  method 
Dr.  Jowett  is  a  consummate  master, 
and  it  is  a  joy  to  see  him  make  use  of  it, 
though  at  times  it  leads  to  a  tedious 
repetition  of  the  text.  Often,  too,  he 
seems  to  be  laboring  under  the  handi- 
cap of  a  brilliant  novelist,  who  must 
needs  make  up  in  scenery  what  is  lack- 
ing in  plot. 

Since  his  return  to  London  he  has 
been  less  given  to  filigree  rhetoric,  and 
he  has  struck  almost  for  the  first  time  a 
social  note,  to  the  extent,  at  any  rate, 
of  touching  upon  public  affairs  —  al- 


though no  one  would  claim  that  Dr. 
Jowett  has  a  social  message,  in  the  real 
meaning  of  that  phrase.  No,  his  forte  is 
personal  religious  experience  of  a  mild 
evangelical  type;  and  to  a  convinced 
Christian  audience  of  that  tradition  and 
training  he  has  a  ministry  of  edification 
and  comfort.  But  for  the  typical  man 
of  modern  mind,  caught  in  the  currents 
and  alive  to  the  agitations  of  our  day, 
Dr.  Jowett  has  no  message.  However, 
we  must  not  expect  everything  from 
any  one  servant  of  God,  and  the  painter 
is  needed  as  well  as  the  prophet. 

June  2.  —  Spent  a  lovely  day  yester- 
day at  Selborne,  a  town  tucked  away 
among  the  chalk-hills  of  Hampshire. 
There,  well-nigh  two  hundred  years 
ago,  Gilbert  White  watched  the  Hangar 
grow  green  in  May  and  orange  and 
scarlet  in  October,  and  learned  to  be 
wise.  One  can  almost  see  him  in  the 
atmosphere  and  setting  of  his  life,  — 
an  old-bachelor  parson,  his  face  marked 
by  the  smallpox,  as  so  many  were  in 
that  day,  —  walking  over  the  hills, 
which  he  called  'majestic  mountains,' 
a  student  and  lover  of  nature.  He  was 
a  man  who  knew  his  own  mind,  worked 
his  little  plot  of  earth  free  from  the  de- 
lusions of  grandeur,  and  published  his 
classic  book,  The  Natural  History  of 
Selborne,  in  the  year  of  the  fall  of  the 
Bastille.  Because  of  this  coincidence  of 
dates,  it  has  been  said  that  White  was 
more  concerned  with  the  course  of 
events  in  a  martin's  nest  than  with  the 
crash  of  empires.  No  doubt;  but  it  may 
be  that  the  laws  of  the  universe  through 
which  empires  fall  are  best  known  by  a 
man  who  has  such  quietness  of  soul  that 
a  brooding  mother-bird  will  not  fly 
away  when  he  visits  her.  White  asked 
the  universe  one  question,  and  waited 
to  hear  the  answer:  Take  away  fear, 
and  what  follows?  The  answer  is: 
Peace,  even  the  peace  without  which  a 
man  cannot  learn  that  when  '  redstarts 
shake  their  tails,  they  move  them  hori- 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


385 


zontally.'  It  was  a  day  to  refresh  the 
soul. 

June  10.  —  Attended  a  Ministerial 
Fraternal  to-day,  and  greatly  enjoyed 
the  freedom  and  frankness  of  the  dis- 
cussion. A  conservative  in  England 
would  be  a  radical  in  America,  so  far 
are  they  in  advance  of  us.  Evidently 
our  English  brethren  have  gotten  over 
the  theological  mumps,  measles,  and 
whooping-cough.  For  one  thing,  they 
have  accepted  the  results  of  the  critical 
study  of  the  Bible,  without  losing  any 
of  the  warmth  and  glow  of  evangelical 
faith,  —  uniting  liberal  thought  with 
orthodoxy  of  the  heart,  —  as  we  in 
America  have  not  succeeded  in  doing. 
All  confessed  that  the  atmosphere  of 
their  work  has  changed;  that  the  fin- 
gers of  their  sermons  grope  blindly  amid 
the  hidden  keys  of  the  modern  mind, 
seeking  the  great  new  words  of  comfort 
and  light.  It  was  agreed  that  a  timid, 
halting,  patched-up  restatement  of 
faith  will  not  do:  there  must  be  a  radi- 
cal reinterpretation,  if  we  are  to  speak 
to  the  new  time,  which  thinks  in  new 
terms.  On  social  questions,  too,  the 
discussion  was  trenchant,  at  times  even 
startling.  There  was  real  searching  of 
hearts,  drawing  us  together  in  a  final 
candor,  and  driving  us  back  to  the  per- 
manent fountains  of  power.  The  spirit 
of  the  meeting  was  most  fraternal,  and 
I,  for  one,  felt  that  fellowship  is  both 
creative  and  revealing. 

June  25.  —  American  troops  are 
pouring  into  England,  and  the  invasion 
is  a  revelation  to  the  English  people. 
Nothing  could  surpass  the  kindness  and 
hospitality  with  which  they  open  their 
hearts  and  homes  to  their  kinsmen  from 
the  great  West.  They  are  at  once 
courteous  and  critical,  torn  between 
feelings  of  joy,  sorrow,  and  a  kind  of 
gentle  jealousy  —  at  thought  of  their 
own  fine  fellows  who  went  away  and 
did  not  come  back.  They  have  seen 
many  kinds  of  Americans,  among  them 

VOL.  1%8—XO.  3 


the  tourist,  the  globe-trotter,  the  un- 
speakable fop,  and  the  newly  rich  who 
spread  their  vulgarity  all  over  Europe; 
but  now  they  are  discovering  the  real 
American,  —  the  manly,  modest,  in- 
telligent lad  from  the  college,  the  store, 
the  farm,  —  and  they  like  him.  He  is 
good  to  look  at,  wholesome,  hearty, 
straightforward,  serious  but  not  solemn, 
and  he  has  the  air  of  one  on  an  errand. 
On  the  surface  the  British  Tommy  af- 
fects to  take  the  war  as  a  huge  joke,  but 
our  men  take  it  in  dead  earnest.  'Why, 
your  men  are  mystics;  they  are  cru- 
saders,' said  an  English  journalist  to 
me  recently;  and  I  confess  they  do  have 
that  bearing  —  for  such  they  really  are. 
Last  night,  in  a  coffee-house  on  the 
Strand,  I  asked  the  Cockney  proprietor 
if  he  had  seen  many  American  boys 
and  what  he  thought  of  them.  Some- 
thing like  this  is  what  I  heard :  — 

'Yerce,  and  I  like  what  I've  seen  of 
'em.  No  swank  about  'em,  y'  know  — 
officers  an'  men,  just  like  pals  together. 
Talks  to  yeh  mately-like  —  know  what 
I  mean?  —  man  to  man  sort  o'  thing. 
Nice,  likable  chaps,  I  alwis  finds  'em. 
Bit  of  a  change  after  all  these  damn  for- 
eigners. I  get  on  with  'em  top-'ole. 
And  eat?  Fair  clean  me  out.  Funny 
the  way  they  looks  at  London,  though. 
Mad  about  it,  y'  know.  I  bin  in  Lon- 
don yers  an'  yers,  and  it  don't  worry 
me.  Wants  to  know  where  that  bloke 
put  'is  cloak  down  in  the  mud  for  some 
Queen,  and  'ow  many  generals  is  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  'Ow  should  I 
know?  I  live  in  Camden  Town.  I  got  a 
business  t' attend  to.  Likable  boys, 
though.  'Ere 's  to  'em!' 

July  4. —  Went  to  the  American 
Army  and  Navy  baseball  game,  taking 
as  my  guests  a  Member  of  Parliament 
and  a  City  Temple  friend.  Never  has 
there  been  such  a  ball  game  since  time 
began.  The  King  pitched  the  first  ball, 
and  did  it  right  well,  too.  The  papers 
say  he  has  been  practising  for  days. 


386 


PREACHING  IN   LONDON 


Then  bedlam  broke  loose;  barbaric 
pandemonium  reigned.  Megaphones, 
whistles,  every  kind  of  instrument  of 
torture  kept  accompaniment  to  tossing 
arms  and  dancing  hats  —  while  the 
grandstand  gave  such  an  exhibition  of 
'rooting'  in  slang  as  I  never  heard  be- 
fore. Much  of  the  slang  was  new  to 
me,  and  to  interpret  it  to  my  English 
friends,  and  at  the  same  time  explain 
the  game,  was  a  task  for  a  genius. 
Amazement  sat  upon  their  faces.  They 
had  never  imagined  that  a  hard  busi- 
ness people  could  explode  in  such  a 
hysteria  of  play.  An  English  crowd  is 
orderly  and  ladylike  in  comparison. 
Of  course,  the  players,  aware  of  an  audi- 
ence at  once  distinguished  and  aston- 
ished, put  on  extra  airs;  and  as  the 
game  went  on,  the  fun  became  faster 
and  more  furious.  My  friends  would 
stop  their  ears  to  save  their  sanity,  at 
the  same  time  pretending,  with  unfail- 
ing courtesy,  to  see,  hear,  and  under- 
stand everything.  The  Navy  won,  and 
one  last,  long,  lusty  yell  concluded  the 
choral  service  of  the  day. 

July  20.  —  'The  Miracle  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's.'  It  is  no  exaggeration,  if  by 
miracle  you  mean  the  triumph  of  spirit 
over  matter  and  untoward  disaster. 
St.  Dunstan's  is  the  college  where  young 
men  who  gave  their  eyes  for  their  coun- 
try learn  to  be  blind;  and  as  I  walked 
through  it  to-day  I  thought  of  Henley's 
lines:  — 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me. 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

Many  of  the  men  are  horribly  disfigured, 
and  it  is  a  mercy  that  they  cannot  see 
their  own  faces.  Yet,  for  the  most  part, 
they  are  a  jolly  set,  accepting  the  in- 
evitable with  that  spirit  of  sport  which 
is  so  great  a  trait  of  their  race.  At  least, 
the  totally  blind  are  happy.  Those  who 
see  partially,  and  do  not  know  how  it 
will  turn  out,  mope  a  good  deal.  At  the 


head  of  the  college  is  Sir  Arthur  Pear- 
son, himself  a  blind  man  who  has  learned 
to  find  his  way  in  the  dark  —  a  blind 
leader  of  the  blind.  It  is  wonderful  to 
hear  him  talk  to  a  boy  brought  into  the 
college  dejected  and  rebellious  against 
his  fate.  There  is  no  maudlin  sentiment. 
It  is  much  easier  to  cry  than  to  succor. 
They  sit  hand  in  hand,  —  comrades  in 
a  conquest,  —  while  Sir  Arthur  tells 
the  lad,  out  of  his  own  experience,  that, 
though  night  has  come  at  noon,  the  day 
is  not  ended.  His  words,  taken  out  of 
their  context  and  atmosphere,  might 
sound  preachy,  as  he  tells  how  he  re- 
fused to  be  beaten,  and  how  darkness 
has  its  surprises.  All  honor  to  Sir 
Arthur,  —  Knight  of  the  Dark  Table, 
—  unforgettable  for  his  courage,  his 
chivalry,  and  his  cheerfulness! 

(Early  in  August  I  went  again  to  America, 
on  another  speaking  tour,  crossing  the  bar 
at  Liverpool,  in  the  glow  of  a  miraculous 
sunset,  the  sacramental  beauty  of  which 
haunts  me  still.  Time  out  of  mind  I  had 
known  Uncle  Sam,  in  his  suit  of  nankeen 
trousers  strapped  under  his  instep,  his  blue 
swallow-tail  coat  and  brass  buttons,  and  his 
ancient  high  hat.  It  was  not  easy  to  recog- 
nize him  clad  in  khaki,  wearing  a  gas-mask 
and  a  '  tin  lid,'  and  going  over  the  top  with 
a  Springfield  rifle  in  his  hand;  and  that 
change  in  outward  garb  was  a  visible  sign  of 
much  else.  Down  the  streets  of  New  York, 
at  midnight,  one  saw  long  lines  of  men 
marching,  singing  'Over  There';  and  Serv- 
ice Stars  were  everywhere,  changing  from 
silver  to  gold.  It  was  an  awe-inspiring 
America,  —  new  in  its  unity,  its  power,  and 
its  vision  of  duty,  —  albeit  to-day,  it  seems 
like  a  dim  dream  of  some  previous  state  of 
existence.  Returning  to  England  in  Octo- 
ber, my  ship  was  one  of  fifteen  loaded  with 
troops,  following  a  zigzag  course  over  a  lone- 
ly sea.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the  influenza 
epidemic,  and  almost  every  ship  kept  a 
funeral  flag  flying  all  the  way.  Off  the  north 
coast  of  Ireland  we  witnessed  the  destruc- 
tion of  an  enemy  submarine.  Once  more,  on 
a  Thursday  noon,  I  took  up  my  labors  at 
the  City  Temple,  in  an  address  entitled 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


387 


'The  New  America,'  in  which  I  tried  to  de- 
scribe the  novel  experience  of  rediscovering 
my  own  country.  Events  moved  rapidly, 
and  I  need  add  only  one  or  two  items  from 
the  diary,  telling  of  the  end  of  the  greatest 
war  in  history,  the  meaning  and  issue  of 
which  are  locked  in  the  bosom  of  God.) 

October  25.  —  Three  times  since  I  re- 
turned I  have  spoken  to  groups  in  be- 
half of  Anglo-American  friendship,  but 
to  little  avail.  My  audiences  were  al- 
ready utterly  convinced,  and  it  was  like 
arguing  with  Miss  Pankhurst  in  favor 
of  woman  suffrage  —  as  useless  as  rain 
at  sea.  Somehow  we  never  get  beyond 
the  courtesies  and  commonplaces  of 
after-dinner  eloquence.  Yet  the  matter 
is  of  vital  importance  just  now.  Al- 
ready there  are  rumors  of  friction  be- 
tween our  boys  and  the  Tommies. 
These  are  little  things,  but  the  sum  of 
them  is  very  great,  and  in  the  mood  of 
the  hour  so  many  reactions  of  personal 
antagonism  may  be  fatal.  Not  much 
idealism  is  left  after  the  long  struggle, 
and  one  fears  a  dreadful  reaction,  —  a 
swift,  hideous  slip  backward,  —  driv- 
ing Britain  and  America  further  apart 
than  they  were  before  the  war.  Little 
groups  do  something,  but  what  we  need 
is  some  great  gesture,  to  compel  atten- 
tion and  dramatize  the  scene  for  the 
masses  on  both  sides  of  the  sea.  Frank- 
ly, I  am  not  clear  as  to  the  best  method 

—  except  that  we  have  not  found  it. 
Even  now,  all  feel  that  the  end  of  the 
war  is  near,  and  one  detects  tokens 
which  foretell  a  different  mood  when 
peace  arrives. 

October  29.  —  Ever  and  again  one 
hears  rumors  of  a  revolution  in  England 
in  which  things  will  be  turned  upside 
down.  One  might  be  more  alarmed, 
but  for  the  fact  that  the  revolution  has 
already  taken  place.  The  old  England 
has  gone,  taking  with  it  much  that  was 
lovely  and  fair;  a  new  England  is  here, 

—  new  in  spirit,  in  vision,  in  outlook,  — 
not  only  changing  in  temper,  but  ac- 


tually changing  hands.  As  the  Na- 
poleonic wars  ended  the  aristocratic 
epoch  and  brought  the  middle  class  to 
the  fore,  so  the  great  war  has  ended 
the  rule  of  the  middle  class  and  will 
bring  the  man  down  under  to  the  top. 
Of  course,  as  to  outward  appearance, 
the  aristocratic  and  middle  classes  still 
rule;  but  their  ideas  do  not  rule.  There 
will  be  no  violent  upheaval  in  England ; 
the  genius  of  the  British  mind  —  a 
practical  mysticism,  so  to  name  it, 
though  the  practicality  is  often  more 
manifest  than  the  mysticism  —  will 
not  let  it  be  so.  Again  and  again  I  have 
seen  them  drawn  up  in  battle-array, 
ready  for  a  fight  to  a  finish  —  then,  the 
next  moment,  they  begin  to  parley, 
to  give  and  take;  and,  finally,  they  com- 
promise, each  getting  something  and 
nobody  getting  all  he  asked.  Therein 
they  are  wise,  and  their  long  political 
experience,  their  instinct  for  the  middle 
way,  as  well  as  their  non-explosive  tem- 
perament, stand  them  in  good  stead  in 
these  days.  Besides,  if  English  society 
is  a  house  of  three  stories,  the  house  has 
been  so  shaken  by  the  earthquake  of 
war  that  all  classes  have  a  new  sense  of 
kinship  and  obligation.  No  doubt  there 
will  be  flare-ups  in  Wales,  or  among  the 
hot-heads  on  the  Clyde;  but  there  is 
little  danger  of  anything  more. 

November  8.  —  Went  to  Oxford  last 
night  to  hear  Professor  Gilbert  Murray 
lecture  on  the  Peloponnesian  War  of 
the  Greeks  as  compared  with  our  great 
war;  and  his  words  haunt  me.  With 
an  uncanny  felicity,  the  great  scholar 
—  who  is  also  a  great  citizen  —  told  the 
story  of  the  war  that  destroyed  Greek 
civilization;  and  the  parallel  with  the 
present  war  was  deadly,  even  down  to 
minute  details.  About  the  only  differ- 
ences are  the  magnitude  of  the  armies 
and  the  murderous  efficiency  of  the 
weapons  we  now  employ.  As  I  listened, 
I  found  myself  wondering  whether  I 
was  in  Oxford  or  in  ancient  Athens. 


.'J88 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


The  lecturer  has  the  creative  touch 
which  makes  history  live  in  all  its  vivid 
human  color.  Euripides  and  Aristo- 
phanes seemed  like  contemporaries. 

What  depressed  me  was  the  monoto- 
nous sameness  of  human  nature  through- 
out the  ages.  Men  are  doing  the  same 
things  they  did  when  Homer  smote  his 
lyre  or  Hammurabi  framed  his  laws. 
For  example,  in  the  Athens  of  antiquity 
there  were  pacifists  and  bitter-enders, 
profiteers  and  venal  politicians  —  ev- 
erything, in  fact,  with  which  the  great 
war  has  made  us  familiar.  After  twen- 
ty centuries  of  Christian  influence,  we 
do  the  same  old  things  in  the  same  old 
fashion,  only  on  a  more  gigantic  scale. 

This  shadow  fell  over  me  to-day  as  I 
talked  with  a  young  French  officer  in 
my  study.  He  used  this  terrible  sen- 
tence with  an  air  of  sad  finality : '  Ideals, 
my  reverend  friend,  are  at  the  mercy  of 
the  baser  instincts.'  What  faith  it  takes 
to  sustain  an  ardent,  impatient,  for- 
ward-looking soul  in  a  slow  universe! 
'Keep  facing  it,'  said  the  old  skipper 
to  the  young  mate  in  Conrad's  Typhoon; 
and  ere  we  know  it,  the  ship  has  be- 
come a  symbol  of  the  life  of  man.  He 
did  not  know  whether  the  ship  would 
be  lost  or  not  —  nor  do  we.  But  he 
kept  facing  the  storm,  taking  time  to  be 
just  to  the  coolies  on  board,  much  to 
the  amazement  of  Jukes.  He  never  lost 
hope;  and  if  he  was  an  older  man  when 
he  got  through  the  storm,  he  at  least 
sailed  into  the  harbor. 

November  11. —  London  went  wild 
to-day.  As  a  signal  that  the  Armistice 
had  been  signed,  the  air-raid  guns 
sounded,  —  bringing  back  unhappy 
memories,  —  but  we  knew  that  'the 
desired,  delayed,  incredible  time'  had 
arrived.  The  war  has  ended;  and  hu- 
manity, on  its  knees,  thanks  God. 
Words  were  not  made  for  such  a  time. 
They  stammer,  and  falter,  and  fail. 
Whether  to  shout  or  weep,  men  did  not 
know;  so  we  did  both.  Something  not 


ourselves  has  made  for  righteousness, 
and  we  are  awed,  subdued,  over- 
whelmed. The  triumph  seems  wrought, 
not  by  mortal,  but  by  immortal  thews, 
and  shouts  of  joy  are  muffled  by 
thoughts  of  the  gay  and  gallant  dead. 

The  rebound  from  the  long  repres- 
sion was  quick,  the  outburst  startling. 
Men  danced  in  the  streets.  They 
hugged  and  kissed  and  sobbed.  Flags 
flew  everywhere,  flags  of  every  color. 
Women  wore  dresses  made  of  flags. 
Shops  and  factories  emptied  of  their 
own  accord.  At  an  early  hour  a  vast 
host  gathered  at  the  gates  of  Bucking- 
ham Palace,  singing  the  national  an- 
them. The  King  and  Queen  appeared 
on  the  balcony,  and  a  mighty  shout 
went  up  —  like  the  sound  of  many 
waters. 

St.  Paul's  was  jammed  by  noon;  the 
Abbey  was  packed.  It  melted  the  heart 
to  hear  them  sing  —  there  was  an  echo 
of  a  sob  in  every  song.  All  know  that 
the  secret  of  our  joy  is  locked  in  the 
cold  young  hearts  that  sleep  in  Flan- 
ders, in  eyes  that  see  the  sun  no  more. 
Never  was  the  world  so  coerced  by  its 
dead.  They  command;  we  must  obey. 
From  prayer  the  city  turned  to  play 
again.  No  wonder;  the  long  strain,  the 
bitter  sorrow,  the  stern  endurance  had 
to  find  vent.  At  first,  peace  seemed  as 
unreal  as  war.  It  took  time  to  adjust 
the  mind  to  the  amazing  reality.  Even 
now  it  seems  half  a  dream.  There  is 
little  hate,  only  pity.  The  rush  of  events 
has  been  so  rapid,  so  bewildering,  that 
men  are  dazed.  Down  on  the  Embank- 
ment I  saw  two  old  men,  walking  arm- 
in-arm,  one  blind,  the  other  half-blind, 
and  both  in  rags.  One  played  an  old 
battered  hand-organ,  and  the  other 
sang  in  a  cracked  voice.  They  swayed 
to  and  fro,  keeping  time  to  the  hymn, 
'Our  God,  our  hope  in  ages  past.'  So  it 
was  from  end  to  end  of  London.  The 
gray  old  city  seemed  like  a  cathedral, 
its  streets  aisles,  its  throngs  worshipers. 


SUDDEN  GREATNESS 


BY  KENNETH  CHAFEE  McINTOSH 


A  LEAN,  quiet  man  pushed  his  way 
through  the  crowd  into  the  open  of  the 
parade-ground  at  Fort  Myer,  and 
perched  himself  uncomfortably  in  the 
midst  of  a  bundle  of  sticks.  A  weight 
crashed  down  from  the  top  of  a  derrick, 
and  the  bundle,  with  droning,  whining 
propeller,  was  thrown  into  the  air,  and 
stayed  there.  Breath  was  drawn  in  with 
sharp,  audible  gasping,  and  eyes  grew 
round  in  upturned  faces.  The  impos- 
sible had  happened.  Orville  Wright 
was  proving  to  the  army  that  he  could 

%. 

When  the  air-plane  had  landed  clum- 
sily on  its  two  sled-like  runners,  and 
the  reporters  surged  around,  we  have 
record  of  the  following  queries  and 
replies :  — 

'How  fast  can  you  fly?' 

'Forty  miles  an  hour.' 

'How  fast  do  you  think  air-planes 
can  be  made  to  fly?' 

'Much  faster.  But,  of  course,  the 
flyer  would  be  blown  out  of  the  machine 
at  anything  over  a  hundred  miles  an 
hour.' 

'How  high  can  you  go?' 

'High  as  I  want  to.  But  even  in  war 
you  would  never  have  to  go  over  one 
thousand  feet.  No  known  gun  could 
hit  you  at  that  altitude.' 

'What  uses  can  you  make  of  your 
machine?' 

'Sport  mainly,  and  scouting  in  war.' 

Of  the  thousands  who  saw  that  after- 
noon, and  of  the  millions  who  read  of 
the  flight  next  morning,  probably  not 
one  had  the  least  dim  perception  that  a 
mighty  power  was  born,  a  power  that  is 


already  affecting  the  lives  of  every  one 
of  us,  that  is  forcing  upon  us  changes  as 
vast  as  those  forecasted  when  the  ape- 
man  first  discovered  that,  by  swaying 
erect  on  his  bent  legs,  he  could  see  his 
enemies  and  his  victims  farther,  and 
have  two  arms  free  for  fighting. 

In  the  immense  development  of  avia- 
tion forced  by  the  war  we  are  apt  to 
forget  the  tremendous  strides  made  in 
the  first  faltering  years.  As  usual,  fig- 
ures and  statistics  are  deceptive,  and 
performances  seemed  to  confirm  the 
opinion  of  those  who  saw  in  the  air- 
plane nothing  but  a  toy  and  a  man- 
killer.  Three  years  after  the  Fort  Myer 
flight,  it  was  still  a  remarkable  per- 
formance to  remain  in  the  air  for  forty- 
five  minutes,  or  to  climb  to  an  altitude 
of  six  or  seven  thousand  feet.  After  six 
years  of  flying,  it  was  still  a  dare-devil 
feat  to  loop  an  air-plane  three  times  in 
one  flight;  and  the  first  man  to  fly  up- 
side down  made  his  name  as  well  known 
as  that  of  a  champion  heavy-weight, 
and  known  among  much  the  same  class- 
es of  people.  Pilot  after  pilot  was  fea- 
tured on  the  sporting  pages  of  the  news- 
papers as  he  succeeded  in  remaining 
aloft  five  minutes  longer  than  the  hero 
of  the  month  before,  reached  an  alti- 
tude fifty  feet  higher,  or  somersaulted 
his  vibrating  little  kite  once  oftener. 
And  with  deadly  regularity  pilot  after 
pilot  was  killed  —  his  effort  to  find  out 
how  far  he  could  stretch  the  capacity  of 
his  machine  being  successful. 

During  those  years,  however,  clumsy 
skids  gave  place  to  wheels  and  pon- 
toons, or  actual  boat-hulls;  and,  while 

389 


390 


SUDDEN   GREATNESS 


planes  remained  rickety  toys,  the  root- 
idea  of  every  practicable  type  we  have 
to-day  was  discovered  and  demon- 
strated, waiting  only  for  some  impera- 
tive necessity  to  force  its  development. 
Rotary  and  V-type  motors  began  to 
appear. 

Before  the  war  began,  aviation  had 
reached  the  point  where  its  future  could 
be  confidently  predicted  by  the  initia- 
ted as  a  matter  of  improvement  of  ex- 
isting types,  of  betterment  of  existing 
design,  rather  than  as  a  new  departure. 
Then  came  the  World  War,  with  its 
pressing  demands  on  air-craft  designers 
and  pilots,  and  its  almost  limitless 
money  for  experiment. 

Aviation  has  attained  in  fifteen  years 
a  degree  of  progress  which  can  hardly 
be  matched  by  any  other  epoch-making 
invention  in  centuries.  One  hundred 
and  eighteen  years  since  the  Clermont, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  since  Franklin's 
kite,  and  aviation  is  already  as  ad- 
vanced, relatively,  as  steam  and  elec- 
tricity. John  Hawkins  and  Francis 
Drake  revolutionized  naval  warfare  by 
fighting  broadside  instead  of  head-on, 
and  once  for  all  made  the  gun  the  mas- 
ter of  surface  ships;  and  the  all-big-gun 
battleship,  throwing  a  heavy  broad- 
side, is  the  legitimate  child  of  Drake's 
weatherly  little  Pelican.  Three  hundred 
and  sixty  years  were  required  to  pro- 
duce the  modern  battleship  after  Drake 
had  shown  the  way;  and  there  is  yet  no 
more  difference  visible  than  already  dis- 
tinguishes the  army's  new  Verville- 
Packard  from  the  original  Wright  air- 
plane hanging  in  the  National  Museum 
at  Washington.  Orville  Wright's  forty- 
mile  speed  has  become  three  miles  a 
minute,  and  the  end  is  not  yet.  His  one- 
thousand-feet  altitude  has  become  seven 
miles,  and  there  halts  momentarily 
while  we  safeguard  the  gasoline  and  oil 
system  against  the  bitter  cold  of  the 
black  upper  air.  His  twenty-two  min- 
ute, eighteen-mile  endurance  has  be- 


come a  screaming  leap  from  continent 
to  continent,  and  air-planes  now  cross 
half  a  world  with  little  comment. 

Similarly,  the  projected  uses  of  air- 
craft as  'scouts'  and  for  'sport'  have 
widened  as  greatly.  Well-appointed 
municipal  flying-fields  are  multiplying 
rapidly,  but  the  air-plane  has  far  out- 
grown the  present  possibilities  of  a 
sporting  craft.  Possible  speed  has  be- 
come so  great  that  a  private  field  cap- 
able of  handling  the  newest  planes  is 
about  as  inaccessible  to  the  average 
man  as  a  private  eighteen-hole  golf- 
links;  and  the  only  sporting  air-craft 
that  are  within  the  reach  of  moderate 
wealth  are  small  flying-boats  along 
lake  shores  and  landlocked  bays. 

A  great  future  is  claimed  for  air- 
borne commerce,  and  the  claim  is,  pos- 
sibly, justified.  At  present,  however, 
planes  and  dirigibles  are  enormously 
expensive,  both  in  first  cost  and  in  up- 
keep in  relation  to  durability;  and  the 
small  amount  of  freight  they  can  carry 
will  for  some  time  keep  cargo  and  pas- 
senger rates  above  the  bearing-power  of 
the  market.  The  problem  of  commer- 
cial aviation  is,  nevertheless,  plainly 
stated,  and  once  stated,  problems  are 
eventually  solved.  The  need  is  for  a 
weight-carrier  of  considerable  durabil- 
ity, simple  of  operation  and  of  low  fuel- 
consumption.  This  is  naturally  an  en- 
gineering problem,  and  the  appearance 
of  a  lightweight,  heavy-duty  motor  of 
'fool-proof  design  may  be  confidently 
expected  sooner  or  later.  Wings  and 
body  are  already  made  of  light,  durable, 
rustproof  metal;  and  the  commercial 
air-plane  a  generation  hence  will  prob- 
ably resemble  a  plump-bodied '  blanket- 
fish'  or  'giant  ray,'  of  slow  landing- 
speed  and  excessive  stability  —  a 
machine  as  essentially  a  worker  as  a 
tramp  steamer,  too  clumsy  for  sport, 
too  helpless  for  aggressive  war.  The 
power-plant  problem  once  solved,  air- 
tramps  will  probably  become  as  stand- 


SUDDEN   GREATNESS 


391 


ardized  as  fabricated  ships  or  Ford  cars. 
Air-fleets  will  then  increase  so  rapidly 
that  a  new  difficulty  will  be  encoun- 
tered —  how  to  spare  enough  valuable 
building-space  in  and  around  great 
cities  to  create  ports  of  call  for  them. 
The  answer  will  probably  be  found 
in  huge  high  platforms  covering  ware- 
houses and  elevators  and  docks. 

Precisely  in  the  direction  where  util- 
ity and  necessity  have  been  found  ur- 
gent, even  imperative,  is  where  we  find 
the  most  complicated  questions  to  be 
solved ;  questions  as  yet  unformulated. 
Scouting  in  war  remains  and  will  re- 
main a  function  of  air-craft,  but  it  has 
already  been  overshadowed  by  the 
crying  need  of  them  in  the  battle-line. 
Were  scouting  all  we  need,  a  single, 
standardized  type  would  be  quickly 
procurable — a  plane  of  long  endurance, 
reasonable  mobility,  and  complete 
steadiness.  But  a  machine  that  answers 
these  requirements  we  find  to  be  utterly 
useless  in  an  air-battle.  It  climbs  slow- 
ly, it  manoeuvres  badly,  and  it  presents 
an  almost  unmissable  target.  We  must 
have  such  air-planes  to  direct  artillery 
fire  afloat  and  ashore,  to  drop  bombs, 
to  hunt  submarines,  to  scout,  to  make 
photograph  maps  of  distant  enemy 
naval  bases.  To  use  them  to  advantage, 
we  must,  however,  have  reasonable 
certainty  that  they  will  be  able  to  fly 
unmolested. 

It  is  the  old  sea-problem  in  a  new 
element  —  to  exploit  the  air  in  war- 
time we  must  command  it.  In  other 
words,  we  must  fight  for  it.  Sailors,  for 
five  thousand  years,  have  died  to  teach 
the  flyer  this  lesson,  —  too  often  forgot- 
ten, —  that  to  use  our  power  we  must 
first  destroy  the  enemy's  power.  An  at- 
tempt merely  to  guard  against  the 
enemy's  blow  may,  by  extreme  good 
fortune,  succeed  once  or  twice.  Never 
three  times.  Delenda  est  Carthago,  and 
to  destroy  we  must  attack,  court  a  bat- 
tle, and  fight  it  to  a  finish.  If  the  enemy 


is  stronger  than  we,  the  attack  is  more 
difficult,  but  more  than  ever  imperative; 
and  to  a  battle  of  weapons  is  added  a 
battle  of  wits.  We  must  outwit  him, 
outmanoeuvre  him,  outshoot  him;  but 
to  have  even  the  faintest  hope  of  vic- 
tory, we  must  attack  him,  put  him  on 
the  defensive — make  him  do  the  guess- 
ing and  take  the  weight  of  the  first  blow. 

Even  to  the  layman,  the  necessary 
characteristics  of  the  fighting  air-plane 
are  thus  made  apparent  —  speed,  snake- 
like  mobility,  hitting-power.  Speed 
and  mobility  mean  small  size  and  im- 
mense engine-power.  If  that  were  all, 
this  question  too  would  be  simple.  But 
to  hit  hard  means  weight.  Carefully 
guarded  planes  now  exist  in  every  coun- 
try, which  can  stand  a  great  many  hits 
from  any  ordinary  machine-gun,  and 
are  fairly  impervious  in  any  vital  spot 
to  a  glancing  blow.  A  direct  hit  at  pres- 
ent-day maximum  speed  is  a  matter  of 
luck.  Air-planes  will  soon  carry  can- 
non-like machine-guns  —  in  fact,  they 
already  are  carrying  37-millimetre  guns 
and  straining  to  attain  a  practicable 
3-inch  gun,  baulked  only  by  this  mat- 
ter of  weight  of  gun  and  ammunition. 
Speed  and  ability  to  'stunt'  cannot  be 
lessened,  for  the  '  upper-hand '  in  an  air- 
fight  is  as  important  as  was  the  weather 
gauge  to  sailing-ships. 

This  brings  the  war-plane  designer 
up  sharp  against  his  second  stumbling- 
block.  The  inherent  nature  of  the  serv- 
ice means  that  little  available  weight- 
carrying  capacity  is  left  after  the  pilot 
and  his  motor  are  aboard.  That  little 
must  be  given  mostly  to  weapons.  And 
fuel  weighs  something,  and  fuel  means 
endurance.  A  line-of-battle  plane  that 
can  stay  aloft  three  hours  at  battle 
speed  is  a  marvelous  plane  indeed.  In 
battles  between  armies,  much  can  be 
done  in  three  hours,  especially  where 
practically  the  entire  three  hours  can 
be  spent  in  fighting.  Afloat,  it  is  dif- 
ferent. Battleships  of  to-day  are  hard 


392 


SUDDEN   GREATNESS 


to  sink,  and  there  is  no  victory  until 
they  are  irrevocably  sunk.  The  battle 
between  fleets  may  last  intermittently 
for  days,  if  there  is  sea-room;  and  may 
conceivably  commence  several  thou- 
sands of  miles  away  from  the  bases  of 
either  belligerent.  To  get  our  battle- 
planes into  the  battle-line,  we  must  carry 
them  there;  and  so  one  more  type  is 
added  to  the  complicated  surface  fleets 
of  the  world,  a  type  as  helpless  as  a  col- 
lier, but  one  which  must  have  great 
size  and  battle-cruiser  speed  —  the 
first  non-fighting  auxiliary  to  demand 
admission  to  the  fighting-line.  A  small 
ship  wijl  not  do,  for  her  landing-deck 
must  be  not-missable  at  sixty  to  eighty 
miles  an  hour.  A  slow  ship  is  worse  than 
useless,  for  the  air-plane  carrier  must 
be  swift  enough  to  lessen  materially  the 
relative  velocity  of  the  home-coming 
plane  by  running  away  from  her,  and 
also  to  keep  safely  out  of  gunshot  be- 
hind the  crashing,  swaying,  hurrying 
battle-fleet  that  she  serves  and  by 
which  she  is  guarded. 

There  is  a  third  problem  upon  which 
this  matter  of  command  of  the  air  de- 
pends, which  as  yet  has  made  little 
progress  toward  solution.  It  is  not  so 
much  an  air-plane  problem  as  a  war- 
problem,  and  armies  and  navies  have 
solved  it  at  terrible  cost.  The  present 
designs,  even  the  best  of  them,  make  an 
air-battle  a  matter  of  individual  duels 
and  a  melee,  no  matter  how  great  the 
air-fleets  participating.  Tactical  forma- 
tion is  usually  possible  only  before  bat- 
tle. Once  joined,  battle  is  man  to  man, 
plane  to  plane,  and  control  of  a  fleet  by 
a  single  commander  is  confined  to  in- 
dividual indoctrination  and  training 
beforehand,  must  often  be  suspended 
during  contact,  and  can  be  resumed  only 
after  the  fight  is  over.  In  other  words, 
air-fighting  tactics  are  the  land  tactics 
of  the  Trojan  War,  the  fleet  tactics  of 
the  Phoenicians.  Victory  depends  upon 
supermen,  and  supermen  cannot  be 


made  to  order.  Eventually,  designers 
must  find  us  a  machine  that  can  be 
one  unit  of  an  integral  fighting  fleet  in- 
stead of  one  of  a  number  of  skillful 
duelists. 

The  underlying  necessities  of  this 
problem  have  been  made  plain  by  the 
history  of  war  on  land  and  sea.    The 
manner  of  applying  them  to  the  air  has 
not  been  found.    The  root  of  the  mat- 
ter is  that  in  its  infancy  every  known 
weapon,  from  a  bare-handed  man  to  a 
machine-gun,  fights  dead  ahead.    Eyes 
and  blow  are  directed  against  the  near- 
est enemy  directly  in  front.    The  first 
soldiers,  the  first  ships,  and  the  present 
air-planes  have  one  thing  in  common  — 
they  fight  'bows  on/  have  no  time  to 
watch  for  signals  from  their  command- 
ers, and  no  space  on  either  side  to  obey 
a  command  of  movement  without  hin- 
dering their  comrades.     Edward    III 
formed  his  bowmen  into  thin  lines,  pre- 
sented the  broadside  of  these  forma- 
tions to  the  enemy,  and  inaugurated 
controlled  volley-fire.  Man  for  man,  the 
chivalry  of  France  fully  equaled  that  of 
England,  and  greatly  outnumbered  it; 
but  no  Roland,  no  Bayard,  could  avail 
against  the  disciplined  storm  of  arrows, 
speeding  on  their  deadly  errand  at  the 
word  of  the  single  commanding  brain 
of  the  English  army.    England,  too, 
disciplined  Spain  at  sea  by  an  applica- 
tion of  the  same  principle.  The  Great 
Armada  was  admirably  handled,  with 
consummate  seamanship  and  in  strict 
accord  with  naval  science  of  centuries; 
but  its  tactics  were  bows-on,  ship  to 
crush  ship  with  a  ramming  blow,  and 
to  reduce  her  by  hand-to-hand  fighting 
on  her  shattered  decks.    The  English 
relied  on  broadside  gunfire  and  handi- 
ness.  Every  phase  of  that  cruelly  long- 
drawn-out  battle  shows  a  gallant  at- 
tack bows-on  by  the  Spaniards  in  line 
abreast,  met  by  a  single  line  of  close- 
hauled  English  ships  entirely  under  the 
control  of  a  single  mind,  raking  ship 


SUDDEN   GREATNESS 


393 


after  ship  with  the  full  weight  of  their 
superior  broadside  guns. 

On  land  and  at  sea,  fighting  is  in  one 
plane,  however;  so  broadside  fire,  with 
its  advantages  of  manoeuvring  and  con- 
centration of  fire  and  controllability, 
is  soluble.  A  flying-machine  fighting 
broadside  to  the  enemy  has  not  been 
found,  for  the  enemy  will  probably 
never  be  exactly  on  our  own  level.  We 
must  find  a  ship  which  can  fight  broad- 
side up  and  down,  as  well  as  on  either 
beam. 

Command  of  the  air  once  gained,  the 
steady  improvement  of  existing  types 
will  serve  to  exploit  it  to  the  discomfit- 
ure of  an  enemy.  Torpedo-carrying  air- 
planes will  harass  his  surface  ships; 
spotting-planes  will  enable  us  to  crush 
him  with  gunfire  before  he  can  so  much 
as  see  us;  bombers  can  destroy  his  train 
and  cripple  his  capital  ships  with  ex- 
plosives and  gas. 

Command  of  the  air  —  this  is  the 
vital  problem  of  military  aviation;  and 
in  its  wake  arise  problems  and  neces- 
sities in  the  path  of  every  activity 
ashore  or  afloat.  To  armies  and  to  cities 
it  brings  the  necessity  of  bomb-shelters 
that  will  not  fill  up  with  poison-gas, 
and  of  accurate  anti-air-craft  batteries. 
To  battleships,  still  panting  from  the 
long  struggle  to  make  themselves  rea- 
sonably immune  to  torpedoes  under 
water,  it  brings  the  new  necessity  to 
grow  a  tough  turtle-back  impervious  to 
torpedoes  from  the  air,  and  to  rake  the 
open  funnels  horizontally,  or  astern,  in 
order  that  their  gaping  apertures  may 
offer  no  chance  for  a  luckily  dropped 
bomb  to  wreck  their  vitals,  and  also  to 
screen  the  glow  of  their  boilers,  now 
plainly  visible  from  the  air  on  the  dark- 
est night.  It  makes  imperative  a  still 
undiscovered  gas-mask,  in  which  sol- 
diers, sailors,  yes,  and  civilians,  may 


live  and  work  for  long  periods.  It  is 
forcing  upon  the  submarine  a  new  meth- 
od of  underwater  propulsion,  yet  to  be 
found;  for  an  exploding  bomb  far  out- 
board will  cripple  the  present  electric 
engine  and  force  the  submarine  to  the 
surface,  where  she  becomes  easy  prey 
to  bomb  and  shell. 

Eight  years  of  devoted,  perilous, 
quiet  work;  seven  years  of  feverish  de- 
velopment —  that  is  the  history  of 
aviation;  and  it  is  to-day  probably  the 
most  far-reaching  existing  influence  on 
future  history.  Gone  forever  are  the 
sickly,  thirsting  expeditionary  columns, 
which  in  the  past  have  punished  raiding 
savages  in  the  jungles  and  deserts  of  the 
world  at  hideous  cost.  A  few  men,  a  few 
air-planes,  a  few  days,  and  the  chastise- 
ment is  complete.  Gone  is  the  immun- 
ity of  colliers  and  repair-ships  lagging 
in  the  wake  of  the  sea-borne  fleets;  and 
gone  is  the  safety  of  the  island  cities. 

In  fifteen  years  aviation  has  super- 
posed itself  upon  civilization.  Its  future 
is  limitless,  not  predictable.  It  is  daily 
demonstrating  its  ability  to  extend  the 
scope  of  our  economic  fabric  to  lengths 
undreamed  of,  and  in  ways  which  were 
but  yesterday  fantastic  dreams.  And  it 
has  already  proved  its  power  to  destroy 
utterly  the  world  as  we  have  built  it; 
has  forced  us  to  take  sober  and  urgent 
thought  as  to  how  this  mighty  and  as 
yet  irresponsible  force  may  be  subordi- 
nated to  the  common  good.  The  indus- 
trial changes  following  the  introduction 
of  steam  and  electrical  machinery  are 
trifling  and  infinitesimal  in  compari- 
son with  those  already  following  in  the 
wake  of  mankind's  new-found  ability 
to  fly. 

The  future  of  all  the  world  is  in  the 
air  —  a  future  either  glorious  or  ter- 
rible. Your  generation  and  mine  will 
decide  which  it  shall  be. 


BARN  ELVES 


BY  GARY  GAMBLE  LOWNDES 


SOMEHOW,  May  always  reminds  you 
of  Horace  and  barns.  True,  the  poet 
rarely  mentions  the  months  by  name; 
but  —  'With  leaves  all  a-flicker  at 
breath  of  Spring's  advent' — is  n't  that 
May,  the  beauteous  o'  the  year? 

Thou  shun'st  me,  Chloe,  as  a  fawn  seek- 
ing its  timorous  dam  within  the  trackless 
mountains,  panicky  with  vain  fear  of  breath 
of  air,  and  of  the  forest.  For  whether  the 
thorn  with  its  facile  leaves  shudders  to  the 
caress  of  the  breeze,  or  the  green  lizards 
stir  the  brake,  at  once  it  trembles  both  in 
heart  and  knees.  But  not  as  a  tiger  fierce 
do  I  pursue  to  rend  thee,  nor  as  a  Gsetulian 
lion.  Now,  at  length,  a  maiden  grown,  cease 
to  cling  to  thy  mother. 

Wandering  about  the  farm,  some 
mid-May  afternoon,  you  will  think  of 
that.  You  are  on  a  fishing  trip  —  your 
second  visit :  the  first  was  in  November, 
quail-shooting.  It  is  singular  that  you, 
who  never  cared  much  for  fishing, 
should  suddenly  have  decided  to  try  a 
place  so  lacking  in  game-fish  that  a 
white  perch  is  a  surprise,  a  'spot'  is  an 
event,  and  a  rockfish  as  big  as  the  cork 
used  on  the  eighteen-foot  fishing-poles 
common  here  would  cause  a  riot.  All 
the  same,  with  rod,  reel,  and  basket, 
here  you  are.  You  have  been  here  a 
week,  and  have  n't  caught  anything  but 
catfish,  eels,  and  'yellow-neds.'  But 
there's  the  farm.  You  like  farming. 
After  all,  what's  time  or  fishing  com- 
pared with  agricultural  research? 

The  farm,  with  its  old  buildings  and 
broom-grassed,  piny  solitudes,  is  inter- 
esting to  explore,  especially  when,  in 
dove-gray  skirt  and  snowy  shirt-waist, 

891 


her  wine-dark  hair  deftly  coiled,  walks 
at  your  side  the  Spirit  of  the  Farm, 
who  is  'showing  you  around.'  She  is 
rare.  Her  walk  is  pheasant-like.  Her 
clothes  seem  to  caress  her  —  a  perfect 
model  for  a  picture  by  the  famed  artist 
of  Society,  whose  Grecian  heroines,  in 
tailored  suits,  on  pages  torn  from  maga- 
zines, adorn  her  room.  They  are  the  in- 
spiration, perchance,  of  those  curves 
of  grace,  the  classic  carriage,  and  the 
proud  little  sway  from  the  waist.  Or, 
happily,  it  is  her  Devon  blood,  renascent, 
for  all  its  centuries  of  poverty  and  strug- 
gle, that  moulds  again  in  her  slight 
form  the  lines  of  haute  noblesse. 

Among  her  sisters  your  eye  had  in- 
stantly singled  her.  She  understood. 
At  first  she  was  reserved  and  dignified, 
shy;  but  now,  free  companions  of  the 
woods  and  fields,  you  wander  where  you 
will.  You  watch  the  broken-winged 
wild  goose,  tied  to  a  post  on  the  lawn 
and  honking  disconsolately.  You  feed 
the  tiny  'just-out'  bantams,  hunt 
eggs  in  the  tool-shed  and  the  musty 
stalls,  and  find  a  guinea's  nest  under  the 
weed-grown  reaper.  You  gather  arm- 
fuls  of  lilacs,  but  drop  them  all  to  burn 
a  tattered  last-year's  hornet  castle.  No 
use  telling  her  that  the  long-dead  hor- 
nets are  n't  'playing  'possum.' 

You  race  across  the  pasture,  hurdle 
the  bars,  are  introduced  to  the  cows, 
name  a  calf,  and  are  presented  with  a 
young  and  very  black  kitten,  which, 
taking  instant  fancy  to  your  feet,  sticks 
thenceforth  at  your  heels,  making  play- 
ful pounces  at  your  leggin-cords.  Some- 
how, for  all  its  idiotic  attentions,  you 


BARN  ELVES 


395 


like  it,  with  that  red  ribbon  about  its 
neck. 

You  slide  back  the  huge  barn-doors. 
Together  you  mount  the  worn  rungs  of 
the  loft-ladder.  '  Pioneers !  O  Pioneers ! ' 
Up,  up,  you  go.  Up.  Still  up.  High  — 
so  high!  To  the  very  roof  o'  the  world 
— the  great,  wide,  hollow,  odorous  barn. 

'Tand'  qu'aux  bords  des  fontaines, 

Ou  dans  les  frais  ruisseaux, 
Les  moutons  baign'nt  leur  laines, 
Y  dansent  au  preau. 

'Eho!  eho!  eho! 
Les  agneaux  vont  anx  plaines. 

Eho!  eho!  eho! 
Et  les  loups  sont  aux  bois.' 

'fiho!  £ho!  fiho!'  The  resonant 
echoes,  rolling,  return  the  shouted  re- 
frain of  the  old  Burgundian  shepherd 
song.  'Eho!  fiho!  fiho!'  That's  the 
first  French  this  barn  —  and  Somebody 
—  have  ever  heard.  Somebody  likes  it, 
too,  and  is  silent.  Off  from  the  gables 
storm  the  startled  pigeons.  Out  from 
their  nests,  on  beam  and  rafter,  dart  the 
twittering  swallows.  It  is  pleasant,  ly- 
ing on  the  hay  before  the  wide  window, 
awaiting  their  return.  Back  they  come, 
the  proud,  iris-necked  cock-pigeons, 
a-rou-cou-coo-ing,  a-bookity-boo-ing, 
on  the  sill;  the  swallows,  Spirits  of  the 
Loft,  hovering  stationary  in  the  gray- 
framed  azure  of  the  window.  Brave 
they  look,  in  their  new  dress-suits,  steel- 
blue-backed,  white-and-chestnut-front- 
ed.  'Now,  what,'  they  twitter,  'what, 
in  the  name  of  common  sense,  can  this 
pair  of  human  nuisances  be  up  to,  high, 
so  high,  in  our  domain?' 

'Eho!  Eho!  Eho!' 

'Tell  me  something  about  the  swal- 
lows,' she  begs,  when  the  Spirits  of  the 
Loft  are  a-nest  once  more,  and  all  is  the 
silence  of  the  hay.  '  You  know  so  many 
verses.  Tell  me  one,  please.  I  love 
birds.' 

She  does  n't  have  to  beg  very  hard. 
It  was  on  your  lips,  unvoiced :  — 


'I  stray  and  sob  in  the  forest: 

The  throstle  sits  on  the  bough; 
She  springs  and  sings  her  purest, 
"What  ails  thee,  sad  of  brow?" 

"Thy  sisters,  dear,  the  swallows, 
Can  rede  thee  true,  my  child, 
Who  chose  the  lattice  hollows 
Where  erst  my  darling  smiled.' 

You  don't  like  it?  I'm  sorry.  Yes; 
it  is  sad,  but  sad  things  are  the  loveliest 
and  the  farthest  from  earth.  You  will 
like  this  one.  It  is  old  English.  Perhaps 
one  of  your  Devon  ancestors  wrote  it. 
Those  morioned  harriers  of  the  Spanish 
Main  grew  poetic,  sometimes,  in  the 
alehouse. 

'The  martins  and  the  swallows 
Are  God  Almighty's  scholars. 
The  robins  and  the  wrens 
Are  God  Almighty's  friends. 

'The  laverock  and  the  Untie, 
The  robin  and  the  wren  — 
If  you  disturb  their  nests, 
You'll  never  thrive  again. 

'For  swallows  on  Mount  Calvary 
Plucked  tenderly  away 
From  the  brow  of  Christ  two  thousand 

thorns, 
Such  gracious  birds  are  they.' 

What's  that?  You  don't  see  how  I 
can  shoot  a  bird?  You  would  n't  shoot 
one,  of  course.  How  about  that  quail 
somebody  shot  with  my  gun,  last  fall? 
Sitting,  too.  And  right  under  old  Hec- 
tor's nose,  while  he  was  holding  his 
point  so  patiently!  Somebody's  so  ten- 
der-hearted she  would  n't  think  of  go- 
ing hunting  again.  What?  She  is?  And 
is  going  to  tramp  ten  miles  of  sedge- 
fields,  tear  her  stockings  to  rags,  scratch 
her  hands,  and  shoot  at  anything  that 
will  sit  still  long  enough?  Good  for  you! 
Won't  we  have  a  time!  We'll  be  cou- 
reurs  de  marais,  in  your  canoe,  on  the 
river.  With  old  Hector  up  front,  to 
watch  for  falling  mallards,  we'll  follow 
the  happy  day.  I'll  be  here  when  the 
shooting  season  opens  —  it's  only  six 
months  off.  I  '11  bring  my  sixteen-gauge 


396 


BARN  ELVES 


gun  and  a  pair  of  leather  leggins  for 

you. 

'£ho!  fiho!  fiho!' 

How  you  show  off!  When  you  were  a 
boy,  someone  said, '  'Fraid  cat,'  and  you 
insanely  rode  your  bicycle  down  certain 
brownstone  front  steps,  landing  on  your 
head,  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and 
almost  beneath  the  passing  car-wheels. 
You  hear  her  mocking  laughter  yet  — 
the  cruel,  peppermint-sticky  little  co- 
quette, your  first  flame,  who  'dared' 
you. 

It  is  different  now.  She  follows  eager- 
ly, while  you  reveal  the  life  of  the 
barn,  unveiling  a  creation  of  which  she 
has  scarcely  surmised  the  existence. 
She  knows  the  boring-bees;  the  'black- 
faces' sting,  but  the  'white-faces'  don't. 
The  'death-watch'  beetle,  ticking  in 
the  wall,  frightens  her,  but  she  likes  the 
nervous  mud-daubers,  brown  and  blue, 
and  exclaims  in  wonder  when  she  first 
hears  their  dry,  gritty  clicking,  busily 
plastering  their  mud  tunnels  against 
the  inner  shingles. 

Thin  wings  suddenly  flutter  overhead. 
'Oh!  oh!  A  bat!  Don't  let  it  get  in  my 
hair ! '  Down  she  burrows  under  the  hay 
while,  crazily  flickering  to  and  fro,  the 
'leather-bird'  darts  and  twists  in  the 
semi-twilight. 

You  stand,  with  pitchfork  raised. 
'It's  gone  now.  Come  out,  Barn  Elf.' 

She  rises,  blinking  and  sneezing,  her 
hair  loose  and  full  of  clinging  straws. 
One's  gone  down  her  back.  What  a 
time  it  takes  to  get  it  out!  How 
she  laughs  and  shrinks  and  shudders! 
What's  the  matter  with  your  fingers? 
The  loosened  hair  is  rearranged  and 
pinned;  the  errant  straw  is,  at  last,  re- 
covered, and  nature-study  is  resumed; 
but  it  is  useless  to  expatiate  upon  bats 
and  their  habits. 

'  I  think  they  're  awful.  I  wish  every 
one  in  the  world  was  dead.  I'm  going 
down  if  it  comes  again.  There!  —  Oh! 
oh!'  at  each  returning  swoop.  Finally, 


the  bat  hangs  upside  down  from  a  rafter, 
and  is  quiet. 

'My  goodness!  But  you  can  see 
things!'  she  exclaims,  enthusiastically 
chewing  a  clover-stalk  and  looking 
sidewise  at  you  from  under  her  straw- 
filled  hair.  'What  an  eye  you've  got! 
No  wonder  you  beat  father  shooting 
partridges  last  fall.' 

'Hush,  Barn  Elf.  See  that  weasel's 
head  peeping  out  of  the  rathole,  hi 
the  corner?  Too  late.  "Pop"  goes  the 
weasel.  They  always  do,  just  when  you 
look;  it's  their  way.  He's  hunting  rats. 
He  won't  bother  your  bantams.  If  he 
does  —  I  '11  get  him  if  I  have  to  watch 
all  night.  Yonder 's  a  pewee's  nest,  on 
the  old  broom,  behind  that  rafter,  by 
the  west  window.  It 's  not  finished  yet. 
There  are  no  swallows  on  that  side  of 
the  barn.  Come  over  and  see.  No,  the 
nests  are  empty;  they've  driven  all  the 
beauties  away.  Pewees  are  democrats. 
They  hate  "swallowtails."  ' 

She  is  glad  to  learn.  She  does  not 
question.  Composed,  she  listens,  satis- 
fied with  your  knowledge.  Yet  now  and 
then  a  side-glance  at  the  ladder-open- 
ing. Only  the  faintest  flush  of  cheek, 
only  the  twitching  of  the  bitten  straw, 
give  token  of  the  'awfulness'  unheard 
of  —  but  not  undreamed  of  — 

'In  the  loft  so  long,  all  by  herself, 
with  the  stranger!' 

'Here  comes  that  horrid  bat  again! 
I'm  really  afraid.  I'm  going  down  this 
minute!' 

But  why  so  slow  about  descending? 
What  glamour  is  in  the  odorous  air? 
That  little  trusting  hand,  why  does  it 
quiver  in  your  hand,  like  an  imprisoned 
bird?  That  paling,  dawn-flushed  face, 
where  is  its  composure  now?  That  slen- 
der form,  why  does  it  tremble?  Why, 
half-knowing  she  knows  not  what,  does 
she  look  at  you  with  eyes  so  strangely 
luminous?  She  is  a  woman,  for  all  her 
sixteen  years.  —  Deep  called  unto  deep. 
You  can  read  the  whirl  of  thought  with- 


BARN  ELVES 


397 


in  the  waiting,  straw-flecked  head.  — 
Deep  called  unto  deep.  There 's  Chloe- 
Tyndaris.  This  is  the  Sabine  Farm. 

A  kiss  lays  low  the  walls  of  Thee  and  Me. 

Take  it,  and  go  down.  Walk  home, 
with  the  sunset  swallows  skimming  the 
mist-draped,  bending  rye. 

'fiho!  fiho!  fiho!' 

Nightfall.  Milking  and  supper  done, 
the  table  cleared,  and  the  lamps  lighted 
in  the  sitting-room,  the  family  dispose 
themselves  to  chat  and  knit,  but  ever 
with  an  eye  upon  the  dining-room 
across  the  hall.  Dorothy  has  made  a 
'catch.'  That's  nothing.  She's  been  a 
flirt  since  she  was  twelve,  as  several 
rural  hearts  can  mourn. 

Nine  o'clock:  the  sitting-room  is  dark 
and  silent.  Ten:  the  tethered  wild 
goose  honks  and  crickets  shrill.  Still,  by 
the  shaded  lamp,  you  read.  She  is  fond 
of  reading,  apt  of  memory,  and  even 
knows  Latin,  in  a  way.  How  beautiful 
she  is!  The  crimson  lamp-light  gilds 
her  hair.  A  straw  still  clings.  You 
reach  and  pluck  it  and  lay  it  in  your 
book.  No  flush,  this  time,  betrays  what 
now  she  understands.  Chin  in  hand, 
across  the  table,  steadfastly  she  looks 
at  you  —  a  look  that  seals  the  kiss  and 
hallows  Swallow  Barn.  Translate  from 
the  pocket-copy  of  Horace  you  always 
carry :  Felices  ter,  et  amplius,  quosirrupta 
tenet  copula.  '  Happy,  yea,  thrice  happy, 
they  whom  the  unbroken  bond  doth 
bind.' 

Another  week.  Here  yet.  And  still 
fishing.  You  love  her.  Everybody 
knows  it.  She  likes  you.  Why  does  she 
return  each  night  from  the  distant  vil- 
lage school?  It  used  to  be  only  on  Sat- 
urdays that  she  came  home.  She  has  a 
camera.  Often,  at  school,  behind  her 
book  hiding  a  tiny  photograph,  she  will 


bend  her  head.  Her  chums  will  know. 
She  will  give  each  a  look  at  the  '  stylish ' 
Outlines  of  her  '  city '  conquest.  She  will 
carry  it,  desirably  tucked  in  pleasant 
places,  until  it's  worn  to  shreds. 

Gone  a  week.  You  've  written  twice. 
And,  be  sure,  when  your  first  letter 
came,  the  county  knew  it.  Her  sisters 
will  tease.  Bravely  she  will  bear  it. 
She  will  flash  out  at  them,  and  stamp 
her  foot:  'Yes.  He  does  lo  —  like  me. 
I'm  not  a  bit  ashamed.  It's  no  such 
thing!  He'snot  twice  my  age!  What  if 
he  is?  I  —  I  even  like  the  city!' 

Then  you  get  a  letter  —  four  pages 
crushed  into  a  small  envelope.  It  is  a 
wonder,  that  letter,  and  perfect  except 
for  legibility  and  orthography.  (She's 
better  at  reading.)  More  brightly  shine 
the  occasional  misspelled  words  than 
all  Alaska's  river-gold,  than  all  the  dia- 
monds of  the  Rand.  A  thing  of  joy  is 
that  letter,  telling  the  life  of  every  day, 
the  life  of  the  farm:  — 

'Brother  dug  out  two  cunning  little  fox- 
cubs,  down  on  the  river  shoar.  I  'm  going  to 
keep  one.  It  has  a  little  white  spot  in  its 
cute  little  nose  and  its  name  is  Tansy.  I  was 
home,  Saturday  and  Monday.  I  saw  a  wood- 
cock fly  across  the  road  in  the  pasture.  Oh, 
it's  so  hot!  The  pewee's  nest  is  finished 
building  —  where,  I  reckon  you  know.  I 
send  you  a  straw.  The  river  is  beautiful. 
Oh,  I  wish  —  I  wish  you  were  here. 

'BABN  ELF. 
(You  called  me  that.)' 

'fiho!  fiho!  fiho!' 

She  loves  you.  Straws  show  how  the 
wind  blows.  Dorothy  and  Swallow 
Barn  are  yours,  should  you  go  back. 
Go  back.  Heed  not  the  Wise  of  Earth. 
More  are  under  than  on  it.  Go  back. 
The  old  farm,  and  its  rain-torn,  briary 
fields,  will  be  forevermore  the  home  of 
Oread,  Dryad,  and  Faun  —  an  idyl  of 
Sabinian  days. 


VATICAN  POLITICS  AND  POLICIES 


BY  L.   J.   S.   WOOD 


ON  the  30th  of  July,  1904,  France 
left  the  Vatican  unceremoniously,  just 
a  short  note  from  the  charge  d'affaires, 
put  on  paper,  but  diplomatically  called 
verbal,  being  all  the  notice  of  her  de- 
parture. The  Ambassador,  M.  Nisard, 
had  been  called  home  on  leave  a  month 
before.  After  an  interval  of  nearly  sev- 
enteen years,  on  May  28,  1921,  she  re- 
turned, with  all  the  eclat  possible  and 
desirable.  It  was  Cardinal  Merry  del 
Val  who  put  on  record  the  now  cele- 
brated phrase  that  'France  was  too 
great  a  lady  to  come  up  the  backstairs ' ; 
and  ever  since  the  resumption  of  dip- 
lomatic relations  has  been  spoken  of, 
it  has  been  regarded  here  as  a  sine  qua 
non  that  it  must  be  carried  out  in  the 
grande  maniere,  if  at  all.  That  has  been 
done;  and  indeed  all  that  has-  led  up  to 
it  in  France,  —  the  Committee  report, 
the  Chamber  debate,  the  Senate  oppo- 
sition and  delay,  the  suggestions  of 
half-way  resumption,  with  a  represen- 
tative in  Rome  but  no  nuncio  in  Paris, 
and,  finally,  M.  Briand's  determination, 
after  a  question  had  been  put  cour- 
teously but  significantly  from  Rome,  to 
carry  the  thing  through  without  wait- 
ing for  authorization  from  the  Senate, 
—  all  this  has  enhanced  the  importance 
of  the  event. 

By  the  very  force  of  things,  it  had  to 
be.  Not  only  was  the  opinion  of  the 
country  so  manifestly  in  favor  of  it,  but, 
after  the  abundant  signs  of  good-will  on 
the  part  of  the  Holy  See,  and  more  par- 
ticularly after  the  honors  of  the  altar 
398 


given  to  France's  St.  Joan  of  Arc,  and 
the  honors  paid  to  France's  civil  rep- 
resentatives last  spring,  not  a  French- 
man but  would  have  felt  that  he  was 
lacking  in  the  noblesse  obliging  the  '  eld- 
est, daughter  of  the  church,'  if  his  coun- 
try had  not  played  the  game.  And 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  oppo- 
sition in  the  Senate  —  all  that  is  left  of 
the  violent  prejudice  of  seventeen  years 
ago  —  will  be  overcome,  the  confirma- 
tory vote  of  the  French  Parliament  ob- 
tained, M.  Briand's  provisional  step 
officially  indorsed.  A  hundred  and  fifty 
politicians  cannot  oppose  the  clearly 
expressed  desire  of  the  great  majority 
of  the  elected  representatives  and  the 
overwhelming  majority  of  the  nation. 

The  way  of  reconciliation  and  col- 
laboration is  not  quite  clear.  Obstacles 
remain.  But  diplomacy,  backed  by  evi- 
dent good-will  on  both  sides,  may  be 
trusted  to  find  a  way  round  them  if  it 
cannot  definitely  break  them  down. 

The  status  of  Catholics  in  Alsace- 
Lorraine  has  to  be  regularized.  After 
the  conquest  in  1870,  Germany  pru- 
dently left  them  the  status  which,  as 
French  Catholics,  they  enjoyed  under 
the  Concordat  of  July  15, 1801,  between 
France  and  the  Holy  See.  Since  1906, 
therefore,  while  Catholics  in  France 
have  been  subject  to  the  dispositions 
of  the  Law  of  Separation  of  Church  and 
State,  those  in  Alsace-Lorraine  have 
retained  the  status  given  under  the  old 
Concordat.  Although  they  are  exceed- 
ingly unwilling  to  resign  their  privileged 


VATICAN   POLITICS  AND   POLICIES 


399 


position,  common  sense  demands  that 
conditions  be  homogeneous  throughout 
the  country. 

A  second  difficulty  is  found  in  the 
Law  of  Separation  itself.  Pius  X  re- 
fused to  accept  it,  on  the  ground  that 
some  dispositions,  particularly  regard- 
ing the  Associations  Cultuelles,  went 
counter  to  the  divinely  given  constitu- 
tion, rights,  and  duties  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  the  charge  of  safeguarding 
which  was  laid  on  him  as  Pope.  While, 
on  the  one  side,  Benedict  XV  of  course 
realizes  and  takes  up  that  charge  and 
responsibility  as  fully  as  his  predeces- 
sor, on  the  other  side,  the  French  Gov- 
ernment has  pledged  its  word  that  the 
Separation  Law  shall  not  be  touched. 
An  easy  way  out  of  the  difficulty  lies  in 
ignoring  it — not  saying  anything  about 
the  matter  at  all .  If  it  cannot  be  ignored , 
a  way  around  the  difficulty  is  indicated 
by  the  record  of  the  actual  putting  into 
practice  of  those  dispositions  of  the  law 
since  1906.  It  is  argued  that,  inasmuch 
as  the  supreme  courts  before  which 
cases  have  been  brought  have  invari- 
ably interpreted  them  in  a  way  so  favor- 
able to  the  Church  that  their  tenor  is 
shown  to  be  innocuous,  they  do  not  in 
fact  carry  the  meaning  on  which  Pius 
X's  refusal  to  accept  the  law  was 
based. 

A  third  difficulty  is  found  in  the 
realm  of  world-politics  —  the  Near 
East,  the  privileged  position  given  to 
France  there  by  Turkey,  the  privileges 
granted,  as  accessory  to  that  position, 
by  the  Holy  See,  and  the  changes  in  the 
situation  brought  about  by  the  great 
war.  Summed  up,  the  situation  was 
that,  under  the  old  Capitulations, 
France  held  from  Turkey  the  protec- 
torate over  all  Catholics  in  the  Near 
East,  with  a  few  exceptions;  and  in 
consideration  of  that,  the  Holy  See  in- 
structed Catholics  in  general,  both  in- 
dividuals and  religious  communities, 
to  apply  to  her  for  protection.  It  also 


gave  to  the  representative  of  France 
certain  privileges,  mainly  liturgical  — 
a  special  place,  and  special  honors,  for 
instance,  at  important  religious  func- 
tions. 

But  with  the  passing  of  the  old  Turk- 
ish Empire  the  Capitulations  no  longer 
exist.  The  privileges  granted  by  the 
Holy  See  were,  as  Cardinal  Gasparri 
has  authoritatively  said,  accessory  to 
the  principle  in  relation  to  the  Capit- 
ulations :  inevitably  they  cease  to  exist, 
in  consequence.  The  old  order  has,  hi 
fact,  gone  by  the  board.  In  the  Proto- 
col to  the  Sevres  Treaty,  drawn  up  at 
the  meeting  of  the  Council  of  the  Pow- 
ers at  San  Remo  in  May,  1920,  it  is 
definitely  stated  that  the  old  protec- 
torate and  privileges  have  lapsed;  and 
the  signature  of  France  is  attached  to 
that  Protocol,  together  with  those  of  the 
other  great  powers. 

France  holds  the  mandate  for  Syria, 
Great  Britain  that  for  Palestine;  but 
French  feeling  is  loath  to  surrender  the 
old  privileges  in  the  Holy  Land.  It 
realizes  the  political  advantage  that  the 
favored  position  of  France  there  and  in 
the  Near  East  generally  gave  to  her ;  and 
everything  spoken  and  written  recently 
in  France  on  the  subject  of  the  resump- 
tion of  diplomatic  relations  with  the 
Holy  See  has  shown  how  the  wish  for 
reconciliation  with  Rome  is  motived 
by  the  hope  of  regaining,  through  the 
religious  agency,  the  privileged  politi- 
cal position  of  the  old  days.  No  attempt 
indeed  has  been  made  to  disguise  the 
fact  that  it  is  political  advantage,  par- 
ticularly in  the  Near  East,  that  is  sought. 
On  its  side  the  Holy  See  has  all  good- 
will, in  consideration  of  what  France 
has  done  for  the  Catholic  religion  in  the 
Near  East  during  past  centuries;  but 
the  fact  remains,  and  has  been  stated 
clearly  in  Cardinal  Gasparri's  cele- 
brated letter  to  M.  Denys  Cochin,  of 
June  26, 1917,  that,  when  the  old  Turk- 
ish regime  and  the  Capitulations  ceased 


400 


VATICAN   POLITICS   AND   POLICIES 


to  exist,  the  religious  privileges  granted 
to  France  by  virtue  of  them  came  to 
an  end  as  well. 

Evidently,  then,  there  are  points  on 
which  France  and  the  Holy  See  have 
to  reach  an  understanding.  But  the 
restoration  of  diplomatic  relations,  the 
reconciliation,  is  a  fact.  The  impor- 
tance of  the  event  is  self-evident.  The 
old  policy,  which  Waldeck-Rousseau 
started,  and  Combes  and  Briand  car- 
ried to  lengths  far  beyond  the  original 
intention,  was  summarized,  when  com- 
pleted by  the  Separation  Law,  in  Vivia- 
ni's  famous  phrase,  'We  have  put  out 
the  lights  of  heaven.'  Waldeck-Rous- 
seau dissociated  himself  from  the  acts 
of  his  successors;  Combes  has  died  at 
the  very  moment  the  great  change  is 
being  carried  out;  it  is  no  other  than 
Briand  who  is  carrying  it  out,  while 
Viviani  attends  the  Funeral  Mass  of 
Cardinal  Gibbons.  An  fond,  it  may 
be  nothing  more  than  the  inevitable 
victory  of  common  sense  over  a  phase 
of  political  fanaticism;  but  in  itself  it 
is  a  striking  event.  And,  further,  it 
carries  beyond  the  limits  just  indicated 
by  France  and  the  Holy  See.  For, 
firstly,  it  has  had  immediate  reper- 
cussion here  in  Italy;  and,  secondly,  it 
has  raised  the  diplomatic  edifice  of 
Rome,  the  world-position  of  the  Pa- 
pacy, to  such  a  height  that  the  world 
cannot  help  noticing  it.  The  Holy  See 
—  to  change  the  metaphor  —  seems  to 
be  riding  on  a  great  wave  resulting  from 
the  storm  of  wo  rid- war;  and  the  world 
may  wonder  where,  how  far,  and  in 
what  direction,  it  may  steer  itself  or 
may  be  carried. 

II 

On  the  part  of  Italy  there  is,  of 
course,  not  the  slightest  objection  to 
the  restoration  of  diplomatic  relations 
between  France  and  the  Holy  See. 
When  the  British  Empire  determined  to 
send  Sir  Henry  Howard  as  representa- 


tive to  the  Vatican  at  the  end  of  1914, 
Sir  Edward  Grey  took  the  prudent  step 
of  sounding  in  advance  the  Italian  Gov- 
ernment, and  was  assured  that  no  ob- 
jection would  be  made,  or  was  felt. 
The  step  was  diplomatically  cautious 
and  courteous,  but  was  unnecessary. 
Numerous  powers  had  representatives 
at  the  Vatican;  the  Italian  Law  of 
Guaranties  explicitly  recognizes  that 
the  Pope  may  receive  accredited  rep- 
resentatives from  foreign  powers,  and 
it  gives  them  all  the  prerogatives  and 
immunities  due  by  international  law  to 
such  envoys.  If  an  objection  was  in- 
conceivable when  England  was  making' 
a  new  departure,  breaking  a  centuries- 
old  tradition,  it  is  more  inconceivable 
now,  when  France  returns  after  an  in- 
terval of  only  seventeen  years. 

But,  even  though  any  objection  is 
out  of  the  question,  the  arrival  of 
France  at  the  Vatican  has  made  Italians 
think.  In  actual  fact,  during  and  since 
the  war,  numbers  of  states  have  been 
establishing  or  reestablishing  relations 
with  the  Holy  See,  without  any  par- 
ticular notice  being  taken  here.  It  re- 
quired the  striking  nature  of  the  return 
of  France  to  wake  public  opinion  up  to 
the  fact  that  Italy  is  practically  the 
only  great  European  country  unrepre- 
sented at  the  Vatican.  And  in  news- 
papers and  magazines  there  has  been  a 
flood  of  comment  on  that  fact,  ever 
since  M.  Briand  decided  to  send  M. 
Jonnart  to  the  Vatican  as  Ambassador 
of  France.  'Everyone  sees  the  diplo- 
matic advantage  of  being  represented 
at  the  Vatican;  we  are  the  only  great 
nation  out  of  it;  we  lose  thereby;  a 
remedy  should  be  found.'  On  that 
there  is  practical  unanimity,  but  the 
question  then  arises,  'How?' 

The  actual  position,  as  between  Italy 
and  the  Holy  See,  is  to-day  what  it  was 
in  1870,  after  the  Italian  troops  en- 
tered Rome,  or,  to  be  more  accurate, 
in  1871,  after  the  passing  of  the  Law 


VATICAN   POLITICS   AND   POLICIES 


401 


of  Guaranties.1  Officially,  the  protest 
of  Pius  IX  has  been  repeated  by  each 
successor  —  Leo  XIII,  Pius  X,  and  the 
present  Pope.  Benedict  XV  has  been 
as  explicit  as  his  predecessors.  In  his 
first  Encyclical,  of  November  1,  1914, 
he  said : '  Too  long  has  the  Church  been 
curtailed  of  its  necessary  freedom  of 
action,  ever  since  the  Head  of  the 
Church,  the  Supreme  Pontiff,  began  to 
lack  that  defense  of  his  freedom  which 
the  providence  of  God  had  raised  up 
during  the  course  of  centuries.  .  .  . 
While  We  pray  for  the  speedy  return 
of  peace  to  the  world,  We  also  pray 
that  an  end  be  put  to  the  abnormal 
state  in  which  the  Head  of  the  Church 
is  placed  —  a  state  which  in  many 
ways  is  an  impediment  to  the  common 
tranquillity.  Our  Predecessors  have 
protested  —  not  from  self-interest,  but 
from  a  sense  of  sacred  duty  —  against 
this  state  of  things;  those  protests  We 
renew,  and  for  the  same  reason,  to 
protect  the  rights  and  dignity  of  the 
Apostolic  See.' 

Every  thinking  man  recognizes  the 
necessity  for  the  Vatican  to  uphold 
that  official  attitude.  If  it  did  not  do 
so,  it  would  lose  its  base  —  base  of  ac- 
tion, if  there  is  anything  doing;  base  on 
which  to  continue  standing,  if  not.  But 
much  water  has  passed  under  Tiber 
bridges  since  1871.  There  is  no  need  to 
recapitulate  here  all  that  has  happened 
during  the  past  fifty  years.  From  the 
clear-cut  cliffs  on  either  side  of  the 
dividing  river,  rocks  have  been  falling 
into  the  stream  and  forming  stepping- 
stones,  while  the  flow  of  prejudice  and 
bitter  feeling  has  slackened.  Through 
pressure  of  the  World  War,  of  late  the 
line  of  stones  has  become  almost  con- 
tinuous. Has  the  moment  come  to 
cement  them  into  a  bridge?  It  would 
seem  that  there  are  many  thoughtful 
Italians  who  think  it  has;  and  on  the 

1  See  the  author's  paper  on  'The  Temporal 
Power,'  in  the  Atlantic  for  June,  1919. 
VOL.  1S8—NO.  3 
B 


side  of  the  Holy  See,  there  have  been 
many  signs  of  good-will  —  tempered 
naturally  by  what  one  may  now  call 
caution,  in  place  of  the  strict  reserve  of 
former  days. 

One  such  sign  appeared  just  twelve 
months  ago,  in  the  Pope's  Encyclical 
Letter  on  Reconciliation  among  the 
Nations  and  the  Restoration  of  Chris- 
tian Peace,  of  which  one  passage  ran: 
'  This  concord  between  civilized  nations 
is  maintained  and  fostered  by  the  mod- 
ern custom  of  visits  and  meetings,  at 
which  the  Heads  of  States  and  Princes 
are  accustomed  to  treat  of  matters  of 
special  importance.  So  then,  consid- 
ering the  changed  circumstances  of  the 
times  and  the  dangerous  trend  of  events, 
and  in  order  to  encourage  this  concord, 
We  should  not  be  unwilling  to  relax  in 
some  measure  the  severity  of  the  con- 
ditions justly  laid  down  by  Our  Prede- 
cessors, when  the  civil  power  of  the 
Apostolic  See  was  overthrown,  against 
the  official  visits  of  the  Heads  of  Catho- 
lic States  to  Rome.' 

That  is  a  very  remarkable  concession. 
In  its  literal  form  it  is  conditional,  for 
the  Holy  See  must  envisage  the  bare 
possibility  of  a  head  of  a  Catholic  state 

—  who  may  not  himself  be  a  Catholic 

—  or  the  Parliament  of  such  a  state, 
making  some  move,  either  in  ignorance 
or  by  premeditation,  not  in  consonance 
with  the  spirit  of  the  present  times  and 
of  the  above  concession,  but  rather  in 
the  spirit  of  the  times  now  past.   The 
Holy  See  must  be  free  to  safeguard  its 
sovereign  dignity  in  view  of  untoward 
eventualities.    But   in   substance   the 
veto  against  the  visits  to  'the  Usurper' 
in  Rome  of  the  heads  of  Catholic  states 
is  lifted.  It  was  on  account  of  this  veto 
that  the  Austrian  sovereign  could  nev- 
er return  the  Italian  sovereign's  offi- 
cial visit;  and,  in  fact,  no  Catholic  head 
of  a  state  —  with  the  accidental  excep- 
tion, on  one  occasion,  of  the  Prince  of 
Monaco,  and,  of  course,  the  notorious 


402 


VATICAN   POLITICS   AND   POLICIES 


case  of  President  Loubet,  whose  visit 
was  largely  responsible  for  the  breaking 
off  of  relations  between  France  and  the 
Holy  See  — has  been  to  Rome  since 
1870. 

But  here,  too,  the  words  of  concession 
are  followed  up  immediately  by  the 
saving  clause  of  principle:  'But  at  the 
same  time  we  formally  declare  that  this 
concession,  which  seems  counseled  or, 
rather,  demanded  by  the  grave  cir- 
cumstances in  which  to-day  society  is 
placed,  must  not  be  interpreted  as  a 
tacit  renunciation  of  its  sacrosanct 
rights  by  the  Apostolic  See,  as  if  it  ac- 
quiesced in  the  unlawful  situation  in 
which  it  is  now  placed.  Rather  do  We 
seize  this  opportunity  to  renew  for  the 
same  reasons  the  protests  which  Our 
Predecessors  have  several  times  made, 
not  in  the  least  moved  thereto  by  hu- 
man interests,  but  in  fulfillment  of  the 
sacred  duty  of  their  charge  to  defend 
the  rights  and  dignity  of  this  Apostolic 
See;  once  again  demanding,  and  with 
even  greater  insistence  now  that  peace 
is  made  among  the  nations,  that  "for 
the  Head  of  the  Church  too  an  end  may 
be  put  to  that  abnormal  condition  which 
in  so  many  ways  does  such  serious  harm 
to  tranquillity  among  the  peoples." ' 

We  have,  then,  the  attitude  of  the 
Holy  See  outlined  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness: in  principle  it  is  exactly  where  it 
was;  in  practice  it  has  shown  signs  of 
real  good-will.  But,  if  anything  is  to  be 
done,  it  awaits  a  move  from  the  other 
side.  In  that,  it  is  logical.  If  the  Holy 
See  were  to  speak  out  in  the  ordinary 
language  of  the  world  one  may  imagine 
it  expressing  itself  thus:  'You  took 
away  my  independence  when  you  took 
away  the  Temporal  Power  by  which  it 
had  been  guaranteed  for  a  thousand 
years.  Sovereign  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence I  must  have.  Your  Law  of 
Guaranties  does  not  give  it  to  me:  be- 
cause the  text  does  not  contain  it;  be- 
cause such  law  is  unilateral,  and  a 


sovereign  cannot  have  regulations  im- 
posed on  him  by  anyone  or  he  loses  his 
sovereignty;  and  because  the  law,  made 
by  one  Parliament,  could  be  revoked  at 
any  moment  by  another.  It  is  ephem- 
eral. Even  if  it  gave  independence,  it 
could  not  guarantee  it.  But  if  you  offer 
me  independence,  actual  and  apparent 
to  the  world,  and  based  on  a  guaranty 
as  effective  as  the  Temporal  Power  of 
the  old  days,  I  will  consider  the  offer, 
and,  if  satisfied,  will  ratify  the  new  ar- 
rangement in  a  bilateral  contract  as 
between  two  sovereigns.' 

Is  it  possible  for  Italy  to  make  a 
move?  The  government  of  the  day 
could  not  make  concrete  proposals  un- 
less it  had  practical  assurance  that  they 
would  be  acceptable  in  substance  to 
both  interested  parties  —  the  Holy  See 
on  the  one  side,  and  Italian  public 
opinion,  represented  by  Parliament,  on 
the  other.  The  government  should  find 
no  difficulty  in  getting  the  information 
necessary.  As  regards  the  Holy  See, 
it  is  notorious  that  there  has  always 
been  an  unofficial  channel  of  communi- 
cation between  Italy  and  the  Vatican. 
There  are  almost  daily  happenings, 
some  of  little,  some  of  great  importance, 
on  which  mutual  knowledge  and  under- 
standing is  necessary.  The  Italian  rail- 
way authorities  —  to  take  a  very  small 
matter  —  make  special  arrangements 
for  the  journeys  of  cardinals  ,to  and 
from  Rome;  when  several  Princes  of 
the  Church  are  traveling  at  the  same 
moment,  to  a  Conclave  for  instance, 
a  special  train  is  put  at  their  disposal. 
During  a  Conclave  the  most  elaborate 
precautions  are  taken  to  prevent  any 
inconvenience  to  single  cardinals  while 
they  are  in  Rome,  and  to  ensure  the 
entire  freedom  of  the  Sacred  College 
while  it  is  in  solemn  session  in  the  Vat- 
ican, at  the  moment  when  the  name  of 
the  new  Pope  is  announced  from  the 
balcony  of  St.  Peter's,  and  during 
the  ensuing  functions.  At  great  feasts 


VATICAN   POLITICS  AND   POLICIES 


in  St.  Peter's,  the  Cardinal  Archpriest 
has  an  escort  of  Italian  carabinieri  in 
his  own  basilica,  which  technically  does 
not  belong  to  the  Holy  See. 

When  any  excitement  among  the 
people  here  is  threatened,  the  govern- 
ment keeps  the  Vatican  informed  of  the 
precautions  taken  against  disturbance 
of  public  order  in  its  neighborhood. 
There  are  a  hundred  points  on  which  ex- 
change of  information  between  the  two 
bodies  is  convenient.  During  the  war 
communications  of  a  practically  official 
nature  passed;  as,  for  instance,  during 
the  negotiations  for  exchange  of  Italian 
and  Austrian  prisoners,  a  benevolent 
initiative,  in  great  measure  due  to  and 
organized  by  the  Holy  See,  but  cut  short 
at  the  last  moment  by  the  prejudice 
of  one  Italian  minister.  In  that  case, 
communication  between  the  Foreign 
Office  and  the  Secretariat  of  State  was, 
if  not  official,  actually  direct. 

The  Italian  government  should  find 
no  difficulty  in  learning,  privately  but 
authoritatively,  the  views  of  the  Holy 
See,  if  it  has  concrete  proposals  to  sug- 
gest. On  the  other  side,  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  is  divided  up  into  clearly  de- 
fined parties,  and  a  prime  minister  can 
estimate  to  a  nicety,  after  private  con- 
versation with  the  party  leaders,  wheth- 
er or  no  he  can  count  on  their  support 
on  any  given  question.  Every  prune 
minister,  too,  has  his  own  ways  of  bar- 
gaining for  such  support  if  he  wants  it. 
Public  opinion  is  largely  influenced  by 
the  press.  In  the  present  case  the  bulk 
of  it  would  surely  be  favorable;  and  if 
the  question  were  put  before  the  Italian 
people  in  the  obvious  way  that  presents 
itself,  after  the  very  explicit  example 
set  by  France  of  renewing  relations 
with  Rome  solely  in  the  country's 
political  interest,  the  proposal  might 
go  through  —  all  other  circumstances 
being  favorable  —  on  a  wave  of  patriot- 
ic enthusiasm,  in  addition  to  religious 
satisfaction  of  the  great  mass  of  the 


403 

people.  The  patriotic  note  would  drown 
what  little  sectarian  clamor  might  arise. 
Recent  Italian  premiers  have  been 
well  disposed  to  the  Holy  See;  one  of 
them,  Signer  Nitti,  is  notoriously  de- 
sirous of  seeing  his  name  go  down  in 
history  as  the  statesman  who  settled  the 
Roman  Question;  and  as  he  is  equally 
notoriously  anxious  to  return  to  the 
place  now  occupied  by  Signer  Bonomi, 
it  is  quite  possible  that  the  latter  might 
have  no  objection  to  doing  the  thing 
himself,  while  he  has  the  opportunity. 

m 

As  to  the  lines  on  which  agreement 
could  be  reached,  presuming,  as  is  prob- 
able, that  preliminary  soundings  show 
the  possibility  of  approach,  we  have, 
speaking  generally,  a  new  willingness 
to  consider  the  question  on  the  part  of 
Italy,  and  undoubted  signs  of  good-will 
on  the  part  of  the  Holy  See.  From  that 
it  is  not  a  difficult  advance  to  reach,  on 
the  part  of  Italy,  the  recognition  that 
the  existing  Law  of  Guaranties  does  not 
give  and  guarantee  fully  and  patently 
the  necessary  liberty  and  independence 
of  the  Pope;  and,  on  the  part  of  the 
Holy  See,  an  attitude  of  relaxation  of 
severity,  in  consideration  of  the  changed 
spirit  of  the  times,  to  which  the  Pope 
himself  has  so  often  alluded,  and  which, 
while  it  may  go  some  way  to  meet 
Italian  susceptibilities,  may  be  suffi- 
ciently explicit  and  far-reaching  to  sat- 
isfy such  claims  of  the  Holy  See  as  are 
fundamentally  and  absolutely  vital  be- 
cause founded  on  the  divinely  given 
constitution  of  the  Church. 

Would  it  be  possible  to  draw  up  an 
agreement,  presumably  in  the  form  of  a 
Concordat,  —  a  bilateral  understand- 
ing, that  is,  between  two  sovereign 
powers,  —  by  which  Italy  would  get 
the  political  advantage  of  direct  diplo- 
matic representation  and  communica- 
tion, which  is  so  evidently  desired  and 


404 


VATICAN   POLITICS   AND    POLICIES 


is  now  gained  by  France  and  other  na- 
tions; and  to  embody  also  in  that  agree- 
ment clauses  which  should  subjectively 
recognize  the  full  sovereignty  of  the 
Pope  and  objectively  provide  a  guaran- 
ty of  it  which  he  could  accept  as  satis- 
factory? Sovereignty,  it  is  recognized, 
must  rest  on  territory:  whether  as  much 
as  would  go  in  a  teacup,  —  theoretically 
sufficient,  practically  absurd,  —  or  the 
old  States  of  the  Church,  or  the  City  of 
Rome  —  practically  out  of  date. 

Largely  theory  must  govern  consid- 
eration; to  any  and  every  solution  prac- 
tical objections  can  be  found.  Granting 
that  consideration  of  political  interest 
impels  Italy  to  move;  and  granting, 
as  is  practically  assured,  benevolent 
consideration  by  the  Holy  See,  what 
guaranty  of  his  sovereign  liberty  and 
independence  will  the  Pope  consider 
satisfactory?  That  is  the  point  on 
which  no  one  can  prophesy.  What  is 
quite  certain  is,  that  there  is  no  moral 
obligation  on  him  to  claim  the  old 
guaranty,  the  old  Temporal  Power  as 
it  used  to  exist;  but  he  must  claim 
something,  and  something  satisfactory, 
in  its  place. 

Before  leaving  the  subject  a  passing 
note  must  be  made  of  that  very  remark- 
able phenomenon  of  the  times,  the  rush 
of  civil  governments  to  Rome.  Before 
the  war  the  Holy  See  had  diplomatic 
relations  with  a  dozen  states;  now  it  has 
such  relations,  either  sending  a  repre- 
sentative or  receiving  one,  or,  in  the 
large  majority  of  cases,  both  sending  and 
receiving,  with  twenty-five.  Quality, 
too,  has  increased,  as  well  as  quantity. 
Before  the  war  Rome  sent  to  foreign 
powers  only  five  nuncios,  including 
those  of  the  second  class,  and  two  in- 
ternuncios;  it  received  only  two  ambas- 
sadors and  twelve  ministers,  of  foreign 
states.  Now  it  sends  out  nineteen  nun- 
cios and  five  internuncios,  receiving 
eight  ambassadors  and  seventeen  min- 
isters. Governments  which  had  no 


relations  have  established  them.  Gov- 
ernments which  had  broken  off  rela- 
tions have  restored  them.  Govern- 
ments which  had  second-class  relations 
have  raised  them  to  first  class. 

In  the  first  category  the  British  Em- 
pire is  noticeable.  It  sent  a  minister  on 
special  mission  at  Christmas,  1914,  for 
the  announced  purpose  that  its  policy, 
reasons,  aims,  intentions,  and  conduct 
in  the  war  might  be  rightly  understood 
at  the  Holy  See.  Now  that  war  is  over, 
it  has  converted  its  special  mission  into 
a  permanent  legation,  by  reason  of  the 
proved  value  of  representation  there. 
Holland,  in  the  spring  of  1915,  carried 
through  Parliament  the  proposal  to 
send  a  representative  to  the  Holy  See, 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  the  country's 
special  and  vital  interest  that  peace 
should  be  brought  about  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, and  that  it  was  to  Holland's  in- 
terest to  cooperate  with  the  Vatican. 
Now  that  peace  has  come,  Holland  has 
made  its  relations  permanent,  receiving 
a  separate  internuncio  instead  of  a  sub- 
ordinate share  in  the  Nuncio  at  Brus- 
sels. In  this  category,  too,  come  all  the 
states — Poland,  Czechoslovakia,  Yugo- 
slavia, and  the  rest  —  that  have  risen 
from  the  war.  In  the  second  category, 
France  is  the  outstanding  figure.  The 
third  is  very  numerous:  the  German 
Embassy  replacing  the  Prussian  Lega- 
tion; Belgium,  Chile,  Brazil,  Peru  rais- 
ing their  legations  to  the  full  rank  of 
embassies. 

And  it  is  remarkable  how  this  phe- 
nomenon has  come  about  without  objec- 
tive effort  on  the  part  of  the  Holy  See: 
the  civil  governments  have  approached 
Rome,  not  Rome  the  civil  governments, 
though,  of  course,  she  has  extended  to 
them  the  most  cordial  welcome.  If, 
indeed,  one  regards  the  simple  objec- 
tive historical  facts,  appearing  on  the 
surface,  affecting  the  Holy  See  in  rela- 
tion to  the  war,  the  phenomenon  seems 
more  remarkable  still.  The  Papacy 


VATICAN   POLITICS   AND   POLICIES 


405 


proclaimed  its  neutrality  and  impar- 
tiality; the  Pope  announced  his  policy 
of  doing  everything  possible:  first,  to 
relieve  suffering;  second,  to  bring  about 
peace.  On  the  first  count  his  success 
was  amazing,  showing  to  the  world  in  a 
really  remarkable  manner  the  unique 
character  and  power  of  the  institution 
of  the  Papacy.  On  the  second  count  he 
seems,  to  all  outward  appearances,  to 
have  failed  completely.  A  clause  in  the 
secret  agreementof  April,  1915,  by  which 
Italy  entered  the  war,  —  a  clause 
which  was,  under  the  resulting  cir- 
cumstances, valueless, — prohibited  him 
from  having  anything  to  do  writh  the 
Peace  Conference  whenever  and  how- 
ever that  might  come  about.  It  was 
valueless  because  the  Holy  See  always 
envisaged  peace  by  agreement,  and 
would  never  have  taken  part  in  a  peace 
imposed  by  conquerors  on  conquered; 
whereas  the  Allies  always  held  that  there 
could  be  no  just  and  lasting  peace  — 
such  as  the  Holy  See  itself  desired 
—  unless  founded  on  the  defeat  of  the 
party  responsible  for  the  war  and  the 
consequent  recognition  by  Germany 
that  war  does  not  pay. 

That  was  always  the  fundamental 
difference  between  the  Pope  and  the 
Allies  in  their  outlook  on  peace.  Presi- 
dent Wilson's  reply  to  the  Papal  Peace 
Note  of  August,  1917,  with  which  the 
Allies  associated  themselves,  brought 
that  point  out  clearly.  Strive  as  he 
would  for  peace,  the  Pope  seemed  to 
have  no  success  at  all.  Yet  we  now 
have  the  striking  procession  of  the  na- 
tions of  the  world  toward  the  Vatican, 
which,  on  the  face  of  things,  seems  to 
have  failed  utterly  to  do  what  it  set  it- 
self to  do.  There  is  the  contradiction; 
but  there  is  the  actual,  evident  fact, 
from  which  there  is  no  getting  away,  of 
the  position  of  increased  prestige  and 
power  occupied  by  the  Holy  See  to-day. 

It  is  certainly  one  of  the  great  his- 
torical phenomena  to  be  noted  among 


the  results  of  the  great  war.  But  to 
prophesy  as  to  future  historico-political 
possibilities  arising  from  it  would  be 
premature,  particularly  in  view  of  the 
very  sudden  way  in  which  it  has  come 
about.  There  is  a  point,  however, 
which  rivets  the  attention.  No  one,  in 
considering  to-day's  phenomenon,  can 
help  thinking  of  old  times,  when  the 
Pope  had  relations  and  agreements  with 
all  the  powers  of  the  world  —  the 
historico-political  world  that  counted 
then:  Europe.  Such  relations  were  be- 
tween temporal  sovereigns  of  states 
and  the  Pope  —  who  also  was  tem- 
poral sovereign  of  a  state,  but  at  the 
same  time  supreme  spiritual  sovereign 
of  the  Catholic  princes  with  whom  he 
had  relations. 

There  is  a  varied  history  of  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  those  relations.  But,  as  the 
Pope  has  said  more  than  once  lately, 
times  have  changed.  If  we  run  down 
the  list  to-day  we  find  His  Most  Catho- 
lic Majesty  of  Spain  the  only  remain- 
ing sovereign  of  the  class  of  the  olden 
days;  we  find  states  which  may  be  call- 
ed, in  regard  to  their  peoples,  Catholic: 
Poland,  Belgium,  Bavaria,  even  France, 
and  others;  but  Rome's  diplomatic  re- 
lations with  the  world  to-day  are  not 
with  Catholic  princes,  but  with  '  demo- 
cratic' states,  represented  by  parlia- 
ments and  prime  ministers.  It  has  been 
said  in  disparagement  of  limited  com- 
panies that  they  have  'no  souls  to  be 
saved  or  bodies  to  be  kicked.'  In  the  old 
days  of  Catholic  princes  and  of  the 
Temporal  Power,  both  these  conditions 
stood.  Such  entities  to-day  have  the 
first  half  of  the  phrase  only  in  the  meas- 
ure of  righteousness  of  feeling  expressed 
in  the  policy  of  the  nation  influencing 
the  Government;  and  the  second  half 
stands  only  in  the  lessened  and  entirely 
changed  measure  of  adjustment  of  dip- 
lomatic differences.  In  truth,  to-day, 
Rome's  aspect  in  its  relations  with  the 
world  flocking  to  it  must  be  very  differ- 


406 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


ent  from  that  of  olden  days.  How  it 
will  align  itself  will  be  matter  for  in- 
teresting study  by  future  students  of 
history. 

And  it  is  for  the  future  students  of 
history,  not  for  a  passing  note-maker 
of  the  time,  to  comment  on  another 
striking  phenomenon.  There  is  one 
great  country  to  which  the  Pope's  eyes 
turned  specially  in  every  crisis  of  the 
war;  which,  up  to  the  very  last  minute, 
he  believed  never  would  come  in;  to 
which  his  eyes  turned  all  the  same  after 
it  had  done  so;  to  which  the  eyes  of  the 


Vatican  are  still  turned,  the  more  so  in 
view  of  its  evidently  increased  prestige 
and  objective  and  subjective  import- 
ance —  and  that  is  the  one  country 
which  is  not  joining  in  the  rush  to  Rome. 
The  United  States  receives  a  purely 
religious  representative  of  the  Pope  in 
the  person  of  an  Apostolic  Delegate, 
but  it  has  no  diplomatic  relations  with 
the  Holy  See.  That,  too,  is  a  policy 
as  to  which  future  students  of  history, 
at  the  Vatican  and  in  America,  will  have 
opportunity  for  noting  results  and 
forming  judgment. 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


BY  A.   SHADWELL 


THE  editor  of  the  Atlantic  has  re- 
quested me  to  explain  the  labor  sit- 
uation in  Great  Britain  to  American 
readers,  and  has  propounded  several 
questions,  which  I  will  try  to  answer  in 
the  course  of  this  essay.  He  asks  for  an 
interpretation,  rather  than  a  resume,  of 
the  facts,  and  I  will  therefore  assume 
that  the  reader  has  a  certain  knowledge 
of  outstanding  events.  My  task  is,  as 
I  understand  it,  to  explain  the  broad 
meaning  of  what  is  going  on  in  Eng- 
land without  entering  into  too  much 
detail.  This,  of  course,  involves  mat- 
ters of  opinion,  and  a  preliminary  word 
on  my  own  standpoint  is  due.  I  write 
as  a  detached  observer,  who  has  for 
many  years  studied  social  conditions 
and  industrial  movements  from  the  life 
in  many  countries,  without  any  parti- 
san predilections  of  any  kind,  political, 
financial,  or  theoretical;  with  friends 
and  acquaintances  in  every  camp,  from 


the  Duke  of  Northumberland  to  John 
Maclean,  and  with  no  interest  to  serve 
but  the  truth.  If  I  am  wrong,  it  is  due 
to  lack  of  judgment,  not  to  bias,  or  to 
want  of  study. 


Let  me  begin  with  the  summary 
statement  that  so  far  we  have  passed 
through  inevitable  troubles  and  trials 
better  than  we  had  any  sound  reason  to 
expect.  We  are  by  no  means  through 
with  them  yet;  but  as  each  successive 
corner  is  turned,  the  prospect  improves. 

This  view  may  cause  some  surprise 
and  be  set  down  as  '  optimistic ' ;  but  op- 
timism has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  as  I 
shall  show.  It  is  based  on  a  reasoned 
anticipation,  formed  during  the  war 
from  past  and  current  conditions,  of  the 
industrial  situation  likely  to  arise  after 
it,  and  on  a  broad  survey  of  the  actual 
course  of  events  since  the  Armistice. 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


407 


True,  it  runs  counter  to  popular  opin- 
ion; but  popular  opinion  was,  and  is, 
ill  informed  in  two  ways.  The  public 
was  first  led  into  false  anticipations, 
and  then  disillusion  was  unduly  height- 
ened by  a  one-sided  view  of  the  actual 
facts. 

The  war  was  generally  expected  to 
lead  straight  into  a  sort  of  Utopia,  in 
which  the  lion  would  lie  down  with  the 
lamb  and  the  prophecy  contained  in  the 
eleventh  chapter  of  Isaiah  would  be  at 
least  on  the  way  to  fulfillment.  There 
was  no  substance  in  this  sanguine  vi- 
sion; it  was  simply  a  nebulous  hope, 
born  of  war-excitement  and  fed  by 
platform  phrases,  such  as  'a  land  fit  for 
heroes  to  live  in '  and  the  blessed  word 
4  reconstruction.' 

I  can  remember  no  such  prolific  be- 
getter of  nonsense  as  this  idea  of  recon- 
struction. All  the  socialists,  visionaries, 
and  reformers  saw  in  it  their  oppor- 
tunity, and  interpreted  it  in  their  own 
way;  politicians  hung  their  promises  on 
it,  and  simple  folk  rose  to  it  like  trout 
to  a  fly  in  May.  It  proved  an  irresisti- 
ble lure  and  was  in  everyone's  mouth. 
It  created  a  fool's  paradise,  in  which 
every  wish  was  to  be  gratified.  Under 
its  influence  grandiose  schemes  were 
hatched  and  all  sense  of  proportion 
was  lost.  The  alluring  prospect  took  a 
thousand  forms,  but  the  general  idea 
was  that  everyone  was  going  to  have  a 
much  better  time  after  the  war  than 
ever  before.  In  particular,  industrial 
conditions  were  to  be  improved  out  of 
recognition;  the  standard  of  living  was 
to  be  raised;  men  were  to  work  less  and 
earn  more;  strife  between  employers 
and  employed  was  to  be  banished; 
peace  and  prosperity  were  to  reign; 
and  all  this  immediately.  The  illusion 
was  too  popular  to  be  resisted;  protest 
was  useless. 

The  currency  obtained  by  these  no- 
tions is  shown  by  the  frequent  refer- 
ences in  recent  disputes  to  the  falsifica- 


tion of  promises  and  expectations.  But 
good  judges  were  not  taken  in  by  the 
rosy  visions  of  reconstruction.  More 
than  five  years  ago  —  ten  months  be- 
fore the  first  Russian  revolution  and 
eighteen  months  before  the  arrival  of 
Bolshevism  —  I  predicted,  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century  and  After,  great  trouble 
after  the  war.  I  said  that  it  would  be  a 
severer  trial  than  the  war  itself;  that 
the  prospect  was  full  of  menace;  and 
that  everyone  in  a  position  to  judge, 
with  whom  I  had  discussed  the  ques- 
tion, was  of  the  same  opinion.  This 
reading  was  based  on  solid  facts,  which 
I  elaborated  a  year  later  in  the  same  re- 
view. I  gave  reasons  for  anticipating 
'revolutionary  changes,  not  effected 
without  much  tribulation  and  a  period 
of  adversity/ 

I  recall  this,  not  to  vaunt  my  pre- 
science, which  was  shared  by  everyone 
who  knew  the  real  conditions  and  was 
not  blinded  by  illusions,  but  to  show 
that  there  is  nothing  obscure  or  mys- 
terious about  the  present  situation.  It 
is  due  to  forces  recognized  and  under- 
stood years  ago.  Those  forces  have  since 
been  stimulated  by  events  at  home  and 
abroad.  Bolshevism;  high  prices;  the 
spectacle  of  war-fortunes  attributed  to 
profiteering  and  held  to  be  the  cause 
of  high  prices;  successive  increases  of 
wages  extracted  by  demonstrations  of 
force;  the  rapid  growth  of  trade-union- 
ism; artificial  prosperity  created  by 
inflation  of  currency;  war-time  restric- 
tions, especially  of  drink;  revolution- 
ary propaganda  —  all  these  have  had 
their  effect,  and  superficial  observers 
have  freely  attributed  the  present  sit- 
uation to  the  influence  of  one  or  another 
of  them. 

That  is  a  mistake.  The  trouble  is 
more  deeply  rooted  in  the  past  and  can- 
not be  rightly  understood  without  a 
knowledge  of  the  historical  evolution  of 
labor  movements,  which  can  be  indi- 
cated here  only  in  brief  outline. 


408 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


II 


During  the  nineteenth  century  the 
growth  of  industrialism  was  accom- 
panied by  the  periodical  appearance  of 
an  active  ferment  among  the  wage- 
earners,  at  regular  intervals  of  about 
twenty  years.  The  outstanding  dates, 
marking  the  rise  of  active  movement, 
are  1831,  1851,  1871,  1889,  and  1911. 
It  will  be  observed  that  but  for  1889, 
which  a  little  antedated  the  lapse  of 
twenty  years,  the  succession  has  been 
remarkably  symmetrical.  To  enumer- 
ate the  signs  of  this  ferment  at  each  ap- 
pearance would  occupy  too  much  space. 
I  can  say  only  that  it  took  both  politi- 
cal and  industrial  forms,  sometimes  one 
and  sometimes  the  other  predominat- 
ing, with  a  sort  of  oscillating  move- 
ment. It  issued  broadly  in  legislation 
and  in  the  advance  of  trade-unionism 
in  numbers,  organization,  legal  status, 
and  privileges.  There  were  collateral 
and  associated  movements,  both  prac- 
tical and  theoretical;  but  I  am  concen- 
trating attention  on  the  points  of  great- 
est activity. 

What  is  the  explanation  of  this  peri- 
odicity? The  state  of  trade  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Each  successive 
time  of  ferment  was  associated  with  an 
upward  movement  of  trade,  following 
a  depression;  but  this  alone  will  not  ac- 
count for  the  phenomenon.  For  in  each 
period  of  twenty  years  there  have  been 
intermediate  terms  of  rising  trade,  dur- 
ing which  no  corresponding  advance 
in  the  labor  movement  has  occurred. 
In  some  of  them  a  certain  amount  of 
response  was  perceptible;  but  it  was 
very  small  compared  with  the  activity 
of  the  fermentative  years  enumerated. 
These  were  followed  in  each  case  by  a 
period  of  apparent  exhaustion,  during 
which  strength  was  gathered  for  a 
fresh  advance. 

The  chief  explanation  of  this,  in  my 
opinion,  is  to  be  found  in  the  natural 


procession  of  the  generations,  by  which 
the  old  gradually  give  place  to  the 
young.  The  latter  know  nothing  of  the 
struggles  and  exhaustion  of  the  past; 
they  are  fresh,  full  of  energy  and  fight. 
More  than  that,  their  standpoint  is 
different,  their  outlook  wider,  their 
aspirations  higher  —  or,  if  not  high- 
er, more  purposeful,  because  nearer  to 
practical  attainment.  They  start  where 
the  previous  generation  left  off.  This 
development  has  been  particularly 
noticeable  in  recent  years.  It  is  the  re- 
sult of  the  many  educative  influences 
that  have  been  brought  to  bear,  and  of 
the  whole  process  of  social  change  that 
has  permeated  the  population. 

The  notion  that  class-differences 
have  widened  is  quite  erroneous.  In 
Great  Britain,  whatever  may  be  the 
case  in  other  countries,  there  has  been  a 
great  and  multiform  approximation  of 
classes.  I  have  witnessed  it  going  on  all 
my  life  and  at  an  increasing  pace.  Those 
who  do  not  know  it  are  either  bad  ob- 
servers or  too  young  to  be  able  to  com- 
pare the  present  with  the  past.  The 
contemplation  of  figures  showing  the 
extremes  of  nominal  wealth  and  pov- 
erty is  misleading.  It  hides  the  approxi- 
mation in  real  conditions.  To  take  the 
most  visible  thing,  no  one  even  thinks 
of  building  either  the  palaces  or  the 
hovels  that  once  regularly  represented 
the  extremes.  The  hovels  are  abolished, 
the  palaces  are  being  abandoned,  the 
extremes  have  come  much  nearer  to- 
gether, and  the  same  process  is  going 
on  in  all  the  things  that  matter.  There 
has  been  a  great  diffusion  of  real  wealth 
in  comforts  and  conveniences,  a  great 
diffusion  of  knowledge  and  the  means 
of  self-improvement,  a  great  diffusion 
of  political  power  and  administrative 
functions.  Men  of  all  classes  meet  on 
level  terms  in  the  council  chamber  and 
on  the  magisterial  bench;  all  classes 
mingle  on  the  railway  platform,  where 
millionaires  not  infrequently  betake 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


409 


themselves  to  a  third-class,  labor  leaders 
to  a  first-class,  compartment. 

Everyday  life  teems  with  such  visible 
signs  of  the  tendency  toward  the  oblit- 
eration of  former  distinctions;  anyone 
who  looks  can  see  it.  Indeed,  it  is  so 
obvious  that  those  who  maintain  the 
obsolete  theory  of  a  widening  gulf  have 
to  close  their  eyes  to  avoid  seeing 
patent  facts. 

But  the  appetite  grows  with  what  it 
feeds  on.  Each  rise  in  the  standard  of 
living  and  social  status  becomes  a 
starting-point  for  a  further  advance, 
which  is  actively  entered  upon  when  a 
new  generation,  with  fresh  aspirations, 
has  gained  sufficient  strength,  by  the 
cumulative  effect  of  growing  up  while 
the  old  dies  off,  to  make  the  essay. 
This  is,  I  believe,  the  chief  explanation 
of  the  periodical  ferment. 

The  last  manifestation  began  in  1911, 
and  several  circumstances  combined  to 
give  it  a  special  character.  Trade  was 
rapidly  improving,  and  wage-earners, 
more  strongly  organized  than  ever  be- 
fore, and  more  conscious  of  strength, 
had  an  unanswerable  case  for  a  larger 
share  in  the  rising  prosperity;  for  prices 
had  been  going  up,  while  wages  were 
stationary.  By  the  formation  of  the 
political  Labor  Party,  ten  years  before, 
the  Socialist  element  had  joined  hands 
with  some  of  the  large  trade-unions 
and  had  exercised  increasing  influence 
in  the  joint  councils  of  the  party.  The 
remarkable  successes  of  labor  candi- 
dates in  the  general  election  of  1906, 
consolidated  in  those  of  1910,  had  given 
a  great  stimulus  to  the  movement  on 
the  political  side  and  inspired  it  with 
confidence. 

But  still  more  conducive  to  a  state 
of  active  ferment  was  the  spread  of  or- 
ganized revolutionary  propaganda,  and 
the  introduction  of  new  ideas,  about 
this  time  or  shortly  before,  —  industrial 
unionism,  syndicalism,  and  a  little 
later,  guild-socialism,  —  which  differed 


from  the  old  by  making  trade-unionism 
the  source,  and  not  merely  the  instru- 
ment, of  revolution. 

These  ideas  made  little  visible  im- 
pression at  the  time,  and  were  ridiculed 
by  the  advocates  of  State  Socialism,  to 
whom  they  were  obnoxious;  but  they 
struck  root  and  began  to  grow,  chiefly 
in  Scotland  and  South  Wales.  They 
were  a  leaven,  and  their  influence  is 
seen  in  the  marked  prominence  of  those 
areas  in  the  turmoil  during  and  since 
the  war.  In  1911,  however,  the  move- 
ment was  still  confined  to  the  old  trade- 
union  line  of  demanding  advances  of 
wages  and  allied  changes,  and  enforcing 
their  concession  by  strikes.  Employers, 
blind  to  the  new  strength  and  vigor  of 
the  unions,  adopted  the  fatal  policy  of 
refusing  legitimate  demands,  which 
they  could  well  afford  to  concede,  until 
a  strike  took  place,  and  then  promptly 
giving  way.  The  result  was  a  series  of 
strikes,  unprecedented  in  number  and 
magnitude,  and  for  the  most  part  suc- 
cessful, which  had  the  effect  of  still 
further  increasing  the  strength  and 
self-confidence  of  the  unions,  enhancing 
the  prestige  of  an  active  policy,  and 
embittering  the  relations  of  employers 
and  employer. 

There  is  always  a  see-saw  going  on 
between  industrial  and  political  action, 
each  having  the  ascendancy  in  turn. 
In  the  years  preceding  1911,  political 
action  was  in  the  ascendant,  but  it  had 
apparently  exhausted  its  potency,  and 
a  reaction  had  set  in,  which  prepared  the 
way  for  another  turn  with  the  industrial 
weapon.  The  striking  success  of  the 
latter  in  1911-12  led,  as  usual,  to  over- 
use and  reaction.  Strikes  were  still 
very  numerous  in  1913,  —  indeed,  they 
were  more  numerous,  —  but  they  were 
on  a  smaller  scale  and  did  not  last  so 
long. 

Then,  in  1914,  the  character  of  the 
conflict  began  to  change.  There  were 
indications  of  declining  trade,  many 


410 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


employers  were  awaiting  an  opportun- 
ity to  retaliate  for  the  squeezing  they 
had  undergone,  and  what  would  have 
followed  in  the  ordinary  course  was  a 
period  of  renewed  strife  on  the  opposite 
line  of  employers'  demands  and  work- 
mens'  resistance. 

This  is  the  background  to  the  present 
situation.  The  prospect  immediately 
preceding  the  war  was  one  of  declining 
trade  and  industrial  conflict,  waged 
with  stronger  forces  and  more  embit- 
tered feelings  than  before.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  period  of 
prosperity-strife  had  produced  other 
and  contrary  effects.  It  had  led  to  a 
better  appreciation  of  the  principle  of 
conciliation  and  to  the  development  of 
conciliation  machinery.  In  some  quar- 
ters the  relations  between  employers 
and  employed  had  improved,  and  this 
element  must  not  be  overlooked;  for  it, 
too,  plays  no  small  part  in  the  present 
situation.  Still,  the  outstanding  fea- 
tures of  the  industrial  position  before 
the  war  were  a  spirit  of  acute  antago- 
nism and  the  prospect  of  a  determined 
conflict,  in  which  the  trade-unions 
would  probably  have  had  the  worst  of 
the  encounter,  with  the  result  of  re- 
action against  the  industrial  weapon  and 
recourse  once  more  to  the  political. 

m 

Now  the  broad  effect  of  the  war  has 
been  to  reproduce  all  these  conditions 
on  a  higher  scale,  or  in  a  more  acute 
form,  together  with  the  complications 
introduced  by  government  control,  the 
break-up  of  international  economy,  the 
general  impoverishment,  and  other  ag- 
gravating circumstances.  The  economic 
process  just  outlined  was  short-cir- 
cuited, so  to  speak;  and  a  state  of  pros- 
perity was  restored  by  the  war-demands 
on  industry.  It  was  artificial,  of  course, 
paid  for  by  realizing  capital  assets  and 
mortgaging  the  future;  and  it  was  con- 


ditioned by  war-psychology.  But  the 
usual  influence  of  prosperity  on  the 
labor  market  was  rather  heightened 
than  modified  by  the  special  circum- 
stances, as  the  country  settled  down  to 
the  business  of  carrying  on  war  with  all 
its  strength.  The  demand  for  labor  re- 
vived, unemployment  diminished,  wages 
rose,  and  strikes  reappeared  after  some 
months  of  abeyance. 

This  movement  went  on  at  an  in- 
creasing pace  during  the  early  part  of 
1915;  but  it  was  not  until  July  of  that 
year  that  organized  labor  began  to  real- 
ize the  immense  strength  conferred  on 
it  by  the  emergency  of  war  in  indis- 
pensable industries. 

The  occasion  was  a  dispute  in  the 
South  Wales  coal-mining  district,  where 
feeling  between  employers  and  em- 
ployed was  already  much  strained,  and 
revolutionary  theories  had  for  some 
years  been  actively  propagated  among 
miners,  chiefly  by  the  agency  of  the 
Labor  College.  Originally  they  were  in 
the  right.  The  standing  agreement  was 
about  to  lapse,  and  they  asked  for  a 
new  one,  with  certain  advances.  The 
owners  boggled  and  put  them  off,  until 
the  general  mass  of  the  miners,  con- 
vinced that  they  were  being  tricked, 
became  exasperated  and  ripe  for  revolt, 
regardless  of  the  war. 

And  here  I  may  say  that  British 
workmen  never  did  believe  that  the 
Germans  had  any  chance  whatever  of 
winning,  until  their  complacency  was 
somewhat  shaken  by  the  advance  in 
the  spring  of  1918.  This  accounts  for 
their  apparent  indifference  to  the  effect 
of  strikes  upon  the  war:  it  was  not  due 
to  lack  of  patriotism,  but  to  compla- 
cency. I  found  it  out  by  going  among 
them  in  many  districts,  including 
South  Wales.  A  young  miner  there, 
whom  I  knew  personally,  told  me  that 
they  would  have  stopped  out  for  six 
months  rather  than  submit  to  injustice. 

'But  what  about  the  war,  then?' 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


411 


'Oh,  if  I  was  n't  at  work,  I  should 
join  the  army  and  fight.' 

They  never  thought  that  there  was 
any  real  danger  of  defeat,  and  conse- 
quently were  ready  to  accept  the  argu- 
ments pressed  on  them  by  revolution- 
aries, pacifists,  and  pro-Germans,  that 
every  compulsory  war-measure  was 
really  unnecessary,  and  that  the  war 
was  merely  an  excuse  for  the  subjection 
of  Labor  by  'Capitalism.'  This  belief 
was  fostered  by  the  ultra-patriotic, 
bombastic  prophets,  who  told  them 
week  by  week  that  the  Germans  were 
practically  beaten  and  that  wonderful 
events  would  shortly  happen.  They 
readily  believed  this  nonsense  because 
it  was  just  what  they  wanted  to  hear; 
and  it  played  into  the  hands  of  those 
engaged  in  promoting  trouble  for  their 
own  ends. 

In  this  mood  the  Welsh  miners  suc- 
cessfully defied  the  government  and  the 
law,  and  their  success  opened  the  door 
to  all  the  trouble  that  followed.  The 
trade-unions  learned  that  they  would 
get  nothing  unless  they  asserted  them- 
selves boldly,  but  that,  if  they  did,  they 
were  irresistible  and  could  coerce  the 
government.  Gradually  the  lesson  sank 
in  by  repeated  experience  in  the  three 
great  indispensable  industries  —  coal, 
railways,  and  engineering.  Employers 
fell  into  the  background  through  gov- 
ernment control,  and  the  hostility  of 
labor  was  transferred  from  them  to  the 
government,  which  inspired  distrust 
and  lost  authority  by  conceding  to 
force  what  it  refused  to  argument. 

This  policy  discredited  the  moderate 
trade-union  leaders  who  were  unwill- 
ing to  go  to  extremes  from  patriotic 
motives,  and  at  the  same  time  exalted 
the  temper  of  the  militant  wing.  The 
trade-unions  waxed  mightily  in  strength 
and  self-confidence;  unemployment  fell 
to  zero,  while  wages  rose  continually. 
It  has  very  often  been  asserted  that  the 
rise  of  wages  only  followed,  without 


overtaking,  the  rise  in  the  cost  of  living. 
That  is  doubtful,  but,  even  if  it  is  sta- 
tistically correct,  it  does  not  apply  to 
earnings,  which  increased  far  more 
through  overtime;  and  it  takes  no  ac- 
count of  family  incomes,  which  swelled 
out  of  all  proportion  through  the  un- 
limited demand  for  boys  and  girls  ?t 
very  high  wages. 

The  effect  of  all  this  was  a  general 
state  of  prosperity  never  dreamed  of 
before.  I  witnessed  it  myself  repeatedly 
in  all  the  large  centres;  and  the  unani- 
mous testimony  of  health-visitors,  dis- 
trict nurses,  midwives,  and  other  per- 
sons whose  duties  take  them  constantly 
into  the  poorest  homes,  confirmed  this 
impression  with  a  cumulative  mass  of 
detailed  evidence,  to  which  the  decline 
of  pauperism  gave  statistical  support. 
The  standard  of  living  was  visibly  and 
generally  raised  to  an  artificial  height, 
which  made  reversal  proportionately 
difficult  when  the  economics  of  war, 
carried  on  by  an  inflated  currency  and 
State  loans,  came  to  an  end.  The  people 
were  the  less  prepared  for  reversal  be- 
cause they  were  given  very  freely  to 
understand  that  the  conditions  of  life 
were  to  be  changed  all  round  for  the 
better  after  the  war.  The  nonsense 
about  'reconstruction,'  'a  land  fit  for 
heroes  to  live  in,'  and  similar  visionary 
promises  was  taken  seriously. 

Prosperity  did  not  produce  content- 
ment, because  popular  indignation  was 
continually  aroused  by  the  denuncia- 
tion of  'profiteering,'  which  was  held 
up  to  the  ignorant  by  the  ignorant  as 
the  sole  cause  of  high  prices.  This  put 
a  powerful  weapon  in  the  hands  of  so- 
cial-revolutionary agitators,  who  made 
the  most  of  it.  The  same  tendency 
was  promoted  within  the  trade-unions 
by  the  success  of  militant  tactics,  while 
the  self-importance  of  labor  leaders 
was  fostered  by  incessant  appeals,  con- 
sultations, flattery,  offers  of  minis- 
terial jobs,  and  other  marks  of  distino- 


412 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


tion.  The  theory  that  Labor  produces 
everything  and  ought  to  have  every- 
thing seemed  to  be  convincingly  dem- 
onstrated. 

The  ferment  was  further  increased 
by  the  new  theories  superimposed  on 
the  old  ones,  and  actively  spread  by 
young  intellectuals,  drawn  both  from 
the  trade-unions,  through  the  Labor 
College,  and  from  the  old  universities. 
Both  have  exercised  a  marked  influence : 
the  former  by  educating  young  work- 
men in  revolutionary  theory  and  tac- 
tics, the  latter  by  taking  up  the  man- 
tle of  Fabianism,  permeating  the  Labor 
movement  with  new  ideas,  supplying  it 
with  arguments,  and  guiding  its  action. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  in  the  excited 
state  of  mind  caused  by  the  topsy-tur- 
vydom  of  war,  the  feeling  that  society 
was  ripe  for  a  radical  transformation 
was  already  gaining  ground  in  1917, 
when  the  Russian  Revolution  occurred, 
and  seemed  to  realize  in  a  concrete  form 
the  half-conscious  aspirations  formed 
out  of  the  elements  I  have  indicated. 
A  miscellaneous  gathering  of  excited 
persons  was  hastily  arranged  in  the 
name  of  Labor,  and  it  was  resolved  to 
establish  Soviets  in  Great  Britain. 
Nothing  came  of  it,  but  this  incident  is 
significant  of  the  state  of  mind  then 
prevailing.  Things  had  got  out  of  focus. 
A  good  many  labor  men  had  lost  their 
heads,  and  others,  who  never  had  heads 
to  lose,  thought  their  time  had  come. 

The  Bolshevist  Revolution  followed 
and  increased  the  confusion;  it  sobered 
some,  but  deepened  the  intoxication  of 
others.  The  general  stir  going  on  in 
1917  was  further  marked  by  the  in- 
crease of  strikes,  journalistically  labeled 
'labor  unrest/  by  the  rise  of  the  Syn- 
dicalist shop-steward  movement,  and 
by  an  ambitious  reconstruction  of  the 
Labor  Party  which  was  widened  to  in- 
clude individual  members,  with  special 
facilities  for  the  admission  of  women. 
The  intellectual  element  was  formally 


recognized  by  the  phrase  'producers 
by  hand  or  by  brain,'  whom  the  party 
claimed  to  represent  'without  distinc- 
tion of  class  or  occupation.' 

IV 

My  excuse  for  recounting  all  this 
ancient  history  is  that  it  is  indispen- 
sable to  a  clear  understanding  and  a  bal- 
anced judgment  of  subsequent  events. 
I  have  cut  it  down  to  a  minimum,  but 
have  said  enough,  I  hope,  to  show  that 
trouble  was  inevitable  after  the  war, 
and  that  there  were  ample  grounds  for 
expecting  more  trouble  than  has  actu- 
ally occurred.  Any  reader  who  puts 
together  the  several  factors  I  have 
enumerated  can  see  how  greatly  the 
prospect  of  strife  impending  before  the 
war  had  been  enhanced.  The  trade- 
unions  had  been  schooled  in  it,  and  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  himself  had,  in  1917,  ad- 
vised them  to  be  'audacious'  in  de- 
manding an  after-war  settlement. 

My  comment  at  the  time  was  that 
the  advice  was  quite  superfluous,  and 
that  there  would  be  more  audacity 
than  he  would  like.  The  Left  Wing 
felt  that  revolution  was  in  the  air,  that 
the  trade-unions  were  attuned  to  their 
purpose  and  that  the  end  of  the  war 
would  leave  the  field  open  to  them  and 
to  class-war.  They  yearned  to  exchange 
external  for  internal  war,  and  the  Ar- 
mistice was  no  sooner  concluded  than 
they  raised  the  cry  —  '  Get  on  with  the 
only  war  that  really  matters  —  the 
class-war!'  Employers,  on  their  side, 
chafing  under  bureaucratic  control  and 
the  excess-profits  duty,  resentful  at  their 
treatment  by  the  Government,  which 
had  never  consulted  and  flattered  them 
as  it  had  the  Labor  side,  were  prepar- 
ing to  get  their  own  back. 

The  campaign  was  not  long  delayed: 
January,  1919,  saw  it  opened  by  the 
engineers  and  the  'Triple  Alliance,'  a 
combination  of  miners,  railwaymen, 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


413 


and  transport-workers,  which  had  been 
set  on  foot  in  1912,  after  the  general 
coal  strike,  and  fully  established  at  the 
end  of  1915.  All  came  forward  with 
large  demands,  behind  which  the  mili- 
tant revolutionaries  were  busy  stirring 
up  violence  whereby  they  hoped  to 
usher  in  the  revolution  they  believed  to 
be  imminent.  Every  pretext  was  seized 
upon,  and  every  sort  of  provocation 
brought  into  play,  to  stimulate  the 
class-war.  The  editor  has  relieved  me 
of  the  task  of  recounting  events  in  de- 
tail, and  it  will  be  enough  to  summarize 
them. 

The  year  1919  was  marked  by  a 
series  of  attempts  by  the  Left  Wing  to 
bring  matters  to  a  head,  and  they  met 
with  a  certain  measure  of  success.  On 
several  occasions  public  order  was 
threatened,  and  some  collisions  actu- 
ally occurred;  but  they  never  got  very 
far.  The  revolutionary  gun  went  off  at 
half-cock,  or  misfired,  every  time.  The 
public  remained  calm,  though  by  no 
means  indifferent,  while  the  trade- 
unions  refused  to  go  beyond  a  certain 
point  and  showed  a  general  disposition 
to  abide  by  constitutional  methods. 

The  views  held  at  this  time  by  ad- 
vanced, but  not  the  most  extreme,  men 
in  the  trade-union  movement  were  well 
expressed  by  Mr.  Cramp,  of  the  Rail- 
waymen's  Union,  at  the  annual  meet- 
ing of  the  society  at  Plymouth  in  June, 
1919.  'The  centre  of  gravity,'  he  said, 
'  is  passing  from  the  House  of  Commons 
to  the  headquarters  of  the  great  trade- 
unions.  .  .  .  While  social  in  outlook, 
our  ultimate  aim  is  the  control  of  in- 
dustry.' But  he  did  not  advocate  the 
forcible  seizure  of  control;  they  must 
first  fit  themselves  for  it  by  proper 
training.  I  do  not  think  the  ideas  of 
what  may  be  called  the  rational  revo- 
lutionary section  can  be  better  put. 

Commenting  on  Mr.  Cramp's  state- 
ment, the  moderate  Socialist  paper,  the 
Clarion,  contrasted  his  view  with  that 


of  the  'hot-heads,'  who  'believe  that 
they  are  fully  qualified  now,  immediate- 
ly, to  take  control  of  the  mines,  the  rail- 
ways, the  shipyards,  the  factories,  the 
government  of  the  country  and  the 
management  of  our  international  af- 
fairs. In  this  conceit  of  ignorance  lies 
the  danger  of  the  troubled  time.  The 
wild  men  are  using  all  devices  of  incite- 
ment —  not  excepting  a  plentiful  sup- 
ply of  lying  —  to  prompt  them  to  in- 
stant revolt.' 

They  tried  it,  as  I  have  said,  on 
several  occasions,  but  always  failed. 
Success  depended  on  the  amount  of 
support  they  could  command  from  the 
general  body  of  men  concerned,  and  in 
every  case  the  test  of  actual  experiment 
proved  that,  though  they  had  enough 
influence  to  start  trouble,  they  had  not 
enough  to  carry  it  through.  And  each 
successive  failure  weakened  such  influ- 
ence as  they  had  and  strengthened  the 
forces  of  sobriety. 

This  is  what  I  mean  by  saying  that 
the  prospect  has  improved  as  each  cor- 
ner has  been  turned.  To  observers  at  a 
distance,  it  may  appear  that  the  state  of 
things  here  has  progressively  worsened. 
On  the  surface,  it  has  perhaps  done  so. 
The  last  three  months  have  been  econo- 
mically the  worst  we  have  experienced. 
They  have  been  a  climax,  the  severest 
crisis  we  have  yet  gone  through;  but 
the  more  decisive  by  reason  of  its 
severity.  And  the  issue  confirms  what 
I  wish  to  assert  with  all  the  emphasis 
at  my  command,  namely,  that  super- 
ficial appearances  are  deceptive,  and 
that  under  the  surface  things  have 
steadily  improved. 

The  set-back  of  the  revolutionary 
Left  Wing  is  only  part  of  the  story; 
but  before  going  on  to  other  considera- 
tions, I  will  finish  what  I  have  to  say  on 
that  head. 

The  organizations  and  agencies  rep- 
resenting the  Left  Wing  are  many 
hi  number  and  varied  in  complexion,  but 


414 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


only  two  exercise  any  serious  influence 
on  workmen,  and  both  of  them  have 
arisen  within  the  trade-unions.  They 
are  the  Labor  College,  at  which  young 
trade-unionists  are  schooled  in  Marxian 
economics  and  sent  out  to  spread  those 
doctrines  among  their  fellows,  and  the 
Shop-Stewards'  Movement.  The  form- 
er is  an  active  and  vigorous  institution, 
started  in  1909,  and  it  has  produced  a 
number  of  young  trade-union  leaders, 
who  have  become  prominent  in  recent 
years.  It  operates  chiefly  among  min- 
ers in  South  Wales  and  Scotland,  where 
the  gospel  according  to  Saint  Marx  is 
taking  the  place  of  the  old  teaching 
among  a  temperamentally  religious 
people.  Its  influence  has  been  con- 
spicuous in  the  incessant  turmoil  in 
the  mining  industry,  culminating  in 
the  great  dispute  of  this  year;  but  the 
termination  of  the  conflict  marked  the 
limits  of  its  sway,  previously  weakened 
by  the  breakdown  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 
In  both  of  these  crucial  cases  the  plain 
sense  of  English  workmen  asserted  it- 
self against  the  adventurous  policy  of 
the  Left  Wing;  and  that  fact  is  symp- 
tomatic of  the  present  general  trend  of 
events. 

The  Shop-Stewards'  Movement  op- 
erates chiefly  among  engineers  and 
ship-yard  workers.  Led  by  revolution- 
aries, it  is  an  attempt  to  turn  an  old 
trade-union  institution  to  revolution- 
ary purposes.  The  Clyde  is  its  home 
and  headquarters,  but  it  has  been  car- 
ried by  traveling  agents  to  many  cen- 
tres. Its  constructive  aim  is  not  clearly 
defined,  but  it  is  rather  Syndicalist  or 
Guildist  than  Socialist,  especially  among 
electrical  engineers,  though  some  pro- 
minent leaders  profess  Communism. 
But  here  too  the  revolutionary  influ- 
ence has  been  waning,  through  the 
failure  of  several  abortive  demonstra- 
tions, the  general  economic  situation, 
and  the  leaden  weight  of  unemploy- 
ment. 


As  for  the  political  organizations, 
those  that  have  drawn  their  inspiration 
from  Moscow  and  pinned  their  faith  to 
Bolshevism  are  sinking,  with  its  failure, 
into  insignificance.  They  never  had 
any  hold  over  the  general  body  of  work- 
men, who  have  no  use  for  revolution 
or  the  '  dictatorship  of  the  proletariat ' ; 
and  since  the  visit  of  members  of  the 
Labor  Party  to  Russia  in  1920,  Bol- 
shevism has  gradually,  but  steadily  and 
perceptibly,  dropped  into  general  dis- 
favor in  official  trade-union  circles, 
which  once  coquetted  with  it.  The  de- 
cisive refusal  of  the  Labor  Party  to  ad- 
mit Communists,  in  June  last,  put  the 
seal  on  a  long  series  of  rebuffs;  for  the 
Labor  Party  is  more  revolutionary  in 
complexion  than  the  trade-unions, 
which  furnish  the  most  solid  and  sober 
part  of  it. 

The  same  tendency  is  seen  in  the 
gradual  dropping  of  'direct  action/ 
or  the  attempt  to  dictate  the  public 
policy  by  such  labor-organizations  as 
the  Triple  Alliance  and  the  Trade-Union 
Congress,  which  was  much  in  evidence 
in  1919  and  1920,  when  it  was  believed 
that  the  '  centre  of  gravity  was  passing 
from  the  House  of  Commons  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  great  trade-unions.' 
The  'Council  of  Action,'  a  self-con- 
stituted and  irresponsible  junta  of  per- 
sons overconscious  of  their  own  im- 
portance and  wire-pulled  from  Moscow, 
never  did  anything  but  talk,  and  has 
quietly  faded  into  oblivion.  All  that 
Bolshevism  has  achieved  here  is  dis- 
cussion among  Socialists. 

In  short,  the  traditional  sobriety  of 
British  workmen  has  been  steadily  vin- 
dicating itself,  all  through  the  alarums 
and  excursions  of  this  trying  time.  In 
the  end,  it  has  always  carried  the  day. 
The  great  coal  dispute  is  the  culminat- 
ing demonstration  of  its  slow-working 
but  massive  influence.  I  do  not  mean 
merely  the  termination,  in  which  the 
moderate  element  signally  defeated 


THE  LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


415 


the  extreme,  but  in  the  very  demands  of 
the  Federation,  and  still  more  in  the 
conduct  of  the  dispute.  The  demands, 
and  the  tone  in  which  they  were  made, 
present  a  striking  contrast  to  those  em- 
ployed on  previous  occasions.  Instead 
of  claims  for  ever  more  pay,  less  work, 
and  revolutionary  changes,  put  forward 
in  imperative  language,  the  Federation 
presented  a  reasoned  case  for  modi- 
fying the  proposed  reduction  of  wages 
universally  admitted  to  be  excessive 
and  inequitable.  The  policy  of  ruining 
the  pits,  advocated  by  the  Welsh  and 
Scottish  Left  Wing,  was  defeated,  and 
the  whole  three  months  of  idleness  and 
privation  passed  without  the  slightest 
disorder,  save  for  two  or  three  trifling 
incidents.  Could  that  have  happened 
anywhere  else? 


But  there  is  another  and  a  positive 
side  to  the  story.  It  would  be  a  great 
mistake  to  infer  from  the  failure  of  revo- 
lutionary plans  and  the  subsidence  into 
a  calmer  atmosphere  that  the  Labor 
movement  is  falling  back  into  the  old 
rut  and  yielding  to  reactionary  influ- 
ences. Not  at  all.  It  is  moving  for- 
ward steadily  and  massively,  after  its 
wont.  On  the  side  of  employers  and 
capitalists  there  has  been  a  correspond- 
ing struggle  between  the  Right  and 
Left  wings;  the  Right  Whig  of  modera- 
tion and  acceptance  of  change,  the 
Left  Wing  of  dogged  resistance  and 
pugnacity;  and  in  this  case,  too,  the 
Left  Wing  is  being  defeated.  The  revo- 
lutionary press  talks  much  of  a  grand 
conspiracy  against  Labor  and  a  plot 
to  smash  trade-unionism,  just  as  the 
reactionary  press  talks  of  Bolshevist 
plots  and  a  conspiracy  to  overthrow 
society  and  smash  the  British  Empire. 
There  is  as  much,  and  as  little,  in  the 
one  cry  as  in  the  other.  There  are  reac- 
tionary employers  who  would  like  to 
smash  trade-unionism  and  reduce  work- 


men to  a  state  of  subjection;  and  Bol- 
shevist aims,  which  have  never  been 
concealed,  have  been  furthered  by 
much  underground  intriguing.  But 
neither  are  succeeding.  These  fears  are 
out  of  date  on  both  sides.  There  is  no 
substance  in  them,  and  the  campaign  is 
kept  up  only  by  the  ammunition  which 
each  supplies  to  the  other. 

The  truth  is  that  the  relations  of  em- 
ployers and  employed  are  undergoing 
a  radical  transformation,  which  amounts 
to  a  revolution,  peacefully  and  gradu- 
ally accomplished.  Once  more  the 
British  —  or  perhaps  I  should  say  the 
English  —  people  are  displaying  that 
genius  for  stability  in  change,  for  move- 
ment without  losing  balance,  which 
has  carried  them  safely  through  so 
many  revolutionary  periods  in  the  past. 
I  confess  that  I  hardly  expected  it,  so 
great  was  the  turmoil  and  excitement 
at  one  time;  but  now  I  plainly  see  it  go- 
ing on.  A  test  of  extreme  severity  has 
been  imposed  by  the  artificial  pros- 
perity and  demoralization  due  to  war- 
conditions  and  government  control, 
followed  by  the  difficult  process  of  un- 
winding the  chain,  and,  finally,  by  the 
unprecedented  depression  of  trade,  en- 
tailing unemployment  on  a  scale  never 
heard  of  before  and  reductions  of  wages 
all  round. 

But  the  country  is  standing  the  test 
with  increasing  sureness.  This  has  not 
been  visible  on  the  surface,  because 
only  one  side  of  the  account  is  presented 
to  the  public.  Newspapers  devote  their 
space  to  the  exciting,  not  the  humdrum 
events,  and  foreign  correspondents  are 
particularly  bound  by  this  law.  They 
report  strikes,  disagreements,  and  dis- 
turbances, but  say  nothing  —  indeed, 
know  nothing  —  of  the  peaceful  pro- 
ceedings and  the  far  greater  mass  of 
disputes  avoided. 

To  deal  adequately  with  this  side  of 
the  case  would  take  a  whole  article; 
I  can  treat  it  only  summarily  here. 


416  THE   LABOR  SITUATION  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


During  the  present  year  reductions  of 
wages  affecting  some  five  million  wage- 
earners,  distributed  over  nearly  all  the 
chief  industries,  have  been  arranged  in 
the  great  majority  of  cases  without  any 
rupture.  They  have  been  effected  by 
three  different  methods:  (1)  sliding 
scales  in  accordance  with  cost  of  living; 
(2)  sliding  scales  in  accordance  with 
selling  price;  (3)  negotiations  between 
employers  and  trade-unions. 

1.  The  Labor  Gazette  (official)  for  De- 
cember last  gave  a  list  of  twenty-four 
industries  having  a  cost-of-living  slid- 
ing scale,  and  I  have  a  further  list  of 
sixteen.    The  most  important  groups 
are    railwaymen,    textile    workers    of 
many  kinds,  dyers  and  cleaners,  police, 
government   and    municipal    services, 
civil  engineering. 

2.  The  most  important  industry  ap- 
plying the  selling-price  method  of  ad- 
justment is  iron  and  steel,  in  which 
reductions  ranging  from  7|  to  20  per 
cent  have  taken  place,  affecting  about 
125,000  persons. 

3.  Arrangement  by  negotiation  has 
been  effected  in  ship-building,  building, 
mercantile  marine,  cotton,  engineering, 
coal,  and  many  other  smaller  groups. 

Several  principles  of  the  first  im- 
portance have  emerged  from  this  time 
of  stress,  greatly  strengthened  and  ex- 
tended. I  place  conciliation  by  joint 
committees  of  employers  and  employed 
in  the  forefront.  Long  established  and 
well  tried  in  a  purely  voluntary  form, 
it  was  advancing  in  favor  and  useful- 
ness before  the  war;  but  the  Whitley 
Inquiry  of  1919  resulted  in  a  great  ex- 
tension of  this  principle.  Under  the 
Industrial  Court  Act,  70  joint  councils 
have  been  set  up,  and  140  district  coun- 
cils, where  single  boards  existed  before. 

Most  of  them  have  been  active  and 
efficient.  The  same  act  conferred  pow- 
ers of  intervention  on  the  Ministry  of 
Labor  by  three  methods:  (1)  Concilia- 
tion; (2)  Arbitration;  (3)  Investigation. 


During  1920  the  Ministry  settled  904 
cases:  265  by  negotiation,  633  by  arbi- 
tration and  six  by  inquiry.  This  work 
proceeds  almost  unnoticed. 

I  must  be  content  to  mention  two 
other  highly  important  principles  —  a 
minimum  statutory  wage,  and  insur- 
ance against  unemployment.  Both 
have  been  greatly  extended.  But  of 
greater  significance  than  any  of  these 
more  or  less  mechanical  institutions  is 
a  change  of  attitude  which  has  set  in 
among  employers.  They  have  begun 
to  take  a  new  view  of  the  wage-earners 
and  to  accord  them  a  different  position. 
The  idea  has  dawned  that  they  are 
really  partners  in  a  cooperative  enter- 
prise. It  is  not  profit-sharing,  or  even 
copartnership  in  the  old  sense,  but  a 
new  conception  of  the  true  relationship. 
It  has  not  got  very  far  and  is  not  yet 
clearly  perceived,  but  I  see  it  emerging. 
Employers  are  beginning  to  take  their 
men  systematically  into  consultation, 
and  to  give  them  an  interest  in  the 
common  enterprise.  It  takes  different 
forms  in  different  conditions,  but  the 
spirit  is  the  main  thing. 

The  scheme  proposed  by  coal-owners, 
which  was  accepted  before  the  stoppage 
and  is  the  basis  of  the  new  agreement, 
illustrates  the  spirit.  Mr.  Hodges,  the 
miners'  secretary,  has  called  it  the  most 
far-reaching  proposal  made  in  modern 
industry.  It  provides  for  a  standard 
minimum  wage,  as  the  first  charge  on 
the  industry;  then  for  a  standard  profit 
bearing  a  fixed  relation  to  the  aggre- 
gate of  wages,  and  after  that,  for  the 
division  of  further  profits  in  fixed  pro- 
portions. It  is  not  so  much  profit-shar- 
ing as  product-sharing,  which  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  the  true  idea;  and 
the  ascertainment  of  the  amounts  by  a 
joint  audit  of  the  books  is  a  recognition 
of  partnership  rights. 

It  is  in  this  direction  that  the  solu- 
tion of  our  most  difficult  industrial 
problem  is  to  be  found  —  the  problem 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  ABOUT  COAL? 


of  output  or  working  efficiency.  The 
worst  effect  of  war-conditions  and  gov- 
ernment control  has  been  to  foster  and 
fix  the  habit  of  restricted  output  and 
slack  work.  The  blame  for  it  rests  pri- 
marily on  employers,  and  it  was  bad 
enough  before  the  war;  but  it  is  far  worse 
now,  and  more  responsible  for  the  ex- 
cessive cost  of  production,  which  has 
ruined  our  market,  than  high  wage- 
rates.  It  is  up  to  employers  to  cure  it 
by  a  large-minded  —  in  effect  a  revo- 
lutionary —  change  of  attitude,  which 
will  give  wage-earners  a  new  status,  a 
new  interest,  and  a  new  responsibility. 
There  are  serious  obstacles.  The  first 
is  the  old  evil  tradition.  A  typical  dis- 
contented but  not  revolutionary  work- 
man said  to  me  lately:  'The  employers 


417 

are  changing  their  attitude,  but  it  is  too 
late.'  No,  it  is  not  too  late,  if  the  old 
tradition  is  sincerely,  consciously,  and 
purposefully  abandoned.  Here  lies  the 
danger  of  reactionary  employers,  who 
are  the  second  obstacle.  They  will  play 
into  the  hands  of  the  theoretical  system- 
mongers,  who  will  seek  to  undermine 
and  break  up  good  relations  and  pro- 
mote strife  by  every  means  in  their 
power.  These  are  the  third  obstacle. 
But  they  will  have  little  power,  if  the 
enlightened  employers  are  sincere  and 
steadfast,  and  if  they  deal  firmly  with 
their  reactionary  colleagues. 

This  is  the  way  things  are  moving 
and  will  move,  because  they  must.  A 
revolution  is  in  progress,  but  a  peaceful 
and  practical  one. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  ABOUT  COAL? 


BY  ARTHUR  E.   SUFFERN 


THE  controversy  between  the  sena- 
tors sponsoring  legislation  affecting  the 
coal-industry  and  the  National  Coal 
Association  again  calls  attention  to  the 
imperious  nature  of  this  question.  If 
every  voter  in  the  United  States  had 
at  one  time  or  another  visited  a  coal- 
mine, we  should  be  in  a  better  position 
to  visualize  some  of  the  problems  in  the 
coal-industry.  Such  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  conditions  of  the  industry 
would  make  it  easier  to  obtain  a  com- 
prehensive treatment  of  the  problem 
before  Congress.  However,  a  know- 
ledge of  the  technical  process  of  produc- 
tion will  not  be  sufficient.  An  under- 
standing of  the  inter-relationships  of 
all  the  important  factors  affecting  the 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  S 


industry  is  necessary.  Not  until  we  see 
concretely  the  technical  elements  of  the 
problem  and  the  importance  of  the  in- 
ter-relationship between  mining,  trans- 
portation, and  the  consumption  of  coal, 
shall  we  have  a  sufficient  general  appre- 
ciation of  the  complications  of  the  coal- 
industry  to  formulate  an  intelligent 
public  policy. 

A  strike  of  the  miners  demanding  a 
30-hour  week  and  earnings  that  will  en- 
able them  to  live  during  the  year  seems 
arbitrary  and  absurd  to  most  people. 
But  they  dismiss  the  matter  without  in- 
quiring into  the  conditions  that  have 
occasioned  such  demands.  Those  who 
take  the  trouble  to  analyze  the  prob- 
lem will  find  that  the  miners  are  at- 


418 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  ABOUT  COAL? 


tempting  to  control,  in  a  very  inade- 
quate way,  circumstances  that  properly 
belong  to  the  public.  In  fact,  the  min- 
ers seek  to  do  the  same  thing  we  all  do, 
that  is,  use  collective  effort  to  control 
forces  and  conditions  too  strong  and  ad- 
verse for  the  individual.  In  this  case 
these  forces  and  conditions  are  beyond 
the  control  of  either  the  miners  or  the 
operators,  or  both  combined. 

The  industry  has  been  idle  on  the 
average  ninety-three  working-days  dur- 
ing the  year  for  the  last  thirty  years. 
This  means  that  owners,  miners,  and 
consumers  have  been  paying  a  heavy 
bill  for  waste  and  inefficiency.  We  are 
just  beginning  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
waste  through  idleness  of  capital  and 
labor  in  all  industries.  The  World  War 
demonstrated  to  modern  nations  some 
of  their  latent  possibilities  when  they 
attempted  to  attain  full  productive 
power.  And  this  proved  important 
solely  in  connection  with  the  use  of 
existing  equipment.  A  consideration  of 
full  productive  power  does  not  stop 
with  existing  equipment.  It  takes  into 
account  the  fruits  of  new  invention  and 
better  organization. 

Coal-mining  was  one  of  the  first  of 
the  basic  industries  to  find  out  what  it 
meant  to  run  to  full  capacity.  It  meant 
glutted  markets  for  coal.  This  was  be- 
cause the  industry  was  not  properly  or- 
ganized, and  coordinated  with  other  in- 
dustries. Since  competitive  gain  was 
the  dominant  motive,  anybody  who 
owned  coal-lands  could  open  a  mine  and 
produce  coal  for  the  market.  The  re- 
sult has  been  over-investment  in  peri- 
ods of  prosperity,  and  a  full  productive 
capacity  far  beyond  the  needs  of  the 
country.  This  factor,  along  with  sea- 
sonal demand  and  inadequate  storage 
facilities,  has  made  it  impossible  to 
maintain  continuity  of  production.  No 
element  in  the  problem  is  more  impor- 
tant than  this.  But  no  move  (except  in 
the  anthracite  field)  has  ever  been  made 


to  cope  with  the  over-expansion  of  min- 
ing capacity.  Various  estimates  place 
this  at  from  19  to  33  per  cent  during 
the  last  five  years.  A  proper  balan- 
cing of  mining  capacity  with  our  coun- 
try's needs  is  necessary  to  the  conserv- 
ation of  our  resources,  to  any  attempt 
to  maintain  steady  production,  to  efforts 
to  relieve  the  railroads  of  unreasonable 
demands  upon  their  facilities,  and  to 
the  encouragement  of  improvements  in 
technical  processes. 

The  stage  of  efficiency  in  technical 
process  in  the  industry  is  said  by  pro- 
duction engineers  to  be  on  a  par  with 
an  attempt  to  raise  wheat  by  digging 
the  soil  with  a  spade.  This  is  needless, 
because  adequate  mechanical  equip- 
ment can  easily  be  had.  But  the  owners 
who  seek  to  provide  such  equipment 
and  operate  under  different  mining 
methods  are  immediately  faced  by  the 
conditions  established  by  the  most 
wasteful  competitive  exploitation.  Such 
equipment  used  in  conjunction  with  the 
'long-wall'  system  would  force  conserv- 
atism in  opening  mines,  would  involve 
longer  waiting  for  returns  on  invest- 
ment, and  would  necessitate  a  coordina- 
tion between  the  coal-industry,  trans- 
portation facilities,  factory  fuel-needs, 
and  household  consumers'  demands, 
which,  as  yet,  is  little  appreciated. 

Much  criticism  has  been  directed  to- 
ward the  railroads  in  recent  years,  for 
their  failure  to  furnish  sufficient  cars  to 
the  mines.  It  may  be  readily  granted 
that  there  has  been  failure  to  make  the 
best  use  of  car-equipment  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, both  during  the  govern- 
ment administration  and  during  pri- 
vate control  of  the  railroads.  But  a 
more  significant  matter  in  relation  to 
the  transportation  of  coal  is  the  legal  re- 
quirements on  the  railroads  for  service. 
Another  factor  of  equal  importance  is 
the  physical  impossibility  of  making 
railroads  keep  pace  with  all  the  vagaries 
of  investment,  arbitrary  operation  of 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  ABOUT  COAL? 


419 


mines,  and  the  whims  of  the  consuming 
public. 

The  railroads  are  compelled  by  law 
to  furnish  cars  to  any  concern  opening 
a  coal-mine  which  can  easily  be  con- 
nected by  a  switch.  The  more  mines 
there  are  to  be  served,  the  more  difficult 
the  problem  of  allotting  the  existing 
cars  and  meeting  the  demands  of  trans- 
portation. Consumers  complicate  the 
situation  still  further  by  their  seasonal 
demand,  and  by  promiscuous  purchas- 
ing, which  involves  much  cross-haul- 
ing. The  Fuel  Administration  saved 
160,000,000  car-miles  a  year  by  a  zon- 
ing system,  and  enabled  the  existing 
car-equipment  to  make  300,000  addi- 
tional trips.  To  force  railroad  invest- 
ment in  car-equipment  to  keep  pace 
with  the  opening  of  an  increasing  num- 
ber of  unnecessary  mines,  is  a  decidedly 
wasteful  process.  It  is  quite  as  waste- 
ful for  consumers  to  insist  upon  a 
car-equipment  to  meet  unreasonable 
demands. 

If  the  high  prices  for  coal  in  the  last 
few  years  shall  make  consumers  more 
responsive  to  measures  of  relief  over 
which  they  have  control,  a  very  useful 
purpose  will  have  been  served.  It  is 
now  known  that  coals  most  subject  to 
deterioration  and  spontaneous  combus- 
tion can  be  stored  successfully  on  a 
large  scale.  Moreover,  production  en- 
gineers say  that  10  to  15  cents  per  ton 
is  a  liberal  estimate  of  the  cost  of  put- 
ting coal  in  and  taking  it  out  of  stock,  if 
the  process  is  well  organized  and  the 
best  equipment  is  used. 

Storage  at  the  point  of  consumption 
would  immediately  affect  the  continu- 
ity of  production,  relieve  railroad  con- 
gestion, and  permit  more  efficient  use 
of  railway  equipment.  This  practice, 
supplemented  by  a  policy  of  'buying 
early,'  would  enable  the  whole  process 
of  distribution  of  local  supply  to  be  or- 
ganized in  a  way  to  reduce  the  expense 
to  the  minimum. 


To  direct  the  expansion  of  mining 
capacity,  to  change  technical  processes 
in  production,  to  distribute  and  use 
railway  facilities  properly,  to  encourage 
local  storage  and  better  distribution  of 
the  supply,  will  require  a  form  and  de- 
gree of  control  over  the  industry  as 
a  whole  which,  as  yet,  has  not  been 
considered  seriously.  Mere  publicity 
through  investigation,  record-keeping, 
and  reports  may  be  designated  as  the 
loosest  form  of  control.  In  so  far  as  it 
would  give  an  adequate  factual  founda- 
tion for  considering  conditions  in  the 
coal-industry,  it  would  serve  a  useful 
purpose.  It  will  undoubtedly  be  fol- 
lowed by  an  attempt  to  deal  with  waste 
and  inefficiency.  The  greatest  degree 
of  control  is  put  forth  by  advocates  of 
'nationalization.'  They  rest  their  case 
on  the  assumption  of  the  priority  of  the 
public  welfare  over  all  other  interests. 
Furthermore,  they  found  their  pro- 
gramme upon  what  the  best  production 
engineers  in  many  countries  say  we 
should  do  in  dealing  with  the  industry 
according  to  the  best-known  science  at 
our  command.  It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  a  form  of  control  in  between 
these  extremes  can  be  had,  and  whether 
it  would  enable  us  to  conserve  our  re- 
sources and  to  reorganize  the  industry. 

Some  who  are  versed  in  constitutional 
law  are  of  the  opinion  that  a  basis  of 
control  could  be  obtained  through  a  law 
extending  the  Federal  powers  to  license 
businesses.  The  question  may  be 
raised,  whether  this  power  would  prove 
effective  enough  to  determine  when  new 
mines  should  be  opened,  to  enforce  the 
exploitation  of  the  thick  veins  or  the 
thin  veins,  and  the  best  grades  or  low 
grades  of  coal  to  suit  our  needs,  to  re- 
quire the  recovery  of  the  maximum  per- 
centage of  coal  at  the  minimum  of  ex- 
pense, to  control  technical  processes  and 
the  use  of  equipment,  to  standardize 
and  enforce  accounting,  to  regulate  dis- 
tribution, to  standardize  coal  according 


420 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  ABOUT  COAL? 


to  quality,  to  deal  with  wages  and  con- 
ditions of  labor,  and  to  provide  for  ade- 
quate cooperation  between  managers 
and  workers. 

The  mere  enumeration  of  these  fac- 
tors forces  the  attention  upon  matters 
with  which  we  shall  have  to  deal.  A 
process  of  mining  that  leaves  from  20 
to  50  per  cent  of  the  coal  in  the  ground 
cannot  long  be  condoned.  Shoveling 
600,000,000  tons  of  coal  into  mine-cars 
by  hand,  at  a  cost  of  89  cents  per  ton, 
when  it  can  be  done  by  loading  ma- 
chines at  a  very  small  expense,  is  as 
primitive  as  digging  the  soil  with  a 
spade.  To  continue  a  method  of  mining 
by  '  rooms '  permits  of  little  use  of  ma- 
chinery, whereas  the  'long-wall'  sys- 
tem is  favorable  to  the  use  of  machin- 
ery and  larger  mine-cars,  recovers  the 
maximum  percentage  of  coal,  and  is 
conducive  to  safety  in  the  industry. 

The  investigations  of  the  Federal 
Trade  Commission  and  the  Fuel  Ad- 
ministration into  costs  demonstrates 
that  one  of  the  best  things  that  could 
happen  to  the  coal-industry  would  be 
an  introduction  to  adequate  and  de- 
pendable record-keeping.  The  existing 
powers  of  regulation  over  transporta- 
tion could  easily  be  extended  to  supple- 
ment a  policy  of  conservation,  and  en- 
courage localities  to  provide  storage 
and  regularize  their  demands.  To  con- 
tinue to  permit  the  buying  and  selling 
of  coal  without  a  classification  accord- 
ing to  quality  is  to  perpetuate  a  disad- 
vantage both  to  the  producer  and  to 
the  consumer.  Wherever  commodities 
have  been  graded  and  standardized,  the 
producer  profits  by  the  sale  of  a  supe- 
rior article,  and  the  purchaser  is  pro- 
tected against  misrepresentation. 

In  the  case  of  coal,  as  in  general  with 
all  industries,  the  last  factor  in  the  in- 
dustry to  receive  careful  consideration 
is  the  human  one.  The  production  en- 
gineers seem  to  be  the  only  people  who 


have  caught  the  meaning  of  the  vision 
of  bringing  three  fourths  of  a  million  of 
men  out  of  underground  work.  Not 
only  would  it  mean  the  release  of  an  im- 
mense labor-power  that  could  be  profit- 
ably diverted  to  other  employment,  but 
proper  organization  and  technical  equip- 
ment would  give  those  remaining  in 
the  industry  better  wages  and  work- 
ing conditions.  The  vista  of  increasing- 
ly harmonious  relationships  between 
capital  and  labor  in  the  industry  would 
be  considerably  widened  by  such  a 
development. 

One  thing  is  certain :  we  shall  make  a 
choice  in  connection  with  the  present 
problem.  Either  we  shall  seek  adequate 
powers  and  procedure  for  regulation,  or 
we  shall  permit  the  waste  and  ineffi- 
ciency to  continue.  But  we  shall  ulti- 
mately face  conditions  in  both  anthra- 
cite and  bituminous  fields  which  will 
compel  a  policy  of  regulation.  Both 
wasteful,  competitive  exploitation  and 
concentration  of  ownership  and  mo- 
nopoly will  lead  to  the  same  result.  Each 
entails  a  consequence  which  will  force 
control  in  the  interest  of  public  wel- 
fare. If  this  is  true,  all  parties  concerned 
—  owners,  workers,  railroads,  manufac- 
turers, and  household  consumers  — 
could  do  no  better  than  agree  upon  and 
work  for  a  plan  of  industrial  control 
founded  upon  adequate  sovereign  pow- 
ers and  enforced  through  effective 
organization. 

It  should  be  entirely  reasonable  to 
suggest  that  a  nation  depending  increas- 
ingly upon  power  and  industries  for 
growth  and  progress  should  turn  to  the 
use  of  technical  equipment  and  organi- 
zation to  conserve  its  resources.  More- 
over, consumers  depending  altogether 
upon  coal  for  power,  warmth,  and  health 
will  ultimately  demand  an  effective  ba- 
sis of  control  to  meet  these  needs,  re- 
gardless of  the  obstacles  that  may  now 
seem  to  hinder  its  attainment. 


TAKING  FROM  THE  FEW  FOR  THE  MANY 


BY  RUSSELL  ROBB 


IT  is  easy  for  the  public  to  destroy 
the  value  of  private  property;  it  is  even 
easy  for  the  public  to  take  property 
away  from  the  individual;  but  it  seems 
extremely  difficult  for  the  public  to 
take  property,  or  its  value,  away  from 
individuals,  and  at  the  same  time  in- 
crease the  public's  possessions. 

One  difficulty  seems  to  be  that  the 
mere  taking  away  so  upsets  confidence, 
or  the  equilibrium  of  social  organiza- 
tion, that  either  the  value  of  the  thing 
taken  disappears  or  some  new  burden 
or  privation  arises  which  quite  offsets 
the  value  of  the  takings.  It  seems,  in 
other  words,  to  change  the  conditions 
that  produced  the  value  of  the  proper- 
ty taken,  and  also  the  conditions  that 
produce  new  value  for  the  public. 

In  very  bald  confiscation  it  is  seen  that 
often  very  little  value  rests  in  things 
by  themselves.  A  thing  has  value  only 
when  there  are  joined  with  it  the  per- 
sons who  are  to  enjoy  and  use  it,  and 
also  the  conditions  and  opportunities 
that  make  enjoyment  and  use  possible. 

The  loot  of  the  mobs  in  Russia  had 
great  value  while  the  old  regime  was  in 
power,  but  the  value  depended  prin- 
cipally upon  the  old  social  conditions. 
When  the  social  condition  changed,  and 
the  looting  was  a  symptom  and  a  result 
of  the  change,  many  of  the  articles 
taken  immediately  lost  their  value.  It 
was  easy  to  take  the  objects,  but  noth- 
ing of  value  was  added  to  the  public 
possessions.  Ball-dresses  have  value 
where  there  are  balls,  but  are  of  little 
use  otherwise.  Statuary,  pictures,  fine 
furniture  and  hangings  are  valuable  if 


there  are  fine  houses,  with  owners  who 
want  such  things;  but  their  value  dis- 
appears with  the  disappearance  of  the 
conditions  that  make  enjoyment  and 
use  of  such  property  possible. 

Until  the  rise  of  Bolshevism  and  its 
sympathizers  and  apologists,  it  seemed 
as  if  only  the  most  elemental  minds 
could  imagine  that  anything  was  to  be 
gained  by  the  public  through  such  raw 
confiscation  as  has  happened  in  Russia; 
but  attempts  have  been  made  even  in 
this  country  to  destroy  value  or  take 
away  property  by  more  indirect  meth- 
ods. Often  it  has  been  thought  that 
something  could  be  gained  for  the  many 
by  taking  away  from  the  few;  but  the 
public  benefit  seems  always  to  shrink 
far  below  the  value  that  is  taken  from 
the  individual,  and  usually  both  lose 
through  the  effort. 

For  a  long  time,  for  instance,  the  pub- 
lic was  deluded  into  thinking  that  any- 
thing that  could  be  taken  away  from 
the  railroads,  street-railroads,  lighting 
companies,  and  other  public-service 
corporations  was  pure  gain  for  the  pub- 
lic. They  succeeded,  it  is  true,  in  taking 
enormous  value  away  from  the  utilities, 
but  the  value  was  not  transferred  to 
the  public;  it  was  only  destroyed.  The 
value  that  attached  to  these  utilities 
existed  under  conditions  that  induced 
owners  to  put  new  capital  into  them, 
extend  the  use,  and  maintain  the  great- 
est service.  When  the  public  attempted 
to  take  value  away  from  the  owners  by 
loading  the  properties  with  burdens 
and  by  insisting  upon  prices  that  were 
less  than  worth  and  cost,  the  public 

421 


422 


TAKING  FROM  THE  FEW  FOR  THE  MANY 


did  not  add  to  their  own  profit,  but  be- 
gan to  lose  conveniences  they  wished  to 
have,  and,  in  some  cases,  even  ran  the 
risk  of  losing  service,  or  did  lose  it  al- 
together, to  their  own  great  hardship 
and  cost. 

It  is  curious  that  property  of  this 
kind  has  been  conspicuously  selected 
for  attack.  It  represents  a  large  portion 
of  the  country's  permanent  investment, 
and  the  investment  has  been  made  to 
give  the  public  generally  the  advantages 
of  the  great  useful  agencies  that  have 
been  the  outcome  of  the  last  century's 
scientific  discoveries.  It  is  not  prop- 
erty carefully  sequestered  behind  a 
barbed  fence,  holding  to  itself  technical 
knowledge  devoted  to  creating  benefits 
and  luxury  for  a  favored  class.  It  is  for 
the  very  purpose  of  adding  to  the  na- 
tional life  the  most  widespread  use  of 
advantageous  service.  Of  all  forms  of 
private  property  no  other  approaches 
so  nearly  to  the  ideal  of  socialized  prop- 
erty. It  is  devoted  to  the  service  of  the 
whole  public,  regulated  by  bodies  chos- 
en by  the  public  and  plainly  put  at  their 
mercy.  It  is  not  like  land,  which  the 
individual  owner  may  build  upon  or 
not,  may  use  or  not,  as  he  pleases;  it  is 
not  like  buildings,  which  are  too  similar 
in  kind  to  the  property  of  the  majority 
to  meddle  with;  it  is  not  like  manufac- 
tories, which  may  be  operated  wholly, 
or  in  part,  or  not  at  all,  which  may 
be  torn  down  or  built  up  or  changed, 
which  may  produce  goods  to  be  sold 
at  the  price  that  seems  best  for  the 
good  of  the  property;  it  is  not  like 
mines  or  timber  tracts,  whose  owner 
disposes  of  them  or  keeps  them,  like  any 
personal  property;  it  is  not  like  the 
thousand  and  one  objects  of  portable 
property,  still  the  most  sacred  kind  and 
the  best  protected  because  most  people 
have  some  of  it. 

We  hear  very  much  of  the  'common 
good,'  and  of  the  Utopian  condition 
when  all  property  will  be  for  the  service 


of  all;  when  the  old  rights  of  ownership 
will  be  less  inviolable;  when  control  of 
all  property  will  rest  with  the  common 
people;  and  yet  the  first  movement  that 
leads  away  from  purely  individualistic 
control  and  use  is  met,  not  with  en- 
couragement, but  with  suspicion  and 
attack.  It  seems  a  pity  that  so  much 
experience  and  loss  is  necessary  before 
the  public  learns  the  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  taking  value  to  themselves. 
The  heartening  fact  is  that  they  do 
learn  it. 

With  the  inauguration  of  the  income 
tax,  with  its  surtaxes,  it  seemed  as  if  at 
last  a  way  had  been  discovered  by  which 
something  of  value  could  be  taken  from 
the  individual  by  the  public,  wholly  to 
the  relief  and  profit  of  the  public.  It 
seemed  such  'easy  money'  for  all  but 
the  few,  that  there  sprang  up  great  sup- 
port for  a  philosophy  of  taxation  which 
holds  not  that  those  who  dance  shall 
pay,  nor  yet  that  all  shall  pay  in  pro- 
portion to  what  they  have,  but  that 
those  who  have  the  most  shall  pay  the 
fiddler. 

As  in  other  cases  of  confiscation,  it 
has  been  easy  for  the  many  to  take  from 
the  few,  but  difficult  to  do  it  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  many.  Too  bald  a  taking 
creates  conditions  that  are  more  bur- 
densome than  they  were  before.  It 
looked  like  a  profitable  scheme  to  the 
public,  this  'let  the  rich  do  it';  but 
there  is  usually  some  reason  for  the 
existence  of  all  things,  and  even  the 
possessors  of  wealth  have  their  func- 
tion in  the  life  of  the  people.  The  pos- 
sessor, in  order  to  remain  a  possessor, 
must  perform  the  rare  and  difficult  feat 
of  refraining  from  '  blowing  in '  his  pos- 
sessions. The  self-control  that  makes 
this  possible  has  been  useful  to  society, 
and  it  has  been  worth  while  to  keep  it 
alive  by  a  reward  in  the  form  of  income 
return.  Society  is  likely  to  find  that  it 
cannot  play  hot  and  cold;  that  it  can- 
not bestow  this  reward  with  one  hand 


and  take  it  away  with  the  other,  and 
still  retain  the  service. 

The  man  with  an  income  of  two 
thousand  dollars  a  year  thinks  'refrain- 
ing' is  easy  for  all  those  having  over 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Some 
economists  think  it  is  easy  for  those 
having  over,  say,  five  thousand  dollars 
a  year.  They  even  invent  the  term 
'costless  saving,'  to  apply  to  the  excess 
income  that  they  think  it  is  easy  to  re- 
frain from  spending.  Why  it  should  be 
easy  for  the  individual  in  dealing  with 
his  own  money,  when  it  has  proved  so 
difficult  for  all  those  in  positions  of  trust 
in  institutions  and  in  government,  is 
not  clear.  The  national  government, 
for  instance,  is  now  taking  a  very  large 
proportion  of  the  large  incomes  from 
individuals,  so  that  this  generation  may 
promptly  pay  the  war  cost;  but  with 
the  most  constant  efforts  by  all  those 
seeking  to  hold  down  expenditures, 
there  is  great  difficulty  in  preventing 
government  undertakings  that  would 
require  even  greater  taxes. 

It  has  seemed  wholly  good  to  the  pub- 
lic to  take  large  proportions  of  the  large 
incomes,  and  there  has  been  strenuous 
objection  to  anything  that  looked  like 
taxing  the  dancers  in  proportion  to  their 
dancing.  Experience,  however,  is  grad- 
ually bringing  to  light  the  disadvan- 
tages to  the  public,  even  in  this  case,  of 
taking  from  the  few  for  the  many. 
Great  amounts  that  the  government 
takes  from  individuals  would  otherwise 
be  devoted  to  productive  industry, 
would  go  into  houses,  would  be  lent 
to  railroads  and  other  public  utilities, 
would  serve  generally  to  make  capital 


423 

less  difficult  to  obtain,  and  would  have 
substantial  effect  in  lowering  the  capi- 
tal charges  that  the  consumer  has  to 
pay  in  rent  and  in  the  prices  of  the  goods 
he  consumes.  All  capital  charges  that 
enter  into  costs  are  gradually  being  ad- 
justed to  prevailing  rates.  Nothing  can 
prevent  it,  and  there  is  something 
like  two  hundred  and  fifty  billions  of 
wealth  on  which  capital  charges  must 
be  paid.  As  tune  goes  on,  there  will  en- 
ter into  rents,  and  into  the  prices  of 
goods  that  the  public  buys,  a  somewhat 
larger  return  on  two  hundred  and 
fifty  billions  than  there  formerly  was. 
Whether  the  return  will  be  larger  by 
one  quarter,  one  half,  or  one  per  cent,  is 
difficult  to  tell.  The  increased  capital 
charges  that  consumers  will  pay  may 
not  be  six  hundred  and  twenty-five 
million  dollars  a  year,  or  two  billion 
and  a  half,  or  any  amount  between;  but 
comparatively  small  increases  in  supply 
have  often  a  curiously  exaggerated 
effect  on  prices;  and  it  would  require  a 
very  slight  effect  on  the  rate  of  capital 
return  to  raise  costs  to  the  general  pub- 
lic by  more  than  all  that  is  taken  by 
the  government  through  the  surtaxes. 
The  result  of  our  system  of  surtaxes 
seems  to  be  but  another  illustration  of 
the  difficulty  of  bettering  the  public  by 
taking  from  the  few.  Justice,  after  all, 
is  not  so  much  an  ideal  that  shines  aloft, 
unaffected  by  universal  law,  as  it  is 
a  practical  reality.  It  always  seems 
finally  to  be  decided  that  the  'just' 
procedure  is  not  what  someone  has 
imagined  to  be  immutable,  but  what 
experience  proves  must  be,  because  of 
natural  laws. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


MILLINERY   MADNESS 

A  HAT  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart; 
'tis  woman's  whole  existence  —  or  so 
at  least  one  would  judge  by  the  tense 
and  concentrated  faces  reflected  in  the 
mirrors  of  'Miss  Hattie's  Hat  Shop,' 
as  that  specialist's  consulting-room  is 
euphemistically  called. 

The  purchase  of  a  hat  should  never 
be  undertaken  alone,  any  more  than 
one  should  have  one's  teeth  pulled  out 
without  a  friendly  face  to  confront  one 
when  'coming  out'  of  gas.  And,  by  the 
way,  what  a  good  idea  it  would  be  to 
have  a  whiff  of  some  anaesthetic  applied 
to  the  victim  who  enters  a  milli- 
nery establishment  to  have  twenty-five 
dollars  painlessly  .  extracted.  '  Crown- 
work  '  is  sometimes  a  nervous  strain  to 
the  occupant  of  the  dental  chair.  It  is 
often  an  equally  trying  experience  to 
the  visitor  in  the  millinery  parlor. 

To  be  sure  the  sight  of  a  hat  that 
seems  designed  by  Fate  —  or  France  — 
to  suit  one's  own  particular  contour 
and  coloring  frequently  acts  like  a  nar- 
cotic, and  drugs  one's  conscience  into 
complete  subjection  to  the  saleslady's 
wishes.  No  practitioners  in  psycho- 
analysis or  hypnotic  suggestion  could 
more  successfully  subdue  the  conscious 
will  and  gain  a  mastery  over  the  victim 
than  the  plausible  Miss  Hattie. 

This  is  what  happened  when  I  went 
to  look  at  hats  —  not  to  buy  them:  — 

'Oh,  no,  madam,  $29.87  is  not  at  all 
dear  for  this  little  toque,'  Miss  Hattie 
protested  to  me  when  I  faintly  mur- 
mured at  the  price. 

'What,  you  say  that  you  don't  wear 
feathers  because  you  belong  to  the 
Auburn  Society?  Why,  dear,  auburn 

424 


hair  like  yours  is  very  fashionable  this 
season,  only  we  call  it  henna  now  in- 
stead of  red,  and  black  feathers  look 
real  well  with  it.  What,  you  don't  wear 
birds'  feathers?  Well  now,  is  n't  that  a 
joke!  This  is  n't  a  bird's  feather;  it's 
just  made  out  of  whalebone!  We  don't 
mind  killing  whales,  do  we,  and  yet  I 
suppose  it  hurts  them  to  be  shot  more 
than  it  does  birds,  they're  so  much  less 
fluffy.' 

All  this  time  the  hat  is  being  deftly 
pinned  to  my  head.  It  is  only  by  a  su- 
preme effort  of  will  that  I  can  tear  it 
off,  most  of  my  hair  coming  down  in 
the  struggle;  but  I  am  determined  not 
to  be  hypnotized  into  submission  so 
early:  it  shows  such  pitiable  weakness. 

'I'm  only  looking,  not  buying,  and  I 
don't  like  that  hat,'  I  insist;  'either  it  is 
too  young  or  I  am  too  old  —  in  fact,  I 
think  the  shapes  are  perfectly  terrible 
this  year.  Now  look  at  that  — '  And  I 
pointed  a  finger  of  derision  at  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  fruit-basket  filled  with 
oranges  and  bananas  that  was  lying  on 
the  table  beside  me. 

Suddenly  a  female  more  like  a  Fury 
than  a  Shopper  bore  down  upon  me  with 
a  look  that  froze  my  blood. 

'  You  are  speaking  of  my  hat,  madam, 
and  it  is  not  for  sale,'  she  announced 
with  bitter  scorn.  'Perhaps  you  did 
n't  know  that  yellow  is  all  the  rage  this 
year.'  And  she  flounced  away  bear- 
ing her  agricultural  exhibit  with  her. 
(Exit  slave,  bearing  fruit.) 

This  experience  unnerved  me  so  that 
I  felt  a  susceptibility  to  hypnotism  steal- 
ing over  me,  of  which  Miss  Hattie  was 
quick  to  take  advantage  by  producing 
head-coverings  of  other  shapes  and 
shades. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


425 


'How  should  you  like  something  in 
the  line  of  Burgundy?'  she  suggested, 
awaking  pleasant  memories  of  pre- 
prohibition  days;  'or  maize  is  very 
fashionable  this  year,  as  well  as  peli- 
can. Then  there  is  always  bisque,  or 
jade,  or  even  wistaria.' 

Where  were  the  blues  and  reds  that 
did  not  sail  under  false  colors?  Where 
were  the  browns  of  yesteryear?  I  tried 
to  intimate,  from  my  state  of  partial 
hypnosis,  that,  though  I  recognized  the 
faces  of  all  the  colors  she  was  introduc- 
ing to  me,  I  had  forgotten  their  names. 

'Now  you  just  leave  it  all  to  me,'  the 
skillful  practitioner  purred  soothingly; 
'I  have  just  the  hat  for  you  —  some- 
thing refined,  and  at  the  same  time 
snappy.' 

She  placed  upon  my  fevered  brow  an 
austere  and  uncompromising  pyramid, 
designed  on  the  antediluvian  lines  of 
Mrs.  Noah's  hat,  as  remembered  in  my 
own  early  Noah's-Arkaic  days. 

'Say,  I'm  just  tickled  to  death  with 
the  way  you  look  in  that  hat,'  my  hyp- 
notizer  went  on,  making  a  few  passes  in 
front  of  my  face,  thereby  completing 
her  mesmeric  success.  'You're  just 
stunning  in  it  —  perfectly  stunning.' 
('Yes,  and  stunned,  too,'  I  murmured 
inaudibly.) 

'The  way  the  brim  comes  down  and 
hides  your  face  is  just  too  becoming  for 
words.  Now  I  'm  going  to  put  your  old 
hat  in  a  piece  of  paper,  because  of  course 
you  want  to  wear  the  new  one  and  I 
don't  blame  you  —  not  one  mite.' 

Her  deft  fingers  were  working  as  fast 
as  her  tongue.  She  knew  that  I  must 
not '  come  to '  while  in  her  parlor. 

'Now,  here  you  are,  Miss  Smithkins. 
I'm  so  glad  we  had  just  what  you 
wanted,  and  so  cheap,  too.  Good-morn- 
ing. —  Come  again.  —  I  remember  the 
charge  address.'  And  before  I  knew  it 
I  was  in  the  street  below. 

My  first  coherent  thought  was  that 
I  had  not  even  asked  the  price  of  the 


hat  I  was  wearing;  and  I  did  not  en- 
tirely shake  off  my  stupor  till  I  saw  my 
reflection  in  a  shop-window  and  awoke 
with  a  scream. 


ON  OUR  STREET 

At  the  risk  of  being  dubbed  egotisti- 
cally mendacious,  I  set  down  the  fact 
that  Pollyanna  would  have  thrived  on 
our  street.  The  typical  pessimist  (some- 
how or  other  I  have  n't  kept  step  with 
the  pessimists  well  enough  to  know  who 
he  may  be)  would  have  shriveled  up 
and  died. 

For  on  our  street  (and  I  set  it  apart 
in  a  paragraph  to  mark  its  importance) 
every  woman  is  in  love  with  her  hus- 
band and  her  home,  and  every  man  is 
in  love  with  his  wife  and  his  children. 

And  we  are  all  poor.  That  is,  in  a 
material  sense  we  are  poor.  We  would 
n't  trade  places  with  Rockefeller, 
though,  any  of  us.  He  has  a  bad  stom- 
ach, you  know.  And  we  can  eat  our 
own  fresh  cabbage  out  of  our  own  back- 
yard gardens,  and  sleep  the  night 
through  with  never  a  hoof-beat  of  the 
nocturnal  mare. 

Every  man  and  every  woman  on  our 
street  could  participate  with  full  privi- 
leges in  the  home-coming  celebrations 
of  several  and  sundry  colleges  scattered 
here  and  there  over  the  globe.  Mr. 
Witwer,  with  his  Rhodes  scholarship, 
makes  this  last  statement  possible. 
Therefore,  the  traditional  spots  may  be 
knocked  forever  from  the  theory  that 
college  women  make  poor  wives  and 
poorer  mothers.  They  do  not.  We  can 
prove  it  on  our  street. 

The  age-limit  on  our  street  seems  to 
be  about  thirty-five.  The  salary-limit, 
so  far,  has  placed  itself  at  three  thou- 
sand; vide  Mr.  Witwer.  The  average  is 
twenty-four  hundred.  But  Mr.  Wit- 
wer's  little  girl  is  crippled,  and  the  dif- 
ference must  be  devoted  to  medical 
attention  for  her.  Last  week  the  doctor 


426 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


told  us  that  in  another  year  she  may 
walk.  The  news  made  us  all  as  happy 
as  if  it  had  been  our  own  Dorothy  or 
our  own  Mary.  There  are  a  number  of 
little  Marys  on  our  street  and  a  cor- 
responding number  of  little  Johns. 
We  have  no  Gwendolyns  or  Percys. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  our  young 
assistant  professors  and  engineers  work 
on  our  lawns  and  our  gardens.  They 
all  wear  khaki  when  they  do  it,  and 
haul  out  their  old  puttees  or  boots.  For 
every  man  on  our  street  spent  his  al- 
lotted time  in  Uncle  Sam's  service,  and 
each  had  a  shoulder  decoration.  Some 
of  the  decorations  extended  to  the  left 
pocket-flap  before  they  returned  home. 
We  are  as  proud  of  these  as  if  the  right 
were  ours,  individually,  to  stow  them 
away  in  our  cedar  chests.  And  we  are 
as  proud  of  Mr.  Towner  in  his  olive- 
green-and-red  triangle  as  we  are  sym- 
pathetic of  his  fading  sight  that  de- 
barred him  from  more  active  service. 

We  share  three  or  four  'by-the-day' 
women,  to  help  us  over  the  hard  places, 
and,  aside  from  a  schoolgirl  or  two  to 
help  with  the  babies  once  in  a  while 
afternoons,  we  are  servantless.  Our 
husbands  operate  their  own  boot-black 
kits  and  pressing-boards.  They  boast 
about  the  shine  on  their  boots  and  the 
lack  of  shine  on  their  clothing. 

We  save  our  pleasure  pennies  for  the 
movies,  Galli-Curci,  football,  and  Sir 
Oliver  Lodge.  We  browse  about  the 
bookstalls  for  Einstein  and  Lansing, 
Kipling,  de  Maupassant,  'Opal,'  and 
Peter  B.  Kyne.  We  all  flivvered  down 
to  watch  the  bulletin-board  report  of 
the  July  bout,  and  came  back  with  the 
thought  predominant  that  peace  with 
Germany  had  been  consummated. 

Are  we  some  of  the  'wild  young 
people'  John  F.  Carter,  Jr.,  wrote  about 
last  September?  Should  n't  wonder  if 
we  were.  Our  men  were  at  Armaged- 
don. One  or  two  of  our  women  were 
there.  Most  of  us  have  an  easy  time 


convincing  our  parents,  when  they  park 
their  Packard  and  Peerless  plutocracy 
out  in  front  of  our  houses  and  come  in  to 
romp  with  the  children,  that '  this  is  the 
life.'  Our  particular  form  of  'wrildness' 
seems  to  be  a  reversion  to  lace-paper 
valentine  days,  to  old-fashioned  gar- 
dens, old-fashioned  religion,  and  old- 
fashioned  marriage  days. 
We  're  pretty  happy  on  our  street. 


AN  IMPULSIVE  ODE  TO  A  PICTURE 

OF  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  ON 

A  BOX  OF  SUGAR 

(On  or  about  his  %I5th  birthday) 

Great  Benjamin !    I  cheerfully  concede 
That,  to  Miss  Reed, 
As  hungry  and  half-ill 
Along  the  streets  of  Phil- 
adelphia you  sped, 
A-munching, 
A-crunching 

That  loaf  of  baker's  bread, 
You  may  have  seemed 
Beauteous  and  sightly, 
And  have  been  deemed 
A  person  rightly 
To  have  a  place 

—  That  is,  your  face  — 
Upon  a  sugar-box. 

And  afterwards  in  France, 
In  homespun  coat  and  pants, 
With  white  locks  streaming, 
And  from  your  countenance 
Kindness  perspiredly  beaming, 
You  certainly  had  them  clustering 

—  Those  demoiselles  — 

As  with  your  gracious  spells 
(Your  best  French  mustering), 
You  held  them  all 
In  thrall. 

Benjamin,  you  were  great 
In  all  affairs  of  state; 
Your  Almanac's  wise  pages 
Have  hurtled  down  the  ages 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


427 


Its  precepts  terse  and  many, 

Teaching  a  spendthrift  nation 

The  art  of  conservation 

And  how  to  save  the  Penny. 

And  from  that  teeming  brain 

Came  forth  a  streaming  train 

Of  wonderful  inventions; 

And  it  was  thought  a  pity 

If,  in  (nearly)  every  city, 

You  were  not  head  of  each  committee 

At  all  conventions. 

But  You  and  Sugar!  O  Good  Benjamin, 

What  juxtaposition  does  this  put  you 
in! 

What  but  the  brain  of  some  young  pro- 
fiteer 

Would  e'er  have  thought  to  start  on 

A  scheme  to  paint  the  features  of  a 
seer 

Upon  a  sugar  carton? 

When  at  my  daily  task  in  kitchen,  cook- 
ing, 

To  sugar-box  I  go, 

Your  countenance  seems  to  me  severely 
looking, 

As  if  to  say,  'Go  slow.' 

As  in  I  dip,  you  seem  to  be  a-calling, 

'  Go  slow  —  go  slow  —  go  slower  — 

Market  reports  that  sugar  's  still  a-fall- 
ing; 

Wait  till  it  gets  still  lower.' 

And  now  when  early  strawberries  are 
needing  sweeting, 

And  rhubarb  clamors  for  the  sugar-box, 

Your  lips  reproachful  seem  to  be  en- 
treating, 

'Cease  sugaring,'  and  then  to  be  repeat- 
ing 


Your  adage,  meant  the  prodigal  to 
move, 

*  Who  dainties  love,  you  know,  will  beg- 
gars prove.' 

(Twas  writ  to  touch  the  conscience  of 
the  cook  — 

The  fourteenth  page  hi  his  'Poor 
Richard'  book.) 

And  when  it  comes  to  cake  and  lemon 
pie 

(With  all  that  rich  meringue), 

Your  presence  there  upon  my  sugar- 
box, 

Your  disapproving  scowl  —  it  fairly 
mocks; 

No  matter  what  I  try; 

I  fain  would  say,  'Go  'lang.' 

'T  is  true,  of  sugar  cooking  takes  a 
mint; 

Yet  with  all  due  respect  to  Richard's 
thrift, 

I  do  maintain  it  is  a  wondrous  gift 

To  make  good  stuff  to  eat 

And  make  it  sweet 

Yet  put  no  sugar  in 't. 

I'm  glad,  Good  Benjamin,  to  gaze  on 

thee 
Hanging  in  state-house  and  the  halls  of 

Art; 

Your  homely  features,  lit  with  charity, 
Are  of  our  nation's  life  a  treasured  part; 
But  would  you  mind  it  greatly  if  I  say, 
I  believe  it  would  ensure  us 
More  freedom  in  a  culinary  way, 
If  they  would  take  you  off  and  put  on, 

say  — 
Say,  Epicurus. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


Cornelia  J.  Cannon,  wife  of  the  distin- 
guished biologist,  Professor  Walter  B.  Can- 
non, will  be  remembered  as  the  author  of 
the  striking  paper,  'Can  our  Civilization 
Maintain  Itself? '  in  the  Atlantic  for  Novem- 
ber, 1920.  E.  Barrington  is  a  British  traveler 
and  scholar.  That  passionate  pilgrim,  A.  Ed- 
ward Newton,  sends  us  a  post-card  announc- 
ing the  consummation  of  his  pious  journey 
to  Wales,  where  he  has  just  placed  a  memo- 
rial nosegay  on  the  grave  of  his  'Light-Blue 
Stocking,'  Mrs.  Thrale.  Warren  K.  Moore- 
head,  an  archaeologist  of  long  experience 
and  of  recognized  authority  in  his  chosen 
field,  and  member  of  the  National  Board 
of  Indian  Commissioners,  is  Curator  of 
the  Department  of  Archaeology  at  Phillips 
Academy,  Andover. 

*  *  * 

Mrs.  A.  Devereux  (Cornelia  N.)  writes 
to  the  editor  from  Albany  that  the  experi- 
ences described  in  these  letters  befell  her 

on  the  exact  road  which  is  now  the  Union  Pacific 
R.R.  The  engineers-  who  were  so  kind  to  us  were 
part  of  the  1st  Corps  [commanded]  by  Maj.  Gen. 
Dodge,  sent  out  to  survey  the  ground  for  the 
Union  Pacific.  The  date  of  my  husband's  going 
out  on  'the  Plains,'  [she  adds]  ...  is  fixed  in 
my  memory,  definitely,  because  he  was  all  ready 
to  put  his  horses  in  the  wagon  ...  on  Saturday, 
when,  a  last  errand  taking  him  to  the  business 
part  of  town,  he  learned  of  the  death  of  Abraham 
Lincoln;  and  as  he  was  Pastor  of  the  Congrega- 
tional Church  in  Council  Bluffs  at  that  time,  he 
said  he  must  wait  to  start  on  his  vacation  excur- 
sion, reopen  the  church,  and  preach  a  sermon  to 
lead  his  people  in  their  intense  grief. 

At  ninety-three,  she  writes  as  vigorously 
as  if  the  habit  of  correspondence  were  still 
strong  upon  her. 

*  *  * 

Charles  H.  Grandgent,  for  many  years 
Professor  of  Romance  Languages  at  Har- 
vard, is  a  Dantean  of  wide  reputation. 
Stuart  P.  Sherman,  critic  and  philosopher, 
is  Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of 
Illinois.  Edgar  J.  Goodspeed  is  a  professor 
of  Biblical  lore  in  the  University  of  Chicago, 
who  seasons  his  patristic  learning  with  the 
love  of  strictly  contemporary  life.  Emma 
Lawrence  (Mrs.  John  S.  Lawrence,  of  Bos- 
ton) is  a  new  writer,  several  of  whose  stories 

428 


will  appear  in  the  Atlantic  during  the  win- 
ter. Amy  Lowell,  critic,  scholar,  and  poet, 
lives  in  Brookline,  Massachusetts.  Joseph 
Fort  Newton  is  pastor  of  the  Church  of 
the  Divine  Paternity,  in  New  York  City. 
Lieutenant-Commander  Kenneth  Chafee 
Mclntosh,  U.S.N.,  is  stationed  at  the  Naval 
Air  Station  at  Pensacola,  Florida.  Gary 
Gamble  Lowndes  is  a  banker  of  Baltimore, 
a  sportsman,  and  an  adventurer  in  letters. 
*  *  * 

L.  J.  S.  Wood,  the  Rome  correspondent  of 
the  well-known  British  Catholic  weekly,  the 
Tablet,  has  lived  in  Rome  for  many  years, 
and  has  devoted  serious  study  to  the  poli- 
tics of  both  the  Quirinal  and  the  Vatican. 
Dr.  A.  Shadweil,  the  veteran  Labor  editor  of 
the  London  Times,  after  practising  medicine 
in  his  early  days,  has  given  himself  up  to  the 
study  of  sociological  and  industrial  ques- 
tions. He  has  traveled  widely  and  has  inves- 
tigated conditions  in  Canada  and  the  United 
States,  as  well  as  in  Russia,  Germany,  and 
England.  Any  personal  characterization  of 
Dr.  Shadweil  should  mention  the  list  of  his 
amusements  as  he  gives  them  in  Who's  Who. 
'Recreations:  being  taken  out  by  his  dogs, 
fishing,  music'  —  the  pastimes  of  a  philos- 
opher. Arthur  E.  Suffern,  head  of  the 
Department  of  Economics  at  Beloit  College, 
is  the  author  of  'Conciliation  and  Arbitra- 
tion in  the  Coal  Industry  of  America,'  which 
took  the  first  prize  in  the  Hart,  Schaffner 
and  Marx  Economic  Essay  Contest  in  1913. 
In  1914  he  was  made  Special  Investigator 
of  the  Coal  Industry  by  the  U.S.  Commis- 
sion on  Industrial  Relations.  Russell  Robb 
is  a  member  of  the  famous  Boston  firm  of 
Stone  and  Webster. 

*  *  * 

Here  are  answers  to  questionings  perhaps 
more  frequent  than  any  others,  regarding 
the  'new'  education. 

ANTIOCH  COLLEGE,  OHIO,  July  15,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Nothing  constitutes  me  a  spokesman  for  the 
progressive  school  movement  except,  inspired 
thereto  by  the  communication  of  M.  T.  H.  in  the 
July  Contributors'  Column,  my  insistent  desire 
for  expression.  If  you  will  humor  me  so  far,  I  will 
limit  myself  to  two  points. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


429 


It  is  unnecessary  to  teach  a  child  obedience: 
that  is  instinctive.  Every  parent  can  testify  to 
the  beautiful,  implicit  obedience  that  children 
yield  —  sometimes.  In  other  words,  it  is  not  re- 
spect for  authority  which  is  needed,  for  one  can- 
not help  respecting  it  when  one  meets  it.  What 
we  need  to  teach  is,  how  to  recognize  authority 
and  how  to  tell  the  spurious  from  the  genuine. 
Now,  the  trouble  with  the  conventional  school  is 
too  often  that  the  teacher,  though  but  a  scribe, 
as  Dallas  Lore  Sharp  points  out,  attempts  to  ex- 
ercise authority.  Of  course,  when  the  children 
find  it  out,  —  as  they  do,  —  they  resent  it,  and 
thus  definitely  learn  disrespect  for  authority- 
claimants  in  general.  In  the  new  schools,  no  one 
claims  the  respect  due  authority,  but  everyone, 
teacher  and  pupil  alike,  strives  to  earn  it. 

Much  the  same  reasoning  applies  to  the  disci- 
pline in  doing  what  you  do  not  want  to  do,  which 
is  thought  so  necessary.  The  only  true  and  use- 
ful discipline  is  that  which  is  self-imposed.  And 
that  sort  of  discipline  is  abundantly  present  in 
the  progressive  school.  Does  anyone  think  that 
the  sometimes  elaborate  projects  get  miraculously 
done  without  tiresome  details  and  hard  work? 
Can  it  be  imagined  that  a  school  which  deliber- 
ately seeks  to  keep  its  pupils  under  real  life-con- 
ditions could  or  would  eliminate  the '  irksomeness 
of  the  steady  grind'?  Drudgery  it  does  virtually 
eliminate,  for  drudgery  is  a  state  of  mind,  due  to 
being  compelled  to  labor  without  illumination 
and  without  understanding  and  without  joy. 
The  pupil  in  the  progressive  school  knows  full 
well  the  'weariness  of  routine';  has  learned  what 
the  pupil  in  the  conventional  school  rarely  learns, 
that  'the  world's  work  must  be  done  somehow' 
—  what  has  the  orthodox  curriculum  got  to  do 
with  the  'world's  work'?  But  he  learns  also  why 
it  must  be  done,  and  how  it  may  be  made  a  thing 
of  joy  because  of  some  underlying  purpose.  The 
curse  of  our  age  is  that  so  many  are  asking  whe- 
ther the  world's  work  is  worth  doing.  Is  this  be- 
cause so  many  are  more  —  not  better  —  edu- 
cated? The  aim  of  education  for  life  is  to  send  the 
child  forth  to  do  the  work  of  the  world,  even  the 
weary  routine  (no  longer  unintelligible  drudgery, 
however)  with  eager  zest,  because  the  adventure  of 
life  is  worth  while.  HORACE  B.  ENGLISH. 


Askalon,  too! 

So.  PASADENA,  CAL.,  June  28,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Does  the  following  incident  suggest  that  there 
is  'culture'  in  Pasadena  like  unto  Chicago  and 
Boston? 

A  few  days  ago  I  made  some  purchases  in  a 
grocery;  the  clerk  who  served  me  offered  to  carry 
my  packages  to  my  automobile,  and  as  we  walked 
to  it,  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  many  auto- 
mobiles parked  along  the  street  and  said,  'These 
more  than  anything  fulfill  the  words  of  the 
prophet.' 

'How  is  that?'  I  asked. 

And  he  replied : '"  The  chariots  shall  rage  in  the 
streets,  they  shall  jostle  one  against  another  in 
the  broadways;  they  shall  seem  like  torches  and 
they  shall  run  like  the  lightnings." ' 


I  did  not  know  what  prophet  said  it,  and  I  was 
so  amazed  I  had  not  the  wit  to  ask;  but  on  reach- 
ing home  I  found  it  in  the  second  chapter  of  Na- 
hum.  Could  there  be  a  more  apt  description  of 
of  the  ways  and  appearance  of  the  modern 
chariot?  Very  truly, 

GRACE  C.  SIMONS. 

*  *  * 

There  will  be  cramps  in  the  nation's  'in- 
nards' before  the  last  Jew  is  assimilated. 
That  we  have  always  thought,  and  here  is 
proof  of  it. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  July  1,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

A  Jew  of  Jews,  like  the  undersigned,  stands 
aghast  before  the  present-day  flood  of  articles  on 
the  Jewish  question.  T  is  a  veritable  pogrom  in 
printer's  ink.  And  inky  pogroms  are  deadlier 
than  bloody  ones,  and  blacker. 

As  a  Super-Jew,  I  feel  at  any  rate  grateful  for 
the  sympathetic  tone  of  Paul  Scott  Mowrer's 
disquisition  on  'The  Assimilation  of  Israel.' 
But  how  weak  in  its  argument!  The  Jew,  for- 
sooth, does  not  assimilate:  he  refuses  to  inter- 
marry, and  occasionally  attends  the  synagogue. 
Ergo,  his  is  a  double  allegiance!  And  this  in  the 
same  breath  with  the  statement  that  the  Jew  has 
given  evidence  during  the  great  war  of  his  loyalty 
to  America.  In  what  way,  then,  does  religious 
loyalty  interfere  with  political  allegiance? 

And  the  solution  of  the  problem?  Intermar- 
riage —  Q.E.D.  But  this  is  no  solution  of  the  Jew- 
ish question;  rather,  a  dissolution  of  the  Jewish 
people.  It  means,  let  the  Jew  cease  to  be  a  Jew, 
and  he  will  have  no  trouble. 

Mr.  Mowrer's  article  is  an  illustration  of  the 
greatest  of  all  sins  —  the  Sin  of  Being  Different. 
Life  is  a  monstrous  rubber-stamp  affair.  Liking 
depends  on  likeness.  The  Unlike  must  be  anni- 
hilated. The  sympathetic  ones,  like  Mr.  Mowrer, 
would  kill  the  Jew  with  kindness.  Euthanasia  — 

To  many  a  thinking  Jew,  as  to  a  few  thought- 
ful Gentiles,  the  remedy  seems  to  be,  not  in  the 
Jews  ceasing  to  be  Jews,  but  in  the  Christians 
becoming  Christians. 

All  this  is  said  with  no  malice,  and  with  a  pain- 
ful consciousness  of  the  nearness  of  the  waste- 
basket  to  the  editorial  desk.  But  I  feel  that  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  amateurishness  in  all  these  dis- 
cussions of  the  Jewish  problem.  The  expert  has 
not  yet  been  heard  from.  The  undersigned  does 
not  claim  to  be  an  expert.  But  he  proudly  pro- 
claims himself  a  Jew  of  Jews,  and  a  Pharisee. 
And  while  everybody  has  something  unbecoming 
to  say  about  the  Pharisee,  why  should  not  the 
Pharisee  be  given  a  chance  to  state  his  own 
case? 

Respectfully, 

JOEL  BLAU. 
Rabbi.  Temple  Peni-El,  New  York  City. 

*  *  * 

If  ever  we  showed  disrespect  toward  the 
art  of  Charlie  Chaplin,  may  we  be  forgiven! 
Here's  matter  worth  reading. 


430 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


ARLINGTON,  FLA.,  July  12,  1921. 
EDITOR  OF  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

DEAR  SIR,  — 

The  interesting  article  on  the  movies  in  the 
current  number  of  your  magazine  omits  what 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  very  important  feature  of  the 
film  pictures.  People  leading  the  monotonous 
lives  that  the  largest  numbers  of  our  population 
do  —  and  it  is  the  same  all  over  the  world  —  are 
patronizing  these  shows  for  the  hypnotic  effect 
produced.  Charlie  Chaplin  is  not  merely  a  great 
artist,  but  he  is  a  careful  student  of  psychology, 
and  he  has  proved  that  it  is  the  gliding  move- 
ments of  his  feet  and  entire  figure  which  carry  the 
minds  of  his  guests  along  with  the  smoothly  flow- 
ing current  of  a  pleasant  dream.  He  carefully 
avoids  changing  the  focus  of  the  eyes  of  the  spec- 
tators by  forcing  them  to  read  any  inserts,  and 
keeps  cleverly  devised  scenes  moving  swiftly 
across  the  screen.  The  audiences  are  lulled  into 
rest  and  forgetf ulness  of  the  incidents  of  everyday 
life,  and  are  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time. 

The  movies  take  the  place  of  alcoholic  stimu- 
lants or  drugs,  and  are  so  much  cheaper  that  they 
would  be  used  to  a  much  greater  extent  if  the 
scenarios  were  only  written  in  the  proper  way, 
without  any  attempt  to  transpose  literature. 
Old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  alike  enjoy  a  pleas- 
ant dream  while  harmlessly  hypnotized.  In  my 
opinion  there  should  not  be  a  line  of  script;  there 
should  not  be  the  slightest  attempt  to  instruct  or 
elevate  or  degrade  —  just  scenes  from  life  and  ac- 
tion. Music  can  be  introduced  if  the  musicians 
are  kept  out  of  sight,  and  if  it  is  of  the  same  soft 
and  low  and  sweet  kind  that  comes  to  us  in  pleas- 
ant dreams.  Nothing  must  be  allowed  to  happen 
in  the  theatre  to  arouse  us  from  our  hypnotic  state. 

There  is  no  telling  what  pleasure  may  be  given 
to  a  world-weary  race  by  the  development  of  this 
new  discovery  of  a  practical  method  of  sending  us 
off  into  those  wonderful  regions  which  Shakespeare 
alone  could  describe.  If  he  could  only  have  had 
this  new  medium,  instead  of  the  crude  genre  of 
language,  we  should  now  be  reveling  in  visions 
such  as  we  have  no  conception  of  in  the  dull  lives 
we  are  now  leading,  amid  the  confusing  noises  and 
ugly  surroundings  of  our  so-called  civilization. 
The  newest  art  may  easily  become  the  greatest  of 
all,  and  its  development  cannot  proceed  too  rap- 
idly if  it  only  moves  along  the  right  lines;  and  so 
far  Charlie  Chaplin  is  the  true  pioneer  who  is 
pointing  the  way  to  better  days. 
Yours  very  truly, 

R.  S.  HOWLAND. 

And,  speaking  of  movies,  here  is  another 
letter  with  a  different  story. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould's  discerning  and 
thought-provoking  article  on  'Movies,'  in  the 
July  issue,  seems  to  me  of  not  quite  the  even  ex- 
cellence of  most  of  her  papers.  In  the  second  and 
more  academic  section,  on  what  the  movies  might 
be,  her  analysis  is  penetrating.  In  the  first  sec- 
tion, on  what  they  are,  she  tends  to  illustrate  her 
opening  remark  that  there  is  a  lot  about  movies 
she  does  n't  know.  On  any  such  ignorance,  how- 
ever, she  is  to  be,  in  some  ways,  congratulated. 


Incidentally,  there  are  a  number  of  irresponsible 
statements  or  implications:  that  Aristotle  or- 
dained three  'sacred'  unities;  that  an  epic  need 
have  no  unity  of  action;  that  movies  can  be  jus- 
tified if  they  keep  their  patrons  from  something 
worse;  and  that  the  notion  that  saloons  were 
vicious  is  a  joke. 

The  assertion  that  the  peril  of  the  moving-pic- 
ture is  sensationalism  and  cheap  sentimentalism, 
rather  than  salaciousness,  is  eminently  true.  Life 
once  had  a  picture  of  the  front  rows  of  children 
watching  wholesale  murder  on  the  screen,  with 
the  title,  '  Passed  by  the  National  Board  of  Cen- 
sorship.' Annette  Kellerman  sans  everything  is 
wholesomeness  itself,  compared  to  such  free  play 
of  jealousy,  hate,  and  murder. 

But  I  cannot  agree  that  'motion-picture  pro- 
ducers are  much  more  scrupulous  than  theatrical 
managers.'  The  salaciousness  which  is,  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  kept  out  of  films  by  the  censors 
is  worked  for  all  it  is  worth  in  uncensored  adver- 
tisements. The  movies  have  made  'vamp'  (a 
savage  euphemism  for '  courtesan')  a  word  lightly 
used  by  young  girls,  have  familiarized  patrons 
with  low  dance-halls  and  dens  of  crime,  and,  if 
'they  have  closed  up'  any  'literary  red-light  dis- 
trict,' it  was  only  to  reopen  it  under  new  manage- 
ment. 

The  one  fault,  sex-appeal,  which  has  been 
partly  checked  in  moving-pictures,  is,  except  for 
an  occasional  undesirable  crook  play,  about  the 
only  positive  moral  charge  which  can  be  brought 
against  the  regular  stage.  (Even  here  the  some- 
times under-dressed  chorus  is  balanced  by  the 
bathing-girls  so  featured  in  the  movies,  and  the 
most  undressed  revues  are  often  quite  free  from 
vulgar  lines.)  On  the  other  hand,  moving-pic- 
tures have  evil  contacts  with  many  more  phases 
of  life.  They  are  at  their  worst  when  they  take 
themselves  seriously,  and  they  do  preach  inces- 
santly. The  movies  have  taken  over  the  problem- 
play  and  are  always  attacking  marriage,  divorce, 
or  birth-control  —  championing  some  supposed 
reform  which  will  give  them  license  to  portray 
what  may  be  advertised,  and  to  some  extent 
filmed,  pruriently,  or  in  some  other  sensational 
manner. 

The  film  comedies  have  this  much  of  palliation, 
however:  they  do  not  insist  on  being  taken  seri- 
ously. No  wonder  Mrs.  Gerould  is  not  proud  of 
Charlie  Chaplin  as  American  Ambassador-at- 
Large.  But  this  much  can  be  said  for  the  stock 
characters  of  slap-stick  comedy  (those  of  the  old 
Italian  farce,  Punchinello,  Mutt  and  Jeff,  Char- 
lie Chaplin) :  the  whole  point  of  them  is  their  in- 
destructibility, though  they  'die  daily,'  and  their 
lack  of  amenability  to  moral  sanctions,  —  that  is, 
their  unreality.  It  is  not  Mutt  or  Charlie  (or  the 
characters  of  the  real  stage,  for  that  matter) 
whom  romantic  youngsters  pattern  after  and  so 
get  into  trouble  —  as  in  the  last  of  the  '  Juvenile 
Court  Sketches'  in  the  June  Atlantic;  it  is  the 
characters  of  the  movie  '  dramas,'  for  they  seem 
convincing  and  real. 

A  last  serious  charge  against  the  pictures  is 
that  they  disregard  the  laws  of  physical  and 
moral  cause  and  effect,  except  for  a  few  yards  of 
hasty,  hypocritical  reconciliation  with  them  at 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


431 


the  end  of  the  film.  A  man  or  woman  may  go  the 
limit;  but  an  easy  reformation,  feebly  motived, 
the  opportune  deaths  of  a  few  extra  wives,  hus- 
bands, or  incriminating  witnesses,  and  other 
deus-ex-machina  contrivances,  readily  clear  the 
way  for  them  to  retain,  under  a  semblance  of 
righteousness,  their  ill-gotten  gains  or  pleasures. 
Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  he  can  reap  some- 
thing else  with  a  little  manipulation  at  the  studio. 
Mrs.  Gerould's  constructive  criticisms  of  the 
cinema  are  admirable;  in  her  destructive  criti- 
cisms she  has  praised  them  with  faint  damnation. 
CLYDE  MURLEY. 

And,  by  way  of  final  suggestion,  this:  — 

DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

Mrs.  Gerould's  article  on  the  movies  is  one  of 
the  happiest  of  her  many  delightful  contributions 
to  the  Atlantic.  She  pungently  phrases  what 
many  of  us  have  been  soberly  feeling  about 
the  movies'  vulgarity,  sensationalism,  and  senti- 
mentalism.  She  also  feels  the  big  epic  and  realis- 
tic appeal  that  may  be  made,  and,  for  that  mat- 
ter, has  been  accomplished,  to  a  certain  extent. 

May  I  make  a  supplemental  suggestion,  along 
the  lines  of  what  we  want  the  movie  to  become  — 
namely,  a  work  of  art?  The  movie  is  not  drama, 
says  Mrs.  Gerould.  Very  true.  But  it  is  a  picture 
—  not  necessarily  a  realistic  or  epic  picture,  at 
that.  All  the  world  loves  good  pictures.  We  hang 
them  in  galleries  and  call  them  art.  A  moving- 
picture  has  all  the  advantages  of  a  static  picture, 
save  one,  —  color,  —  and  that,  we  are  told,  will 
soon  be  supplied  by  a  new  process  of  color-photo- 
graphy. Moreover,  the  movie  has  an  advantage 
which  the  painting  has  not,  namely,  motion. 

Why  can't  we  have  the  tragedy  and  comedy  of 
life  portrayed  by  motion?  In  other  words,  why 
should  not  the  art  of  pantomine  be  revived? 
Likewise,  the  art  of  dancing.  Sculpture,  too, 
might  come  to  life.  New  phases  of  art  might  be 
tested,  —  cubist,  futurist,  what  not,  —  and  new 
theories  of  stagecraft  would  inevitably  develop. 
As  for  suggestions  from  the  past,  I  can  imagine  a 
farcical  skit,  Moliere-like  in  texture,  in  which  gro- 
tesquerie  would  prove  an  art;  another,  a  dancing 
pantomime  of  lyric  love,  a  veritable  spring  song; 
Judith  of  Bethulia,  a  pantomime  of  tragic  intensi- 
ty; and  the  Book  of  Ruth,  one  of  solemn  beauty. 

If  only  the  movie  would  stop  trying  to  talk,  it 
might  act.  It  could  move  the  world  with  the 
poetry  of  motion.  LeRoY  ARNOLD. 

*  *  * 

How  often  must  we  be  told  that  in  the 
wilderness  true  values  appear? 

CAMP  YALE,  DAILY,  COL.,  July  6, 1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

It  is  tough,  as  well  as  inconvenient,  to  be  poor, 
but  honest,  and  I  am  wandering  if  the  opposite 
life  is  any  better  —  that  is,  less  inconvenient.  I 
have  stopped  working,  and  therefore  my  income 
ceases  to  flow  into  my  coffers,  if  such  an  old- 
fashioned  thing  still  exists  in  this  modern  age.  I 
am  enjoying  a  sort  of  enforced  exile  up  8000  feet 
in  the  air,  camping  by  my  lonesome,  and  I  assure 
you  it  is  great  fun. 

The  dreaded  hour  has  arrived  when  my  sub- 


scription to  Boston's  only  magazine  has  expired, 
and  I  must  decide  between  two  alternatives: 
shall  I  renew  my  subscription  immediately  and 
live  for  a  while  on  beans,  which,  though  a  Boston- 
ian,  I  dislike,  or  shall  I  expend  the  money  on  food 
for  the  body?  Here  is  where  the  inconvenience  of 
being  poor  but  honest  comes  in.  I  might  borrow 
the  magazine  from  some  good  Samaritan;  but  I 
very  much  doubt  if  the  ranchers  around  here  ever 
read  the  Atlantic. 

I  must  confess,  Atlantic,  that  I  have  literary 
ambitions,  which  one  of  my  English  professors  in 
college  seemingly  tried  to  destroy;  for  he  had  a 
very  disagreeable  habit  of  selecting  my  themes 
and  exposing  their  crudeness  to  the  public  gaze. 
According  to  him,  my  sins  of  ommision  and  com- 
mision  were  like  the  sands  of  the  sea.  First,  he 
began  to  howl  over  my  scarcity  of  commas;  and 
when  I  tried  to  satisfy  him  by  scattering  them 
liberally  around,  he  objected  very  sarcastically. 
Then,  at  another  time,  he  read  a  short  story  of 
mine  in  which  the  hero's  name  changed  very  fre- 
quently. I  wrote  that  story  in  a  hurry  and  could 
not  remember  my  hero's  name.  Fortunately,  I 
did  not  have  a  heroine.  I  hope,  Atlantic,  you  are 
not  so  particular  as  to  commas  and  the  changing 
of  the  hero's  name. 

During  the  past  few  months,  the  Atlantic  has 
contained  many  articles  on  education,  and  I 
think  that  something  is  the  matter  with  our  edu- 
cational system,  for,  in  spite  of  a  college  educa- 
tion, and  some  experience  in  teaching,  I  am  hav- 
ing the  deuce  of  a  time  to  spell  some  words,  and  I 
have  no  dictionary  here.  If  I  have  mispelled  a 
few  words,  please  overlook  them  and  blame  it  not 
on  my  ignorance  but  on  the  system. 
Sincerely  yours, 

ABRAHAM  SEGAL. 

P.S.  Have  decided  to  live  on  beans. 


How  we  came  to  say  it  is  past  understand- 
ing, but  say  it  we  did.  We  make  tardy 
amends  to  our  readers  by  printing  these 
pleasant  paragraphs  from  a  friendly  reader, 
Mr.  H.  W.  Yozall. 

I  am  sorry  to  see  in  the  June  Atlantic  one  of 
your  contributors  assigning  Lewis  Carroll  to  the 
University  of  Cambridge.  Shades  of  Wolsey  and 
Henry  VIII,  the  faculty  of  whose  great  ^Edes 
Christi  Dodgson  so  originally  adorned! 

My  father  once  told  me  of  dining  at  the  high 
table  of  the  House,  and  listening  with  eager  ex- 
pectation for  the  witticisms  of  Dodgson,  who  was 
sitting  opposite.  But  not  one  word  did  he  speak 
during  the  whole  meal.  They  adjourned  to  the 
senior  common  room  for  nuts  and  wine,  and  talk 
fell  on  the  subject  of  notes  used  by  famous  speak- 
ers and  various  systems  of  memorizing.  The 
Dean  told  how  Charles  Dickens  always  visualized 
his  lecture  as  a  wheel,  with  the  different  divisions 
as  its  spokes.  After  completing  each  division,  he 
would  strike  away  a  spoke  with  a  curious  gesture 
of  the  right  arm.  'And  when  he  came  to  the  last 
spoke,'  said  the  Dean  —  'Then  he  had  spoken, 
Dodgson  interrupted,  and  relapsed  into  silence 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


432 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


Finally,  you  of  course  have  heard  how  Queen 
Victoria,  having  read  Alice  in  Wonderland,  wrote 
to  the  author  commanding  him  to  send  her  his 
next  book;  to  which  request  Dodgson  responded 
by  sending  his  Symbolic  Logic. 
*  *  * 

Many  readers  to  whom  Miss  Converse's 
miracle  play  gave  pleasure  will  care  to  learn 
that,  besides  a  great  number  of  perform- 
ances in  many  American  church  communi- 
ties, the  play  was  given  by  the  International 
College  in  Smyrna,  under  extraordinarily 
picturesque  conditions. 

To  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

The  Best  Country  in  the  World 
DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

There  are  a  lot  of  people  out  here  in  Smyrna, 
and  in  other  parts  of  the  Near  East,  who  are  very 
grateful  to  you  for  publishing  in  your  March  issue 
that  beautiful  little  play  by  Florence  Converse, 
'  Thy  Kingdom  Come.' 

Each  year  we  hold  a  student  conference  here 
at  Smyrna.  The  conference  is  held  on  the  campus 
of  the  International  College  at  Paradise.  (We  did 
not  name  the  place.  The  Romans  called  it  Para- 
diso  long  years  ago.  We  try  to  make  good  on  the 
name.)  This  year  there  were  delegates  from  the 
Balkans,  Asia  Minor,  Greece,  Syria,  and  Egypt. 

On  one  evening  of  the  conference,  just  at  sun- 
set, we  presented  Miss  Converse's '  Thy  Kingdom 
Come.'  Faculty,  students,  and  faculty  children 
took  part.  Some  three  hundred  watched  the  play 
in  reverent  silence.  The  play  was  given  outdoors, 
in  a  little  natural  theatre  on  a  hillside  overlooking 
a  valley,  where  the  ruins  of  old  Roman  aqueducts 
added  to  the  impressiveness  of  the  hour.  In  the 
background  was  a  hill  that  might  have  been  Cal- 
vary. Natural  rocks  formed  the  tomb. 

The  parts  had  been  studied  for  weeks,  and  the 
costumes  were  perfect.  The  speaking  and  the  ac- 
tion were  so  natural  that  one  forgot  for  the  time 
that  it  was  but  a  presentation.  It  thrilled  with 
present  life.  Of  course  the  conference  helped 
create  an  atmosphere  almost  ideal,  and  the  play 
was  given  the  week  following  the  Eastern  Easter. 
We  left  out  a  little  of  the  doughboy  slang,  which 
many  of  these  students  would  not  have  under- 
stood, and  we  added  one  thing.  As  the  angels 
came  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  to  roll  the  stone 
away,  a  chorus  of  girls,  hidden  in  a  cleft  of  rocks 
below  in  the  valley,  sang,  — 

'  Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day, 

Alleluia! 
Sons  of  men  and  angels  say, 

Alleluia!' 

There  was  truly  a  thrill  as  those  clear  young 
voices  carried  the  song  of  triumph  through  verse 
after  verse.  It  seemed  as  if  angelic  voices  had 
joined  the  earthly  choir. 

Cordially  yours, 

S.  RALPH  HARLOW 


Not  the  lost  Atlantis,  but  the  lost  Atlan- 
tic, gives  the  fine  tragic  note  nowadays. 
Here  is  a  sequel  to  the  grim  story  in  the  June 
Column. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

I  was  more  than  ordinarily  interested  in  your 
published  account  of  the  man  who  stole  a  copy  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Here  in  Portland,  Oregon, 
I  stepped  to  a  newstand  at  Morrison  and  Fourth 
streets,  to  buy  a  Saturday  Evening  Post  contain- 
ing an  article  by  H.  G.  Wells,  and  had  recrossed 
the  street,  when  two  men  came  running  up. 

'  You  got  an  Atlantic,'  one  of  them  said. 

'  No,'  I  replied,  thinking  they  had  brought  me 
a  copy  they  supposed  I  had  bought  and  left  on 
the  counter.  '  I  got  a  Saturday  Evening  Post.' 

'No,  you  got  an  Atlantic  on  the  stand  across 
the  street.' 

I  did  not  yet  grasp  the  situation,  and  replied 
that  I  bought  my  Atlantic  some  days  before. 

'But  you  were  seen  to  take  it.  You  took  it 
from  the  stand.' 

Then  I  understood  what  had  happened.  Some- 
one not  myself  had  stolen  a  copy  from  the  stand. 
It  appears  that  out  here  the  Atlantic  is  one  of  the 
fundamental  needs  of  the  human  race;  so  much  so 
that,  lacking  the  price,  one  must  steal  it.  The  in- 
cident you  publish  seems  to  prove  that  human 
hunger  for  the  Atlantic  is  not  confined  to  the 
Pacific  Coast.  M.  O.  N. 

*  *  * 

Now  and  again  brides  have  written  us 
that  they  are  taking  the  Atlantic  with  them 
on  their  honeymoon.  Those  were  pretty 
compliments,  of  course;  but  here  is  incense. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC, — 

This  is  not  Boston —  far,  far  from  it.  Yet  the 
other  day,  when  caring  for  a  young  mother  (a 
country  girl  —  Texas-born  and  bred),  I  entered 
her  room  and  found  the  young  mother  lying  be- 
side her  half-hour-old  son,  happy  and  comforta- 
ble —  reading  the  last  Atlantic. 

Our  Texas  sunshine  seems  to  produce  vigorous 
bodies  and  minds.  ALICE  I.  B.  MASSEY. 

Why  drag  hi  Texas  sunshine! 


When  Miss  Dora  M.  Briggs  wrote  us  the 
interesting  letter  regarding  her  unpleasant 
experience  before  a  Naturalization  Board, 
which  we  published  in  the  Atlantic  for  July, 
she  dated  her  communication  from  Spring- 
field, Massachusetts.  We  published  the  let- 
ter with  the  date-line,  and  thus  passed  on  to 
our  readers  the  mistaken  impression  we  our- 
selves received  —  that  it  is  upon  Springfield 
that  the  stigma  rests.  At  the  time  it  seemed 
extraordinary,  for  Springfield  is  famous  for 
its  civic  sense.  We  are  glad  to  announce  that 
the  responsibility  should  be  placed  elsewhere. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


OCTOBER,  1921 


THE  IRON  MAN 


BY  ARTHUR  POUND 


A  YEAR  ago  I  sat  in  a  meeting  of 
schoolmen  and  leading  citizens  who 
were  wrestling  with  plans  for  a  new 
high  school  and  technical  college.  The 
leading  citizens  were  manufacturers  of 
motor-cars,  because  our  town's  reason 
for  existence  is  the  production  of  such 
cars,  of  which  we  can  be  relied  upon  to 
deliver  upwards  of  one  hundred  thou- 
sand a  year,  when  the  public  buys  them 
fast  enough  to  clear  the  loading-docks. 
Our  leading  citizens,  consequently,  are 
leaders  in  their  industry  as  well.  For 
downright  public  spirit,  no  more  satis- 
factory group  of  employers  can  be  found 
anywhere.  They  took  it  for  granted 
that  our  new  high  school  and  technical 
college  was  to  be  keyed  to  utility. '  They 
wanted  practical  education,  or,  as  one 
phrased  it, '  education  for  life. '  As  their 
programme  unfolded,  it  seemed  that 
their  goal  was  rather  education  for  pro- 
duction. They  may  have  seen  new  light 
since  the  wheels  slowed  down,  but  nei- 
ther then,  nor  later,  did  the  school-men 
offer  any  protest. 

As  an  outsider,  a  member  of  neither 
group,  I  sat  there,  dazed,  silent,  a  little 
dashed  and  fearful,  as  one  amid  new 
ruins.  I  knew  there  was  something 
wrong  with '  the  programme  of  these 
VOL.  ins— NO.  4 


manufacturers;  but  what  it  was  I 
could  not  say.  Now  I  know,  because  I 
have  been  studying  the  reactions  of 
automatic  machinery  upon  social  rela- 
tionships. 

There  is  no  better  place  for  such  a 
study  than  this  town  of  ours.  It  exists 
for,  and  accepts  the  dictation  of,  indus- 
try highly  automatized.  In  brisk  times 
more  than  twenty  thousand  men  and 
women  work  for  three  corporations, 
whose  plants  are  full  of  automatic 
machinery.  When  these  marvelous  tools 
are  busy,  the  town  is  prosperous,  gains 
population,  spends  lavishly,  yet  saves 
much  withal;  when  the  tools  are  stilled, 
the  town  loses  population,  develops 
poverty,  and  lives  on  its  savings. 

In  1900  this  was  a  quiet  little  manu- 
facturing city  of  13,000.  In  1904  it  pro- 
duced its  first  motor-car,  and  growth 
from  this  time  was  rapid  and  sustained, 
draining  away  the  surplus  labor  of 
nearby  farms  and  villages.  The  1920 
census  showed  38,550.  In  the  next  ten 
years,  the  city  achieved  a  population  of 
nearly  100,000,  acquiring,  among  other 
interesting  phenomena,  a  Little  Poland, 
a  Little  Hungary,  a  Little  Serbia,  other 
immigrant  colonies,  and  a  Cosmopoli- 
tan Club  financed  by  the  Chamber  of 


434 


THE   IRON   MAN 


Commerce.  We  built  a  Polish  church 
and  school,  two  Russian  churches,  a 
Czech  church,  and  presently  we  shall 
have  a  Jewish  synagogue.  During  the 
war  we  imported  camps  of  negroes 
direct  from  the  Black  Belt.  All  these 
non-natives,  about  75,000  in  the  twenty 
years,  came  either  to  tend  automatic 
machines,  to  supply  the  economic  and 
domestic  wants  of  the  operatives,  or  to 
cooperate  in  a  scheme  of  production  in 
which  the  automatic  tool  was  the  deci- 
sive factor. 

Of  course,  this  growth  induced  the 
usual  and  to-be-expected  rise  in  rents 
and  land-values.  We  built  houses  as 
fast  as  we  could  find  the  money;  but  in 
spite  of  enormous  profits  to  construc- 
tors and  investors,  we  could  not  pro- 
vide housing  fast  enough  to  satisfy  the 
industrial  leaders.  In  1919-20  the  cor- 
poration controlling  our  two  largest 
plants  built  thousands  of  homes.  As  a 
strike  ensued,  the  builders  fell  back  up- 
on the  principle  which  had  profited  them 
in  automobile  manufacture,  substitut- 
ing for  skilled  labor  machinery  and  un- 
skilled labor. 

In  1920,  production  on  automatic 
machines  here  and  elsewhere  having 
outrun  consumption,  the  wheels  slowed 
down  to  a  fraction  of  their  former  speed. 
Immediately  our  town  began  to  lose 
population;  thus  proving  that,  with 
cities  as  with  plants,  quick  growth 
means  weak  roots.  Coincidentally 
rural  districts  began  to  gain.  While  we 
were  losing  15,000  out  of  our  100,000, 
a  village  eighteen  miles  away  added 
twenty  per  cent  to  its  1920  census  of 
400.  Money  brought  these  people  into 
town,  and,  jobs  failing,  lack  of  money 
took  them  out  again  into  the  fields, 
woods,  and  villages.  Michigan  woods 
were  full,  last  winter,  of  men  who,  a  year 
ago,  were  tending  automatic  machines. 
What  back-to-the-land  propaganda 
failed  to  do  in  twenty  years,  economic 
necessity  accomplished  in  six  months. 


Of  all  the  states,  Michigan  shows  the 
greatest  percentage  of  urban  growth 
from  1910  to  1920;  also  the  greatest 
growth  in  the  use  of  automatic  tools. 
This  is  because  ours  is  the  automobile 
state.  The  automobile,  as  an  economic 
want,  burst  into  being  rather  than 
grew.  It  was  a  new  means  of  transpor- 
tation, not  the  development  of  an  older 
means.  Its  makers  faced  the  markets 
with  open  minds  and  almost  empty 
hands.  They  had  no  well-established 
shop-practice  to  consider,  little  or  no 
machinery  to  junk.  Their  margins  were 
large  enough  to  ensure  that  whatever 
increased  production  would  return  pro- 
fits. Moreover,  the  nature  of  the  busi- 
ness required  large  outputs  of  identical 
parts,  accurately  machined,  standard- 
ized and  interchangeable.  Hence  the 
automobile  industry  is  to-day  the  most 
highly  automatized.  Hence  the  reac- 
tions of  automatic  machinery  upon 
human  nature  and  the  social  order  may 
be  observed  here  in  all  their  vigor. 

Those  machines  which  tend  to  re- 
place the  worker  or  reduce  his  function 
to  a  minimum  are  described  as  auto- 
matic. They  are  so  designed  that  the 
worker  need  not  know  the  vital  steps 
which  the  mechanism  takes  in  produc- 
ing the  desired  result.  The  dividing 
line  between  these  tools  and  those  that 
merely  lengthen  or  strengthen  the  arm 
of  man  is  nowhere  definite  and  precise, 
but  examples  will  help  to  point  the  dis- 
tinction. 

With  the  power  wool-clipper,  as  with 
the  sheep-shears,  the  mind  of  the  op- 
erator must  work  with  his  muscle,  to 
extract  from  use  the  increased  efficiency 
of  the  tool.  But  with  an  automatic  tool, 
the  attendant  is  required  only  to  feed 
the  machine  and  relieve  it  of  its  pro- 
duce from  time  to  time.  There  are  a 
good  many  semi-automatic  machines; 
but  the  tendency  is  toward  their  com- 
plete automatization.  Each  year  sees 
semi-automatic  machines .  develop  to- 


THE   IRON   MAN 


435 


ward  automatic  perfection;  each  month 
sees  the  scope  for  skill  in  industry  less- 
ened, particularly  in  those  basic  indus- 
tries which  concentrate  large  numbers 
of  workers  in  given  centres,  and  so 
exercise  a  determining  influence  upon 
social  relations. 

Skill,  of  course,  is  still  vital;  but  the 
need  for  skill  has  passed  upward.  Ma- 
chine-design, shop-organization,  rout- 
ing of  materials,  and  distribution  of 
produce  —  these  require  a  concentra- 
tion of  skill  and  technical  knowledge 
far  beyond  the  similar  requirements  of 
non-automatic  industry.  The  rank  and 
file  need  use  only  a  fraction  of  their 
native  intelligence  and  manual  dexter- 
ity, while  the  skill-requirement,  which 
formerly  spread  more  or  less  over  the 
whole  shop,  is  distilled  into  a  relatively 
small  group  of  engineers  and  executives. 

This  shift  of  vital  function  from  the 
man  to  the  machine  is  the  key  to  many 
problems.  It  affects  all  departments  of 
life.  We  have  seen  how  it  broke  down 
the  barrier  of  apprenticeship  which  had 
sealed  factories  more  or  less  against 
rural  labor  and  brought  raw  farm-boys 
into  town,  leveling  farm  and  factory 
wages,  lifting  food  prices.  We  have  seen 
the  power  of  the  Iron  Man  to  pull  the 
negro  north  and  the  peasants  of  Europe 
west.  And  we  have  seen  something,  but 
not  all  as  yet,  of  his  influence  in  shift- 
ing women  from  the  home  to  the  mill. 
The  clear,  unmistakable  tendency  of 
automatic  machinery  is  to  level  labor, 
as  to  both  supply  and  wage. 

Certain  collateral  effects  are  equally 
impressive.  Many  automatic  machines 
can  be  operated  as  well  by  a  child  of 
twelve  as  by  his  parents.  In  fact,  the 
tender  of  automatic  machines  reaches 
his  or  her  highest  economic  power  early 
in  life,  when  nerves  are  steadiest.  The 
strain  involved  in  nursing  automatic 
machinery  is  a  repetition-strain,  com- 
plicated by  clatter.  The  operative  does 
the  same  thing  over  and  over,  amid 


rhythmic  sounds,  in  an  atmosphere 
frequently  stale  with  oil  or  dust.  Youth 
stands  this  better  than  age,  because 
youth  reacts  more  quickly.  Whereas,  in 
the  old  days,  a  man  used  to  come  more 
slowly  into  earning  power,  reach  his 
highest  pay  at  thirty-odd,  and  continue 
fully  competent  until  age  began  to  slow 
him  down  at  sixty-odd,  his  son  leaps 
into  high  pay  as  a  hobbledehoy,  reaches 
his  economic  apogee  short  of  twenty- 
five,  and  from  thirty-five  to  forty-five 
slides  swiftly  downhill.  He  is  a  better 
earner  at  twenty  than  his  father  was; 
but  the  chances  are  that  he  will  be  a 
poorer  provider  at  fifty. 

I  prefer  not  to  be  too  dogmatic  on 
this  point.  Automatic  machinery  is  so 
new,  having  been  in  common  use  about 
twenty  years  and  still  being  in  its  in- 
fancy, that  present  deductions  on 
economic  life-expectancy  are  founded 
upon  too  few  instances  to  be  altogether 
conclusive.  Moreover,  the  swift  decline 
of  earning  power  in  middle  life  may  be 
partly  due  to  causes  only  indirectly 
related  to  industry  —  poor  housing, 
youthful  excesses,  and  the  like.  How- 
ever, present  indications  point  to  the 
correctness  of  the  cycle  outlined  above. 

Now  the  difficulties  of  the  problem 
presented  to  educators  by  automatic 
machinery  begin  to  emerge.  The  major- 
ity of  youths,  male  and  female,  no  long- 
er need  to  be  taught  how  to  earn  their 
living.  Three  days  after  the  law  that 
sets  limits  on  child-labor  leaves  them 
free  to  work  at  the  machines,  they  will 
be  earning  big  money  —  practically  as 
much  as  they  ever  will  earn.  There  is 
little  to  learn;  the  mills  can  teach  that 
better  and  cheaper  than  the  schools. 
The  labor  turn-over  cost  per  man  ranges 
from  $25  to  $100;  this  includes  the  pay 
of  the  novice  and  his  instructor,  invest- 
ment, depreciation,  and  overhead. 
Since  it  includes  the  non-automatic  and 
semi-automatic  processes,  the  cost  of 
training  men  to  serve  the  automatics 


436 


THE   IRON   MAN 


must  be  considerably  less  than  the 
average,  and  will  decrease  as  automati- 
zation becomes  more  intense.  The  in- 
struction period  on  automatics  varies 
from  half-a-day  to  a  week;  it  is  estima- 
ted that  seventy  per  cent  of  the  workers 
in  an  automatized  plant  can  be  brought 
to  efficient  production  in  three  days  or 
less.  The  schools  can  never  match  this 
record;  in  addition,  the  cost  to  the 
schools  of  the  equipment  for  the  effort 
is  prohibited. 

The  pockets  of  these  children  are  full 
of  money  at  an  age  when  their  fathers 
earned  less  than  a  living  wage  as  ap- 
prentices. They  are  economically  inde- 
pendent of  home  and  social  control. 
They  have  the  eternal  belief  of  youth 
that  the  preceding  generation  is  fossil- 
ized, and  the  buying  power  to  act  upon 
their  belief.  They  are  foot-loose  to  go 
wherever  automatic  machines  are  turn- 
ing. They  can  buy  their  pleasures,  and 
they  do.  They  can  afford  to  flout  age 
and  authority;  they  do.  Their  very 
active  minds  have  no  background,  and 
feel  the  need  of  none.  They  have  no 
conception  of  the  cost  of  civilization;  no 
standard  of  reference  by  which  to  judge 
social  and  political  questions.  They 
have  not  even  lived  long  enough  to  learn 
the  simple  truth  that  common  sense 
and  wisdom  spring  from  the  same  root. 
With  far  greater  need  for  early  thrift 
than  their  elders,  because  their  effective 
economic  life  may  be  shorter,  they 
spurn  the  homely  virtue  of  economy. 
They  buy  pleasures,  buy  companions, 
buy  glad  raiment;  they  try  —  desper- 
ately—  to  buy  happiness.  And  fail. 
Yet  they  are  splendid  raw  material  for 
citizens.  Let  a  great  cause  kindle  them, 
and  they  rise  to  it  like  knights  and 
lad  ies — noblesse  oblige.  They  met  every 
war-need  more  than  half-way;  fought 
and  fell;  sacrificed  and  saved  —  during 
the  emergency.  Their  faults  are  those 
of  youth  plus  affluence. 

Here  is  the  explanation  of  our  youth- 


ful delinquency.  Our  '  bad  men '  of  this 
winter  are  mostly  minors.  '  My  court,' 
said  a  Detroit  judge,  'is  the  scene  of  a 
procession  of  beardless  boys.'  They  ac- 
quire appetites  —  expensive  appetites; 
pleasure  leads  into  bad  company.  A 
prank  gone  wrong,  an  unfortunate  slip, 
a  month  without  a  job  and  nothing  laid 
by  —  and  we  have  the  beginning  of 
what  we  call  the  crime  wave. 


II 

Much  as  this  situation  complicates 
the  educational  problem,  the  school- 
system  somehow  must  be  adapted  to  it. 
Somehow  these  children  must  be  brought 
up  to  a  mental  and  moral  level  approxi- 
mating the  economic  level  upon  which 
they  set  foot  immediately  after  leaving 
school.  This  is  a  grim  task.  In  the  pub- 
lic schools,  certain  things  must  be 
taught  before  the  age  of  sixteen,  which 
now  are  taught  only  in  college,  and  to 
which  many  college  students  appear  to 
be  immune.  The  proposal  itself  would 
be  revolutionary  if  it  did  not  arise  from 
a  new  set  of  industrial  conditions,  to 
which  society  is  accommodating  itself 
clumsily,  but,  in  the  main,  peaceably. 
As  such,  the  change,  though  startling, 
is  clearly  evolutionary  —  and  inevit- 
able. 

What  are  the  positive  educational  re- 
quirements of  the  machine  age?  To 
clear  the  ground,  let  us  eliminate  the 
non-essentials.  The  child  who  is  going 
to  tend  an  automatic  machine  does  not 
need,  in  any  economic  sense,  to  read 
more  than  a  shop-poster  or  direction- 
sheet.  If  he  can  sign  his  name  to  a  pay 
check,  that  is  enough.  If  he  is  willing  to 
trust  the  shop  to  figure  out  his  pay,  he 
need  not  know  his  numbers.  For  the 
time  he  stands  beside  the  machine,  his 
earning  capacity  is  not  increased  by 
anything  he  knows.  Knowledge  may 
be  useful  in  getting  him  away  from  the 
machine;  but  that  escape  is  going  to  be 


THE   IRON   MAN 


437 


more  difficult  as  automatization  pro- 
ceeds toward  its  logical  conclusion. 
Such  knowledge  as  the  operative  comes 
by  in  school  possesses  for  him  only  a 
cultural  value.  It  does  not  help  him  in 
the  least  to  earn  his  living;  but  it  helps 
him  immensely  to  spend  his  leisure. 

For  these  children  —  these  prosper- 
ous, precocious  children  —  possess  leis- 
ure, and  the  means  to  make  the  worst  of 
it.  They  work,  most  of  them  at  least,  no 
more  than  eight  hours  a  day.  Presently 
it  may  be  seven,  even  six.  As  produc- 
tion becomes  more  and  more  automatic, 
the  wants  of  men  can  be  supplied  with 
less  and  less  labor.  Consumption,  of 
course,  may  expand  enormously;  yet 
the  demand  for  goods  remains  in  stiff 
competition  with  the  universal  demand 
for  leisure.  'I've  got  enough;  let's  go 
fishing,'  was  a  state  of  mind  so  common 
in  1919  that  it  disturbed  factory  sched- 
ules, roused  employers,  and  set  tongues 
wagging  about  labor-profiteering. 

Employers  may  fight  the  tendency 
toward  the  shorter  working  day,  but 
theirs  is  a  losing  fight.  Of  late,  in  our 
town,  we  have  gone  along  producing  on 
a  five-hour  schedule  all  of  our  kind  of 
automobiles  which  the  restricted  market 
would  absorb.  In  so  doing,  we  have  dis- 
covered that  with  picked  men,  height- 
ened morale,  and  with  a  closer  syn- 
chronizing of  all  the  elements  involved, 
production  per  man  can  be  greatly  in- 
creased. If  the  present  highly  effective 
organizations  are  slowly  enlarged,  thus 
preserving  their  efficiency,  it  is  difficult 
to  see  how  the  market,  under  normal 
conditions,  can  absorb  more  than  eight 
hours'  produce  from  day  to  day. 

If  this  seems  to  contradict  previous 
observations  on  the  elimination  of  the 
personal  element  through  machine  use, 
please  note  that  the  improvement  is 
due  largely,  if  not  altogether,  to  the 
work  done  by  the  engineers  and  execu- 
tives in  more  efficiently  routing  mate- 
rials to  the  machines.  Under  boom 


conditions,  the  stream  of  supply  was 
often  interrupted,  thus  throwing  the 
machines  out  of  production.  This  has 
been  largely  corrected;  also,  in  the 
meantime,  the  machines  have  been 
tuned  up,  and  new  ones  added  in  some 
cases.  The  attendant  of  the  automatic 
machine  remains  just  where  he  was; 
but  the  machine  has  the  chance  to  do 
more  and  better  work.  Of  course,  even 
in  a  highly  automatized  plant,  there  re- 
main a  good  many  jobs  that  require 
either  no  machinery  or  semi-automatic 
machines;  and  in  such  cases  the  recent 
weeding  out  of  the  ineffectives  does 
produce  beneficial  results.  If  the  mar- 
ket will  not  absorb  the  products  of  the 
longer  working  day,  on  the  present  more 
efficient  per-man  per-hour  basis,  then 
it  seems  apparent  that,  viewing  the 
country  as  a  whole,  industry  will  have 
to  adjust  itself  to  eight  hours  or  fewer, 
probably  fewer.  The  nation's  supply  of 
automatic  tools  is  not  going  to  be  de- 
creased simply  to  lengthen  the  working 
day;  on  the  contrary,  competition  con- 
tinually forces  more  and  more  of  such 
tools  into  operation. 

A  shorter  working  day  manifestly 
means  greater  leisure  for  the  masses. 
Now  it  is  everlastingly  true  that  the 
bulk  of  human  mischief  is  done  in  spare 
time.  There  is  precious  little  chance  for 
original  sin,  or  any  other  kind  of  sin,  to 
work  itself  out  under  the  strict  regimen 
of  a  modern  factory.  While  human  be- 
ings are  at  work,  they  are,  perforce, 
reasonably  decent:  the  employer  sees  to 
it  that  the  time  he  buys  is  not  wasted; 
but  no  one  exercises  an  equal  degree  of 
control  and  supervision  over  a  man's 
unbought  time,  —  his  leisure,  —  unless 
it  is  the  man  himself. 

In  a  town  dominated  by  automatic 
machinery,  therefore,  the  educational 
problem  is  to  train  youth  for  the  right 
use  of  leisure.  Why  waste  time  teach- 
ing city  children  how  to  work,  when 
their  chief  need  is  to  know  how  to  live? 


438 


THE  IRON   MAN 


Precisely  here  is  the  point  of  my  argu- 
ment. Education  for  leisure,  under  the 
conditions  of  automatic  production,  is 
education  for  life.  The  attendant  of 
automatic  tools  does  not  live  while  he  is 
on  the  job;  he  exists,  against  the  time 
when  he  can  begin  to  live,  which  is  when 
he  leaves  the  shop.  His  task  does  not 
call  for  a  fraction  of  his  full  powers  as 
a  sentient  being,  or  monopolize  his 
interest.  If  he  could  buy  the  same 
amount  of  well-financed  leisure  as  eas- 
ily in  any  other  way,  he  would  shift  jobs 
to-morrow.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to 
grow  mentally  through  his  work.  So  he 
comes  to  his  post  as  a  slave  to  the  galley, 
and  leaves  it  with  the  gladness  of  a  con- 
vict escaping  prison.  Psychologists  say 
that  a  large  part  of  industrial  arrest  is 
due  to  the  inhibition  which  automatic 
tools  place  upon  the  expression  of  per- 
sonality through  labor.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  fact  is  that  the  hours  given  to 
tending  automatic  machines  are  given 
to  buy  leisure;  and  in  that  leisure  the 
operative  lives.  He  lives  in  his  sports, 
at  the  movies,  at  the  prize-fights,  at  the 
blind  pig,  as  well  as  at  the  theatre,  the 
lecture,  the  library,  the  park,  and  on 
the  front  porch  of  his  inamorata. 

In  general,  it  has  ever  been  true  that 
leisure  is  the  cream  of  life.  We  have 
tried  desperately  to  build  up  an  im- 
munity to  leisure,  with  our  dull  gospel 
of  work  for  work's  sake.  There  is  a 
glory  in  creative  work;  but  even  that 
becomes  pain  and  weariness  if  we  are 
kept  too  long  at  it.  All  labor  produces, 
sooner  or  later,  weariness  and  pain, 
nature's  signal  to  quit  and  go  a-playing. 
When  does  that  most  stolid  of  men,  the 
peasant,  live  most  fully  —  when  he 
plods  the  endless  furrow,  or  when,  at 
evening,  he  sings  his  songs,  dances, 
prays,  and  courts  his  maiden?  When 
did  the  skilled  mechanic  of  another  day 
feel  his  manhood  soar  highest  above 
clod  and  worm  —  when  he  was  chasing 
a  screw  with  a  cold  chisel,  or  when  he 


was  taking  the  air  in  his  garden,  or,  per- 
chance, hobnobbing  with  his  mates  in 
the  corner  saloon?  Is  the  tireless  busi- 
ness man  better  company  when  he  is 
chasing  a  golf-ball,  or  when  he  is  chas- 
ing a  profit?  Is  the  banker  best  satisfied 
with  himself  when  he  is  figuring  interest, 
or  when  he  is  hip-deep  in  the  stream, 
figuring  trout?  I  think  that  the  men  of 
the  best  sort  reach  their  farthest  north 
in  life,  not  in  the  hours  they  pay  for  life, 
but  in  the  hours  they  spend  in  living. 
Certain  am  I  that  none  but  an  imbecile 
could  find  delight  in  sharing  the  daily 
toil  of  the  urban  masses,  so  mechanized 
has  it  become.  Consequently,  educa- 
tion for  leisure  is  precisely  education 
for  life.  And  education  for  life  comes 
squarely  down  to  education  for  culture. 
To  apply  the  early  Victorian  ideal  of 
education  to  a  machine  age,  to  call  upon 
Matthew  Arnold  to  prescribe  for  a 
flurried  and  worried  democracy,  may 
seem  absurd.  But  that  is  what  the  sit- 
uation needs;  and  the  necessary  is  never 
absurd.  That  cultural  ideal  was  to  fit 
for  leisure  those  who  had  leisure  — 
a  small  minority.  With  certain  reserva- 
tions in  the  interests  of  truth,  it  may  be 
said  to  have  produced  a  few  first-rate 
minds  and  a  very  considerable  number 
of  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen.  Now, 
because  leisure  has  broadened  out  to  in- 
clude the  majority,  we  must  cultivate 
gentlemen  and  gentlewomen  en  masse. 
What  was  once  a  privilege  for  an  arro- 
gant aristocracy  has  become  a  necessity 
for  an  arrogant  democracy.  Unless  our 
American  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen 
appear  in  due  time  and  in  sufficient 
numbers,  civilization  will  be  wrecked 
by  machine-made  barbarians,  unable 
—  though  their  machines  compass  the 
globe  —  to  replace  what  they  have 
destroyed. 

Ill 

What  is  the  first  requirement  for  the 
right  use  of  leisure?  Self-restraint.  Leis- 


THE   IRON   MAN 


439 


ure  is  liberty  from  an  exacting,  definite 
control  —  that  of  the  boss.  In  leisure  a 
man 'is  subject  only  to  the  state.  When 
the  worker  leaves  the  shop,  he  passes 
from  a  positive  control  to  a  negative 
control.  Inside,  he  is  required  to  do  cer- 
tain things;  failure  to  do  them  results  in 
sure  discovery.  Outside,  he  is  required 
not  to  do  certain  things,  although,  if 
he  does  them,  no  penalty  may  follow. 
Thus  we  see  that  it  is  immensely  more 
difficult  to  train  human  beings  for  life 
and  leisure  than  for  toil,  and  that,  in 
America,  only  odd  and  unusual  persons 
get  very  much  out  of  leisure.  About  all 
that  a  retired  business  man  feels  equal 
to  is  golf  and  musical  comedy.  The 
workers  offer  more  encouragement  — 
Brashear  and  Henry  George  showed 
what  laboring  men  could  do  in  spare 
time. 

Need  for  self-restraint  increases  in 
direct  proportion  to  affluence.  I  am 
sure  that  eight  dollars  a  day  at  eighteen 
—  and  some  of  our  lads  earn  much 
more  than  that  —  would  have  corrupt- 
ed me  beyond  repair.  The  wonder  is, 
not  that  some  of  these  highly  paid 
striplings  go  wrong,  but  that  all  do  not 
do  so,  considering  the  opportunity 
offered  them  by  their  cynical  and  pre- 
dacious predecessors.  More  even  than 
wild  oats,  I  am  sure  that  eight  dollars  a 
day  at  eighteen  would  have  insulated  me 
against  right  relationship  with  the  world 
of  ideas  and  ideals,  past,  present,  and 
future,  by  blasting  nascent  inquiry  and 
speculation.  The  establishing  of  this  re- 
lationship in  youth  is,  I  take  it,  the  end 
of  all  true  and  worth-while  education, 
involving,  as  it  does,  the  subjugating  of 
the  assertive,  unbaked  Ego  to  the  social 
well-being,  as  manifested  in  the  legal, 
moral,  and  ethical  codes  prevalent  in 
one's  environment  and  enforced,  more 
or  less,  by  the  power  with  which  com- 
mon consent  invests  political  institu- 
tions. Respect  for  authority,  even  that 
qualified  assent  involved  in  the  prag- 


matic view  of  established  institutions, 
has  extreme  difficulty  in  getting  a  root- 
hold  in  a  generation  whose  youth  is  eco- 
nomically self-sufficient. 

It  follows  that  knowledge,  as  the 
chief  restraining  influence  in  the  youth- 
ful mind,  is  the  substitute  that  educa- 
tion must  establish  in  place  of  the  set  of 
controls  which  formerly  resulted  from 
the  young  man's  poverty  or  fear  of  pov- 
erty. Remembering  that  the  rising  gen- 
eration reaches  its  highest  economic 
utility  early  in  life,  and  that  it  soon, 
relatively  speaking,  reaches  the  eco- 
nomic status  of  old  age,  I  think  we  must 
agree  that,  unless  youth  is  taught  thrift, 
pauperism  will  lengthen  and  strengthen 
from  this  point  in  time.  A  grievous  out- 
look, to  be  forestalled  at  any  cost. 

There  is  need,  therefore,  to  drill  thrift 
into  children;  let  the  experts  busy  them- 
selves on  methods.  The  whole  field  of 
economics  must  be  opened  earlier  and 
charted  more  simply.  Is  it  not  odd,  in  a 
nation  that  bows  down  to  economic 
fact,  to  find  the  teaching  of  that  eco- 
nomic theory  almost  wholly  a  college 
monopoly?  It  ought  to  be  possible  to 
begin  the  teaching  of  economics  in  the 
kindergarten,  and  to  bring  the  pupil 
along  so  that,  before  he  becomes  a  part 
of  the  economic  machine  which  supplies 
human  wants,  he  may  understand  at 
least  its  delicate  nature.  Suppose  a 
child  of  five  were  set  moving  a  given 
number  of  blocks  from  this  space  to 
that  by  hand  —  an  hour's  work.  Then 
suppose  the  child  were  given  a  basket 
to  ease  the  job  —  time,  ten  minutes. 
Then  suppose,  further,  that  an  intelli- 
gent teacher  explained  that  the  basket 
was  capital,  the  result  of  previous  thrift, 
of  labor  in  past  time.  That  lesson  would 
stick.  Somehow  to  get  this,  and  other 
fundamentals,  into  the  mind  when  it  is 
plastic,  is  the  supreme  educational  task 
of  the  future. 

So  with  the  idea  of  law.  My  children 
know,  among  other  surprising  things, 


440 


THE   IRON   MAN 


the  chief  products  of  every  state  in  the 
Union;  but  they  have  no  conception  of 
the  legal  system  which  enforces  equity 
and  fair  play  in  the  exchange  of  those 
products.  It  seems  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world  to  teach  them  that  laws 
exist  to  protect  the  weak  from  the 
strong,  the  just  from  the  unjust,  the 
person  of  good  intent  from  the  swin- 
dler. Once  they  had  mastered  that  idea, 
they  might  see  the  policeman  as  a 
friend  rather  than  as  an  enemy,  and 
our  economic-juridical  system  as  some- 
thing to  be  protected  instead  of  de- 
stroyed. A  generation  so  reared  might 
insist  upon  the  law  doing  its  primal 
duty;. but  it  would  be  evolutionary,  not 
revolutionary,  in  its  demands. 

But  self-restraint  is  not,  of  course, 
all  that  a  man  needs  in  order  to  make 
something  out  of  leisure.  A  man  may 
be  ever  so  self-restrained,  and  yet  be 
desperately  bored  at  the  prospect  of 
spending  an  hour  in  his  own  company. 
Self-restraint  is  merely  the  brake  upon 
the  ego-motor;  it  will  keep  the  individ- 
ual from  running  amok  in  society,  but 
it  will  not  start  anything.  Its  virtue  is 
negative.  What  the  ego-motor  needs  in 
leisure  is  fuel,  something  upon  which  it 
can  travel,  progress,  journey  into  new 
realms  of  thought.  The  best  fuel  for  the 
purpose  is  compounded  of  interest  in 
the  present,  understanding  of  the  past, 
and  sympathy  with  the  future.  His- 
tory, literature,  science,  art,  music  — 
all  these  give  to  life  meaning,  and  to 
leisure,  inspiration;  a  reasonable  con- 
cern in  all  that  man  has  done,  is  doing, 
or  is  about  to  do  upon  this  planet;  with 
such  equipment  any  fool  could  use  leis- 
ure aright.  To  sow  that  seed  is  the  first 
duty  of  educators,  now  as  always,  now 
more  than  ever. 

So  much  for  the  background.  But 
backgrounds  are  always  hazy;  let  us 
concentrate.  Since  work  is  coming  to 
be  no  longer  a  primary  interest  for  the 
child  of  the  masses  in  civilized  lands,  it 


is  incumbent  upon  us  to  provide,  in  so 
far  as  they  can  be  provided,  other  pri- 
mary interests  through  which  the  indi- 
vidual can  justify  his  existence;  inter- 
ests which,  rising  out  of  and  sustained 
by  his  background,  shall  flourish  like 
the  green  bay  tree  all  the  days  of  his 
life.  Every  man,  whether  he  works  a 
turret-lathe  or  a  comptometer,  needs  a 
hobby  to  busy  himself  with  in  this  age 
of  growing  leisure.  We  hear  less  of  voca- 
tional training  than  we  did  —  for  good 
reason,  since  its  utility  is  passing.  Pres- 
ently we  shall  hear  more  of  avocational 
training,  which  shall  give  every  youth 
destined  for  the  mill  or  office  a  hobby 
for  the  centre  of  his  garden  of  leisure. 

In  a  machine  age  the  applied  sciences 
are  paramount.  Let  them  remain  so. 
There  are  important  posts  on  the  peaks 
of  industry  which  must  be  filled.  Let 
us  see  to  it  that  every  mind  fit  to  join 
the  directorate  of  industry  gets  its 
educational  opportunity.  Machinery  is 
undeniably  one  of  the  prime  intellectual 
interests  of  the  American  masses;  in  leis- 
ure an  informed  generation  would  con- 
tinue inventing,  perhaps  invent  faster 
than  ever.  Therefore  let  us  give  youth 
all  it  can  stomach  of  the  sciences,  deep- 
ened and  broadened  to  the  uttermost. 
But  by  no  means  should  we  submit  to 
the  specialist's  obsession,  that,  with  the 
key  to  universal  knowledge  in  his  hand, 
he  travels  down  a  walled  alley,  shut  off 
from  the  humanities,  from  philosophy, 
from  religion,  from  life. 

I  am  not  competent  to  provide  the 
synthesis  for  this  analysis,  to  describe 
the  educational  reforms  which  are 
necessary,  and  which  I  am  sure  are  on 
the  way.  That  is  a  task  for  many  and 
mature  minds.  But  certain  key-points 
emerge  out  of  the  haze.  We  must  I 
think  insist  upon  ten  years'  schooling 
for  every  child,  as  an  irreducible  mini- 
mum, before  plunging  into  the  whirl  of 
automatic  production.  There  should  be 
four  school-terms  instead  of  two,  with  a 


FIVE   YEARS   IX   A   FAROE   ATTIC 


441 


brief  holiday  between;  the  long  summer 
vacation  is  an  anachronism  in  a  factory 
town.  So  also  is  the  Saturday  holiday 
—  six  days  a  week  in  school  henceforth. 
There  is  so  much  to  be  taught,  and  there 
are  so  few  years  to  teach  it  in,  that  youth 
must  hurry.  At  the  same  time,  school 
should  be  so  much  more  interesting  that 
the  charge  of  drudgery  could  not  hold. 
Then,  too,  there  must  be  more  teachers 
and  smaller  classes;  better  equipment; 
more  money  spent  all  round.  Finally, 
there  should  be  a  complete  system  of 
continuation  schools,  wherein  those  who 
desire  to  use  their  labor-bought  leisure 
by  securing  further  instruction  could 
be  accommodated  on  their  own  time. 
All  graduates  presumably  will  have  been 
so  far  inoculated  with  the  intellectual 
virus  that  they  will  go  on  improving 
their  minds  at  leisure,  to  some  extent, 
thus  demonstrating  on  a  wide  scale 
that  education  is  not  a  matter  of  youth, 
but  of  life.  With  such  a  start,  the  many 


will  read,  discuss,  and  enjoy  the  nobles  i 
works  of  man.  And  some  among  them, 
have  no  fear,  will  create  as  well  as  re- 
create. 

But  the  programme,  after  all,  may  be 
left  safely  to  the  specialists,  now  that 
the  problem  is  stated  for  their  attention. 
They  may  have  been  a  bit  tardy  in  see- 
ing how  the  Iron  Man  is  frustrating 
their  efforts,  and  why;  but  that  is  be- 
cause they  have  been  concentrating 
upon  an  even  more  wonderful  mechan- 
ism —  the  human  mind.  Let  them 
quarrel,  as  no  doubt  they  will,  over  the 
details  of  the  programme;  but  they  can 
be  trusted  to  accept  the  statement,  — 
once  they  square  the  facts  by  the  rule  of 
reason,  —  that  the  welfare  of  our  peo- 
ple and  the  preservation  of  our  institu- 
tions depend  upon  our  educating  youth 
to  use  reasonably  and  gloriously  the 
growing  leisure  which  the  common  use 
of  automatic  machinery  has  in  store  for 
humanity. 


(The  author's  next  topic  will  be  '  The  Iron  Man  in  International  Politics.') 


FIVE  YEARS  IN  A  FAROE  ATTIC 


BY   ELIZABETH   TAYLOR 


EIDE,  OSTERO,  FAROE  ISLES. 
15  November,  1914. 

DEAR  HELEN,  — 

When  I  wrote  last,  I  was  digging  in 
the  garden  of  Hans  Kristoffer.  Now  I 
am  in  a  remote  fishing  village  on  the 
northern  end  of  Ostero.  Eide,  as  a  win- 
ter residence,  has  but  one  attraction, 
the  large  family  of  a  Danish  Captain 
Kruse,  whom  I  knew  in  past  years. 
The  youngest  daughter,  Amalya,  and 


her  husband,  will  give  me  shelter  during 
the  winter. 

I  left  the  capital,  Thorshavn,  at  early 
dawn,  on  an  open-decked  motor-boat, 
which  was  heavily  laden  with  passen- 
gers, luggage,  freight,  the  mail,  Iceland 
fishermen's  sea-chests,  three  sheep,  a 
cow,  and  a  large  cask  of  soft  soap,  which 
leaked  badly  and  soon  spread  itself  over 
everything  and  everybody  on  board. 
Later,  rain  fell,  and,  mixing  with  the 


442 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A   FAROE   ATTIC 


soft  soap,  made  a  fine  lather.  We  were 
nine  hours  on  the  way,  most  of  the  time 
within  the  fjords,  where  heavy  mists 
hid  the  fjelds  and,  falling,  seemed  to 
bar  the  way.  The  air  was  dank  and 
chill,  and  when  I  at  last  saw  Eide  in  the 
distance,  I  thought  happily  that  for 
seven  long  months  I  need  go  nowhere  in 
a  boat. 

There  were  Kruses  to  meet  me  on  the 
sea-rocks  and  help  me  with  the  surf, 
and  other  Kruses,  higher  up,  to  hug  me 
and  escort  me  up  the  stony  path, 
Kruses  running  down  the  little  lanes 
and  coming  to  doors  to  greet  me,  and 
meeting  me  at  Amalya's  threshold,  and 
dropping  in  later  to  bid  me  welcome. 
Other  Kruses  were  out  fishing.  And  so 
I  settled  down  to  keep  house  in  Kvisten, 
which  means  the  Attic. 

You  remember,  of  course,  the  story 
of  the  Three  Bears  and  the  Little  Girl? 
Kvisten  now  resembles  the  home  of  the 
Little  Wee  Bear.  All  my  life  I  have 
been  bothered  by  chairs  and  tables  un- 
suited  to  my  height,  and  here  was  my 
opportunity.  Joen  Magnus,  who  is  a 
carpenter,  postman,  fisherman,  and  a 
trifle  of  a  farmer,  has  adapted  many 
boxes  for  me.  His  charge  is  six  cents  an 
hour.  I  pay  seven,  and  thus  the  pleas- 
antest  relations  are  established.  There 
are  twenty-two  boxes,  large  and  small, 
in  Kvisten's  two  rooms,  though  you 
would  never  suspect  it,  and  all  are 
suited  to  the  needs  of  the  Little  Wee 
Bear  and  of  me.  They  are  my  boxes,  — 
mine  to  me,  —  and  therein  lies  their 
charm.  I  own  the  kettle,  the  zinc  pails, 
the  frying-pan,  and  the  broom.  No  one 
has  the  right  to  invade  Kvisten,  and 
put  soda  in  my  tea,  and  boil  it  'to  get 
the  goodness  out,'  or  to  add  sugar  and 
nutmeg  to  my  potatoes.  No  'sweet 
soup'  shall  cross  my  threshold!  I  am 
weary  of  conforming,  through  many 
years,  to  the  ways  of  other  people. 
Now  I  propose  to  have  some  ways  of 
my  own. 


This  cottage  is  perched  high  on  a  slope 
above  the  sea,  so  close  that,  as  I  sit  by 
my  packing-case  table,  I  see  only  sky 
and  water  and  distant  fjelds.  In  stormy 
weather,  the  great  surges  seem  charging 
on  to  overwhelm  Kvisten.  They  made 
me  dizzy  at  first,  and  to  get  my  bear- 
ings, I  must  rise  and  look  down  on  the 
shore  rocks  and  the  grass-sod  roofs  of 
the  Kruse  trading-post,  and  boat-houses 
that  shelter  high-prowed  fishing-boats, 
Ornen,  Svanen,  Hvalen,  Famiglien 
—  the  Eagle,  the  Swan,  the  Whale, 
the  Family. 

The  village  of  Eide  (pronounced  Ida) 
lies  huddled  along  the  fjord,  looking 
south  between  two  islands  over  nine 
miles  of  sea.  On  the  north  are  gray, 
storm-bleached  grass  fields,  rocky  fjelds 
on  either  side,  and  a  pond,  which  only  a 
long  dike  of  up-tossed  boulders  sepa- 
rates from  the  lonely  Northern  Sea.  On 
the  east,  a  great  solemn  promontory 
rears  precipitous  cliffs  two  '  thousand 
feet  above  the  surf,  and  seems  to  be 
saying,  'Thus  far.'  I  don't  think  it  is 
my  fancy  that  makes  those  northern 
waters  seem  sterner,  more  melancholy, 
than  those  of  the  east  or  west.  On  sum- 
mer nights  the  glory  of  the  sunset  and 
the  sunrise  both  are  there;  but  now,  in 
November,  the  sun  is  far  away,  making 
its  shallow  arc  in  the  south. 

I  have  been  busy  with  preparations 
for  winter  —  salting  mutton  and  her- 
rings, ordering  supplies,  filling  little 
boxes  with  soil,  and  planting  or  sowing 
correctives  of  a  too  fishy,  salty  diet: 
chives  and  parsley,  cress,  and  that  best 
of  all  anti-scorbutics,  the  native '  scurvy- 
grass.' 

Amalya's  quarters,  called  Huset,  and 
mine,  Kvisten,  are  on  the  most  neigh- 
borly of  terms,  and  often,  starting  to  go 
downstairs  with  a  little  offering  like  a 
turnip  or  a  cup  of  canned  tomato,  I 
met  Amalya  coming  up  with  a  bit  of 
fried  fish  or  a  pancake. 

I  am  to  have  three  lambs  from  an- 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A   FAROE   ATTIC 


443 


other  island.  The  first  one  came  in  mid- 
October,  escorted  from  the  landing- 
place  by  a  score  of  small  boys.  It  was 
dismaying  to  be  confronted  by  a  whole 
lamb,  —  intact,  —  but  Amalya  kindly 
officiated  as  mistress  of  ceremonies.  Ole 
Jakob,  a  neighbor,  was  asked  to  kill  and 
dress  it  in  the  cellar,  I  peering  down 
fearfully  from  time  to  time  through  a 
trap-door  in  the  kitchen.  Ole  Jakob  had 
half  the  tallow,  the  feet,  fifty  ore  (about 
fourteen  cents),  and  two  cigars,  and  de- 
clared himself  more  than  satisfied,  — 
handsomely  paid,  in  fact,  —  and  sent 
his  thanks.  I  replied,  politely,  through 
Amalya,  that  the  thanks  were  to  him. 

Amalya's  family  has  whale-meat, 
salted,  to  eke  out  winter  supplies.  I 
have  eaten  fresh  whale-meat  scores  of 
times  and  found  it  very  good  —  almost 
like  beef.  But  it  changes  sadly  when 
kept  in  brine,  and  has  a  curiously  per- 
vasive odor.  The  days  when  Huset  has 
whale  for  dinner,  Kvisten  ventilates 
diligently,  loses  interest  in  cooking,  and 
takes  gloomy  views  of  the  war. 

I  find  that  many  people  think  my 
name  is  Mistela.  Not  knowing  the 
meaning  of  the  word  Miss,  and  adding 
it  to  my  surname,  they  think  it  a  Chris- 
tian name,  like  Marguerite  or  Malene. 
I  like  it  as  I  hear  it  from  a  group  of 
children.  'Here  comes  Mistela,'  I  hear 
the  older  ones  say;  'now,  bid  good-day 
prettily  to  Mistela.'  And  as  I  pass,  they 
raise  half-frightened  eyes  to  me  and  say 
in  soft  chorus,  'Godan  dagur,  Mistela.' 

This  is  the  time  of  year  when  we  are 
packed  away  in  heavy,  low-lying  clouds 
that  turn  even  midday  to  twilight. 
Storms  and  heavy  rain  day  after  day. 
Green  slime  growing  on  the  little  lanes, 
rocks,  and  cottage-walls.  Housework  is 
difficult  in  the  uncertain  light.  There  is 
a  feeling  like  black  cobwebs  before  the 
eyes.  While  I  wait  for  the  light  to 
brighten,  the  shadows  deepen  and  the 
brief  day  has  passed.  A  lantern  is  an 
indispensable  part  of  Kvisten's  outfit. 


When,  in  late  afternoons,  a  bit  of  war 
news  is  telephoned  to  the  doctor,  he 
writes  it  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  puts  it 
in  a  little  frame  that  hangs  on  the  out- 
er wall  of  a  cottage.  Buffeted  by  the 
storm,  I  make  a  zigzaggy  progress  up  to 
that  cottage,  where  a  group  of  men  are 
burning  their  fingers  with  matches  and 
growling  about  the  doctor's  writing. 
Often  I  am  kept  there  long,  reading  by 
the  light  of  my  lantern  the  message,  as 
others  join  the  group,  and  feeling  very 
bashful  about  my  queer  pronunciation 
of  Danish. 

Am  I  or  am  I  not  a  Kalve  Kone? 
That  means  a  halibut  woman,  one  who 
possesses  mysterious  powers  that  can 
charm  a  big  halibut  to  the  hook  of  a 
fisherman.  But  the  fisherman  must  have 
promised  her  verbally,  or  in  his  thoughts 
at  sea,  the  beitu  —  a  choice  bit,  cut 
from  the  fish  between  the  fore-fins. 
And  for  this  beitu  no  thanks  should 
ever  be  given,  though  pleasure  may  be 
indirectly  expressed.  Last  week,  a  man 
on  the  fishing-bank  promised  me  the 
beitu,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  was 
having  a  sharp  fight  with  a  halibut  that 
weighed  almost  two  hundred  pounds. 
When  he  came  with  the  beitu,  Amalya, 
who  was  speaking  Faroe-ese  for  me,  ex- 
plained that,  of  course,  Mistela  under- 
stood that  no  thanks  were  to  be  given 
for  it,  but  she  was  awfully  glad  to  have 
it,  and  considered  it  handsomely  done 
of  him.  Two  days  later,  another  man 
promised  me  the  beitu,  and  caught 
nothing.  So  what  is  one  to  think? 

December  22,  1914. 

A  British  trawler  came  in  this  morn- 
ing to  get  supplies  for  the  homeward 
run.  I  saw  the  ship's  boat  nearing  land, 
and  knew  I  would  be  needed  to  help 
with  the  'trawler  English.'  I  found 
Neils  already  in  difficulty  about  'grub,' 
'bac,'  and  'tates,'  which  the  man  had 
demanded.  During  the  next  hour  I 
made  acquaintance  with  plug,  shag, 


444 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A  FAROE   ATTIC 


and  cavendish,  helped  to  make  out  at- 
testations, and  sent  a  messenger  among 
the  cottages  to  find  potatoes.  The  man's 
face  looked  drawn  and  heavily  lined, 
though  he  was  not  yet  middle-aged.  I 
understood  it  when  he  told  me  that  he 
had  been  in  the  mine-sweepers'  brigade. 
Two  of  their  vessels  had  disappeared, 
leaving  no  trace  of  crew  or  wreckage. 
The  man  expected  to  reach  port  by 
Christmas,  and  I  asked  him  about  the 
homeward  run  —  whether  he  followed 
all  the  prescribed  routes  of  the  Admiral- 
ty. 'Huh!'  he  exclaimed,  with  con- 
tempt, 'if  we  did,  we'd  never  get  any 
furrader.  Run  for  it  and  take  yer  chan- 
ces. That's  the  only  way!' 

He  gave  me  no  thanks  for  my  help, 
no  word  of  farewell.  He  gathered  up 
his  purchases,  paused  in  the  doorway, 
and  looked  with  weather-wise  eyes  on 
land  and  sea.  'Wind's  against  us,'  he 
muttered;  'everything's  against  us'  — 
and  so  departedly  sadly. 

Later.  I  have  heard  that  his  ship  has 
been  shelled  and  sunk,  but  what  has  be- 
come of  the  sad  little  man  I  do  not 
know. 

Our  letters  to  England  now  go  first  to 
Copenhagen,  then  to  Aarhus  in  Den- 
mark, then  by  a  butter-and-bacon 
freighter  back  the  whole  length  of  the 
North  Sea,  north  of  the  Orkney  Isles, 
and  down  the  west  coast  of  England  to 
Manchester  or  Liverpool.  Time,  from 
sixteen  to  twenty-six  days. 

Yesterday  a  little  deserter  from  Ger- 
many had  tea  here.  Really  he  is  from 
Slesvig.  He  explained  earnestly, '  Papa, 
Danish;  mama,  Swedish.  Born  in  Ger- 
many, but  not  a  German!'  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  well  he  speaks  Dan- 
ish, though  Germany  has  done  all  in  its 
power  since  1864  to  suppress  the  lan- 
guage. When  he  tried  to  speak  English, 
he  mixed  it  with  German.  His  elder 
brother  had  been  killed  in  the  first  days 
of  the  war.  His  best  friend  was  called  to 
service,  but  an  accident  delayed  him. 


Next  morning  his  young  wife  received 
the  message,  'Two  hours  late.  Shot.' 
That  was  too  much  for  the  little  Sles- 
viger.  He  would  rather  be  shot  as  a  de- 
serter than  fight  for  Germany.  He  was 
a  meek,  pallid  boy,  but  his  eyes  fairly 
blazed  as  he  told  of  the  death  of  his 
friend.  Many  adventures  he  has  had, 
many  narrow  escapes,  but  now  he  has  a 
British  pass,  is  cook  on  a  fishing  vessel, 
and  eventually  will  go  to  Denmark. 

March  7,  1915. 

The  winter  passes  quickly,  and  it  is 
time  to  think  of  garden-plots.  Kvisten 
has  lately  been  deeply  involved  in  po- 
tatoes. Food-supplies  are  uncertain, 
and  the  Governor  urges  all  to  plant  as 
many  potatoes  as  possible,  and  new 
varieties  have  been  sent  from  Denmark. 
I  think  my  faulty  Danish  is  responsible 
for  the  arrival  from  Thorshavn  of  more 
kinds,  in  larger  numbers,  than  I  had 
expected.  It  has  been  a  time  of  stress, 
looking  each  potato  sternly  in  the  eye, 
to  see  if  it  means  to  sprout.  I  have 
made  a  little  collection  for  each  family 
of  the  Kruse  clan,  two  other  friends, 
and  myself.  Nine  families,  and  five  va- 
rieties for  each  family,  and  each  variety 
to  be  kept  separate  and  correctly  la- 
beled, and  I  to  cook,  eat,  work,  and 
sleep  in  the  midst  of  it  all.  By  bedtime 
so  many  potatoes  had  been  imprinted 
on  my  retinas  that,  when  I  closed  my 
weary  eyes,  I  could  distinctly  see  pota- 
toes, brilliantly  illuminated,  floating  in 
space.  And  now  in  the  dim  light,  under 
my  cot-bed,  my  packing-case  table, 
wherever  there  is  a  place,  are  potatoes 
in  shallow  boxes,  standing  prettily  in 
rows,  making  sprouts. 

July  15,  1915. 

I  was  going  to  show  Eide  what's 
what  in  the  way  of  little  gardens,  but 
this  is  a  bad  ice-year  in  the  far  North. 
Those  Greenland  ice-floes  will  not  go. 
They  drift  and  pack  and  drift  again,  be- 


FIVE   YEARS   IN  A   FAROE   ATTIC 


445 


sieging  Iceland's  northern  coasts,  and 
causing  ice-fogs  that  check  and  blast 
vegetation  in  these  islands.  Those  peas 
and  parsnips,  cauliflower  and  oyster- 
plant  seedlings,  one  by  one,  went  by  the 
board,  until  only  potatoes  and  turnips 
were  left.  Then  blight  attacked  the  po- 
tatoes, dry  rot  and  horrid  white  worms 
the  turnips,  and  a  coast-wind  tore  my 
rhubarb  to  bits.  I  have  two  pea-plants 
that  are  doing  well,  but  they  are  in  a 
pot  in  Kvisten.  Amalya  has  seen  dried 
peas,  and  she  always  thought  they  were 
dug  from  the  ground,  like  potatoes. 

We  have  all  felt  the  need  of  a  peat- 
fire  in  the  haugi  —  the  wild  out-fields. 
There  is  nothing  like  it  as  a  restorer  of 
cheerfulness.  And  on  one  of  our  few 
clear  days,  we  went  to  a  lake  among  the 
hills,  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea. 
It  was  the  coldest  picnic  I  have  ever 
attended,  but  with  many  attractions  — 
kittiwakes  taking  fresh-water  baths  in 
the  lake,  black-backed  gulls  barking 
among  the  cliffs,  and  curlew  chortling 
over  the  grassy  slopes.  Omma  (which 
means  grandmother)  and  I  tended  the 
peat-fire  and  made  large  quantities  of 
tea  to  restore  the  circulation  of  those 
who  fished  for  trout,  from  boats,  and 
we  returned  home  at  half-past  nine, 
when  the  sun  was  still  shining  on  the 
fjelds.  Not  that  we  wanted  to,  but  we 
were  so  very  cold ! 

January  30,  1916. 

DEAR  HELEN,  — 

In  a  letter  received  from  America  the 
writer  says  she  thinks  of  me  as  '  dream- 
ing away  the  peaceful  days  far  from 
turmoil  and  agitation.'  I  will  now  tell 
you  of  one  of  my  '  peaceful  days.' 

We  knew  by  noon  that  a  storm  was 
brewing,  for  the  sea  was  restless,  the 
reefs  moaning,  and  the  rising  wind 
hooted  in  a  way  that  meant  trouble  to 
come.  Darkness  closed  in  early,  and  by 
four  o'clock  we  were  in  the  grip  of  a  hur- 
ricane from  the  north.  The  house  shook 
and  groaned  and  strained  like  a  labor- 


ing ship  at  sea.  Torrents  of  icy  rain  and 
masses  of  sea-water  carried  horizon- 
tally through  the  air  bombarded  the 
house,  and  on  the  northern  side  forced 
their  way  through  every  crevice  and 
joist  and  crack.  Under  the  eaves,  in  the 
sloping  closets,  Josefine  and  I  crawled 
on  all  fours,  with  lanterns,  exhuming 
the  contents,  while  Omma  brought 
sacks  and  mops,  buckets  and  tubs.  In 
Kvisten,  with  its  thin  roof  of  zinc,  its 
walls  of  two  layers  of  planks,  the  up- 
roar was  so  great  that  we  had  to  shout 
to  be  heard.  Yet  above  it  all  sounded 
that  high  shrill  crying  —  the  vox  hu- 
mana  of  a  hurricane. 

During  the  worst  gusts  there  was  a 
curious  lifting  sensation,  as  if  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  with  the  attrac- 
tion of  gravity.  It  was  singularly  dis- 
concerting to  lose  all  sense  of  weight 
and  stability,  and  feel  that  Kvisten 
might  whirl  away  like  a  pack  of  cards. 
What  a  night  that  was,  we  thinking 
that  the  roof  would  go,  the  house  be 
carried  from  its  foundations,  and  then 
what  would  Amalya  do?  For  in  that 
time  of  fear  Amalya's  little  son  was 
born.  I  had  him  in  my  charge,  five 
minutes  old,  —  so  blue  and  cold  he  was, 
—  and  held  him  close  in  the  skirts  of 
my  red  wrapper,  while  the  window- 
frames  sucked  out  and  in,  and  the  cur- 
tains blew  in  the  icy  drafts.  Oh,  poor 
little  man  —  to  come  into  the  world  on 
such  a  night! 

I  make  from  time  to  time  tentative 
efforts  to  secure  a  passport,  but  they 
come  to  naught.  I  am  in  the  diplo- 
matic jurisdiction  of  Copenhagen;  but 
with  this  troublesome  heart  the  long  and 
very  dangerous  journey  to  Denmark  is 
impossible.  I  would  venture  the  shorter 
one  to  Scotland,  if  I  could  get  a  pass- 
port. I  wrote  explaining  fully  how  I 
was  situated,  that  a  'personal  applica- 
tion' could  not  be  made,  and  giving  the 
best  of  credentials.  Such  a  trusting, 
naive  letter  it  was  —  so  sure  that  there 


FIVE   YEARS   IN  A   FAROE   ATTIC 


would  be  some  accommodation  in  the 
law  for  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  family, 
stranded  in  a  far-away  land.  A  few 
words,  in  reply,  from  a  secretary,  merely 
say  that  passports  are  issued  on  'per- 
sonal application'  So  I  remain  in  my 

island  attic. 

June  15,  1916. 

We  have  had  an  anxious  week.  First, 
a  rumor  of  the  great  sea-fight  off  Jut- 
land, and  then  the  death  of  Lord  Kitch- 
ener. Faroe  folk,  before  the  war,  have 
known  little  and  cared  less  about  the 
great  ones  of  the  outer  world.  But  they 
knew  about  Lord  Kitchener,  and  his 
death  seems  to  them  a  personal  loss,  as 
if  one  more  safeguard  between  their 
homes  and  the  enemy  had  been  broken 
down.  And  now,  in  another  sense,  they 
are  comrades  of  the  sea,  for  he  has  died 
the  death  that  some  of  them  will  die. 
When  the  news  came,  I  took  a  Kitch- 
ener photograph  with  me  down  to  the 
Kruse  Store,  where  there  is  always  a 
group  of  fishermen  gossiping  and  smok- 
ing. They  crowded  around  me  eagerly, 
to  see  it,  and  I  saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of 
some  of  the  older  men.  'A  brave  man, 
a  good  man,'  they  said  softly. 

March  18,  1917. 

The  Thorshavn  authorities  announce 
that  there  is  a  three-months'  supply  of 
grain  and  flour  on  hand,  but  future  sup- 
plies are  uncertain,  and  we  are  enjoined 
to  use  as  little  as  possible,  and  to  bear 
our  coming  troubles  'with  calm  and 
dignity.'  Now  we  have  used  a  seven- 
weeks'  portion,  and  in  all  that  time  not 
one  pound  of  food  has  come  to  the 
islands.  I  cut  down  on  light,  fuel,  and 
food,  and  could  have  eaten  less  and  yet 
carried  on  as  usual.  I  will  not  say  that 
I  did  not  want  to  eat  more.  Queerly 
enough,  I  was  more  hungry  in  my 
dreams  than  in  my  waking  hours.  I 
gave  little  thought  to  bacon  in  pre-war 
days,  but  now,  about  once  a  week,  I 
dream  about  it.  I  sit  down,  with  joy, 


before  a  large  dish  of  delicately  browned 
curly  bacon,  when  suddenly  it  vanish- 
es away.  Distractedly  I  search  every- 
where, mopping  away  my  tears,  see  it 
in  the  distance,  pursue  it,  and  it  again 
eludes  me.  My  grief  wakes  me,  and  I 
find  that  real  tears  have  made  me  un- 
comfortably damp. 

Next  week  our  rationing  will  begin, 
and  on  Monday  there  will  be  a  house- 
to-house  inspection.  Private  supplies 
must  be  declared  and  attestations  made. 
The  whole  matter  is  rather  complicated, 
and  the  Thorshavn  powers  that  be  have 
kindly  tried  to  explain,  in  technical  lan- 
guage, in  many  columns  of  the  little 
semi-weekly  paper.  We  get  on  fairly 
well  in  everyday  Danish,  but  these  ex- 
planations have  made  trouble.  And 
now  I  see  groups  of  excited  men,  wav- 
ing ragged  copies  of  DimmalcBtting,  and 
hear  such  comments,  in  Faroe  speech, 
as,  'Fool  thou!  I  say  thou  canst  not 
have  sago!'  'Death  and  torment! 
You've  got  it  wrong!'  "S  death!  Oat- 
meal is  rationed!'  'Out  with  thee! 
Thou 'It  have  to  swear  on  truth  and 
honor  how  many  potatoes  thou  hast!' 
And  I  know  that  Eide's  men-folk  are 
earnestly  striving  for  comprehension 
before  the  ordeal  on  Monday. 

15  May,  1917. 

Some  supplies  have  come,  enough  to 
carry  us  through  the  next  few  weeks. 
In  Thorshavn  some  employment  is 
given  on  public  works,  and  throughout 
the  islands  land-owning  peasants  have 
more  food,  some  milk  and  fats,  and 
dried  mutton.  But  in  poor  fishing  vil- 
lages there  is  much  undernourishment. 
There  is  an  old  saying,  'When  Eide's 
fishing-lines  are  dry,  Eide  hungers.' 
Yesterday  four  'six-man  boats'  (boats 
rowed  by  six  men)  were  out,  and  a  few 
small  fish  were  the  only  returns  for  the 
hard  day's  work  of  twenty-four  men. 
Many  people  have  only  the'ir  ration  of 
coarse  rye-meal,  weak  tea  and  coffee, 


447 


and  wind-dried  codlings.  I  can  tell 
when  a  mother  has  been  giving  part  of 
her  scanty  allowance  to  children  or  hus- 
band. There  is  a  certain  over-bright 
eye,  an  exalted  expression,  a  strained, 
white  look  of  the  skin  over  the  nose  and 
around  the  mouth. 

A  well-to-do  friend  in  Glasgow  offered 
help,  and  I  wrote  asking  for  a  little  fine 
barley-meal  and  patent  health-foods 
for  the  mothers  of  new-born  babies  and 
for  sick  children.  She  wisely  sent  my 
letter  on  to  London,  with  her  applica- 
tion for  a  permit.  It  showed  that  I 
asked  only  for  those  in  real  need. 

Eight  Faroe  cutters  have  been  sunk 
on  the  Faroe  Banks.  The  men  could 
not  believe  that  Germany  would  harm 
peaceful  fishermen  of  a  neutral  land,  on 
the  grounds  where  their  forbears  had 
fished  for  a  thousand  years.  This  is  a 
hard  blow.  The  cutters  soon  would 
have  gone  to  the  Iceland  summer  fish- 
ery, and  on  that  the  people  rely  for  help 
through  the  winter. 

June  20,  1917. 

After  a  cold,  dark  spring  and  early 
summer,  we  have  had  a  week  of  real 
sunshine,  such  as  we  seldom  see,  and 
we  have  basked  in  it  and  become  dry 
and  warm  and  sunburned,  and  the  days 
have  been  all  too  long  and  too  light  for 
one's  strength.  It  is  the  time  of  peat- 
work,  and  a  friend,  Olivina,  and  I  have 
had  a  private  picnic  on  a  promontory 
where  she  owns  a  peat-field.  She  was  to 
'  set  up '  peats,  and  I  to  sketch  and  col- 
lect plants.  So  it  was  supposed,  but  the 
truth  is,  we  had  saved  up  flour  from  our 
ration,  and  in  all  secrecy  we  took  the 
frying-pan  with  us  and  made  pancakes 
on  the  heights,  and  the  full  quota  of 
work  was  not  done  that  day.  After  the 
pancakes  —  on  a  day  so  rare  —  it 
seemed  advisable  to  let  work  go,  and 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  headland.  There, 
twelve  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  we 
looked  across  perhaps  twenty  miles  of 
shimmering  sea-levels,  —  blue  and  pink 


and  pearl,  —  and  there  was  no  land  be- 
tween us  and  the  North  Pole.  Puffins 
darted  to  and  fro  like  little  shuttles  be- 
low us.  Gulls  circled  with  no  percepti- 
ble motion  of  their  wings.  A  long,  lean 
freighter  passed,  probably  bound  for 
Archangel.  Then,  from  the  east,  came 
two  pretty  sister  ships,  shining  in  new 
white  paint.  They  kept  close  together, 
and  seemed  like  two  little  children 
abroad  on  some  brave  adventure.  Once 
they  checked,  almost  stopped,  and 
Olivina  clutched  my  arm.  '  Undervands 
baaden!'  she  quavered.  But  no,  it  was 
no  submarine  that  had  stopped  them, 
only  the  fierce  race,  or  current,  sweeping 
eastward,  and  strongest  at  this  phase  of 
the  moon. 

12  July,  1917. 

Yesterday  I  was  startled  by  the  sight 
of  seven  large  trawlers,  all  armed, 
swinging  in  from  the  open  sea.  Eide  is 
a  lonely  place.  I  had  not  seen  a  trawler, 
except  far  away,  for  more  than  two 
years.  Amalya  was  calling  to  me  to 
hurry  —  that  probably  torpedoed  crews 
were  being  brought  to  land.  I  found 
that  only  a  slight  accident  to  machinery 
had  brought  them  in.  But  I  could  help 
about  sending  a  telephone  message,  and 
soon  a  burly  skipper  and  I  were  having 
a  chat  while  awaiting  an  answer.  He 
looked  at  me  in  amazement  when  he 
heard  I  was  an  American  and  had  been 
in  Eide  almost  three  years.  'Good 
Lord!'  he  exclaimed,  smiting  his  thigh 
in  emphasis.  'How  have  you  held  out 
in  this  hole?' 

I  replied,  with  spirit,  that  it  was  n't  a 
hole:  there  were  many  beautiful  places 
near;  I  liked  the  people  and  was  glad  to 
be  here.  But  later,  looking  about  me, 
I  admitted  that  Eide  in  the  fog  was 
not  looking  its  best  that  day,  all  dank 
and  dripping,  and  the  cods'  heads  and 
refuse  too  much  in  evidence. 

Later,  I  met  the  young  lieutenant  in 
charge  of  the  defenses.  So  trim  and  fit 
and  lean  he  was,  with  clear,  steady 


448 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A   FAROE   ATTIC 


eyes.  It  was  a  credit  to  his  discernment 
that  he  understood  that  this  shabby  old 
party  who  appeared  out  of  the  fog  had 
a  message  that  he  must  hear.  To  trawl- 
er captains  I  could  not  give  it.  No  cen- 
sor would  pass  it  in  the  post.  I  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  that  young  man,  and 
constrained  him  to  listen;  and  as,  for 
the  time  being,  I  had  much  dynamic 
force  in  me,  he  did  listen,  bless  him, 
murmuring  at  intervals,  '  That  is  inter- 
esting'; 'I  did  n't  know  that';  'I'll  re- 
member that';  'I'll  do  my  best.' 

And  then  they  sailed  away,  and  I 
wandered  about  in  much  distress  of 
mind.  I  was  in  the  grip  of  nostalgia. 
The  refined,  clean-cut  speech  of  the 
young  officer,  the  first  I  had  heard 
since  April,  1914,  brought  to  mind  all  I 
had  lost,  was  losing,  in  this  exile.  Out 
in  the  world  the  current  of  life  was 
sweeping  onward,  full  and  strong,  and 
I — what  was  I  doing  in  this  backwater, 
this  futile  eddy? 

Then  the  fog  lifted  from  the  fields. 
Between  two  peaks  the  moon  was  ris- 
ing. No  stars  are  seen  on  a  Faroe  sum- 
mer night.  The  pale  moon  casts  no 
shadows.  But  a  silvery  radiance  min- 
gles with  the  daylight  and  the  last 
glow  of  the  sunset  colors.  Nothing  is 
hidden,  nothing  obscured.  The  faint 
far  fjelds  show  lovely  tones  of  blue 
and  violet.  I  could  see  the  shining  of 
the  little  streams  as  they  slipped  over 
the  basalt  ledges,  the  vivid  green  of 
their  mosses,  and  the  rich  purples  and 
reds  reflected  from  the  cliffs  in  the  sea 
below. 

It  was  so  still  that  not  the  least  line 
of  white  showed  along  the  coast;  but,  as 
I  looked,  the  whole  surface  of  the  sea 
rose,  swelled  upward  and  forward,  and 
with  a  muffled  roar,  a  great  white  surge 
flung  itself  along  the  cliffs'  base  and 
over  the  dark  reefs.  It  swept  backward, 
and  all  again  was  still. 

So  beautiful  it  was,  Helen,  so  peace- 
ful, that  my  own  troubles  seemed  of  lit- 


tle moment,  the  way  before  me  easier  to 
follow. 

Four  out  of  five  salt  ships  from  the 
Mediterranean,  which  had  permission 
to  come  to  the  Faroes  outside  the  '  dan- 
ger zone,'  have  been  forced  by  the 
cruisers  to  turn  back  into  it  for  examina- 
tion at  Kirkwall,  and  as  they  came  out 
they  were  torpedoed.  So  good  ships  and 
men  are  lost  to  England,  and  food  that 
the  salt  would  have  cured;  and  much 
hardship  is  brought  on  the  Faroes.  For, 
with  no  salt  to  cure  the  fish,  there  can  be 
no  fishing.  The  Germans  are  greatly 
pleased  to  have  their  game  hunted  in 
for  them.  .  .  .  (The  Censor  suppressed 
this  last  paragraph.  I  thought  he 
would,  but  I  could  n't  refrain.) 

On  Sudero  is  the  last  port  from  which 
ships  sail  for  lands  'down  below.' 
There  bands  of  British  trawlers,  home- 
ward bound  from  Iceland,  drop  anchor, 
and  signal  to  the  port  officials, '  We  have 
come  in  to  sleep.'  Close  together  the 
ships  lie,  a  little  flock  of  hunted  crea- 
tures, and  for  seven  hours  all  is  quiet 
on  board.  Then  out  they  go,  no  rest  for 
them  till  they  reach  a  Scottish  haven. 
Much  suffering  and  many  lives  and 
ships  have  been  spared  to  Britain  by 
this  little  neutral  group,  in  a  waste  of 
waters  where  ships  can  take  shelter,  and 
torpedoed  crews  and  wounded  men  find 
help  and  nursing.  Money  cannot  pay 
for  these  things,  but  the  British  Gov- 
ernment might  let  us  have  some  pe- 
troleum, and  allow  a  ship  with  supplies 
from  America  to  be  examined  at  Hali- 
fax instead  of  at  Kirkwall,  in  the  danger 
zone. 

15  August,  1917. 

We  think  with  dread  of  the  coming 
darkness.  No  petroleum  on  sale,  of 
course  no  gas  or  electric  light,  no  coal, 
no  candles,  and  only  a  scanty  supply  of 
peat.  America,  as  well  as  England,  re- 
fuses us  petroleum.  (I  wish  I  could 
have  Mr.  Hoover  here  on  a  December 
night,  in  one  of  our  worst  gales !)  A  new 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A   FAROE   ATTIC 


449 


odor  has  been  added  to  Eide's  general 
fishiness.  House-fathers  and  mothers 
are  trying  out  highly  unpleasant  fish- 
livers.  Small  boys  are  fishing  for  cod- 
lings. The  old  folks  are  praying  that 
the  Lord  will  send  a  flock  of  driving 
whales,  to  give  food  and  light  for  the 
coming  winter.  And  the  smiths  have 
gathered  in  all  the  old  cans  and  every 
scrap  of  tin  and  brass,  and  are  experi- 
menting on  little  fish-oil  lamps.  They 
require  a  reservoir  above  the  burner,  a 
pressure  to  force  the  oil  up  to  the  wick. 

The  truth  is,  petroleum,  postal  rights, 
and  other  desiderata,  are  denied  us  be- 
cause the  British  Government  is  afraid 
that  the  Faroes  will  be  used  as  a  supply 
station  for  German  submarines. 

It  is  surprising  what  can  be  done  in 
contriving  ways  and  means.  The  soles 
of  my  felt  shoes  are  quite  worn  out,  and 
I  have  re-covered  them  with  a  piece  of  a 
neighboring  fisherman's  discarded  trou- 
sers, giving  in  return  a  little  flour.  Anna 
has  made  a  fine  pair  of  shoes  for  her  lit- 
tle girl  from  a  fifteen-year-old  felt  hat. 
I  bartered  three  envelopes  the  other 
day  for  a  lamp-chimney  with  a  broken 
top,  a  handkerchief  for  a  small  cod,  and 
I  have  known  a  large  spoonful  of  soft 
soap  to  be  '  swapped  '  for  three  hairpins. 

20  October,  1917. 

We  have  a  new  baby,  a  frail  little 
creature,  unfit  to  bear  the  coming  win- 
ter. She  is  not  six  weeks  old,  an  age 
when  the  normal  child  is  a  little  pig, 
with  unawakened  intelligence.  This 
dear  baby  looks  from  one  to  another 
with  bright,  questioning  eyes,  earnestly, 
sadly,  and  yet  with  a  sweet  composure 
that  seems  strange  in  such  a  helpless 
mite.  We  laugh  at  her,  and  tell  her  that 
she  need  n't  put  on  such  dignified  airs, 
that  we  mean  well,  even  if  our  manners 
are  not  as  fine  as  hers.  I  suppose  she 
seems  older  because  there  is  no  baby 
fat  to  hide  the  pure  oval  of  her  face  and 
the  fine  lines  of  neck  and  shoulders. 


We  have  had  heavy  rains  and  a  low 
temperature  since  the  middle  of  July. 
Even  now,  between  snow-squalls,  hay- 
making is  going  on.  Many  are  bearing 
home  the  half-dry  hay,  to  spread  it  out 
in  their  little  cellars.  Wretched  food  it 
will  be  for  the  poor  cows;  but  there  is 
nothing  else  to  give  them. 

30  January,  1918. 

Eide  had  a  'dry  Christmas'  (no  spir- 
its for  sale),  and  so,  for  many  women 
and  children,  a  happier  Christmas  than 
usual.  We  made  a  quite  charming  little 
tree  from  a  piece  of  spar,  with  sticks  in- 
serted here  and  there  for  branches,  and 
covered  with  heather  and  crowberry. 
Amalya  fished  out  some  decorations 
from  her  childhood  days;  there  were 
some  little  toys  sent  in  August  from  a 
.Scottish  friend.  I  made  cornucopias 
with  the  colored  illustrations  of  a  Lib- 
erty rug-and-carpet  catalogue  (and 
very  pretty  they  were),  and  from  bees- 
wax cast  ashore  from  a  torpedoed  vessel 
we  had  little  brown  candles,  which 
spluttered  briskly  as  they  burned,  from 
the  sea-salt  in  them.  We  had  long  been 
saving  from  our  flour- and  sugar-rations, 
and  by  an  elaborate  system  of  barter 
and  by  mutual  gifts  hi  the  Kruse  clan, 
we  managed  to  have  some  good  Christ- 
mas food,  and  sugar-candies  and  ginger- 
nuts  for  the  tree.  It  was  really  some- 
thing like  a  Danish  Christmas,  with  the 
singing  of  the  Christmas  songs,  'Still 
Night,  Holy  Night,'  and  'A  Child  is 
born  in  Bethlehem.' 

We  are  having  a  terrible  winter. 
Such  cold  has  never  before  been  re- 
corded in  the  Faroes.  This  long  siege 
began  on  December  first.  I  was  at  the 
window  after  dinner,  wondering  at  the 
strange  ashy-red  color  on  the  fjelds, 
when,  with  a  noise  like  thunder  on 
Kvisten's  roof,  all  was  blotted  out,  as  if 
a  gray  blanket  had  been  thrown  across 
the  window.  The  gale  raged  with  hur- 
ricane force  until  the  next  morning. 


VOL.  itS—J 


.  4 


450 


FIVE   YEARS   IN   A   FAROE  ATTIC 


Seven  were  killed  (two  on  this  island) 
and  many  injured. 

Then  followed  week  after  week  of 
gales  from  the  North.  No  fjelds,  no  sea, 
no  sky,  all  milled  up  in  a  whirling  fog  of 
hard-cutting  snow.  The  light  in  Kvis- 
ten  was  dim  and  gray,  so  thick  was  the 
ice  on  the  window.  I  shared  my  ward- 
robe with  my  potatoes,  yet  they  were 
frozen.  The  water-supply  gave  out 
long  ago.  There  is  too  little  peat  to 
melt  much  snow.  The  only  water  we 
have  must  be  brought  some  distance, 
from  a  brackish  pool  near  the  sea.  The 
salt  water  makes  a  sticky  glaze  on  the 
skin  without  cleaning  it.  There  is  prac- 
tically no  soap  in  the  .village,  no  soda 
or  other  cleansing  stuffs.  The  fish-oil 
lamps  diffuse  a  universal  oiliness.  But 
there  is  one  advantage  in  the  common 
plight:  no  one  can  look  with  disdain  on. 
his  fellow  man  and  say,  '/  am  clean.' 

The  pride  of  the  family,  Melrose  by 
name,  a  large,  half-Cheviot  ram,  blew 
away  in  that  opening  gale.  His  carcass 
was  fished  up  three  days  later  from  the 
sea.  This  is  not  a  time  for  undue  fastid- 
iousness, and  Amalya  has  salted  most 
of  the  meat,  and  the  rest  we  ate  with  a 
properly  thankful  spirit.  Only  I  wished 
that  Amalya  would  speak  of  the  dear 
departed  as  mutton,  instead  of  saying, 
'Nella'  (our  boy's  name  for  me),  'will 
you  have  another  piece  of  Melrose?' 

The  baby,  Elizabeth,  fails  from  day 
to  day.  The  doctor  went  to  Denmark 
last  year,  and  no  one  will  come  to  take 
his  place  while  the  war  lasts.  But  no 
doctor  could  help  her.  She  needs 
warmth  and  sunshine,  and  Amalya 
should  have  a  generous  and  varied  diet. 

The  people  miss  the  little  visits  of 
happier  days  between  the  cottages,  the 
gossip  over  a  cup  of  tea  and  coffee,  and 
perhaps  little  cakes  brought  out  to 
honor  a  guest.  Now  the  food-rations  do 
not  admit  of  hospitality.  I  admire  the 
kindly  fibbing  that  goes  on  when  a 
neighbor  comes  on  some  necessary  er- 


rand. 'Now  don't  get  anything  for  me. 
I've  just  had  breakfast,  and  could  n't 
eat  a  bite  more.'  Often  I  am  asked  wist- 
fully, '  Has  the  Froken  any  news  of  the 
Amerika  ship  —  with  coffee?'  as  if,  be- 
ing an  American,  I  must  possess  special 
knowledge.  But  not  a  word  have  we 
heard. 

23  April,  1918. 

The  baby,  Elizabeth,  died  on  Easter 
Day.  The  world  is  too  hard  a  place  now 
for  little  babies.  Our  boy,  Oli,  grieves 
for  her;  and  knowing  that  many  things 
are  ordered  from  Thorshavn,  he  begs 
Amalya  to  write  for  another  little  sister 
just  like  Elizabeth,  to  be  sent  on  at 
once. 

30  May,  1918. 

The  American  schooner  has  come  to 
Thorshavn,  nine  months  from  port. 
She  must  have  feared  she  was  fated  to 
be  another  Flying  Dutchman.  Month 
after  month  of  contrary  gales  crippled 
her  at  last,  so  she  drifted  into  the  dan- 
ger zone  and  had  to  seek  a  Shetland 
haven  for  repairs.  Part  of  the  cargo  is 
damaged,  but  the  coffee  is  saved.  The 
news  passed  swiftly  over  Eide,  called  by 
happy  voices  from  house  to  house.  I 
saw  tears  of  joy  on  one  wrinkled  old 
face,  and  heard  a  quavering  voice  sing- 
ing the  gay  '  Coffee  Song '  —  a  dance- 
ballad  that  the  singer  had  danced  more 
than  a  half  century  before. 

And  now  our  only  postal  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world  is  by  one  old 
hooker,  which  brings  salt  and  some  re- 
stricted wares  from  a  British  port,  anc 
takes  back  salt  fish  and  fish-liver  oi 
To  name  it  is  forbidden,  but  seamt 
call  it  'The  Lucky  Ship.'  Nor  can 
ask  when  it  will  come  or  go.  Durii 
more  than  two  years  the  valiant  olc 
skipper,  now  aged  seventy-four, 
gone  back  and  forth  across  the  danger 
zone,  having  adventures  that  cannot 
told.  There  is  one  young  gunner  oi 
board,  but  all  the  crew  and  officer 
range  from  fifty-five  to  seventy  yt 


FIVE  YEARS  IN  A  FAROE  ATTIC 


451 


15  December,  1918. 

All  was  quiet  when  the  few-worded 
message  came  of  the  signing  of  the  Ar- 
mistice. Of  course,  in  a  little  neutral 
land  there  would  be  no  official  celebra- 
tion. A  crowd  gathered  quickly  when 
the  few-worded  bulletin  was  put  up, 
and  some  asked  me,  'Can  it  be  true?' 
And  some  said,  'God  give  it  be  truth!' 
and  some  wiped  their  eyes.  And  I  said 
'Gud  ske  Lov'  (God  be  praised),  and 
went  away  where  I  could  see  from  afar 
that  northern  shore,  where  now  I  need 
not  dread  to  look,  fearing  what  I  might 
find  there.  For  the  seas  are  to  be  clean 
once  more!  And  then  I  went  back  to 
Kvisten  and  did  my  housework,  and 
that  was  all. 

15  January,  1919. 

In  December,  for  the  first  time  since 
July,  1916,  a  real  steamer  entered  Eide 
fjord.  A  shabby  black  old  hooker,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  was  the  'Lucky  Ship.'  And 
now  I  can  tell  its  name,  the  Cromwell, 
and  the  brave  old  skipper's  name  is 
Captain  Gibb,  of  Aberdeen,  and  the 
ship  belongs  to  the  Iceland  Shipping 
Co.,  Leith,  Scotland.  I  wanted  to  go  on 
board,  but  we  are  quarantined  against 
the  Spanish  influenza  and  no  one  is  al- 
lowed on  deck.  Only  by  going  to  wind- 
ward can  bags  of  salt  be  delivered  to 
the  freight  rowboats,  and  oils  and  fish 
transferred  to  the  steamer. 

THORSHAVN,  2  August,  1919. 
The  breaking  up  of  my  life  in  Kvis- 
ten was  a  hard  time.  I  was  really  ill 
with  a  'near-pneumonia'  cold.  Storms 
and  heavy  surf  swept  the  village-front, 
making  the  launching  of  a  boat  impos- 


sible. Could  I  get  to  Thorshavn  in  time 
to  go  on  the  Chaldur?  Would  she  go 
to  Scotland  on  her  way  to  Denmark? 
Was  my  promised  passage  assured, 
when  scores  of  passengers  on  the  spot 
were  clamoring  to  go?  I  dared  not  let 
myself  think  of  the  parting  from  those 
who  had  become  so  dear  to  me.  Silence 
seemed  the  only  way  of  getting  through 
with  it.  Once  I  said  shakily,  'Amalya, 
you  know  what  is  in  my  heart? '  — '  Yes, 
Nella,  I  know.'  Then,  just  in  time,  the 
storm  subsided. 

Our  boy  at  the*last  would  not  say 
good-bye.  'Nella  was  bad.  Nella  should 
not  go  to  England.  Nella  should  stay 
in  Kvisten  always.' 

It  was  a  small  party  that  set  forth  in 
the  tiny  fishing  motor-boat.  Our  house- 
father at  the  helm,  a  brother-in-law  at 
the  engine,  two  neighbors  as  assistants, 
Fru  Kruse  and  I  the  passengers.  The 
box-like  pit  where  whelks  for  bait  are 
kept  had  been  cleaned  out,  and  Fru 
Kruse  and  I  sat  down  there,  with  our 
heads  peering  out  above  the  rim.  A 
piece  of  canvas  stretched  overhead  kept 
out  the  rain.  And  so  we  chug-chug- 
ged southward,  hour  after  hour,  in  the 
gently  falling  rain,  toward  Thorshavn, 
where  I  was  to  see  a  pony  and  a  tree  for 
the  first  time  in  five  years.  Part  of  the 
time  we  were  between  the  islands,  then 
on  the  open  sea,  past  treacherous  reefs 
and  sucking  whirlpools  off  the  Stromo 
coast,  where  many  a  boat  has  'gone 
away.'  Then,  as  we  rounded  a  point  of 
land,  we  saw  on  the  far  southern  hori- 
zon a  faint  smudge  of  smoke.  That  was 
our  Chaldur,  and  she  will  take  me  south 
to  Scotland. 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


BY   KATHARINE   FULLERTON   GEROULD 


'BETWEEN  the  bridge  and  the  river 
there  is  time  for  an  act  of  perfect  con- 
trition,' my  pious  French  playmates 
used  to  tell  me.  I  knew  very  little  about 
'acts'  in  the  ecclesiastical  sense,  and 
the  phrase  puzzled  me;  but  it  stuck.  It 
stuck  like  that  other  formula  we  were 
all  brought,  up  on,  about  remembering 
the  whole  of  your  past  life  as  you  rise 
for  the  third  time  before  definitely 
drowning.  I  cannot,  of  course,  verify 
the  first,  and  verifications  of  the  second 
are  chancy.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that 
a  deal  of  subconscious  philosophy  can 
be  formulated  in  a  few  seconds,  if  the 
seconds  are  sufficiently  uncomfortable. 
There  is  something  about  a  brief  sharp 
instant  of  fear,  especially  when  there 
are  no  steps  that  can  be  taken,  that 
makes  one  know  a  lot  of  things.  The 
shock  pieces  together  your  hitherto 
random  inferences,  and  you  behold, 
with  apocalyptic  suddenness,  a  mental 
pattern.  For  example:  — 

The  other  evening  I  attended  a  car- 
nival. The  phrase,  I  know,  is  absurd; 
but  in  our  village  the  only  thing  you 
can  do  with  a  carnival  is  to  attend  it  — 
precisely  as  if  it  were  a  Chautauqua. 
We  are  not  very  riotous,  and  our  vacant 
lots  are  very  small.  '  Carnival '  is  rather 
the  name  of  our  intention  than  of  our 
achievement.  The  American  Legion 
chose  to  call  it  a  carnival,  —  having 
got  used,  in  France,  to  a  grand  scale 
of  doing  things,  —  and  we  rather  liked 
the  term  ourselves.  We  are  too  small 
for  circuses,  or  band-concerts,  or  the 

452 


legitimate  drama.  Rummage  sales  for 
charity  are  about  our  size.  So  when  we 
take  over  an  empty  lot  and  officially 
place  a  carnival  upon  it,  —  as  if  we 
were  Paris  or  New  Orleans  or  Honolulu, 
—  we  grow  a  little  excited,  especially  if 
there  are  children  in  the  family,  whose 
natural  bedtime  is  eight  o'clock  (day- 
light-saving). 

We  set  out:  two  parents,  a  son,  and 
a  godfather.  Of  course,  it  was  only  the 
vacant  lot  opposite  the  old  athletic 
field,  but  who  knew  what  the  Legion 
might  have  done  to  it?  Both  the  male 
parent  and  the  godfather  belong  to  the 
Legion,  but  they  had  no  idea.  Son 
knew  that  there  was  a  merry-go-round 
and  a  Ferris  wheel.  The  grown  gentle- 
men of  the  party  were  rather  cynical: 
they  were  going,  'to  take  the  boy.'  But 
I  have  found  that  the  greatest  moral 
advantage  of  living  in  a  small  academic 
town  is  to  give  one  back  some  of  the 
illusions  of  youth.  You  break  your 
neck  getting  to  see  things  that  you 
would  not  turn  your  head  for  in  New 
York  or  (I  suppose,  since  the  new  cen- 
sus, one  must  say)  Detroit. 

The  most  exciting  moment  of  the 
great  war  was  not  August,  1914,  or 
April,  1917,  or  November,  1918.  It  was 
about  10.30  P.M.  of  that  hot  Sunday 
in  July,  1918,  when  the  Crown  Prince, 
with  all  his  staff  and  three  hundred 
thousand  German  soldiers,  had  surren- 
dered to  the  Allies.  They  had  not  sur- 
rendered in  Europe,  unfortunately,  — 
only  in  Princeton,  —  but  I  assure  you 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


453 


neither  fake  nor  real  armistice  could 
compare  with  it.  So  I  confess  that  the 
music  of  the  merry-go-round,  unmistak- 
able wherever  heard,  and  the  illumined 
outline  of  the  Ferris  wheel  (quite  the 
smallest  and  youngest  of  the  Ferris 
family)  stirred  the  blood.  They  would 
have  been  almost  inaudible  and  invisi- 
ble elsewhere;  but  they  were  a  portent 
in  the  Princeton  twilight  —  even  as  the 
Handley-Pages  or  the  Capronis  that 
buzz  gigantically  over  our  garden,  car- 
rying the  mail  from  capital  to  metro- 
polis, give  one  no  sensation  comparable 
with  that  evoked  by  the  quick  rise  of  a 
'flivver'  of  an  air-plane  off  the  little 
fair-ground  at  Prattsville,  New  York  — 
hard  by  the  jellies,  the  sweet-grass  bas- 
kets, the  crocheted  bedspreads,  and  the 
prize  ox. 

'Sweetheart,  the  dream  is  not  yet 
ended, '  as  the  ominous  words  run  in  the 
fairy-tale. 

We  eschewed  the  merry-go-round  for 
ourselves,  but  watched  the  boy  sitting 
very  straight  on  his  more  than  mortal 
steed.  A  steed  that  goes  up  and  down 
vertically  while  he  also  goes  round  and 
round  in  a  circle  is  not  exactly  mortal 
—  especially  when  he  is  a  lion  or  a  zebra 
or  a  rooster.  We  tried  our  luck  at  the 
gambling  booths  —  you  can  hardly  call 
them  anything  else,  those  wheels  and 
bagatelle-boards  and  rifle-galleries.  To 
others  the  sofa  pillows  and  red-glass 
vases,  the  boxes  of  candy  and  the  wick- 
er tea-sets:  our  skill  brought  us  noth- 
ing but  chewing-gum.  You  cannot  take 
chewing-gum  away  from  a  child  who 
has  won  it  himself;  so  in  the  interest  of 
public  morah  we  followed  the  crowd. 

There  the  serried  bunches  of  children 
warred  with  members  of  the  Legion  as 
to  who  should  be  let  through  the  gate 
next.  When  they  sneaked  in  at  the  side, 
the  Legion  shoved  them  back,  in  impec- 
cable good-humor,  but  with  military 
finality.  The  wheel  sprang  a  leak,  and 
youths  ran  back  and  forth  saggingly, 


with  buckets  of  gasoline  for  the  de- 
frauded engine.  The  crowd  grew:  half 
of  Naples  and  two  thirds  of  the  black 
belt,  with  an  aggressive  sprinkling 
from  Jewry,  surged  waist-high  about 
the  demobilized  guardians  of  the  gate. 
But  finally  the  lath-like  mechanism  was 
pronounced  in  order,  and  boy  and  god- 
father climbed  into  the  last  empty  car. 
We  stood  and  watched  their  revolutions, 
eyes  fixed,  it  seemed,  on  the  zenith, 
while  Naples  prodded  and  Lithuania 
kicked  our  ankles.  Atlantic  City  would 
not  have  known  there  was  a  wheel 
there;  but  to  me  it  took  on  the  matured 
shape  of  Adventure.  My  husband  was 
as  gallant  as  on  the  verge  of  Molokai  or 
Halemaumau;  he  did  not  prophesy,  he 
did  not  warn,  he  did  not  frown.  'All 
right,  if  you  want  to '  —  and  as  son  and 
godfather  got  off,  we  leaped  into  the 
empty  car. 

And  this  is  what  I  was  coming  to,  in 
all  these  weary  paragraphs:  my  bit  of 
bridge-and-river,  third-time-rising-and- 
sinking  philosophy.  We  rose,  we  at- 
tained the  height,  we  swung  on  in  the 
downward  loop  —  once  and  once  only. 
I  do  not  know  how  many  revolutions 
they  give  you  for  your  money;  but  I 
knew  that  one  was  all  I  could  bear.  I 
said,  'Do  you  think  they  would  stop 
and  let  us  off? '  —  and  left  the  rest  to  G. 
I  knew  that  he  would  get  me  off  if  possi- 
ble, and  that  he  would  not  say,  'I  told 
you  so.'  These  are  good  things  to  be 
able  to  count  on.  After  one  unnatural 
glimpse  of  the  dim  New  Jersey  plain 
beneath  us,  I  had  shut  my  eyes  —  I 
who  like  heights.  I  was  not  sick,  I  was 
not  giddy,  I  was  physically  quite  com- 
fortable; but  I  found  myself  hesitant 
to  intrude  upon  the  stars  at  their  own 
front  doors.  I  like  to  lie  on  a  rock  ten 
thousand  feet  in  air  and  feel  that,  if  I 
blew  hard,  I  could  blow  a  planet  clean 
out  of  place,  or  disarrange  Orion's  belt. 
I  am  always  hoping  to  double  the  ten 
thousand;  then,  for  one  instant,  I  shall 


454 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


have  the  illusion  of  a  supreme  decision : 
whether  or  not  to  lift  my  hand  and 
grope  for  the  lost  Pleiad.  It  is  not  the 
nearness  of  the  stars  I  mind;  simply,  I 
like  a  back  to  my  chair  when  I  greet 
them.  I  would  rather  pull  them  down 
than  have  them  pull  me  up.  I  wanted 
to  get  off  the  Ferris  wheel  —  and  did. 

What  I  had  possessed  for  fifteen 
cents  was  one  priceless  moment  of  fear. 
It  is  not  often,  in  one's  padded  life,that 
one  is  stark  afraid,  primitively,  for  one 's 
own  skin.  Under  the  revealing  shock 
of  it,  I  did  a  lot  of  emotional  algebra, 
finding  with  astonishing  speed  what  x 
equals.  The  equation  slid  through  its 
paces  to  the  solution.  In  the  mere  in- 
stant of  eye-closing  I  compared  myself, 
on  my  modest  wheel,  with  those  who 
brave  the  ether.  Yes:  but  they  are  fas- 
tened in;  if  I  were  fastened  in,  I  should 
not  mind;  in  fact,  what  I  mind  most  is 
this  fearful  detachment  from  anything 
like  solidity.  Think  how  many  people 
go  round  on  far  bigger  wheels  than  this. 
Yes,  but  the  heart  knoweth  its  own 
wheel.  Besides,  the  bones  of  the  baby 
are  flimsier  than  those  of  the  grown-up. 
This  thing  is  made  of  string  and  papier- 
mache,  and  even  at  Coney  Island  they 
have  horrid  accidents.  All  these  con- 
traptions are  unsafe.  We  know  it  when 
we  are  on  the  ground,  and  are  very  wise 
over  the  accidents,  in  headlines,  once  a 
season.  But  see  the  children  swarming; 
and  did  n't  your  own  boy  actually 
squirm  about  to  look  behind  him,  in 
mid-air?  Ah,  children  are  fearless 
through  ignorance.  But  grown-ups  like 
it,  too:  remember  that  at  all  pleasure- 
resorts  you  find  the  most  uncomfortable 
and  dangerous  devices  the  most  popu- 
lar. They  like  to  walk  through  rolling 
barrels,  they  like  to  shiver  along  the 
heights  of  the  roller-coaster,  they  like  to 
stand  on  the  slippery  whirling  cone  and 
be  flung  off  irresistibly  into  a  padded 
precinct.  They  like  looping  the  loops, 
and  bumping  the  bumps.  They  like  it. 


II 

Ah,  my  dear  defensive  Interlocutor, 
—  Spirit  of  the  Wheel,  or  what  not,  — 
you  touch  one  of  the  most  pathetic  and 
vital  facts  of  human  nature.  To  each  of 
us  it  is  natural  to  crave  danger,  since 
a  dash  of  danger  is  necessary  to  make, 
out  of  an  act,  an  adventure.  To  prepare 
yourself  for  that  danger,  in  the  right 
way,  to  meet  it  when  prepared,  in  the 
right  spirit,  is  to  be  a  good  sport.  To  be 
a  good  sport,  it  is  not  quite  enough  to 
face  the  danger  bravely  when  it  comes : 
you  must,  to  some  extent,  welcome  it. 
Yet,  to  welcome  danger,  to  go  to  look 
for  it  —  is  not  that  being  merely  rash, 
or  foolhardy? 

There  are  distinctions,  my  child  (so 
spoke  the  Interlocutor).  It  is  all  a  mat- 
ter of  the  quid  pro  quo.  Nothing  for 
nothing,  in  this  world.  The  danger  pays 
for  something  else  —  knowledge,  or  a 
new  sensation.  Is  the  knowledge  worth 
it?  Is  the  new  sensation  worth  it?  You 
must  decide. 

But  that  is  not  being  a  sport,  I 
protested.  A  sport  takes  his  chances. 

Exactly,  replied  the  Spirit  of  the 
Wheel.  And  a  good  sport  must  also  be 
a  good  appraiser  of  quid  pro  quo.  Nine- 
ty times  out  of  a  hundred  he  must  make 
a  good  guess  at  whether  or  not  the  ad- 
venture is  going  to  be  worth  the  risk. 
Otherwise  men  write  him  down,  if  over- 
hesitant,  a  coward;  if  over-willing,  a  rash 
idiot. 

Is  it  worth  my  while,  I  asked,  to  open 
my  eyes,  to  be  afraid  for  several  revolu- 
tions more,  to  repeat  the  horrid  sensa- 
tion I  have  just  been  having  at  the  very 
top  of  our  career  —  is  it  worth  while  ? 
Am  I  failing  to  be  a  sport  if  I  ask,  in  a 
few  seconds  more,  to  be  allowed  to  get 
off?  This  has  become  a  purely  moral 
matter,  good  Wheel. 

Of  course  it  is  a  moral  matter,  the 
Spirit  of  the  Wheel  replied.  Show  me 
anything  that  is  n  't.  It  is  even  a  moral 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


455 


matter  that  wheels  of  my  sort  are  so 
flimsy.  Those  who  make  them  count 
heavily,  and  not  in  vain,  on  the  des- 
perate desire,  in  drab  lives,  for  adven- 
ture. Drab  lives  must  take  adventure 
where  they  can  find  it.  A  new  sensation 
for  a  dime  —  and  any  man  is  lifted  from 
the  crowd,  is  gloriously  individual, 
while  he  is  experiencing  a  new  sensation. 
He  stands  on  a  peak  in  Darien.  If  there 
is  danger  added,  he  is  not  only  a  dis- 
coverer, but,  for  his  instant,  a  hero. 
Perhaps  the  folk  who  make  these  things 
so  badly  as  to  increase  the  danger  are 
really  benefactors  —  are  really  acting 
morally;  since,  if  you  incur  no  risk  at  all, 
you  have  no  chance  of  being  a  sport.  I 
should  be  interested  to  know  what  you 
think.  Nothing  is  so  comforting  to  the 
soul  as  the  memory  of  past  perils  well 
met  and  lived  through.  Does  a  man 
ever  get  over  narrating  a  hair  's-breadth 
escape?  You  talk  about  being  tied  in. 
But  if  you  were  tied  in,  you  would  not 
be  afraid.  Where  would  be  the  glory? 
It  is  time,  by  the  way,  if  you  want  to 
get  off,  to  say  so.  Your  car  will  pres- 
ently be  at  the  bottom.  Then  we  are 
really  off.  We  shall  go  faster  next  time. 
I  had  only  one  instant  left,  under  the 
empire  of  this  my  fear,  to  decide.  As 
I  have  said  before,  I  decided  to  alight. 
But  I  knew  that  I  was  deciding  much 
more  than  that,  and  that  I  had  been 
very  near  the  wavering  line  which  di- 
vides good  sports  from  bad.  'Only  let 
me  get  off  this  thing,'  I  said  to  myself, 
'and  I  promise  to  be  a  normal  creature 
again,  able  to  smile  and  split  hairs  with 
jest.  Give  me  ground  under  my  feet, 
and  I  reenter  my  personality.  Since  it 
is  not  necessary  that  I  should  be  again 
thus  hideously  lifted  up,  I  cannot  bear 
it.  If  it  were  inevitable  —  but  that  is 
a  whole  other  problem,  and  I  refuse 
to  consider  it.'  So  I  got  off,  careless  of 
comparisons  between  myself  and  the 
desirous  ones  who  rushed  to  fill  our 
places. 


In  mid-flight,  I  had  come  near  to 
solving  my  own  problem:  x  is  what 
you  get  in  payment  for  the  discomfort 
you  endure,  the  risk  you  run,  the  fear 
you  feel.  You  must  always  determine 
x.  Algebra  is  the  most  human  of  ab- 
stract sciences,  since  life  is  perpetually 
put  to  you  in  the  form  of  a  quadratic 
equation.  The  adventurer  must  be, 
above  all,  a  half-way  decent  mathema- 
tician. He  cannot  afford  to  make  mis- 
takes as  to  the  value  of  x.  The  whole 
point,  I  had  said  to  myself,  —  or  the 
Spirit  of  the  Wheel  had  said  to  me,  — 
is  whether  it  is  worth  it.  I  shall  hate 
going  round  and  round,  faster  and  fast- 
er; I  shall  be  afraid,  and  'fear  is  more 
pain  than  is  the  pain  it  fears.'  What 
shall  I  get  out  of  it  that  will  preponder- 
ate over  that  terror?  Indeed,  will  not 
my  fear  inhibit  any  aesthetic  sense  that 
might  operate?  The  part  of  straight 
common  sense  is  to  end  this  adventure 
here  and  now.  On  this  I  acted.  But  not 
without  knowledge  that  some  tempera- 
ments would  have  seen  it  through  none 
the  less,  equation  or  no  equation.  Were 
those  the  real  sports,  and  I  no  sport  at 
all?  Perhaps.  And  yet  —  there  was 
nothing  at  stake:  neither  pleasure,  nor 
knowledge,  nor  reputation.  I  should 
hate  it;  it  would  teach  me  nothing;  no 
one  had  dared  or  challenged  me  to  the 
act.  Common  sense  certainly  told  me  to 
do  as  I  did,  as  much  as  to  come  in  out 
of  the  rain  if  I  had  no  umbrella  and  no 
business  out  of  doors. 

But  is  there  not  something  beyond 
common  sense,  very  necessary  to  the 
world?  something  that  is  indifferent  to 
the  value  of  x,  and  says,  '  I  don't  care 
to  solve  it  beforehand,  thank  you '  ? 
Common  sense  has  a  deal  of  caution  in 
it;  and  do  we  not,  somewhere  in  the 
world,  need  rashness?  If  your  adven- 
tures are  to  be  many,  or  successful,  you 
must  bring  your  algebra  into  play.  We 
still  pity  the  person  who  did  not  at  first 
glimpse  see,  from  the  mere  look  of  the 


456 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


problem  on  the  page,  that  x  was  going 
to  be  a  negligible  amount.  Yet  what 
.  should  we  do  without  the  people  who 
disdain  algebra  —  who  try  the  strange 
new  thing  for  the  mere  sake  of  trying  it, 
a  little  careless  of  what  it  is  going  to 
bring  them?  What  should  we  do  with- 
out the  people  who  love  danger  for  it- 
self—  not  as  seasoning,  but  for  the 
whole  dish?  Generally  speaking,  those 
people  are  used  up  early;  and  we  are 
rather  apt  to  deem  them  fools.  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  sum  of  them  is  not 
folly;  that  they  are  not,  so  to  speak,  all 
salt.  A  pity  to  be  all  salt;  yet  how  could 
we  get  on  without  salt  itself? 

To  be  a  good  sport,  —  I  think  the 
Spirit  of  the  Wheel  was  right,  —  one 
needs  to  calculate,  and  pay  cheerfully, 
to  the  last  exhausted  nerve,  if  x  looks 
good.  I  still  do  not  feel  sure  that  I  was 
a  bad  sport,  since  there  was  nothing  at 
stake.  I  sampled  a  thing  which  was  to 
bring  me  at  best  nothing  but  pleasure. 
There  was  no  pleasure  in  it  —  x  was 
obviously  zero  —  and  I  threw  it  away 
early. 

My  own  conduct  does  not  matter, 
except  to  me.  I  knew  that  in  mid-air. 
What  struck  me,  even  as  I  trembled 
aloft,  was  that  this  is  a  vital  question 
to  us  all.  For  deciding  this  question, 
the  instinct  of  the  race  is  the  best  test,  I 
fancy.  When  does  the  mass  feel  a  quick 
sympathy,  and  when  does  it  shrug  its 
shoulders?  I  leave  out  all  rash  acts  of 
an  altruistic  nature;  for  when  a  thing 
is  done  for  another's  sake,  no  matter 
how  mad  the  act,  x  looms  large.  Do 
we,  or  do  we  not,  admire,  instinctively, 
the  Human  Fly?  Have  we,  that  is,  a 
moral  sympathy  with  him?  Skill,  again, 
is  another  matter:  it  is  not  the  man  who 
crosses  Niagara  on  a  tight  rope  that  is 
the  test  case;  it  is.  the  man  who  shoots 
Niagara  in  a  barrel.  Skill,  however  em- 
ployed, arouses  an  admiration  purely 
intellectual.  Thus  or  thus  a  man  has 
trained  his  eyes  or  his  toes  or  his  mus- 


cles, and  either  he  is  well-enough  train- 
ed to  overcome  difficulties  or  he  is  not. 
But  there  is  little  room  in  that  barrel 
for  skill. 

Most  of  us,  I  think,  do  not  admire 
him,  though  many  of  us  would  run  to 
see.  We  cannot  believe  that  x  equals 
enough  to  justify  him.  For  instinctively 
we  do  all  on  such  an  occasion  rush  to 
our  algebra  and  roughly  solve  the  equa- 
tion. But '  the  dream  is  not  yet  ended ' ; 
and  here  is  the  rub. 

True  it  is,  as  the  Spirit  of  the  Wheel 
remarked,  that  one  must  do  each  time 
that  little  sum.  But  no  man  can  quite 
solve  it  for  another.  Half  the  time  x  is 
an  imponderable,  a  gain  which  none 
can  estimate  or  realize  but  the  gainer. 

'We  were  dreamers,  dreaming  great- 
ly in  the  man-stifled  town.'  X  is  the 
dream. 

'In  the  faith  of  little  children  we 
lay  down  and  died.'  But  still  x  is  the 
dream.  For  the  chance  of  wealth,  for 
the  chance  of  beauty,  for  the  chance  of 
fame,  or  the  chance  of  power,  a  man 
will  risk  his  comfort  and  his  life;  and  if 
the  chance  is  clear  enough,  other  men, 
even  if  they  do  not  emulate  him,  will 
understand.  It  is  when  there  is  nothing 
for  success  to  bring  him  that  they  turn 
away.  We  have  come  to  believe  so  en- 
tirely that  no  man  throws  away  his  life 
except  in  the  hope  of  possessing  some- 
thing he  values  more,  that  we  have,  I 
think,  little  natural  sympathy  for  the 
man  who  throws  his  life  away  for  the 
mere  sake  of  throwing  it  away.  Half 
the  time,  in  such  a  case,  the  man  sees 
something  that  no  one  else  sees:  the 
value  of  x  is  his  secret.  But  sometimes, 
surely,  the  sole  act  is  its  sole  end.  And 
there  we  stop.  We  never  think  of  call- 
ing that  man  a  'sport.'  We  call  him  a 
fool.  Yet  the  man  in  the  street  would 
not  like  to  live  his  life  through  without 
the  spectacle  of  that  folly. 

Life  has,  for  the  good  of  the  race, 
become,  in  public  opinion,  a  precious 


ON  BEING  A  SPORT 


457 


thing  to  have  and  a  seemly  thing  to 
keep.  Otherwise  life  is  not  worth  the 
complex  cost  of  reproduction.  Funda- 
mentally speaking,  we  fear  death.  It  is 
the  negation  of  everything  we  spend 
our  breath  and  strength  upon,  the  re- 
ductio  ad  absurdum  of  all  our  activity, 
the  very  contrary  of  all  our  attempts. 
Religion  and  philosophy  have  decked 
it  out  and  given  it  an  honorable  place 
in  the  scheme  of  things.  But  the  race 
saves  its  life  if,  according  to  its  own 
code  of  decency,  it  can.  Dying  is  some- 
thing the  race  prefers  not  to  do.  'I 
would  rather  die  than '  is,  in  the  common 
speech  of  the  world,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
aversion.  All  this  is  instinctive.  When 
we  develop  inhibitions  and  complexities, 
there  are  many  things  in  life  to  which 
death  would  be  preferable.  But  if  you 
listen  only  to  the  deepest  voice  within 
you,  you  fear  death  as  spontaneously  as 
you  blink  your  eye  to  avoid  the  mote 
that  seeks  it.  The  man  who  throws  his 
life  away  for  nothing  is  a  fool;  but  — 
let  us  be  absolutely  honest:  he  is  in 
some  sort  a.  pleasant  incident.  He  has 
expressed  an  extraordinary  and  tonic 
scorn. 

All  subject  peoples  have  been  glad- 
dened by  the  fool  who  defied  the  tyrant. 
To  anyone  who  tells  us  that  death  is 
cheaper  than  life,  we  listen  incredulous- 
ly, but  with  joy.  The  person  who  has 
demonstrated  that  doing  something 
totally  unimportant  is  more  fun  than 
keeping  alive  makes  the  man  in  the 
street  draw,  for  an  instant,  a  freer  breath. 
It  makes  him  feel  that  death  is  only 
Mumbo Jumbo,  after  all.  To  be  sure, 
the  man  in  the  street  will  always  say 
that  the  person  who  has  done  this  for 
him  is  insane.  But  at  the  back  of  beyond 
—  in  his  secret,  savage  heart  —  he  will 
have  liked  it.  He  will  not  admit  that  he 
has  liked  it;  for  after  that  one  blink,  he 
becomes  a  citizen  again.  We  judge  so 
quickly,  trained  by  the  ages,  that  the 
sudden  pleasure  is  gone  almost  before 


we  have  enjoyed  it.  But  the  fact  re- 
mains that,  for  a  half-instant,  the  sensa- 
tion has  been  pleasurable. 

We  like  death  to  be  insulted,  though 
we  have  been  taught  to  be  very  polite 
to  him.  Our  rules  and  codes  must  of 
necessity  be  made  up  more  out  of  our 
knowledge  than  out  of  our  instincts. 
Yet  into  most  of  our  conventions,  in- 
cluding that  of  '  being  a  sport, '  instinct 
must  to  some  extent  enter.  Finding 
out  x  is  education;  to  feel  delightful- 
ness  in  danger  is  instinct.  Primitive 
man  knows  that  Nature  is  a  brute.  He 
will  propitiate  her,  —  he  must,  —  but 
if  he  can  make  an  impudent  gesture  at 
her  behind  her  back,  he  will  surely  do 
it.  If  he  can  defy  the  elements,  he  will 
defy  them.  If  he  can  contrive  a  mech- 
anism that  flouts  the  law  of  gravity,  he 
will  patronize  that  mechanism  in  thou- 
sands. Romance  —  his  only  ally  against 
Nature  —  will  steady  his  soul  while  he 
does  it.  In  most  cases,  x  is  what  you 
win  from  Nature  when  you  have  bluffed 
successfully.  To  be  a  sport  in  the  finest 
sense,  perhaps  you  must  have  the  poker 
face. 

Man's  implacable  resentment  against 
the  conditions  of  life  lies  at  the  heart  of 
all  this  business.  We  become  rational 
by  canny  observation  of  the  bonds  that 
restrain  us.  To  be  irrational  is  to  pre- 
tend to  ignore  them.  Real  freedom  does 
not  lie  that  way,  because  our  limitations 
bring  us  up  very  short.  Real  freedom  is 
free  will  operating  in  a  deterministic 
universe.  Our  philosophy  professors 
used  to  explain  it  to  us  in  college. 
Within  the  prison  walls  it  is  better  to 
confine  one's  self  to  the  hundred-yard 
dash.  Surely  you  are  happiest  when 
you  curb  your  desires  within  the  bounds 
of  possibility.  No  man  but  a  fool  enters 
for  a  Marathon  race  when  the  barbed 
wire  is  going  to  stop  him  so  soon.  But 
when  we  see  him  start  as  for  his  Mara- 
thon, we  forget  the  barbed  wire  for  an 
instant  —  until  he  crashes  into  it,  that 


458 


THE  JURY 


is,  and  we  can  all  ask,  why  attempt  the 
obviously  impossible?  Why  defy  com- 
mon sense?  Why  pretend  to  forget  the 
barbed  wire?  Yet  Coney  Island  will 
teach  you,  any  day,  how  deep  in  human 
nature  lies  the  ache  to  be  the  master, 
not  the  servant,  of  natural  laws  —  yes, 
from  Icarus  down  to  the  man  who,  since 
I  began  this  page,  shattered  himself  to 
pieces  in  the  Niagara  rapids. 

Being  a  sport  is,  I  suppose,  going  as 
far  as  there  is  any  reasonable  chance  of 
your  being  allowed  to  go.  That  reason- 
able chance  is  sometimes  a  very  diffi- 
cult quantity  to  determine.  But  if  the 
chance  were  not  sometimes  less  than 
reasonable,  there  would  be  no  thrill  in 
being  a  sport.  It  is  the  dare-devil  almost 
touching  him  —  just  over  the  line  — 
that  makes  the  good  sport  an  exciting 
person.  The  good  sport  must  calculate 


x  —  I  think  the  Wheel  was  right.  But 
if  x  were  not  sometimes  incalculable, 
or  nil,  we  should  not  bother  about  it, 
and  good  sports  would  be  few.  It  is  the 
hint  of  the  madman  in  him  that  en- 
thralls us.  It  is  not  enough,  as  I  said, 
to  face  the  inevitable  danger  gallantly: 
there  must  be  the  crook  of  an  inviting 
finger  toward  the  risk.  The  good  sport 
must  be  a  good  guesser,  yes;  but  if  he  is 
absolutely  infallible,  you  suspect  him  of 
having  looked  up  the  answer  in  the  key. 
A  grade  of  a  hundred  per  cent  is  very 
suspicious. 

V  I  do  not  know  whether,  between  the 
bridge  and  the  river,  there  is  indeed 
time  for  an  act  of  perfect  contrition;  but 
I  do  know  that  before  the  Ferris  wheel 
can  come  full  circle  there  is  time  for  a 
lot  of  algebra.  The  pages  written  bear 
witness. 


THE  JURY 


BY  EMMA  LAWRENCE 


'So  what  did  you  do  about  the 
woman?'  Mrs.  Alison  asked. 

And  Tina  Metcalfe  answered:  'I  kept 
her.  I  had  a  talk  with  the  other  servants 
first,  and  they  were  quite  willing  to  give 
her  another  chance.  I  must  say,  they  Ve 
been  nice  about  it,  never  throwing 
her  trouble  up  to  her  but  just  trying  to 
help  — 

'I  wonder  if  people  in  our  class  could 
be  so  decent  to  each  other,'  Mildred 
Peryn  broke  in.  'I've  never  known 
whether  we  were  more  hard-hearted  or 
whether  we  feel  responsible  for  the 
moral  code  and  don't  dare  make  excep- 
tions.' 


Esther  Davis  leaned  across  to  their 
hostess  and  whispered  to  her.  'Tina, 
won't  you  tell  them,  now,  about  that 
summer  at  Sevenoaks?' 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  lighted  a  cigarette,  the 
match  illuminating  a  rather  worried 
countenance;  but  she  answered,  'Yes, 
I  will  tell  about  it.  Something  has  hap- 
pened which  makes  me  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  Violet  Osborne.' 

'Violet  Osborne!'  Four  of  the  six 
women  in  the  room  sat  breathlessly 
erect. 

They  were  dining  together,  —  these 
six  women,  —  as  they  had  done  two  or 
three  times  a  year  since  they  had  mar- 


THE  JURY 


459 


ried  and  settled  in  the  same  city.  It 
happened  that  they  were  all  intimate 
friends,  and,  when  their  husbands  left 
them  for  club  dinners  at  their  old  uni- 
versity, the  women  put  on  tea-gowns 
and  sallied  forth  for  a  genial  evening. 
To-night,  Tina  Metcalfe  had  given 
them  a  delicious  dinner,  and  they  had 
made  themselves  comfortable  in  her 
beautiful  great  library,  a  bridge  table 
waiting  for  some  enthusiasts  in  the 
corner,  with  fresh  packs  and  shaded 
light  in  readiness. 

But  apparently  the  hostess  had  some 
story  worth  waiting  for.  They  were  all 
women  in  early  middle  life,  though  one 
would  not  have  thought  of  them  in  con- 
nection with  any  definite  number  of 
years,  so  alert,  so  soignees,  so  powerful 
they  seemed  in  their  splendid  confidence 

—  not,  to  be  sure,  the  joyous  confidence 
of  youth,  strong  because  it  is  untested, 
but  the  solid  self-assurance  of  satisfac- 
tory accomplishment. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  threw  away  her  ciga- 
rette and  clasped  her  lovely,  slender 
hands  about  her  knee,  leaning  forward 
that  she  might  look  into  the  fire  and 
avoid  the  curious  faces  of  her  guests. 

'I'll  have  to  go  way  back,'  she  said, 
'to  the  fall  directly  after  it  happened. 
I  had  taken  out  my  Christmas  list  and 
was  going  over  it.  You  know  the  way 
it's  arranged  —  Jim's  family,  my  fam- 
ily, children,  personal  friends,  and  so 
forth  —  and  the  very  first  name  under 
"friends"  was  Violet  Osborne.  I've 
often  wondered  what  it  was  about  her 
that  made  hers  the  first  name  on  any 
list;  but  I  am  sure,  with  all  of  us,  the 
first  person  we  thought  of  for  a  big  din- 
ner or  a  tete-a-tete  lunch  or  a  Christmas 
present  was  Violet. 

'Well,  anyway,  I  was  checking  the 
list,  and  almost  involuntarily  I  started 
to  cross  off  her  name.  Then  it  occurred 
to  me  what  a  ghastly  thing  it  was  to  do 

—  as  if  she  were  dead ;  and  she  was  not 
dead,  and  her  name  where  it  was  showed 


what  she  had  meant  to  me.  It  started 
me  thinking  about  it  for  the  first  time 
all  alone  like  that.  Of  course,  I  'd  talked 
it  over  and  talked  it  over  with  all  of 
you  and  with  Jim,  and  we'd  always 
come  back  to  the  same  point  —  if  only 
there 'd  been  some  excuse!  If  only 
Harry  Osborne  had  been  a  brute,  cruel 
or  unfaithful  to  her,  or  even  awfully  un- 
attractive or  horribly  poor  —  anything 
would  have  done,  so  that  we  could 
honestly  have  said,  "Poor  Violet!" 
But  there  was  n't  any.  She  was  young, 
she  was  beautiful,  she  was  adored;  fur- 
thermore, Harry  Osborne  was  rich  and 
worshiped  her. 

'Then  suddenly  I  realized  that  all 
that  was  the  very  excuse  for  Violet. 
If  Harry  has  been  a  beast,  it  would 
have  been  her  job  to  stick  it  out  for  his 
sake  and  the  children's  —  after  all,  if 
she  had  been  unhappy,  she  would  have 
renounced  very  little.  But  this  —  this 
giving  up  of  everything  that  she  valued 
so  tremendously,  must  be  something 
more  than  mere  passion.  We  speak  of 
dying  for  a  person  we  love  —  it's  prac- 
tically what  Violet  did  for  Cyril  when 
she  went  away  with  him,  not  away 
from  a  brutal  husband  and  sordid  home, 
but  away  from  the  most  congenial  at- 
mosphere that  ever  surrounded  a  gay 
and  fascinating  woman.  As  for  leaving 
Harry  and  the  children,  it  was  of  course 
horrible,  but  she  left  them  to  the  pity  and 
affection  of  countless  friends  and  each 
other  —  for  herself,  outer  darkness  and 
Cyril  Stanton. 

'I  hope  you  understand  what  I'm 
trying  to  say.  At  the  tune  the  lack  of 
any  circumstances  which  would  have 
made  the  world  more  charitable  toward 
what  Violet  had  done  suddenly  glorified 
her  act  to  me,  and  she  stood  out  in  my 
mind,  superhuman,  capable  of  so  much 
more  than  we  who  judge.  It  seems 
rather  an  anticlimax  to  add  that  I  did 
n't  scratch  her  name  off  the  list.  In- 
stead, I  sent  her  a  little  lacquer  match- 


460 


THE  JURY 


box,  and  months  later  I  had  a  funny 
little  scrawl  from  her,  from  somewhere 
in  Spain.  Apparently  it  had  pleased 
her.' 

No  one  spoke  for  the  few  moments 
Mrs.  Metcalfe  remained  silent.  Each  of 
the  women  conjured  visions  of  them- 
selves busily  erasing  the  name  of  Violet 
Osborne  off  their  various  lists,  and  each 
of  them  realized  why  Tina  Metcalfe 
meant  more  to  them  than  any  of  the 
others.  Her  low,  pleasant  voice  con- 
tinued:— 

'The  second  part  of  my  story  takes 
us  to  when  we  were  caught  in  Europe 
after  the  war  broke  out.  We  were  lucky 
in  getting  to  England,  where  Jim  found 
he  could  be  of  service  to  our  Embassy, 
so  we  stayed  on.  Thanks  to  a  succes- 
sion of  foreign  governesses  in  my  far- 
away childhood  and  a  natural  linguistic 
ability,  I  was  able  to  be  of  some  use, 
too;  but  the  excitement  and  one  harrow- 
ing story  after  another  rather  did  me  up, 
and  Jim  insisted  I  take  a  week  off  or 
else  give  up  entirely.  We  compromised 
on  my  going  to  Sevenoaks  for  a  week- 
end. I  had  spent  a  summer  there  once, 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  my  family 
were  on  the  continent.  I  remembered 
the  Crown  Hotel,  and  that  there  was 
a  lovely  garden  behind  it,  and  Knoll 
House  with  a  great  park  full  of  brows- 
ing deer.  I  thought  it  would  be  rather 
fun  to  renew  associations  after  so  many 
years  —  at  least  it  would  be  restful, 
after  London  and  my  work  there. 

'Jim  motored  me  down  from  town  on 
Saturday  afternoon;  but  as  he  had  to 
hurry  back  to  the  Embassy,  he  left  me 
feeling  frightfully  lonely  and  depressed, 
and  I  felt  for  a  few  moments  that  Jim 
was  right,  and  that  I  was  indeed  "all 
in."  That  made  me  want  to  cry;  but 
after  a  bit  I  got  hold  of  myself,  and  I 
asked  one  of  the  waiters  if  I  could  n't 
have  a  sort  of  tea-supper  in  the  garden, 
as  I  did  n't  feel  fit  enough  to  stay  up  for 
the  late  dinner. 


'He  was  most  sympathetic  and  ar- 
ranged everything  beautifully,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  much  less  forlorn, 
when  I  suddenly  looked  up.  There,  sil- 
houetted against  the  dark  square  of  the 
open  door,  stood  Violet  Osborne.  She 
did  n't  see  me.  I  had  a  succession  of  the 
queerest  feelings  sitting  there  looking 
up  at  her.  The  first  was  curiosity,  pure 
and  simple  —  what  did  she  look  like? 
But  the  answer  was  obvious  —  lovelier 
than  ever;  and  then  a  funny  feeling,  al- 
most anger,  came  over  me.  I  thought 
of  myself  and  all  of  you,  and  how  we, 
who  had  honored  our  marriage- vows 
and  the  many  responsibilities  of  our 
complicated  lives,  had  grown  into  mid- 
dle-age, careful  of  our  figures  and  skin 
and  hair,  while  Violet,  who  had  shirked 
everything,  remained  the  embodiment 
of  Youth.  She  was  leaning  against  the 
casement  of  the  door,  talking  to  some- 
one in  the  room  inside;  and  when  she 
smiled  and  her  face  lit  up  in  that  glo- 
rious way  it  used  to,  something  in  me 
melted,  and  I  wanted  nothing  so  much 
as  one  of  those  smiles  for  myself. 

'But  I  was  shy  about  approaching, 
—  shy  as  if  I  had  been  the  social  out- 
cast, —  and  something  warned  me,  as 
I  looked  at  her,  that,  unless  I  could  make 
the  spirit  in  which  I  went  to  her  intelli- 
gible to  her,  she  would  have  none  of  me. 
One  hint  of  patronage,  of  curiosity,  and 
she  would  be  up  in  arms.  So  I  waited, 
and  finally  it  seemed  that  her  compan- 
ion was  no  longer  in  the  room,  for  she 
talked  no  more.  Soon  she  stepped  out. 
on  to  the  path  and  came  slowly  toward 
me.  My  heart  contracted  with  each 
step,  but  she  never  looked  my  way  and 
soon  she  was  next  my  little  table.  So 
then  I  said  the  most  inane  thing  that 
ever  came  into  a  human  head;  but  I 
was  delighted  to  hear  my  voice  sound 
quite  natural.  "I  double  two  no 
trumps,"  I  said. 

'Of  course  she  turned,  and  in  a  min- 
ute we  were  in  each  other 's  arms,  laugh- 


THE  JURY 


461 


ing,  crying,  talking  in  a  ridiculous,  hys- 
terical way. 

'Finally,  she  gasped,  "You  darling, 
you  always  did  double  me." 

'And  I  said,  "But  you  did  play  such 
rotten  bridge,  Vi.  It  must  have  been 
very  expensive  for  you." 

She  nodded  solemnly  and  adorably. 
"It  was,  frightfully,"  she  said,  "but 
you  would  all  play,  and  I  had  to  be  with 
you  all." 

'This  from  the  woman  who  had  left 
us  all,  you  understand,  fully  realizing 
what  it  would  mean.  She  sat  with  me  a 
while,  and  I  explained  why  I  was  at 
Sevenoaks,  and  about  my  tea-supper; 
and  she  told  me  that  she  had  taken  a 
small  house  near-by,  and  that,  owing  to 
some  hitch  in  her  household,  they  were 
short  of  Sunday  provisions  and  she  had 
driven  in  to  town,  preferring  to  wait  at 
the  Crown  while  the  stable  boy  col- 
lected packages. 

1 "  I  try  to  get  away  for  a  little,  every 
day,"  she  said.  And  then  she  told  me 
how  very  ill  Cyril  had  become.  That 
was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned 
him  and  her  face  seemed  transfigured. 
"Tina,"  she  said,  "he  suffers  most  aw- 
fully, and  yet  he  never  complains.  I 
feel  it  must  be  a  relief  to  him  to  have 
me  away,  so  he  can  give  in  for  a  little 
while." 

'It  was  time  then  for  her  to  go  back; 
and  as  she  stood  up,  I  marveled,  but 
.  quite  without  anger,  at  her  beauty  and 
virility.  I  asked  if  I  might  see  her  and 
Cyril,  and  it  was  settled  I.  should  lunch 
with  them  the  following  day.' 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  paused  again.  She  was 
trying  to  create  an  effect  upon  her  hear- 
ers, and  she  doubted  if  she  was  succeed- 
ing. Also,  from  now  on,  her  story  was 
more  difficult  and  less  dramatic.  She 
relinquished  her  position  before  the  fire 
and  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  smoking 
again,  and  giving  an  occasional  spas- 
modic kick  with  her  crossed  foot,  which 
betrayed  her  nervousness.  She  would 


have  given  much  for  some  sign  of  sym- 
pathy or  appreciation  from  some  one  of 
her  audience;  but  except  for  Esther 
Davis,  she  had  no  idea  how  her  story 
was  being  received.  They  were  inter- 
ested, she  knew,  and  she  had  no  fear 
that  they  would  criticize  her  own  ac- 
tions ;  but  whether  or  not  she  was  arous- 
ing their  old  affection  for  Violet  Osborne 
she  could  not  tell. 

'I  drove  out  to  their  place  on  Sun- 
day,' she  continued.  '  It  was  very  much 
what  you'd  expect:  shabby,  pictur- 
esque, and  inconvenient,  with  Violet's 
taste  everywhere,  —  in  the  chintz,  the 
ornaments,  the  flowers,  —  but  nothing 
in  the  least  luxurious.  Violet  herself 
was  in  wonderful  spirits,  and  she  amused 
Cyril  and  myself  all  through  lunch,  so 
that  our  laughter  removed  any  possi- 
ble embarrassment.  After  lunch  she 
sent  him  to  lie  down  on  a  long  chair  in 
the  sun,  and  she  and  I  started  out  for  a 
walk.  And  at  once  her  gayety  fell  away 
from  her,  leaving  something  terribly 
tragic  and  earnest  beneath.  She  asked 
me  how  Cyril  seemed  to  me. 

'"He's  thin,"  I  said,  "but  otherwise 
in  excellent  form.  Surely  you're  not 
seriously  worried,  Vi." 

'  "The  doctors  think  he  may  live  a 
year,"  she  said,  quite  simply  and  with 
so  little  emotion  in  her  voice  that  it 
sounded  flat  and  harsh.  I  started  to 
speak  but  she  interrupted  me.  "Don't 
please  talk  about  it,  Tina,  darling  — 
except  for  this  one  thing  that  I  've  got 
to  say.  I  want  you  to  know  always  that 
in  what  I  did  the  question  of  right  or 
wrong  does  n't  enter  —  it  was  the  only 
thing  possible.  I  'm  sorry  about  hurting 
Harry  and  the  children;  but  I  have  n't 
had  time  to  be  sorry  very  much.  I'll 
have  all  the  rest  of  my  life  for  that;  but 
while  I've  got  Cyril,  I'm  glad  every 
minute,  and  I  can't  wish  anything  dif- 
ferent that  might  affect  the  wonder  of 
the  present.  And  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I'd  rather  have  had  these  few 


462 


THE  JURY 


crimson  months  than  all  the  long,  gray 
years  that  make  up  some  lives  which 
people  call  respectable  and  successful. 
And  yet  I  'm  not  even  so  awfully  sorry 
it's  going  to  end  like  this,"  she  said  very 
gently;  "when  a  man's  old  he  wants  his 
friends  and  his  children  and  his  clubs 
and  all  his  comforts,  and  Cyril  would 
n't  have  any  of  those,  poor  darling;  but 
when  he  goes  away,  he'll  still  be  quite 
young,  and  he'll  never  have  wanted 
anything  very  much  —  but  me." 

'We  were  very  silent  until  just  before 
I  left,  when  she  asked  me  about  the 
children  —  hardly  trusting  herself  for 
the  first  question,  and  then  her  eager- 
ness was  tragic:  how  often  did  I  see 
them?  how  did  they  look?  what  did 
they  wear?  —  her  hungry  eyes  straining 
to  see  the  visions  my  answers  conjured 
for  her.  But  when  Cyril  appeared  to  bid 
me  good-bye,  she  was  quite  serene;  not 
gay,  as  at  lunch,  but  deeply  content  to 
be  in  his  dear  presence  once  more.  I 
think  she  was  almost  glad  when  I  left 
them  alone,  though  then,  of  course,  she 
could  not  guess  how  short  their  time 
together  was  to  be.' 

Again  the  speaker  paused.  Everyone 
in  the  room  knew  the  immediate  sequel 
to  the  story:  the  Metcalfes  had  come 
home  very  unexpectedly,  and  a  few 
weeks  later  Cyril  Stanton  had  died. 
One  of  the  women,  the  soft-hearted 
Esther  Davis,  wept  a  little;  but  from 
the  others  there  was  no  sound;  no  one 
commented  on  the  story,  no  one  seemed 
inclined  to  gossip  over  its  details.  Mrs. 
Metcalfe  spoke  again,  but  this  time  not 


in  the  low,  sympathetic  voice  she  had 
used  formerly;  she  had  suddenly  felt 
very  tired  and  old  and  depressed,  and 
her  voice  sounded  harsh  and  quick. 

'Needless  to  say,  I  have  not  told  you 
all  this  to-night  without  a  purpose.  Cyril 
Stanton  died  a  year  ago,  and  since 
then  Violet  has  been  nursing  typhus 
in  Serbia.  Now,  it  seems,  she 's  pretty 
well  done  up  and  Harry  Osborne  wants 
to  take  her  back.' 

Five  women  stiffened.  This  was  news, 
even  to  Esther  Davis. 

'As  you  know,  he  never  divorced  her; 
Cyril  Stanton  was  a  Catholic,  so  she 
never  could  have  married  him  anyway, 
and,  in  spite  of  everything,  Harry  has 
always  been  in  love  with  her.  She's 
willing  to  come  back  on  one  condition 
—  if  you  want  her.  She  does  n't  want 
you  to  accept  her  out  of  charity  or  pity; 
she  confesses  no  sin,  is  unrepentant  of 
her  act,  but  she  realizes  that  we  six 
women  can  more  or  less  reinstate  her. 
It  sounds  a  worldly,  snobbish  thing  to 
say,  but  it 's  true  —  if  we  take  her  back, 
she's  back  more  or  less  where  she 
started  from;  though,  mind  you,  we 
could  n't  do  it  without  Harry  any  more 
than  Harry  could  do  it  without  us.  And 
without  us  she  won't  come,  knowing  as 
she  does  that  it's  social  damnation  for 
her  girls.' 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  stood  up  and  walked 
across  the  room  —  at  the  door  she 
paused. 

'Your  answer  must  be  unanimous,' 
she  said,  'and  I  must  cable  her  your  de- 
cision at  once.' 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


A  FURTHER  CONSIDERATION 


BY  HANS  COUDENHOVE 


IT  is  often  said  about  the  negro  that, 
unlike  the  Red  Indian,  he  is  apt  rapidly 
to  forget  both  a  kindness  and  an  injury. 
As  to  the  latter,  I  have  my  doubts.  I 
have  known  cases  when  natives  nursed 
their  resentment  for  many  years,  ap- 
parently quite  oblivious  of  the  injury  in- 
flicted; and  then,  when  the  opportunity 
and  the  probability  of  impunity  offered 
themselves,  struck  with  a  vengeance. 
As  regards  the  reproach  of  habitual  in- 
gratitude, it  must  be  said  that  natives 
do  not  always  look  on  treatment  expe- 
rienced from  Europeans  as  the  latter 
themselves  do,  and  often  take  as  their 
due,  or  as  a  condescension  on  their  own 
part,  what  the  latter  fondly  imagine  to 
have  been  an  act  of  kindness,  condescen- 
sion, or  generosity.  It  has  repeatedly 
occurred  in  the  interior,  to  me  as  well  as 
to  others,  that  natives,  after  they  had 
been  successfully  treated  for  some  ill, 
came  and  claimed  their  reward. 

Another  circumstance  that  helps  to 
explain  the  negro's  indifference  regard- 
ing kindness  received  is  that  all  native 
races,  without  exception,  look  upon  the 
white  man  as  a  usurper,  who  has  robbed 
them  of  their  country;  although  the 
common  people  —  not,  of  course,  the 
chiefs  —  admit,  as  far,  but  only  as  far, 
lis  the  British  are  concerned,  that  they 
ire  better  protected  now  than  they  were 
before.  Still,  they  all  feel  that  a  griev- 
'mce  exists,  and  many  of  them  look 


upon  anything  for  their  relief  or  com- 
fort that  Europeans  do,  only  as  a  small 
part-payment  of  a  debt. 

But  manifestations  of  gratitude  do 
occasionally  occur,  mostly  on  the  part 
of  children,  who  are  probably  instigated 
to  them  by  their  mothers.  Many  years 
ago,  a  little  Swahili  boy  in  the  hospital 
in  Zanzibar,  to  whom  an  orange  was 
brought,  handed  it  back  and  begged 
that  it  should  be  given  to  the  kind  lady 
who  had  put  medicine  on  his  sore  eyes. 
In  British  East  Africa  I  once,  without 
the  slightest  danger  to  myself,  rescued 
a  little  boy  from  drowning.  A  month 
afterward  he  appeared  in  my  camp 
with  a  dozen  eggs,  for  which  he  refused 
to  be  paid.  He  must  have  collected 
them  one  by  one,  for  they  were  all 
rotten! 

Negroes  do  not  feel  as  we  do,  or,  if 
they  do,  they  show  their  feelings  in 
a  different  way.  I  once  had  a  Kikuyu 
servant,  an  excellent  fellow,  named 
Tairara.  We  were  camped  for  some 
time  in  the  Mweli  hills,  in  the  Sayidie 
Province  of  British  East  Africa,  and  the 
village,  a  market-place,  was  periodically 
visited  by  Waduruma  and  Wanyika, 
who  came  from  a  considerable  distance, 
to  get,  by  barter,  what  articles  they  re- 
quired. Tairara  had  already  spoken  to 
me  about  one  of  his  sisters,  who,  years 
before,  had  been  kidnaped  from  her  na- 
tive country  and  taken  to  the  coast. 

463 


464 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


And  one  day,  sure  enough,  just  as  in  a 
story-book,  the  two  met  in  the  princi- 
pal street  of  Mideli.  The  emotion  of 
Tairara  was  genuine  and  violent  and,  I 
must  say,  most  affecting.  He  sat  on  the 
ground,  holding  with  one  hand  the  hand 
of  his  sister,  who  was  standing  near  him, 
while,  with  the  open  palm  of  his  other 
hand,  he  kept  beating  the  ground; 
and,  all  the  time,  tears  were  streaming 
from  his  eyes.  The  sister  showed  much 
less  emotion.  She  looked,  if  anything, 
rather  embarrassed. 

Well,  I  left  them  in  this  position. 
What  followed,  however,  was  the  curi- 
ous part  of  it.  From  that  day  onward 
they  took  no  more  notice  of  one  another 
than  if  they  had  been  strangers!  I  saw 
them  pass  each  other  a  week  or  so  later 
without  exchanging  even  a  word;  and 
when  I  asked  Tairara  how  that  was,  his 
reply  was  to  the  effect  that  they  had 
now  met,  and  that  the  incident  was 
closed. 

No  native,  I  think,  would  hesitate  to 
indorse  the  opinion  of  Bernard  Shaw's 
charming  heroine,  Miss  Lydia  Carew, 
when  she  coldly  remarks  that  '  grief  of 
two  years'  duration  is  only  a  bad  habit.' 
To  the  native,  there  is  a  time  for  grief 
and  a  time  for  pleasure,  which  may  al- 
ternate without  transition.  Also,  na- 
tives are,  I  believe,  able  to  produce  emo- 
tion at  will;  at  least,  the  women  are. 
At  the  wakes  after  the  death  of  a  rela- 
tive or  acquaintance,  their  wails  are  ac- 
companied by  genuine  tears;  yet  both 
before  and  after,  they  are  absolutely  un- 
concerned, as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Ties  of  affection  are  strongest  be- 
tween mother  and  child,  setting  aside  the 
transitory  attachments  of  paramours. 
They  are  deep  and  lasting,  and,  in  some 
tribes,  manifest  themselves  in  a  touch- 
ing way.  Among  the  Wabuanji  and 
Wakissi,  for  instance,  the  son,  even 
when  he  is  grown  up,  when  he  encoun- 
ters his  mother,  steps  aside  and  kneels 
down,  and  in  this  attitude  waits  until 


she  has  passed.  I  remember  how  once, 
when  I  was  walking  in  Buanji  with  a 
great  chief,  he  suddenly  left  my  side 
and  knelt  down  near  the  path,  until  his 
old  mother,  who  was  coming  our  way, 
and  who  might  have  stood  for  a  por- 
trait of  '  She '  after  her  second  baptism 
of  fire,  had  passed  without  taking  the 
slightest  notice  of  him  or  me. 

What  a  difference  between  this  beau- 
tiful custom  and  that  ruling  among 
those  dreadful  Sakalavas  of  Madagas- 
car !  There  every  woman,  as  soon  as  she 
has  reached  the  great  climacteric,  is  de- 
graded to  the  state  of  village  idiot,  be- 
comes the  butt  of  children's  practical 
jokes,  is  forbidden  the  entrance  of  the 
house,  fed  on  refuse,  and  never  spoken 
to  except  in  rough  accents,  even  by  her 
own  children;  whereas  the  old  men  re- 
ceive every  attention. 

I  once  ventured  to  remonstrate  on 
that  subject  with  a  beautiful  young  mu- 
latto woman,  much  courted  by  Euro- 
peans, whose  white-haired  old  grand- 
mother was  even  then  living  in  that 
miserable  status.  'In  my  country,'  1 
said,  'old  women  are  treated  with  par- 
ticular respect  and  consideration  by 
all  people  alike,  men  and  women  and 
children.  The  older  a  woman  is,  the 
more  respect  we  consider  her  to  be  en- 
titled to.' 

To  which  this  heartless  young  lady 
replied  pertly:  'Well,  that  is  the  custom 
in  your  country  —  and  the  custom  in 
our  country  is  different,  you  see.' 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago,  and, 
perhaps,  since  then,  the  innumerable 
missions  scattered  along  the  Mozam- 
bique channel  may  have  succeeded  in 
changing  this  disgusting  state  of  affairs. 

On  the  whole,  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  feelings  of  East  and  Central 
African  natives  are  deeper  than  we 
think.  Cases  of  the  most  passionate 
and  romantic  love  occur,  sometimes  with 
a  tragic  ending.  Some  years  ago,  I 
brought  down  with  me  into  the  Shire 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


465 


Highlands,  a  Ngoma  from  the  north  of 
the  lake,  whose  name  was  Barbarossa. 
The  Wangoma  are  notorious  for  their 
intelligence,  their  pride,  their  cunning, 
and  the  violence  of  their  character;  and 
Barbarossa  was  no  exception.  He  left 
behind  him  a  wife  and  two  little  child- 
ren —  a  circumstance  that  did  not  pre- 
vent him  from  soon  forming  a  new  tie 
in  the  Shire. 

The  object  of  his  attachment  was  a 
lady  of  ample  charms,  a  widow,  with 
two  little  children  and  some  means. 
She  had  obviously  lived  much  among 
Europeans,  dressed  Swahili  fashion, 
and  was,  in  her  way,  quite  a  swell.  I 
fancy  it  was  this  that  took  so  strong  a 
hold  of  Barbarossa's  imagination;  he 
had  been  a  naked  savage  when  he  first 
came  to  me. 

I  did  not  encourage  this  liaison,  as  I 
wanted  him  to  go  back  to  his  family; 
and  I  looked  upon  it  as  a  passing  flirta- 
tion only,  until,  one  day,  I  happened 
to  speak  to  him  about  his  return  home, 
when  he  emphatically  declared  that  he 
would  never  again  leave  the  Shire  High- 
lands and  his  new  love. 

I  remonstrated,  reminding  him  of  his 
poor  wife  and  children. 

His  reply  was :  '  But  don't  you  know 
that  with  us,  when  a  man  leaves  his 
country,  his  brother  takes  over  his  fam- 
ily? My  wife  and  my  children  are  now 
living  with  my  brother.' 

I  believed  that  this  infatuation  would 
cool  down  in  time,  and,  in  the  mean- 
while, I  discouraged  as  much  as  possi- 
ble the  visits  to  his  mistress,  who  lived 
about  four  miles  away,  in  the  village  of 
a  chief  who  was  supposed  to  be  her 
brother.  In  time  she  became  pregnant, 
and  then  followed  the  catastrophe.  She 
died  in  child-bed,  and  that  beast  of  a 
chief  did  not  send  a  messenger  to  inform 
Barbarossa  of  her  death  until  after  she 
had  been  buried. 

For  two  days  the  poor  fellow  looked 
absolutely  crushed,  and  then  recovered 
VOL.  iss  —  NO.  4 


so  rapidly  from  his  grief,  to  all  appear- 
ances, chatting  and  laughing  just  as  be- 
fore, that  I  thought  that  here  was  an- 
other example  of  native  shallowness  of 
feeling.  I  was  mistaken.  Three  days 
later,  during  a  heavy  downpour  of  rain 
which  deadened  all  sounds,  he  hanged 
himself  hi  his  hut,  which  stood  not  a 
hundred  yards  from  my  own. 

I  decided  that  he  must  be  buried 
alongside  the  woman  whom  he  had 
loved  so  much,  and  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  the  chief  to  inform  him  that  I 
would  send  up  the  body  for  burial  as 
soon  as  I  should  have  got  the  eight  car- 
riers required,  whom  I  was  expecting. 
But  before  they  had  arrived,  my  mes- 
senger came  back  in  breathless  haste,  to 
say  that  the  chief  and  the  villagers  re- 
fused to  allow  Barbarossa  to  be  buried 
in  then-  burial-ground,  because  he  did 
not  belong  to  the  same  tribe.  I  sent 
back  word  to  say  that  I  should  use  force 
if  they  persisted  in  their  refusal,  and  at 
last  they  gave  way  and  the  two  now  lie 
side  by  side. 

I  intended  to  adopt  the  baby,  who 
was  then  still  alive;  but  it  followed  its 
parents  into  the  grave  a  few  weeks 
later,  because,  so  I  was  told,  its  foster- 
mother's  milk  did  not  agree  with  it. 

n 

The  refusal  on  the  part  of  the  chief 
to  let  Barbarossa  be  buried  alongside 
his  mistress,  because  he  did  not  belong 
to  the  same  tribe,  is  significant  of  the 
native  clannishness,  which  cannot  have 
been  exceeded  by  the  particularism  of 
the  small  German  principalities  before 
1870.  Although  it  undoubtedly  has  its 
disadvantages,  both  for  the  administra- 
tor and  the  missionary,  the  fact  that  in 
it  lies  the  chief  European  safeguard  for 
the  future  is  so  obvious,  that  all  at- 
tempts to  'educate'  the  native  out  of  it 
ought  to  be  made  punishable  by  law. 

In  East  and  Central  Africa,  the  ex- 


466 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


change  of  children  for  food  in  periods  of 
dearth  is  a  common  transaction;  and, 
heartless  though  this  kind  of  bargain 
appears  to  be,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
it  is  one  by  which  both  sides  profit.  Be- 
sides, in  my  own  experience,  the  child- 
ren, after  years  have  passed  since  the 
famine,  frequently  return  to  their  old 
home  of  their  own  accord. 

In  Ukinga,  until  a  few  years  ago, 
not  always  under  the  stress  of  hunger, 
children  were  sold  to  lake-shore  dwell- 
ers for  a  basket  of  fish  each,  but  the  dis- 
tance from  the  range  to  the  lake  is  in 
reality  so  small,  that  the  sale  really  only 
amounted  to  sending  the  child  to  the 
lake  to  be  taught  to  fish  and  row,  and 
accepting  a  basket  of  fish  in  celebration 
of  the  occasion. 

It  was,  of  course,  quite  different  in 
the  old  days  of  slavery,  when  children 
thus  sold  had  to  follow  their  new  mas- 
ters to  the  coast.  Mr.  Giraud,  a  French 
naval  officer,  who  visited  the  lake  re- 
gion in  the  early  eighties,  relates  how 
disgusted  he  was  with  a  mother  who, 
after  she  had  sold  her  little  girl  to  a 
trader  from  the  coast,  turned  round, 
without  the  least  sign  of  emotion,  and 
went  her  way  without  once  looking 
back.  He  says  that  he  intended  to  buy 
back  the  child  and  return  it  to  its  moth- 
er; but  that  the  latter 's  callousness  de- 
terred him  from  doing  so.  I  am  not  cer- 
tain that  the  poor  woman  did  not  feel  a 
great  deal  more  than  Mr.  Giraud  gives 
her  credit  for.  He  expresses  equal  dis- 
gust with  the  child,  because  it  was  soon 
laughing  and  playing  with  another 
child.  Perhaps  the  tears  came  at  night. 

Although  natives  are  capable  of  form- 
ing strong  ties  of  affection  or  love,  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  deny,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  truth  of  the  assertion  that 
they  are,  like  the  man  in  Christmas 
carols  who  had  lost  his  heart,  utterly 
incapable  of  feeling  pity  for  suffering 
fellow  creatures,  man  or  beast.  They 
never  volunteer  to  lend  a  hand  for  the 


necessary  functions  around  a  sick-bed. 
Many  a  time,  sick  people,  even  children, 
could  not  be  brought  to  my  camp  from 
ever  so  short  a  distance,  because  there 
was  not  one  among  the  idle  adults  who 
surrounded  them  who  would  consent 
to  bring  them;  and  the  same  thing  hap- 
pened when  a  sick  man's  hut  had  to  be 
cleaned,  or  an  ointment  applied.  Among 
the  Waya9,  the  most  grasping  of  all  the 
tribes  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  a 
traveler,  surprised  by  a  heavy  shower 
of  rain,  and  seeking  shelter,  not  inside, 
but  under  the  overhanging  roof  of  a 
hut,  unless  the  owner  happens  to  be  a 
relation,  is  mercilessly  chased  away  un- 
less he  agrees  to  pay  as  much,  some- 
times, as  sixpence. 

The  death  of  a  European  master, 
even  if  they  appear  to  be  attached  to 
him,  does  not  seem  to  affect  negroes  in 
the  least.  As  a  rule,  they  avoid,  when 
they  can,  being  present  at  the  death- 
bed of  a  master,  —  particularly  when 
within  reach  of  an  authority,  —  because 
they  are  afraid  of  inquiries.  I  myself, 
when  down  with  fever,  have  twice  been 
deserted  by  'boys,'  who  thought  that 
my  last  moment  had  come. 

But  they  do  not  go  far  when  a  har- 
vest is  expected.  The  late  H.  Hyde 
Baker,  that  'great  hunter,'  a  nephew  of 
Sir  Samuel  Baker,  told  me  that  once, 
when  he  was  lying  ill  with  fever  and 
apparently  unconscious  in  his  tent  in 
the  wilds,  he  heard  his  devoted  servants, 
who  were  squatting  just  outside  his 
tent,  settle  how  they  would  divide 
among  themselves  their  master's  spoils 
as  soon  as  he  died,  the  one  to  get  the 
watch,  another  this,  another  that.  And 
yet,  although  strict,  Baker  was  a  gener- 
ous master. 

But  the  master,  to  the  negro,  is  only 
the  source  of  food,  and  nothing  beyond 
that.  I  remember  how  once,  in  the  Pare 
mountains,  when  I  was  walking  along  a 
steep  incline,  followed  by  one  of  my 
servants,  I  happened  to  slip.  He  uttered 


AFRICAN   FOLK 


467 


an  exclamation  of  anxiety.  I  looked 
back,  gratified  about  his  concern  for 
my  person,  and  the  faithful  creature 
said : '  Who  will  feed  me  if  you  fall  down 
there? '  This  child  of  Nature  was  noth- 
ing if  not  frank.  Once  he  commented 
upon  a  golden  tooth  I  am  afflicted  with. 
'  Aha ! '  I  said,  *  you  would  like  to  cut  my 
head  off  while  I  sleep,  and  run  away  with 
that  tooth!' 

'Oh!  Master,'  he  replied,  'who  could 
do  such  a  thing  now,  with  so  many 
Police-Askaris  about!' 

But  it  must  be  said,  in  justice  to 
them,  that  natives  do  not  look  upon 
death  in  the  same  light  that  we  do.  I 
have  heard  men  who  were  suspected  of 
having  sleeping  sickness  discuss  the 
eventuality  eagerly  and  with  a  great 
show  of  interest,  entirely  as  if  they  had 
been  talking,  not  about  themselves,  but 
about  strangers. 

Natives,  as  is  well  known,  are  admi- 
rable mimics  and,  during  the  war,  imita- 
tions of  people  dying  and  being  killed 
were  a  great  feature,  and,  I  regret  to 
say,  a  great  source  of  amusement,  in  the 
villages.  On  one  occasion  I  witnessed 
the  representation,  to  an  audience 
made  up  of  all  the  people  hi  my  camp, 
of  the  bayoneting  of  a  man.  The  actor 
was  an  invalided  Askari,  who  had  en- 
tered my  service  a  short  time  before. 
First,  one  cut  downward  from  the  left, 
then  another  in  the  same  direction  from 
the  right,  then  one  upward,  from  the 
left,  and  then  a  terribly  realistic  imita- 
tion of  the  death-rattle.  The  audience 
was  delighted;  my  cook,  the  brute, 
laughed  so  much  that  he  had  to  lie  on 
the  ground. 

Ill 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  people 
who  are  so  indifferent  to  the  sufferings 
of  man  should  be  actuated  by  softer 
feelings  in  their  attitude  toward  the  an- 
imal kingdom.  In  general,  they  do  not 
go  out  of  their  way  in  order  to  inflict 


pain,  but  they  are  completely  indiffer- 
ent to  the  sufferings  of  animals,  and 
they  all  delight  in  killing.  It  really  does 
appear  as  if  the  witnessing  of  the  tran- 
sition from  life  to  death  in  another 
creature  gave  the  savage  a  peculiarly 
gratifying  sensation.  Where  they  com- 
mit acts  of  cruelty,  they  are  generally 
meant  as  reprisals  of  a  wholly  irrational 
and  wanton  kind;  as  for  instance,  when 
they  cut  off  the  beaks  of  birds  which 
they  have  caught  feeding  on  their  fields; 
or  when  they  pull  out  the  tongue  of  a 
live  chameleon,  for  no  other  reason  than 
because  chameleons  frighten  them;  or 
when  they  hang  dogs  which  have  com- 
mitted a  larceny.  Negro  children,  I 
think,  are  not  naturally  as  cruel  as  the 
children  of  Europeans,  although  they, 
too,  enjoy  walking  about  with  a  mis- 
erable little  bird  fluttering  on  a  string 
fastened  to  its  leg,  as  does  the  son  of 
Rubens  in  his  father's  famous  picture. 

Unfortunately,  the  generality  of  Eu- 
ropeans do  not  find  it  worth  their  while 
to  try  to  teach  the  native  to  exercise  a 
little  kindness  toward  his  dumb  breth- 
ren, and  sometimes,  alas,  they  are 
themselves  the  very  pioneers  of  cruelty 
toward  animals.  Years  ago,  when  I  was 
living  in  a  part  of  British  East  Africa 
where  settlers  were  still  conspicuous  by 
their  absence,  and  the  aborigines  still 
almost  untouched.by  civilization,  there 
appeared  a  taxidermist  who  collected 
small  mammals  for  a  great  museum, 
and  the  parasites  of  small  mammals  for 
a  private  gentleman  —  a  happy  com- 
bination. 

Up  to  then,  hi  that  locality,  I  had  not 
seen  a  single  act  of  cruelty  to  animals 
committed  by  young  or  old,  although, 
or  possibly  because,  the  inhabitants 
were  fearless  hunters  of  wild  beasts. 
But  this  state  of  affairs  was  now 
changed,  almost  at  a  moment's  notice. 
All  the  little  boys  and  some  adults  were 
called,  rewards  were  lavishly  promised, 
and  the  chase  began.  Whoever  has 


468 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


read  records  of  naturalists  in  both  hemi- 
spheres, knows  how  difficult  it  is  to  per- 
suade natives  to  abstain  from  wounding 
or  maiming  specimens  which  they  bring 
in.  For  one  intact  animal  they  injure  a 
dozen.  There  was  no  exception  to  this 
rule  in  this  instance,  and,  worst  of  all, 
animals  not  needed,  or  past  repair,  were 
simply  refused. 

I  remember  one  particularly  odious 
occurrence.  Some  boys  had  brought  a 
quantity  of  live  bats,  fastened,  for  con- 
venience of  transport,  to  a  string,  like 
the  beads  of  a  necklace,  the  string  pass- 
ing through  a  hole  which  had  been 
made  in  each  bat's  wings !  But  the  taxi- 
dermist had  no  more  use  for  bats,  and 
refused  to  take  them;  and  so  the  lot 
was  simply  thrown  away  by  the  side  of 
the  road,  alive  and,  of  course,  not  un- 
tied; for  where  is  the  negro  who  would 
take  the  trouble  to  untie  a  knot,  un- 
less compelled  to  do  so  by  necessity? 

This  will,  to  some  people,  appear  a 
small  thing  only;  but  who  can  doubt  that 
that  taxidermist  has  sown  a  seed  which 
will,  in  the  future,  cause  much  suffering 
to  an  incalculable  number  of  living  crea- 
tures? As  he  was  a  peripatetic  taxider- 
mist, the  place  where  I  met  him  was 
only  one  in  a  hundred. 

To  the  lover  of  animals  it  must  also 
be  a  matter  of  great  regret  that  the  dif- 
ferent commissions  on  tropical  diseases 
have  to  use  native  help  when  they  experi- 
ment on  animals;  for,  given  the  negro's 
passion  for  imitation,  and  his  passion 
for  '  showing  off '  before  other  natives, 
one  shudders  at  the  thought  of  what 
these  helpers  may  be  doing  after  they 
have  returned  to  their  homes. 

Although  natives  love  to  see  animals 
die,  especially  mammals,  they  often 
omit  to  take  the  trouble  to  finish  small 
wounded  animals  and  birds,  and  will 
carry  the  latter,  fluttering  and  strug- 
gling, for  miles  and  miles,  to  their  place 
of  destination.  It  is  pitiful  to  know,  in 
this  connection,  that  both  settlers  and 


officials,  who  are  collecting,  either  for 
themselves  or  to  supply  museums,  in 
the  hope  of  perpetuating  a  name,  other- 
wise doomed  to  oblivion,  by  having  it 
affixed  to  a  new  species  of  animal, 
are  in  the  habit  of  sending  out  fully 
equipped  natives  on  collecting  expedi- 
tions, which  sometimes  last  for  months 
at  a  time.  It  is  all  done  for  the  pro- 
motion of  science,  we  are  told,  when  we 
dare  to  utter  a  mild  word  of  remon- 
strance. Many  a  poor  bird,  or  small 
mammal,  which  has  been  carried  for 
half  a  day,  alive  and  suffering  unspeak- 
able torment,  if  it  had  the  gift  of  speech, 
might  conceivably,  before  dying,  utter 
a  variant  of  Madame  Roland's  famoi 
exclamation  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffolc 

IV 

One  cannot  mention  the  negro's  atti- 
tude toward  the  animal  kingdom  with- 
out speaking  about  his  relations  with 
the  'friend  of  man.'  It  is  only  after 
making  acquaintance  with  the  pariah 
dogs  of  native  villages  that  one  fully 
understands  why  Moses  branded  the 
dog,  forever,  as  an  unclean  beast.  Ex- 
cept in  those  regions  where  he  is  still 
used  for  hunting,  when  scanty  remains 
of  a  devoured  animal  sometimes  fall  to 
his  lot,  he  feeds  only  on  nameless  offal, 
and  is  expected  to  do  so.  Among  some 
tribes  the  licking  clean  of  human  ulcers 
is,  as  in  the  Old  Testament,  a  recognized 
and  admitted  part  of  a  dog's  duties. 
The  most  startling  of  the  various  uses 
to  which  he  is  put,  however,  exists 
among  the  Wangoni,  where  he  has  to 
replace,  with  his  tongue,  the  baby's 
morning  tub!  This  is  done  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course,  the  mother,  some- 
times helped  by  the  father,  holding  the 
baby,  while  the  dog  conscientiously  ac- 
complishes his  duty.  The  babies  do  not 
seem  to  mind  it  much,  and  struggle 
mildly,  as  babies  will  do  when  they  ob- 
ject to  being  washed.  Expressions  of 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


469 


disgust  and  indignation  on  my  part, 
when  I  first  witnessed  this  performance, 
were  met  with  undisguised  astonish- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  parents. 

And  those  unfortunate  creatures 
breed  like  rabbits!  It  is  a  pitiful  sight 
to  see  a  poor  native  bitch,  reduced  to 
skin  and  bones,  trying  to  satisfy  the  rav- 
enous hunger  of  half  a  dozen  half- 
grown  young  gluttons.  In  many  places 
these  curs,  hunting  either  in  packs  by 
themselves  or  with  their  masters,  have 
entirely  extirpated  whole  species  of 
small  mammals.  In  Buanji,  where  they 
were  formerly  numerous,  all  the  mon- 
gooses have  been  destroyed  by  the  joint 
voracity  of  man  and  dog;  and,  surely, 
anyone  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to 
make  the  personal  acquaintance  of  a 
mongoose,  not  to  mention  the  famous 
Ricky-ticky,  will  admit  that  one  mon- 
goose is  worth  a  hundred  native  dogs. 

Thanks  to  the  greediness  of  certain 
Europeans,  who  do  not  scruple  to  sell 
to  chiefs  —  who  will  pay  almost  any 
price  for  them  —  the  pups  of  large  Eu- 
ropean breeds,  these  nuisances  con- 
stantly increase  in  number,  size,  and 
strength.  The  Wahehe,  in  what  was 
formerly  German  East  Africa,  keep 
their  dogs,  not  only  to  hunt  with,  but 
also  as  food;  and  those  destined  for  that 
fate  are  prevented  from  moving  about 
too  much  by  having  one  of  their  legs 
broken! 

Natives  train  their  dogs  for  the  hunt 
with  great  skill  and  cruelty.  Once,  in 
the  Livingstone  Range,  not  many  hun- 
dred yards  from  my  tent,  and  before  I 
could  interfere,  a  native  from  Buanji, 
who,  with  others,  had  been  chasing  a 
reed-buck,  cudgeled  his  dog  to  death 
because  he  considered  that  he  had  been 
slack  in  the  performance  of  his  duty. 

One  wonders  why  administrators  do 
not  introduce  a  native  dog-tax.  It 
would  affect  only  the  well-to-do,  and  an 
unmitigated  evil  would  gradually  dis- 
appear. There  would  be  no  necessity 


for  drastic  measures,  like  the  maroon- 
ing of  the  dogs  of  Constantinople. 

Among  the  hunting  tribes,  the  men 
are  incredibly  swift  of  foot.  I  have 
known  them  to  run  down  a  buffalo,  and 
get  it,  too.  This  was  in  Ubena,  which  is 
a  hilly  country,  and  the  buffalo  must 
have  been  old,  as  I  have  tasted  of  its 
meat,  which  was  extremely  tough.  In  a 
flat  country,  I  think,  such  a  feat  would 
have  been  almost  impossible,  although 
I  have  been  told  by  natives  in  the  great 
plains  of  British  East  Africa,  that  men 
exist  who  will  run  antelopes  down. 

The  pivot  around  which  all  native 
conceptions  of  life  turn  is  food  —  cha- 
kula  !  To  eat  as  much  as  he  possibly  can 
at  one  sitting  is  looked  upon  by  every 
native  as  a  sacred  duty;  and,  like  those 
dung-beetles  described  by  Henri  Fabre, 
he  never,  never  stops,  so  long  as  there  is 
anything  to  eat  before  him.  An  American 
divine,  as  well  known  for  his  beautiful 
preaching  as  for  his  successes  with  the 
rifle  in  East  Africa,  has  told  us  how  a 
native  with  whom  he  remonstrated  for 
gorging  himself  with  the  meat  of  butch- 
ered zebras,  excused  himself  by  saying 
that  he  might  be  dead  by  the  morning, 
and  then,  what  an  opportunity  would 
have  been  lost!  If  you  ask  a  native  why 
he  goes  and  gets  married,  he  never  re- 
plies: 'Because  I  love  the  girl'.;  but  in- 
variably by  the  question:  'Who  is  to 
prepare  my  food?' 

It  is  quite  useless  to  try  to  give  na- 
tives extras.  I  often  started,  but  always 
gave  it  up  again,  quite  disheartened. 
The  more  sugar  and  tea  you  give  them, 
the  quicker  they  finish  it.  They  have 
no  conception  of  husbanding  provisions, 
and  are  never  satisfied  or  grateful. 
There  are,  besides,  always  a  lot  of  hang- 
ers-on; and  the  servants  and  porters, 
who  fear  retaliation  in  a  moment  of 
penury,  simply  dare  not  refuse  to  share. 
As  one  said  to  me  once:  'If  a  man  sees 
that  I  have  got  something  that  he  has 
not  got,  and  if  I  refuse  to  give  him  some 


470 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


of  it,  perhaps  some  day,  when  I  am  very 
hungry  and  without  food,  and  he  has 
plenty  of  it,  he  will  also  refuse  to  share.' 

That  the  native  custom  to  share  all 
food  with  everybody  present  is  not,  as 
some  may  imagine,  the  outcome  of  al- 
truism, is  amply  proved  by  the  heartless 
attitude  toward  the  diseased  and  the 
disabled,  where  a  reversal  of  the  position 
appears  an  eventuality  too  remote  to  be 
worth  being  considered.  Although  all 
natives  know  how  to  cook,  roast,  fry,  to 
a  certain  point,  their  palate  is  absolute- 
ly devoid  of  taste.  The  great  majority 
will,  like  Mark  Twain's  Goshoot  Indi- 
ans, eat  anything  that  the  raven  and 
the  hyena  —  which  latter,  in  Africa, 
stands  for  coyote  —  eat  —  or  leave. 

The  variety  of  the  native  bill  of  fare 
is  enormous,  and,  roughly  speaking, 
implies,  besides  vegetable  food,  every- 
thing that  breathes.  Not  all  tribes, 
however,  are  so  catholic  in  their  taste. 
Some  will  look  with  disgust  on  what 
others  consider  a  delicacy,  and  vice  versa; 
and  Mohammedans  will,  although  they 
are  not  by  any  means  strict  as  re- 
gards the  ritual,  abstain  from  certain 
things  as  long  as  they  have  to  fear  the 
censure  of  public  opinion.  Unfortu- 
nately all  natives,  including  Mohamme- 
dans, eat  all  birds,  with  the  exception, 
in  some  cases,  of  birds  of  prey,  or  of 
birds  which  are  fetish,  like  the  ground 
hornbill.  Not  even  the  smallest  birds, 
like  nectarines  or  waxbills,  are  safe 
from  pursuit  —  a  state  of  affairs  which 
clamors  for  legislative  interference. 

Rats  and  moles  are  in  great  demand 
among  many  tribes;  some,  like  the  Wa- 
hehe,  eat  dogs;  the  Wangoni  eat  cats; 
the  Wangulu,  snakes  and  lizards.  Sev- 
eral kinds  of  caterpillars,  both  smooth 
and  hairy,  are  collected  in  baskets  and 
eaten  as  a  relish  or  kitoveo;  locusts  and 
white  ants  replace  in  native  cuisine  our 
oysters  and  turtles;  and  some  people 
are  particularly  fond  of  a  large,  strong- 
smelling  tree-bug. 


But  if  the  white  man  stands  aghast 
before  the  native  articles  of  diet,  the 
native  reciprocates  as  far  as  many  of 
our  food-stuff's  are  concerned.  Tinned 
food,  especially  since  the  war  brought 
enormous  quantities  of  it  into  the  coun- 
try, is  a  source  of  incessant  interest  and 
inquiries.  Natives  have  often  expressed 
to  me  their  wonder  at  the  great  variety 
of  things  which  Europeans  eat.  One  of 
them  could  not  be  persuaded  that  what 
he  had  seen  in  a  tin  was  not  chameleon ! 

A  settler  whom  I  knew  in  Uhehe  once 
poisoned  some  wild  dogs  with  strych- 
nine and  then  buried  them.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  several  men  came  to  him 
and  asked  permission  to  unearth  the 
carrion,  in  order  to  eat  it.  The  settler 
refused,  explaining  that  the  dogs  had 
been  poisoned;  but  they  came  back  in 
the  night,  dug  the  dogs  out,  and  took 
them  away. 

Once,  in  the  Transvaal,  I  opened  a 
tin  of  mortadella  di  Bologna,  and,  find- 
ing it  entirely  spoiled,  threw  it  away.  A 
European  who  was  staying  with  me 
presently  saw  my  headboy  pick  up  the 
tin,  and,  before  he  could  interfere, 
swallow  the  contents.  We  both  ex- 
pected the  fellow  to  die  of  ptomaine 
poisoning,  but  nothing  happened;  he 
seemed,  if  anything,  rather  more  cheer- 
ful after,  than  before,  his  meal. 

I  remember  that  once,  when  I  was 
camped  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Nyasa,  a 
very  large  dead  fish  floated  slowly  past, 
poisoning  the  atmosphere  with  its  ef- 
fluvium. Suddenly  I  noticed  that  several 
of  my  men  rushed  to  the  landing-place 
and  jumped  into  a  dugout;  and  when  I 
asked  them  what  they  were  up  to,  the 
reply  was,  that  they  wanted  to  haul  the 
fish  ashore.  'What  for? '  I  asked,  horri- 
fied. 'Because  we  want  to  eat  it!'  I 
screamed  a  peremptory  warning  and  was 
grudgingly  and  wonderingly  obeyed. 

Up  to  fifteen  years  ago,  in  the  so- 
called  Kaffir  eating-houses  on  the  Rand, 
native  mining  boys  used  to  buy,  by  pref- 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


471 


erence,  meat  full  of  grubs.  They  said 
it  was  richer.  It  really  would  appear, 
from  these  and  other  instances,  as  if  the 
digestive  organs  of  wild  people  were 
constructed  on  a  model  different  from 
ours. 

The  quantity  of  food  that  a  single  na- 
tive is  able  to  absorb  at  one  sitting  is 
phenomenal.  About  twelve  years  ago, 
in  Tavita,  in  British  East  Africa,  I  once 
shot  a  large  rhino  at  a  distance  of  about 
ten  miles  from  the  old  disused  house  of 
the  Church  Missionary  Society,  where  I 
was  living  at  the  tune.  When  I  walked 
back,  my  gun-bearer  ran  ahead  and 
called  my  immediate  neighbors,  mostly 
Masai  and  Wachagga  belonging  to  the 
Mission.  I  met  these  people — eight 
including  the  gun-bearer  —  going  out 
to  the  kill,  as  I  was  reaching  home. 
After  I  had  bathed  and  changed,  I  sent 
one  of  my  boys  into  the  next  village  of 
the  Wataweta,  a  mile  farther  back  in 
the  forest,  to  inform  them  also  of  my 
chase,  so  that  they,  too,  might  go  and 
fetch  meat  for  themselves  and  their 
families;  soon  afterward  I  saw  them 
trooping  out,  past  my  house.  They 
passed  it  again  toward  evening,  return- 
ing home,  and  I  noticed  that  they  were 
not  carrying  anything  except  a  few 
pieces  of  hide.  I  asked  them  if  they  had 
eaten  plenty,  and  received  the  despond- 
ent reply:  'There  was  nothing  left  when 
we  arrived.'  I  do  not,  of  course,  mean 
to  imply  that  the  first  lot  of  eight  na- 
tives had  eaten  the  whole  rhino  in  a  few 
hours.  But  what  happened  was  prob- 
ably this :  they  ate,  each  as  much  as  he 
could  carry  inside,  and  then  took  away 
on  their  shoulders  as  much  as  they  could 
carry  outside,  having  first  cached  the 
balance.  My  gun-bearer,  a  few  days 
later,  fell  ill  with  an  intestinal  disease, 
from  which  he  died  within  a  month. 

Natives  do  not  look  upon  the  appro- 
priating of  foodstuffs  from  Europeans 
as  theft.  When  caught  hi  the  act,  they 
indignantly  repudiate  the  charge  of 


theft.  They  look  upon  the  food  as  their 
due.  It  is  a  tribute.  Because  no  one  of 
their  race  would  refuse  them  part  of  his 
provisions  if  they  were  staying  with 
him,  they  think  they  are  entitled  to  part 
of  the  provisions  of  the  white  man;  and 
if  he  does  not  give  it  willingly,  they  take 
it.  Bernard  Shaw's  assertion,  that 
'  what  an  Englishman  wants,  he  takes,' 
might  much  more  appropriately  be  ap- 
plied to  the  negro.  This  thieving  is  an 
institution  with  which  every  European 
has  to  reckon  —  a  fact  to  be  accepted. 


It  is  a  mistake  to  believe  that  a  na- 
tive servant  in  whom  you  show  confi- 
dence will  try  to  live  up  to  it.  On  the 
contrary,  he  will,  as  a  general  rule,  con- 
sider your  confidence  as  an  invaluable 
asset  in  the  occasions  of  pilfering  that 
it  will  give  him.  And  the  women  are 
much  greater  thieves  than  the  men. 
They  know  practically  no  restraint,  and 
even  rob  each  other  incessantly,  even 
of  the  smallest  trifles,  or  of  medicines, 
bandages,  and  the  like.  I  have  known 
several  cases  where  natives  parted  from 
their  wives  because  they  could  not  keep 
the  latter  from  stealing. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember,  in  this 
connection,  that  Sir  Harry  Johnston 
mentions  the  incessant  pilferings  perpe- 
trated by  the  Askari  women  as  one  of 
the  causes  of  the  Soudanese  rebellion  in 
the  early  nineties.  England  was  then 
engaged  in  one  of  her  small  wars  in 
Equatorial  Africa,  and  the  women  who 
had  followed  the  black  soldiers  com- 
mitted such  depredations  among  the 
friendly  tribes,  that  they  had  to  be  sent 
back  to  Uganda.  This  their  husbands 
resented,  and  it  was,  if  not  the  only,  at 
least  the  principal  cause  of  the  ensuing 
revolt. 

I  mentioned  that  the  articles  coveted 
by  the  women  are  often  mere  trifles; 
but  this  applies  to  the  men  also.  It  is 


472 


AFRICAN  FOLK 


certainly  a  fact  that  nothing  is  too 
soiled,  too  torn,  or  too  insignificant, 
to  find  a  collector;  which  does  not,  how- 
ever, mean,  that  natives  have  not  a  very 
keen  sense  of  the  value  of  things.  But 
they  are  very  clever  in  turning  even 
what  has  been  discarded  as  totally 
valueless,  to  some  sort  of  use.  I  once 
gave  a  native,  a  carver  in  wood  and 
ivory  by  trade,  an  old  disused  sweater, 
not  thinking  that  he  would  be  able  to 
turn  it  to  any  account.  A  few  days 
later  he  appeared  in  my  camp  with  a 
rakish  white  cap,  culminating  in  a  red 
cocarde  made  out  of  a  strip  of  flannel. 
This  cap  was  the  torn-off  collar  of  the 
sweater,  which  had  been  sewn  together 
on  one  side,  and  then  decorated  with  the 
cocarde.  Shortly  afterward  the  owner 
told  me  that  he  had  found  a  purchaser 
for  his  novel  head-gear. 

If,  as  some  people  pretend,  the  secret 
of  making  poverty  endurable  —  of  re- 
conciling champagne  tastes  with  a  lager- 
beer  income  —  lies  in  abstaining  from 
necessaries  and  indulging  in  luxuries 
instead,  the  negro  undoubtedly  has 
adopted  this  method.  He  buys  unneces- 
sary trifles  —  old  watches  past  repair, 
matchboxes  of  metal,  pencil-cases, 
whistles,  motor-goggles — at  ridiculous 
prices,  while  repudiating  almost  with 
indignation  the  suggestion  to  buy  rem- 
edies for  his  own  or  his  own  people's 
use,  or  a  plate  or  a  tumbler  for  his 
household.  The  latter  particularity,  by 
the  way,  presents  the  greatest  obstacle 
to  giving  a  native  any  medicine  to  take 
home  with  him.  How  can  one  expect  a 
member  of  a  numerous  household,  in 
which  the  only  drinking  vessel  consists 
of  an  old  condensed-milk  tin,  to  take, 
every  two  or  three  hours  a  certain  num- 
ber of  drops  of,  say,  chlorodyne,  diluted 
in  water?  —  quite  apart  from  the  fact 
that  every  inhabitant  of  the  village 
would  insist  on  tasting  the  stuff!  In 
this  respect,  as  in  some  others,  the  Lat- 
in axiom,  Ccelum,  non  animum,  mutant, 


qui  trans  mare  currunt,  would  seem  to 
apply  to  the  Ethiopian  in  the  same  de- 
gree as  to  the  European.  Has  not 
Booker  T.  Washington  told  us  how,  in 
a  negro  household  in  Virginia,  which 
could  boast  of  a  single  cup  only,  he 
found  a  piano?  This  happy-go-lucki- 
ness is,  perhaps,  a  manifestation  of  the 
artistic  temperament.  Everybody  has 
seen  reproductions  of  the  celebrated 
drawings  of  the  Kalshari  bushmen,  but 
it  would  be  a  mistake  to  imagine  that 
this  gift  is  their  monopoly.  Often,  in 
countries  hundreds  of  miles  apart,  I 
have  bought  little  clay  figures  of  animals, 
made  by  children  in  play,  and  have 
always  been  struck  by  the  astounding 
accuracy  with  which  the  creatures' 
main  characteristics  had  been  caught, 
however  disproportionate  the  measure- 
ments. Among  the  grown-up  people 
one  often  finds  real  artists  who  repre- 
sent human  beings  and  animals  with 
equal  skill.  As  an  avocation,  carving 
usually  runs  in  families,  descending 
from  father  to  son,  several  brothers  be- 
ing sometimes  employed  in  the  same 
trade;  and  the  self-manufactured  imple- 
ments which  they  use  are  almost  as 
great  a  subject  of  surprise  as  the  re- 
sult produced. 

At  one  time  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  one 
of  these  carvers  in  wood  and  ivory.  He 
was  a  Yao,  called  Beeboo  —  quite  a 
remarkable  creature,  who  might  have 
posed  as  a  sample  of  the  artistic  tem- 
perament quite  as  well  as  any  Quartier 
Latin  art  student  pictured  in  Miirger's 
La  Vie  de  Boheme.  His  likenesses  of  ani- 
mals were  extraordinarily  lifelike,  if  oc- 
casionally somewhat  out  of  symmetry; 
but  he  also  gave  free  scope  to  his  active 
imagination  by  inventing  animals  with 
new  and  grotesque  shapes.  When  trade 
was  brisk,  as  was  the  case  during  the 
war,  he  lived  on  the  product  of  his  knife 
and  saw  only,  and  walked  about,  a 
haughty  and  independent  swell.  When 
times  were  bad,  he  used  to  work  for  his 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


473 


livelihood  on  some  plantation  or  farm, 
watering  flowers  or  cropping  the  lawn. 
It  was  during  one  of  these  periods  of 
penury,  when  I  had  given  him  a  job, 
that  I  caught  him  helping  himself  to 
my  provisions.  I  dismissed  him  imme- 
diately; but  we  remained  on  cordial 
terms  all  the  same,  and  he  often  came 
into  my  camp  afterward,  either  to  offer 
me  pieces  of  art  for  sale  or  to  borrow  a 
shilling. 

I  once  entered  his  hut,  where  he  was 
living  alone  at  the  time,  having  just 
been  deserted  by  his  wife  —  a  usual  oc- 
currence with  him.  There  was  no  furni- 
ture except  his  stretcher;  but  every- 
where on  the  ground  stood  old  oil  tins 
and  clay  pots  filled  with  decorative 


plants,  flowers,  ferns,  and  low  shrubs 
with  berries. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Bee  boo, 
if  he  had  been  born  in  Paris,  might  have 
developed  into  another  Rodin,  or  a 
male  Rosa  Bonheur.  Born  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  in  a  cathedral  town,  he  would 
surely  have  been  a  famous  gargoyle- 
sculptor.  But  he,  too,  was  not  free  of 
those  aberrations  in  taste  to  which  I 
have  alluded  before.  One  day  he  shaved 
the  lower  part  of  his  head  all  round  in  a 
circle,  and  then  let  the  hair  on  the  upper 
part  grow  to  an  enormous  length,  so 
that  he  looked  as  if  he  wore  a  huge  hel- 
met of  fur,  like  one  of  Napoleon's  gren- 
adiers. He  looked  fearful,  and  I  told 
him  so,  to  his  intense  delight. 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


BY   VERNON   KELLOGG 


I 


BY  America  I  mean  the  United  States 
without  Alaska  and  the  overseas  appa- 
nages, and  by  mountaineering  I  mean 
much  besides  scaling  high  peaks.  One 
cannot  put  all  the  qualifications  into  a 
title. 

There  is  altogether  too  little  told  and 
written  about  the  mountains  of  our 
country,  —  the  high  mountains,  higher 
than  the  Alps,  —  and  about  the  joys 
and  adventures  of  climbing  them.  Be- 
cause they  are  not  snow-  and  ice-clad, 
-  a  few  are,  —  with  neves,  crevasses, 
and  ice  couloirs  to  tell  about,  and  be- 
cause one  does  not  climb  them  in  a 
roped-together  chain-gang,  led  and  fol- 
lowed by  professional  guides  in  pic- 


turesque costumes,  along  well-known 
paths  often  staircased  and  balustra- 
ded,  the  mountains  of  California  and 
Colorado  seem  to  have  few  attractions 
for  Americans  who  have  a  fancy  for 
climbing. 

But  actually  they  demand  as  stren- 
uous and  careful  work,  and  offer  as  much 
adventure,  as  the  more  favored  and 
familiar  European  mountains.  You  can 
climb  as  high,  fall  as  far,  and  land  with 
as  much  disaster,  in  the  Sierra  Nevada 
or  Rockies  as  in  the  Swiss  or  Tyrolean 
Alps.  And  there  goes  with  the  climbing 
itself  in  America  a  lot  of  fine  things  that 
do  not  go  with  the  Swiss  climbing  — 
the  camping,  the  pack-train,  the  trout- 


474 


MOUNTAINEERING   IN  AMERICA 


fishing  in  almost  virgin  waters,  the 
great  forests,  the  aloneness,  the  real  es- 
cape and  change  from  that  world  which 
is  too  much  with  us  —  all  these  are 
pleasant  surplusage  in  American  moun- 
taineering, added  to  the  actual  climb- 
ing, which  latter,  by  the  way,  you  do  — 
as  climbing  should  really  be  done,  to 
get  from  it  its  finest  flavor  —  on  your 
own,  unguided  and  unroped. 

It  seems  an  odd  thing  that  the  high 
peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  the  Col- 
orado Rockies  are  all  of  about  the  same 
height.  Take  the  highest  twenty  in  each 
of  the  two  mountain-systems,  and  not 
only  will  their  average  be  very  close  to 
14,000  feet  in  the  case  of  each  group, 
but  the  range  of  height  in  the  whole 
forty  will  come  within  500  feet  above  or 
below  the  fourteen-thousand-foot  av- 
erage. The  high  points  of  both  Sierras 
and  Rockies  seem  to  have  been  cut  off 
in  their  aspiring  at  fourteen  thousand 
feet  or  a  few  hundred  feet  above  or  be- 
low that  level  —  although  there  is  little 
indication  on  many  of  these  summits  of 
any  cutting  off,  the  tip-tops  of  some,  in- 
deed, making  two  men  standing  close 
together  on  them  seem  badly  crowded. 
But  some,  on  the  other  hand,  have  a 
really  truncated  top,  often  surprisingly 
broad  and  level. 

This  is  true,  for  example*  of  Long's 
Peak,  one  of  the  highest  and  best  of  the 
Colorado  peaks  —  meaning  by  'best,' 
most  interesting,  and  possibly  adven- 
turous, to  climb.  One  could  lay  out  a 
very  decent  little  farm  on  its  summit,  if 
the  soil  were  a  little  further  on  in  course 
of  making  —  so  far  it  is  only  in  its  first, 
or  rock,  stage.  But  in  getting  up  to 
this  broad,  flat  top,  you  have  to  work 
carefully  almost  completely  around  the 
great  cliffy  cap  of  the  mountain,  with  a 
dizzying  narrow  ledge  on  one  face,  to 
test  your  head;  a  long  steep  trough, 
with  snow  and  loose  rock  in  it,  at  one 
corner,  to  try  out  your  heart,  lungs, 
and  climbing  luck;  and  a  steeper,  most- 


ly smooth  wall-face,  to  swarm  up  on  the 
last  stretch. 

Long's  Peak  is  much  beset  by  wind 
and  sudden  sleet-storms,  and  its  really 
safe  climbing  season  is  unusually  short, 
although  it  is  often  climbed  before  and 
after  this  safer  period.  One  such  at- 
tempt at  a  late  climb,  however,  cost  an 
adventurous  woman  her  life ;  and  a  head- 
board, fixed  among  the  harsh  rocks  of 
the  great  Boulder  Field  just  beyond 
which  the  real  climbing  begins,  com- 
memorated, as  long  as  it  stood,  her 
death  on  the  mountain  from  fall  and 
exposure  in  storm.  The  inscription 
reads,  — 

Here  CARRIE  J.  W 

Lay  to  rest,  and  died  alone, 
with  the  date,  which  I  have  forgotten. 

She  died  alone  because  the  local 
mountaineer  who,  after  much  protest, 
went  up  with  her  when  she  declared  that, 
if  he  would  not  accompany  her,  she 
would  go  anyway  by  herself,  and  who 
found  her  helpless  on  his  hands  in  a 
sleet-storm  on  the  summit,  had,  after 
carrying  her  down  the  more  dangerous 
part  of  the  mountain,  through  hours  of 
struggle  in  blinding  snow  and  cutting 
ice-sleet,  until  he  was  almost  as  ex- 
hausted as  she,  left  her  at  nightfall  in 
the  comparative  shelter  of  the  great 
rocks  of  the  Boulder  Field,  himself  to 
stumble  on  down  the  mountain  in  the 
dark,  for  help. 

He  had  a  difficult  decision  to  make. 
Should  he  stay  there  with  her,  and  both 
almost  certainly  perish  before  dawn,  or 
should  he  take  the  chance  of  leaving  her 
and  possibly  get  help  up  to  her  during 
the  night,  and  thus  save  both?  He  took 
what  he  believed  the  only  chance  of 
saving  her.  Alone,  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly get  her  farther.  Staying  with  her, 
he  could  have  done  nothing  but,  in  all 
probability,  die  with  her.  He  got  down 
the  mountain  to  his  father's  cabin.  The 
rescuers  started  back  at  once.  But  it 
took  long  hours  to  get  to  her.  They 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


475 


found  her  dead.  She  had,  in  panic  or 
delirium,  left  her  shelter  among  the 
rocks,  and,  stumbling  about,  had  fallen 
near-by,  striking  her  head  against  the 
merciful  granite.  It  has  been  always  a 
haunting  question  with  that  man  as  to 
whether  he  had  done  what  a  brave  man 
should  do  under  such  circumstances. 
Knowing  the  mountain  and  the  man,  I 
believe  he  decided  as  a  brave  and  ex- 
perienced mountaineer  should  have 
decided. 

I  know  of  another  fatal  accident  on 
Long's  Peak.  There  may  have  been  still 
others.  This  one  came  about  through 
a  man's  inexperience  and  foolishness. 
He  carried  a  loaded  revolver  in  his  hip- 
pocket  on  his  climb.  He  fell  in  a  bad 
place,  and  the  cartridge  under  the  ham- 
mer was  exploded,  the  bullet  shattering 
his  hip.  His  one  companion  did  what 
he  could  to  drag  him  along  the  narrow 
ledge  on  which  he  lay;  but  little  progress 
was  possible,  and,  after  hours  of  suffer- 
ing, the  wounded  man  died.  The  com- 
panion was  a  prematurely  old  man  when 
he  finally  got  down  the  mountain  and 
found  helpers  to  go  up  for  the  body. 

I  have  always  maintained  that  there 
should  be  three  men  together  on  moun- 
tain climbs,  one  to  get  hurt,  one  to  stand 
by,  and  one  to  go  for  help.  But  most 
men  hunt  mountain-tops  in  pairs;  some 
like  to  go  alone.  I  knew  one  such,  — 
besides  John  Muir,  who,  with  his  bit  of 
bread  and  pinch  of  tea,  almost  always 
went  alone,  —  who  did  much  climbing 
in  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  took  many 
chances.  He  used  to  carry  a  rope  and, 
in  difficult  places,  where  he  could  not 
reach  high  enough  for  hand-grips,  he 
would  tie  a  big  knot  in  one  end  of  his 
rope  and  throw  it  up  until  it  caught 
firmly  above  him.  Then  he  would  drag 
himself  up,  without  regard  to  the  fact 
that  he  probably  could  not  get  down 
more  than  the  uppermost  one  of  these 
places  by  using  his  rope.  He  trusted  to 
finding  a  different  and  easier  way  down 


—  and  always  did.  He  climbed  Mount 
King  —  a  very  pinnacly  peak  in  the 
King-Goddard  divide,  which  juts  out 
westward  from  the  main  Sierran  crest 
near  Kearsarge  Pass  —  in  this  way,  by 
one  of  its  seemingly  impossible  faces. 
Although  at  best  it  is  a  difficult  moun- 
tain, it  has  at  least  one  fairly  negotiable 
face.  He  came  down  that  way. 

II 

American  mountain-climbing,  at  all 
events  as  I  am  limiting  it,  is  rock-climb- 
ing. There  can  be  a  good  deal  of  snow 
on  the  symmetrical  cones  of  the  old 
volcanoes,  like  Rainier,  Baker,  Hood, 
and  the  others  that  are  the  high  moun- 
tains of  Oregon  and  Washington;  and 
there  are  elsewhere  occasional  snow- 
patches  and  a  few  scattered,  insignifi- 
cant, persisting  remnants  of  the  once 
mighty  local  glaciers  that  did  so  much 
in  the  old  days  to  give  the  Sierras  and 
Rockies  their  present  configuration. 
But  these  are  rarely  in  the  way  of  the 
climber;  in  fact,  the  ice-remnants  have 
to  be  sought  out  to  be  seen,  and  are 
among  the  special  goals  of  the  moun- 
taineers. Two  or  three  in  the  Front 
Range  of  the  Rockies,  near  Estes  Park, 
now  included  in  the  Rocky  Mountain 
National  Park,  are  among  the  most 
accessible. 

Climbing  the  American  mountains, 
then,  demands  no  special  knowledge  of 
the  characteristics  and  habits  and  dan- 
gers of  deeply  crevassed  glaciers,  with 
their  thin  snow-bridges,  or  of  the  be- 
havior of  snow  when  it  inclines,  under 
proper  weather  conditions,  to  cornice- 
breaking  and  avalanche-making.  But 
it  does  require,  for  safety's  sake,  a  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  the  character  and 
habits  of  various  kinds  of  rock  in  vari- 
ous states  of  firmness  and  brittleness, 
as  met  variously  on  cliff-faces  or  in  nar- 
row chimneys.  It  also  requires  some 
judgment  as  to  the  critical  angle  at 


476 


MOUNTAINEERING   IN  AMERICA 


which  loose  rock  may  lie  for  the  time 
quietly,  yet  may  not  be  stepped  on  with 
careless  confidence.  It  does  not  require 
ropes  and  ice-axes,  but  it  requires  hands 
as  well  as  feet,  and  a  steady  head.  Nar- 
row ledges,  hand-hold  crevices  on  steep 
faces,  knife-edges,  both  firm  and  badly 
weathered,  and  long  steep  troughs  of 
mixed  snow,  loose  stones,  and  easily 
excited  granite-dust  make  earnest  call 
on  the  American  mountaineer's  nerve 
and  confidence  and  expert  judgment 
of  the  possibilities. 

It  is  not  always  the  highest  moun- 
tain, of  course,  that  is  the  hardest,  even 
in  its  demand  on  endurance,  to  say 
nothing  of  skill.  Our  highest  point 
south  of  the  Canadian  border  is  Mount 
Whitney,  yet  it  is  but  a  tiresome  steep 
walk  to  its  summit,  after  one  has  made 
the  long,  beautiful,  and  inspiring  forest- 
and  canon-trail  trip  to  its  western  foot. 
Its  eastern  foot  stands  in  a  desert.  A 
few  miles  north  of  Whitney  is  the  slight- 
ly lower  peak  of  Williamson,  one  of 
three  closely  grouped  splendid  Sierran 
notabilities  (Williamson,  Tyndall,  Bar- 
nard). But  Williamson  offers  every- 
thing to  the  climber  which  Whitney, 
except  for  its  height  and  position,  does 
not. 

I  had  the  privilege  of  spending  a  few 
weeks  again  last  summer  in  the  Sierras, 
after  an  absence  of  years.  Our  small 
party  was  composed  of  members  of  the 
Sierra  Club,  that  organization  which 
has  done  so  much  to  make  the  Califor- 
nia mountains  known  and  accessible  to 
mountain-lovers;  and  one  of  our  group 
was  intent  on  attempting  to  get  up  a 
certain  peak  which  has  long  resisted  the 
attacks  of  climbers  —  not  that  it  has 
been  so  often  tried,  but  that  the  few 
tries  have  been  made  by  climbers  well 
known  for  then*  success  with  difficult 
mountains. 

We,  therefore,  pushed  our  pack-ani- 
mals up  a  great  side  canon  tributary  to 
the  greater  canon  of  the  Kern,  until  we 


could  make  camp  in  a  last  little  group 
of  tamarack  pines  practically  at  timber- 
line  (about  10,500  feet  here),  and  di- 
rectly under  a  high  northwest  spur  of 
this  unclimbed  mountain,  which  con- 
nected with  its  main  peak  by  a  long, 
rough  knife-edge.  From  careful  study 
of  the  mountain  from  various  points,  it 
had  been  decided  that  the  most  likely 
approach  to  the  peak-summit  seemed  to 
be  this  northwest  spur  and  knife-edge. 
In  our  previous  movements  we  had 
nearly  encircled  the  great  group  of 
which  the  unclimbed  peak  was  one, 
and  members  of  the  party  had  climbed 
another  mountain,  not  far  away,  main- 
ly for  the  sake  of  an  orienting  examina- 
tion of  the  upper  reaches  of  the  resistant 
peak. 

The  actual  vertical  height  of  the  peak 
above  our  timber-line  camp  was  only  a 
little  more  than  three  thousand  feet,  as 
the  Geological  Survey  maps  attribute 
an  altitude  of  13,752  feet  to  it.  But 
three  thousand  feet  can  be  much  more 
difficult  than  five  or  six  thousand.  How- 
ever, if  the  summit  could  be  reached  at 
all,  it  could  probably  be  done  in  a  day 
from  our  high  camp.  So  the  climbers  — 
properly  three  —  made  a  five-o'clock 
start,  aiming  directly  for  the  summit 
of  the  spur.  The  going,  though  steep, 
was  fairly  good  and  entirely  safe,  and 
the  top  of  the  spur  was  reached  in  a 
few  hours.  But  the  knife-edge,  bad 
enough  where  it  was  continuous,  reveal- 
ed itself  so  deeply  notched  at  several 
points,  that  it  proved  wholly  impass- 
able. It  was  necessary  to  try  a  dif- 
ferent way.  The  north  face  of  the 
knife-edged  spur  was  as  impossible  as 
the  knife-edge  itself.  But  the  south 
face  is  gashed  by  a  number  of  narrow 
steep  troughs  leading  almost  up  to  the 
main  peak,  any  one  of  which  might 
prove  itself,  on  trial,  to  be  possible,  but 
any  one,  or  all,  of  which  might  be  un- 
feasible because  of  interrupting  cliffs 
not  visible  from  the  climbers'  point  of 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


477 


view.  To  select  and  try  one  was,  how- 
ever, the  only  chance. 

After  a  careful  study,  one  was  chosen 
that  revealed  indications  of  a  trickle  of 
water  coming  from  some  upper  snow- 
bank, and  seemed  to  be  more  winding 
in  its  course  than  the  others;  hence, 
would  offer  more  protection  than  these 
from  rolling  stones.  The  climbers, 
therefore,  worked  their  way  from  the 
knife-edge  down,  and  laboriously  across 
several  other  troughs  until,  finally 
reaching  the  selected  one,  they  turned 
their  faces  upward  again.  There  was 
much  loose  rock  in  the  trough,  and 
some  small,  but  troublesome,  cliffs  run- 
ning across  it;  but  by  skillful  work  it 
was  successfully  followed  to  a  point 
where  a  short  acrobatic  scramble  gave 
them  the  very  summit.  By  half-past 
two  the  three  men  stood,  or  rather 
crouched,  closely  together  on  the  dizzy- 
ing point  of  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the 
mountain  —  and  the  Black  Kaweah 
was  no  longer  the  unconquered  peak 
it  had  so  long  remained.  The  near-by 
Red  and  Gray  Kaweahs  had  surren- 
dered in  earlier  years.  So  the  Sierra  Club 
has  no  more  scalps  to  bring  home  from 
that  fine  mountain  group.  But  there 
are  still  other  peaks,  both  in  the  mam 
Sierran  crest  and  in  some  of  the  great 
lateral  spurs,  or  'divides,'  that  run  out 
west  from  it,  which  offer  pressing  invi- 
tation to  climbers  who  like  to  be  the 
first  to  scale  untrodden  summits. 

m 

I  referred  at  the  beginning  of  this  pa- 
per to  the  surplusage  of  pleasant  expe- 
rience that  the  American  mountaineer 
may  enjoy  in  the  high  mountains  of 
California  and  Colorado,  —  one  really 
ought  not  to  slight  Washington,  Oregon, 
Idaho,  and  Wyoming  in  speaking  of 
American  mountaineering,  —  in  addi- 
tion to  that  of  the  actual  climbing.  This 
experience  is  that  of  the  trail  and  camp. 


For  example,  while  the  three  more 
venturesome  members  of  our  party 
were  capturing  the  Black  Kaweah,  — 
when  one  is  soft  from  five  or  six  years  of 
being  kept  away  from  high  altitudes, 
and  has  had  only  a  few  days  to  accus- 
tom heart  and  muscles  to  severe  work 
in  them,  one  must  not  be  among  the 
more  venturesome,  —  I  busied  myself 
with  providing  one  of  the  courses  of  a 
proper  dinner  that  should  be  ready  for 
the  returned  climbers.  Right  past  our 
camp  ran  the  clear,  cold  water  of  a 
stream  that  had  its  sources  only  a  mile 
or  two  farther  up  the  canon,  in  the  snow- 
fed  lakes  of  a  great  glacial  basin,  or 
cirque,  of  successively  higher  levels 
under  the  Kaweah  summits.  Nine 
Lake  Basin  contains  even  more  clear 
little  green  lakes  than  its  name  indi- 
cates, and  their  overflow  makes  a  stream 
that  has  helped  materially  to  deepen 
the  great  glacial  gorge  that  extends  from 
the  upper  cirques  down  to  the  Grand 
Canon  of  the  Kern.  In  this  stream 
swarm  hard-fighting,  firm-fleshed  rain- 
bow trout,  not  too  sophisticated,  or 
yet  too  inexperienced.  A  Royal  Coach- 
man and  a  Black  Gnat  made  a  good 
killing  combination,  and  I  soon  had  a 
sufficient  number  to  furnish  the  second 
course  of  the  camp  dinner. 

And  then  there  was  time  for  some 
rambling  and  scrambling  over  the  gran- 
ite faces  and  great  rough  blocks  of  the 
upper  cirques,  and  even  over  a  low  di- 
vide that  separates  the  Kern  from  the 
Kaweah  watershed;  to  look  down  the 
precipitous  gorge  of  trivially  named 
Deer  Creek,  —  what  a  confusing  host 
of  Deer  and  Sheep  and  Bear  Creeks 
there  are  in  the  mountains!  —  which 
finds  its  swift  and  tumultuous  westward 
way  into  the  Middle  Forkof  the  Kaweah, 
or  'crow  water,'  as  the  Indian  name 
translates  itself.  Along  the  upper 
stretches  of  this  magnificent  gorge  — 
or  canon,  to  give  its  character  its  prop- 
er due  —  are  some  vertical  cliffs  and 


478 


MOUNTAINEERING   IN  AMERICA 


sky-scraping  pinnacles  and  smooth- 
surfaced,  onion-skinned  granite  domes, 
which  are  yet  to  have  their  fame  in 
chronicles  of  Sierran  scenery. 

The  trout-fishing  in  the  higher  Sier- 
ras and  Rockies  is  a  kind  of  fishing 
apart  from  other  kinds,  even  from  other 
fishing  for  trout.  To  get  to  it  is  an  ad- 
venture; to  live  a  few  weeks,  or  even 
days,  where  it  may  be  had  is  an  exalt- 
ing experience.  It  is  so  much  more  than 
fishing.  It  is  realizing  how  the  primi- 
tive granite  core  of  the  earth,  and  ice 
and  water  and  time  have  combined 
to  make  great  mountains,  great  basins, 
great  moraines,  great  canons.  It  is 
learning  to  know  the  giant  trees  and 
dwarfed  alpine  flowers.  It  is  seeing 
close  at  hand  the  realities  of  the  bitter 
struggle  of  life  with  boreal  nature. 
'  Timber-line '  is  one  of  the  strange  and 
revealing  places  of  earth,  with  its  mis- 
shapen, scarred,  fighting  pines  and  fir 
and  juniper,  and  swiftly  growing  fra- 
grant flowers,  which  expand  their  bril- 
liant colors  in  the  short  season  of  warm 
sun  and  melting  snow,  to  attract  the 
few  hardy  butterflies  and  bees  that 
flit  away  their  brief  lives  amid  sur- 
roundings that  awe  and  humble  the 
greater  animals  and  even  man.  Shrill- 
barking  marmots  and  curious  little 
squeaking  guinea-pig-like  conies  perch 
on  great  granite  blocks,  to  stare  and 
challenge  the  human  intruder  in  these 
upper  levels  of  earth,  and  dive  out  of 
sight  in  the  dark  crevices  as  he  turns  to 
stare  back  at  them. 

But  the  trout  themselves  are  reas- 
suring. They  may  even  be  of  the  very 
sort  you  know  in  the  meandering  brooks 
of  New  England  meadows.  For  many 
of  the  Sierran  lakes  and  streams  have 
been  stocked  with  trout  varieties  for- 
eign to  their  geography.  One  meets 
speckled  Eastern  Brook  and  brown 
Loch  Leven  in  some  of  these  waters. 
Most  famous  and  most  wonderful  to  see 
are  the  bizarre  Golden  trout,  originally 


of  Volcano  Creek,  which  flows  into  the 
Kern  from  the  foot  of  Mount  Whitney. 
These  trout  were  originally  isolated  in 
that  part  of  the  stream  which  is  above 
the  high  falls,  not  far  from  the  stream- 
mOuth;  but  they  have  been  transplanted 
into  numerous  streams  and  lakes  of  the 
Kern  and  Kings  watersheds.  They  have 
a  brilliant  scarlet  belly,  roseate  lateral 
rainbow  line,  and  general  yellowish- 
red  tinge  over  the  whole  body.  They 
do  not  seem  to  grow  very  large,  but  are 
curiously  long  and  slender  for  their 
weight.  They  are  reputed  to  be  unusu- 
ally vigorous  fighters;  but  the  few  thai 
I  caught  in  the  single  stocked  lake  of 
Five  Lake  Basin  above  the  Big  Arroyo 
were  tame  compared  with  the  native 
Rainbows  of  the  Arroyo  itself. 

Besides  trout,  the  Sierran  and  Rockv 
Mountain  streams  are  the  home  of  a 
few  other  interesting  animals.  There 
used  to  be  many  beaver,  especially  in 
the  reaches  where  the  Colorado  streams 
flowed  through  the  more  level  glacial 
parks,  which  are  characteristic  of  the 
Rockies  just  as  the  narrow,  flat-floored, 
vertical-walled  canons  like  the  Yosem- 
ite,  Hetch-Hetchy,  Tehipite,  and  the 
Grand  Canons  of  the  Kings  and  Kern 
are  characteristic  of  the  Sierra  Nevada. 

And  there  are  the  fascinating  water- 
braving  ouzels,  that  teeter,  half-sub- 
merged, on  the  lips  of  little  falls,  as  the}' 
seek  out  the  larvae  of  the  water-insects. 
Among  these  insects  are  stone-flies  and 
may-flies  and,  especially,  many  kinds 
of  caddice-flies,  which  make  their  pro- 
tecting cases  out  of  tiny  pebbles  or 
granite  grains,  and  sometimes  out  of 
glittering  golden  bits  of  iron  pyrites 
and  half-transparent  mica  —  houses  of 
gold  and  glass  and  shining  jewels. 

Finally,  there  are  the  curious  net- 
winged  midges,  known  unfortunately 
only  to  professional  entomologists,  and 
to  too  few  of  them,  whose  few  species 
are  scattered  all  over  the  world  where 
swift,  clear,  and  cold  mountain  streams 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


479 


are.  The  small,  slug-like  larvae  of  these 
delicate  flies  cling  by  ventral  suckers  to 
the  smooth  surfaces  of  the  stream-bed 
over  which  shallow  water  is  running 
swiftly.  They  cannot  tolerate  sluggish 
or  soiled  water.  Their  food  is  chiefly 
minute  fresh-water  diatoms,  which 
often  grow  in  felt-like  masses  on  their 
own  backs.  The  slender-legged,  thin- 
winged  flies  may  be  seen  occasionally 
flitting  about  in  the  overhanging  foliage 
of  the  stream-side,  or  among  the  great 
boulders  that  half  block  the  streams 
where  they  break  through  terminal 
moraines. 

But  besides  the  streams  that  help 
give  the  mountain  regions  beauty  and 
interest  and  life,  and  provide  the  purest, 
softest  water  for  the  mountaineer's 
drink  and  bath,  there  are  the  great  for- 
ests —  forests  great  in  extent  and  made 
of  great  trees.  These  forests  are  of 
special  magnificence  in  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  but  the  lower  pines  and  upper 
spruces  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  form 
fine  forests,  the  spruce,  particularly, 
often  running  along  the  range-flanks  in 
a  miles-long  unbroken  zone,  at  an  alti- 
tude of  (roughly)  from  nine  to  eleven 
thousand  feet  and  even  higher.  The 
trees  are  not  large,  as  large  trees  go, 
but  are  nearly  uniform  in  size,  and  the 
forest  is  almost  clear  of  undergrowth, 
and  is  soft  and  dark  and  still. 

Of  birds  there  are  few,  but  some  of 
them  are  of  special  interest.  Among 
these  are  the  noiseless,  ghostly  camp- 
robbers,  or  moose  birds,  which  suddenly 
appear  from  nowhere  in  your  forest 
camp,  boldly  flying  down  to  your  very 
food-bags  or  camp-fire  to  beg  or  steal  a 
free  meal.  Less  quiet  are  their  cousins, 
the  Clark  crows,  or  jays.  But  most 
beautiful  of  voice  are  the  Western  her- 
mit thrushes,  which  fling  out  their  rip- 
pling liquid  notes  at  early  dawn  and 
twilight,  to  echo  through  the  long  forest 
aisles. 

I  remember  one  special  adventure  in 


the  Great  Spruce  Forest  on  the  flanks 
of  Flat  Top  and  Ballet's  Peak  in  the 
Front  Range  of  the  Rockies,  near  Long's 
Peak,  in  which  the  hermit  thrushes 
played  a  part.  A  college  companion, 
Fred  Funston,  —  later  the  hero  of  the 
capture  of  Aguinaldo  and  one  of  the 
best-known  major-generals  of  the  Amer- 
ican army,  —  and  I  had  gone  up  into 
the  forest,  with  a  single  burro  as  pack- 
animal,  from  our  summer  camp  on  the 
Big  Thompson  in  Willow  Park,  to  try 
to  get  a  deer,  in  order  to  vary  our  long- 
continued  camp  diet  of  bacon  and  trout. 
We  were  rank  tyros  as  hunters,  and 
probably  could  not  have  injured  any 
deer  with  even  the  best  of  opportuni- 
ties; but  we  had  no  chance  to  prove  or 
disprove  this,  as  we  saw  no  venison  de- 
spite all  care  and  pains. 

We  did  see,  however,  an  animal  we 
had  not  come  to  see.  This  was  a  big 
mountain  lion.  We  had  made  a  hasty 
camp  in  the  upper  reaches  of  the  forest 
in  the  later  afternoon  of  our  arriving, 
and  had  turned  Billy,  the  burro,  loose, 
to  nibble  at  anything  he  considered 
edible  in  the  camp  neighborhood.  Then 
we  had  hurried  out  with  our  guns,  each 
by  himself,  to  post  himself  at  what  he 
should  think  a  vantage-point  to  see 
such  deer  as  should  come  conveniently 
wandering  through  the  forest.  I  had 
lain  doggo  for  some  time  near  an  old 
trail,  and  dusk  had  come  on  so  rapidly, 
and  the  forest  had  become  so  unneces- 
sarily still,  that  I  had  decided  to  get 
back  to  the  cheering  companionship 
and  comfort  of  the  camp-fire,  when  I 
was  suddenly  frozen  into  immobility 
by  the  sight  of  a  great  mountain  lion 
silently  padding  along  the  old  trail  only 
a  few  rods  from  me.  What  with  long 
lean  body  and  long  lifted  tail,  that  lion 
took  an  amazingly  long  time  in  passing 
a  given  point.  And  just  as  it  was  by, 
and  out  of  my  sight,  it  carelessly  let 
slip  from  its  throat  a  blood-curdling 
cry,  half-bestial,  half-human.  That 


480 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


completed  my  demoralization.  As  soon 
as  the  apparition  had  passed  from  my 
sight  and  the  echoes  of  that  howl  from 
my  ears,  I  got  my  numb  muscles  into 
action  and  speedily  made  for  camp  — 
not  by  way  of  the  old  trail. 

As  I  came  near  it,  I  was  further 
startled  to  see  a  great,  roaring  fire, 
and  found  my  companion,  later  the 
reckless  hero  of  many  a  dangerous, 
self-chosen  venture  in  war,  piling  ever 
more  fuel  on  the  camp-fire.  I  asked  him 
the  reason  for  the  conflagration,  and  he 
blurted  out,  without  interrupting  his 
good  work,  'I  have  just  seen  the  biggest 
cougar  in  Colorado. '  Evidently  both  of 
us  had  had  the  same  good  fortune. 

In  the  safety  of  the  fire-zone  we  made 
a  peaceful  supper,  without  venison;  and 
after  a  final  heaping-on  of  logs,  rolled 
up  in  our  blankets  by  the  fire.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night  I  was  awakened  by 
a  blow  on  the  chest.  I  promptly  sat  up, 
with  the  conviction  that  I  was  being 
mauled  by  the  lion.  The  fire  had  gone 
down,  and  it  was  very  dark.  But  Fun- 
ston,  who  had  punched  me  into  wake- 
fulness,  whispered  hoarsely,  'That  cat 
is  prowling  around  the  camp.  I  have 
heard  it  several  times.  We  must  build 
up  the  fire.'  *  *• 

I  strongly  agreed,  and  we  soon  had 
another  reassuring  pyrotechnic  effect. 
Again  we  turned  in,  and  I  was  soon  un- 
easily asleep  again,  only  to  be  wakened 
by  another  blow.  This  time  Funston 
was  really  excited.  'He's  still  around/ 
he  said.  'There,  you  can  hear  him  now.' 

I  listened  intently.  I  certainly  heard 
something  moving  off  somewhere  be- 
yond the  piled-up  pack-saddle  and 
kyaks  on  the  other  side  of  the  smoul- 
dering fire.  I  stared  hard  in  that  direc- 
tion. It  was  the  first  gray  of  a  welcome 
morning.  As  quickly  as  the  light  had 
faded  out  of  the  forest  the  evening  be- 
fore, it  now  invaded  it.  Even  as  we 
stared  through  the  cold  gray,  it  became 
light  enough  for  us  to  see  —  our  faith- 


ful burro  browsing  on  a  bit  of  brush  a, 
couple  of  rods  from  our  bed! 

It  was  a  great  relief,  and  we  rolled 
over  for  a  real  nap,  when  from  far  down 
the  mountain-side  came  the  clear  rip- 
pling call  of  a  hermit  thrush.  And  then 
another,  higher  up,  answered,  and  then 
another,  almost  over  our  heads,  and,, 
finally,  still  another  from  farther  up 
the  mountain-flank.  It  was  the  most 
beautiful,  most  thrilling  bird-song  I 
have  ever  heard.  We  lay  entranced. 
And  then  Funston,  sitting  up  in  his- 
blankets  to  glance  around  the  echoing; 
forest,  stretched  out  again  with  a  grunt 
of  comfort,  and  murmuring,  'Say,  it's 
damn  religious  up  here,'  drew  his  blan- 
kets up  to  his  eyes  for  the  needed  nap, 

We  were  boys  in  those  days,  and  we 
thought  more  of  new  peaks  to  be  won, 
possible  elk  and  bighorn  and  bear  and 
deer  to  be  shot  at,  and  trout  to  be 
caught,  cooked,  and  eaten,  with  wild 
red  raspberries  for  dessert,  than  of 
the  religion  of  Nature  expressed  in  her 
greatness  and  beauty.  But  some  of 
this  religion  did  reach  us  occasionally,, 
and  once  ours,  it  has  never  been  lost.  I 
have  loitered  in  the  incense-dimmed 
aisles  of  many  a  great  cathedral  and 
listened  to  the  rolling  of  the  organs  and 
hypnotic  chanting  of  the  priests;  but 
each  time  I  have  been  reminded  of  the 
longer,  more  fragrant  forest  aisles  and 
the  low  repeated  rumblings  of  thunder 
among  the  great  peaks  of  the  mountain 
regions  I  know;  and  it  has  been  those 
memories  that  have  given  me  the  great- 
er hope  in  something  still  above  cathe- 
dral towers  and  mountain  summits. 

IV 

Funston  and  I  had  another  boys' 
adventure  in  the  Rockies  —  this  time 
with  a  third  college  mate,  now  a  wise 
college  professor  —  that  I  am  minded 
to  tell.  The  three  of  us,  with  our  long- 
suffering  burro,  had  started  on  a  rather 


MOUNTAINEERING  IN  AMERICA 


481 


longer  excursion  than  usual  from  head- 
quarters camp,  which  was  to  carry 
us  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles 
northwest  toward  the  Wyoming  line, 
to  an  old  crater  called  Specimen  Moun- 
tain. This  crater  rose  just  above  a  high 
pass  that  divided  the  headwaters  of  the 
Cache-de-la-Poudre,  which  flow  first 
into  the  Platte,  and  then  into  the  Mis- 
souri, and  finally,  by  way  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  from 
those  of  the  Grand,  which,  after  join- 
ing with  the  Green  from  Wyoming  to 
make  the  Colorado,  and  enjoying  much 
experience  of  canon  and  desert,  reach 
the  Gulf  of  California.  In  fact,  on  this 
pass,  which  is  but  a  few  hundred  feet 
below  timber-line,  there  are  two  tiny 
lakes  hardly  a  stone's  throw  apart, 
which  send  their  overflow  to  the  At- 
lantic and  Pacific  oceans,  respectively. 

Our  way  carried  us  to  the  bottom  and 
up  and  out  of  a  long,  weird,  fire-swept 
canon,  known  as  Windy  Gulch,  with 
its  sides  bristling  with  the  stark,  gray 
skeletons  of  burned  trees,  and  its  top 
leading  out  on  to  the  broad  low  sum- 
mit of  the  Range,  stretching  away  for 
a  dozen  miles  or  more  above  timber- 
line  to  the  pass  I  have  spoken  of, 

On  this  trip  we  had  our  guns,  as  we 
always  had  in  those  earlier  days  before 
the  protection  of  the  law  had  been 
thrown  around  the  disappearing  elk 
and  bighorn.  Near  the  top  of  Windy 
Gulch  we  saw  a  bear  —  a  rather  small 
bear  —  lumbering  its  way  toward  the 
summit.  We  immediately  gave  chase. 
The  bear  turned  toward  a  rock-ridge 
not  far  away,  and  disappeared.  But  on 
reaching  the  ridge  we  made  out  what 
seemed  the  only  hole  or  cave  it  could 
have  gone  into,  and  there  expectantly 
awaited  the  coming-out  of  the  bear. 

But  it  did  not  come  out,  and  Funston 
finally  made  the  rather  startling  pro- 
posal that  he  should  crawl  into  the  hole 
and  stir  up  the  bear,  which,  he  argued, 
would  undoubtedly  chase  him  out. 

VOL.  128— NO.  4 


We  other  two  were  to  stand  by  the  hole 
with  cocked  rifles,  and  were  to  shoot, 
not  at  the  first  thing  that  came  out, 
which  Funston  fondly  hoped  would  be 
himself,  but  at  the  second,  which  would 
presumably  be  an  irate  bear. 

After  careful  consideration  of  this 
proposition,  entirely  generous  on  Fun- 
ston's  part,  as  one  must  admit,  Frank- 
lin and  I  finally  declined  it,  on  the 
ground  that  in  our  excitement  we  should 
be  almost  certain  to  shoot  at  the  first 
creature  that  appeared  from  the  hole, 
and  if  this  were  Funston,  —  as  it  proba- 
bly would  be  if  he  came  out  at  all,  — 
and  we  should  hit  him,  we  should  have 
to  answer  to  his  parents.  As  his  fa- 
ther was  a  Congressman,  these  parents 
seemed  formidable.  Also,  if  Funston, 
by  any  rub  of  the  green,  did  not  come 
out  at  all,  we  should  have  to  help  the 
burro  carry  Funston's  pack  back  to 
camp.  The  final  vote,  therefore,  was 
two  to  one  against  the  proposal  of  the 
future  general. 

This  Specimen  Mountain  was  a  fa- 
mous place  for  bighorn;  I  hope  it  still  is. 
The  wild  sheep  used  to  come  to  the  old 
crater  from  many  miles  away,  to  lick 
at  its  beds  of  green  and  yellowish  de- 
posits; and  we  rarely  failed  to  find  a 
band  of  from  six  to  thirty  of  the  wary 
animals  in  the  crater's  depths.  In  our 
later  trips  to  the  mountain,  after  the 
game-protection  laws  of  Colorado  were 
in  force,  we  used  to  hunt  the  sheep  with 
cameras  instead  of  guns.  The  rim  of 
the  crater  was  sharp,  and  we  could 
crawl  up  to  it  from  the  mountain-flanks 
and  peer  over  into  it,  all  unperceived. 
The  inner  slopes  were  covered  with  vol- 
canic ash  and  broken  lava,  and  great 
plutonic  breccia  crags  or  'castles'  lift- 
ed their  bulk  from  various  points.  By 
getting  one  of  these  castles  between  us 
and  the  sheep,  we  could  work  our  way 
carefully  down  into  the  crater  and 
fairly  near  the  animals,  without  startling 
them. 


482 


MOUNTAINEERING   IN  AMERICA 


However,  not  all  the  adventures  and 
joys  of  mountaineering  are  on  or  even 
near  the  summits.  Camp  and  trail  must 
often  be  at  lower  levels,  although  still 
truly  in  the  mountains.  The  trails  must 
lead  from  wild  pasture  to  pasture  — 
'meadows,'  the  mountaineer  always 
calls  them;  for  the  pack-animals  and 
riding  ones  must  have  good  feed  each 
night,  to  enable  them  to  meet  the  de- 
mands made  on  them  each  day.  The 
camps  must  be  made  near  good  water, 
—  a  dry  camp  is  a  sad  thing,  —  but 
where  there  is  mountain  meadow  there 
is  water:  there  would  not  be  meadow 
without  it.  Many  of  these  meadows 
lie  on  the  successive  levels  reached  in 
moving  up  or  down  the  glacial  gorges. 
In  the  upper  cirques  and  gorge-reaches 
these  successive  levels  carry  lakes  — 
wonderful  green-blue  sheets  of  cold 
water  set  on  the  wildest  and  bleakest  of 
rock  scenery;  lower  down  there  are  wet 
meadows  and  still  lower  dryer  ones,  or 
bits  of  forest,  but  different  from  the 
great  continuous  forest  of  the  mountain- 
flanks.  These  meadows  are  often  riot- 
ous color-patches,  flecked  and  splashed 
with  a  score  of  kinds  of  mountain 
flowers.  A  stream  wanders  through 
them,  or,  if  they  are  not  too  level, 
hurries  along  with  much  music.  Of 
course,  one  can  camp  in  smaller  areas, 
in  canon-bottom,  or  even  on  fairly  steep 
mountainsides.  One  can  usually  find 
a  few  little  level  spots  for  the  sleep- 
ing-bags and  fire-irons,  or,  if  neces- 
sary, a  little  terracing  work  with  the 
spade  will  make  the  needed  flatness. 
For  you  must  lie  fairly  level  if  you  are 
to  sleep  at  all.  Fir  branches,  old  pine- 
needles,  or  heaps  of  bracken  help  to 
soften  the  bed-spots;  but  you  soon  get 
used  to  the  uncovered  ground.  You 
manage  to  fit  yourself  to  its  uneven- 
nesses. 

Besides  meadow  and  water  and  a  bit 
of  level  ground,  a  good  outlook  is  nec- 
essary for  the  best  kind  of  mountain 


camp.  Long  views  down  great  canons, 
or  across  them  to  high  peaks,  or  just 
straight  up  along  the  towering  body  of 
wonderful  trees,  are  worth  attending 
to,  even  for  one-night  camps.  The 
trees  of  the  Sierras  are,  of  course,  alone 
worth  going  into  the  mountains  to  see. 
The  huge,  dinosaur-like  bulk  of  the  true 
'  big  trees,'  —  the  sequoias,  —  and  the 
straight  towering  sugar-pines,  incense 
cedar,  yellow  pine,  and  red  fir,  make  the 
Sierran  forests  incomparable.  How 
John  Muir  loved  these  trees  and  lived 
companion-wise  with  them !  Mountain 
sculpture,  the  work  of  ice,  and  the  great 
straight  trees,  were  his  first  interests  in 
the  Sierra  Nevada. 

There  is  something  so  different,  so 
remindful  of  older  earth  days,  when 
fauna  and  flora  were  strange,  in  the 
sequoias,  those  relics  of  forests  that  are 
gone,  that  they  impress  me  uncom- 
fortably. They  do  not  seem  to  belong 
to  this  time.  They  can  have  no  com- 
panionship with  the  pines  and  firs  and 
cedars,  which  live  so  congenially  to- 
gether. Their  day  is  past;  they  must 
feel  sad  to  linger  on. 

The  trails  seem  to  run  most  deviously, 
but  mostly  they  run  wisely.  They  must 
avoid  too  bad  places  and  too  much 
steepness;  but  they  must  get  on,  and  if 
the  objective  is  high,  they  must  some- 
times climb  even  steeply,  zigzagging  up, 
and  they  must  not  go  too  far  around, 
even  if  they  have  to  take  to  rough 
places  or  skirt  dangerously  along  cliff- 
faces.  They  are  most  delightful  when 
traversing  the  forests,  for  then  they  are 
cool  and  springy  underfoot.  They  are 
most  impressive  when  they  run  along 
the  sides  of  great  canons  or  on  cliffy 
mountain-flanks.  They  seem  to  ac- 
complish most  when  they  carry  you 
over  high  passes.  The  way  up  may  be 
very  steep  and  rough,  and  the  way 
down  long  and  hard  on  the  knees,  but 
the  actual  crossing  of  the  pass  is  a  tri- 
umph. You  see  both  ways  down  into 


MOUNTAINEERING   IN  AMERICA 


483 


great  watersheds;  one  may  have  a  very 
different  aspect  from  the  other.  You 
see  innumerable  near  and  distant  peaks. 
At  your  feet  are  wonderful  little  green 
glacial  lakes,  cupped  in  the  great  cirques. 

The  surpassing  trail-triumph  is  to 
put  yourself  and  pack-animals  over  a 
'new'  high  pass,  that  is,  to  be  the  first 
to  cross  it  with  pack-train. 

We  did  this  last  summer  in  trying  to 
get  out  of  the  Kings  River  watershed 
into  that  of  the  Kern  by  a  shorter 
way  than  the  usual  ones.  Some  Sierra 
Club  men,  making  knapsack  trips 
around  the  headwaters  of  Roaring  Riv- 
er on  one  side  of  the  Great  Western 
Divide,  and  the  Kern-Kaweah  on  the 
other,  had  suggested  in  the  Sierra  Club 
Bulletin  that  it  might  be  possible  to 
cross  the  Divide  with  animals  through 
a  notch  in  it  about  12,000  feet  high,  a 
short  distance  south  of  Milestone  Peak. 
Sheep  men  with  their  flocks  had  un- 
doubtedly occasionally  used  this  pass, 
for  there  were  indications  of  sheep- 
trails  leading  up  to  it  on  both  sides. 
But  sheep  are  more  agile  than  mules 
and  horses  carrying  packs  of  a  hundred 
pounds  and  more.  However,  we  had  a 
sturdy  lot  of  animals,  with  two  packers 
in  charge,  willing  and  even  anxious  to 
make  a  venture.  So  we  worked  up  with- 
out a  trail,  and  with  considerable  diffi- 
culty, out  of  Cloudy  Canon,  to  a  high 
level  camp  (10,500  feet)  by  the  side  of 
a  beautiful  glacial  lake  not  indicated  on 
the  Geological  Survey  maps,  and  hence 
unnamed  and  officially  unknown. 

Part  of  one  day  was  given  to  spying 
out  a  possible  way  up  to  the  pass,  and 
'making  trail'  to  the  extent  of  indicat- 
ing by  stone  ducks  the  most  feasible 
way  to  be  followed,  and  throwing  some 
stones  out  of  the  way,  and  strengthen- 
ing loose  and  bad  places  by  piling  up 
rocks  by  their  sides.  The  next  day, 
with  one  man  in  front  to  guide  and  the 
others  scattered  among  the  pack-ani- 
mals to  lead  and  urge,  we  started  up 


slowly,  and,  with  much  care  and  many 
stoppings  to  work  further  at  dangerous 
bits  of  trail,  we  won  our  way  to  the 
summit.  We  were  rightfully  very 
proud,  and  left  a  record  of  the  winning 
of  the  pass  in  a  stone  cairn  at  the  top. 
WTiat  needs  now  to  be  done  is  for  For- 
est Service  men,  or  National  Park  men 
(if  the  proposed  lines  of  the  new  Roose- 
velt National  Park  are  finally  adopted), 
to  make  that  a  really  available  pass. 
Then  Kern  Canon  can  be  reached  from 
Kings  Canon  —  or  vice  versa  —  in  two 
days  less  time,  and  by  a  much  more  in- 
teresting trail,  than  now. 

It  is  remarkable  how  effectively  even 
the  unexercised  human  body  responds 
to  the  call  of  the  trail  to  cover  miles 
and  make  altitude.  A  distance  that 
would  be  an  exhausting  walk  on  a 
smooth  roadway  becomes  only  a  frac- 
tion of  a  day's  inspiriting  jaunt  up 
and  down  over  steep  mountain  trails. 
Lungs  and  heart  and  muscles  seem  to 
meet  the  need  on  call.  You  wonder  at 
yourself  as  you  count  up  in  the  eve- 
ning, after  dinner,  how  far  you  have 
come  and  how  high  you  have  climbed. 
I  can't  explain  it;  it  is  one  of  the  pleas- 
ant secrets  of  the  mountains. 

But  this  paper,  like  the  mountain 
trail,  must  reach  its  end.  Its  objective 
is  simply  one  of  suggestion.  If  you  are 
surfeited  with  swift  motor-riding;  or 
tired  of  endless  golf;  or  impatient  with 
having  the  world  too  much  with  you, 
take  a  dose  of  American  mountaineer- 
ing. Go  where  the  highest  mountains 
are,  the  greatest  canons,  the  biggest 
trees.  Get  a  camp  cook,  —  though  you 
will  want  to  be  trying  your  own  hand  at 
his  game  all  the  time,  —  an  experienced 
packer,  and  a  train  of  mountain-wise 
pack-animals,  sleeping-bag,  camp-sup- 
plies, and  a  sheaf  of  U.S.  Geological 
Survey  contour  maps,  — '  quadrangles,' 
they  call  them,  —  and  take  to  the  trail. 
Once  out,  you  will  not  come  back  until 
you  have  to.  And  you  will  go  again. 


LYRICS 


BY  JEAN  KENYON   MACKENZIE 


SHE  was  the  little  wind  that  falls 
Before  the  falling  of  the  rain; 
She  was  the  one  and  early  star 
We  lose  and  see  and  lose  again. 

She  was  the  pang  of  the  caress 
That  is  too  brief  for  our  delight; 
She  was  the  torch  another  bore 
And  passed  us  in  the  night. 

II 

If  you  should  say, 

'Who  goes  there?' 
Then  I  would  say, 

'You  go  there  — 
It's  your  hand  at  the  door 
And  your  foot  on  the  stair 
Of  my  heart  every  day 
And  everywhere.' 

Then  you  would  say, 
'It  is  long  since  I  passed.' 
And  I  would  say, 
'It  is  year  before  last 
Since  you  went  on  your  way, 
But  I  still  hear  you  there 
In  my  heart  every  day 
And  everywhere.' 


LYBICS  485 

in 

THE   SNOWY   NIGHT 

Let  us  be  happy  to-night  — 

It  snows. 

See  where  the  hemlocks  glimmer  white 

In  the  dusk  and  the  snow  and  the  half  moonlight; 

They  never  stir  as  their  burden  grows. 

And  you  —  O  lovely  and  pale  and  near  — 
Loosen  the  bond  of  your  maiden  will; 
Fall  on  my  heart  like  the  falling  snows, 
And  I  will  be  still  as  the  trees  are  still. 

IV 

Suddenly,  up  through  the  forest  gloaming, 

A  partridge  rose,  and  that  urgent  whirring 

Startled  our  breath  and  checked  our  roaming; 

We  stood  and  were  still  where  the  leaves  were  stirring. 

So  from  the  place  of  my  deepest  grieving 
Memory  starts  on  a  wing  so  thrilling, 
I  stand  in  the  dusk  of  my  self-deceiving, 
Struck  to  the  heart  with  a  pang  that  is  killing. 


In  the  street  where  you  went  away, 
In  the  air  that  is  still  and  gray, 
Like  golden  fish  in  a  stream 
The  leaves  of  the  maple  gleam; 

And  down  in  a  place  apart, 
In  the  dark  and  the  deep  of  my  heart, 
You  shine  in  the  pool  of  my  grief 
Like  a  fallen  golden  leaf. 


486 


LYRICS 
VI 

I  saw  you  as  you  passed 
A  hundred  times  before; 
O  come  you  in  at  last 
And  close  the  open  door. 

O  close  the  door  and  mark 
How  deep  a  night  is  this; 
And  light  our  common  dark 
With  the  candle  of  your  kiss. 


THE  EDUCATED  PERSON 


BY  EDWARD   YEOMANS 


BECAUSE  you  believe  in  a  good  cause, 
said  Dr.  Johnson,  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  feel  called  upon  to  defend  it,  for 
by  your  manner  of  defense  you  may  do 
your  cause  much  harm.  This,  however, 
is  a  case  where,  in  multitude  of  counsel, 
there  may  be  some  wisdom.  Some  kind 
of  answer  may  evolve  from  the  discus- 
sion of  the  above  'topic,  which  will  be 
better  than  a  pontifical  statement  from 
a  person  who  has  no  doubt  at  all  about 
his  qualification  to  give  an  irrefutable 
opinion,  like  the  old  Doctor  himself. 

And  if  nothing  does  emerge;  if  there 
is  no  precipitate  which  you  can  filter  out 
from  the  cubic  contents  of  words,  and 
weigh;  and  if  that  precipitate  is  not  some 
kind  of  yeast  which,  added  to  the  pres- 
ent educational  dough,  will  help  it  to 
rise,  then  let  us  admit  that  something 
ex  cathedra  is  needed. 

This  contributor  pretends  to  no  ex- 


perience as  a  practitioner  in  the  schools. 
He  has  been  engaged  in  the  workshop 
and  market-place  and,  like  any  man 
so  employed,  has  gone  about  on  all 
kinds  of  errands  and  has  met  all  kinds  of 
people,  hi  the  cities  and  in  the  coun- 
try and  in  small  towns — magnates,  busi- 
ness people,  professional  people,  teach- 
ers, skilled  and  unskilled  workmen, 
and  children. 

The  public  schools  and  the  parochial 
schools  are  engaged  in  pouring  out  mil- 
lions,— and  have  been  for  years, — and 
the  private  schools  and  colleges  and 
technical  schools,  thousands;  and  any 
man  going  his  way  in  and  out  among 
the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  meets 
them,  talks  to  them,  dines  with  them, 
employs  them;  and  in  all  sorts  of  ways 
gets  the  taste  of  them,  and  a  good  many 
cross-sections  for  careful  examination. 
He  sees  them  in  offices,  in  shops,  in 


THE  EDUCATED  PERSON 


487 


schools,  in  clubs,  in  churches,  on  trains 
and  on  street-cars  and  on  street  corners, 
and  in  their  homes  —  city,  suburban, 
and  country. 

Each  one  registers.  They  'punch 
your  time-clock,'  so  to  speak,  and  on  the 
dial  there  is  an  impression.  It  is  a  dial 
you  have  fixed  up  for  yourself  —  an  old 
one,  with  the  old  marks  on  it  pasted 
over  with  new  ones;  and  there  are  two 
main  divisions,  one  marked  'satisfac- 
tory,' and  the  other,  'unsatisfactory.' 

Some  people  have  the  words  '  useful ' 
and  'not  useful'  (to  them);  and  some 
have  the  words  '  interesting '  and  '  unin- 
teresting'; and,  perhaps,  some,  'edu- 
cated' and  'uneducated';  and  a  few 
may  go  so  far  as  to  divide  their  dial  into 
' good '  and  '  bad.'  But  that  is  about  the 
limit  of  presumption. 

But  if  you  have  'satisfactory'  and 
'  unsatisfactory,'  that  means,  of  course, 
to  you. 

And  when,  therefore,  you  say  that 
you  find  that  90  per  cent  of  the  product 
of  schools  and  colleges  whom  you  meet 
have  registered  under  'unsatisfactory,' 
it  does  not  follow  at  all  that  they  would 
register  that  way  on  any  other  dial  — 
which  is  only  a  very  roundabout  way  of 
saying  that  you  disclaim  any  superior- 
ity for  your  'time-clock.'  You  found  it 
nailed  to  the  wall  of  your  vestibule  when 
you  were  old  enough  to  look  about  at 
the  furniture  which  had  been  bequeath- 
ed you,  and  which  you  have  been  dust- 
ing up  and  patching  up  ever  since.  You 
are  entitled  to  use  this  clock,  and  you 
get  a  great  deal  of  exhilaration  in  using 
it;  but  that  you  should  insist  on  any- 
body but  yourself  believing  in  its  records 
would  be  not  only  foolish  but  exceed- 
ingly cruel,  though  not  unusual. 

If  you  want  something  to  believe, 
said  old  Samuel  Butler,  I  will  tell  you 
where  to  find  it.  It  is  in  the  thirteenth 
chapter  of  Paul's  first  Epistle  to  the 
Corinthians.  At  any  rate,  don't  believe 
me. 


n 


The  most  comprehensive  sentence  in 
H.  G.  Wells's  Outline  of  History  —  the 
sentence  which  '  pulls  the  whole  picture 
together,'  as  the  painters  say  —  is  this: 
'  It  has  always  been  a  race  between  edu- 
cation and  catastrophe.' 

This  is  biologically,  ethnologically, 
and  nationally  proved.  And  it  can  be 
individually  proved,  if,  by  education, 
you  mean  something  fundamental, 
something  intrinsic,  something  almost 
instinctive,  and  do  not  mean  something 
external,  something  decorative,  some- 
thing pinned  on. 

And  if  this  is  true,  then  what  consti- 
tutes an  'educated  person'  to-day  is  an 
exceedingly  important  question,  both 
for  the  individual  and  for  his  nation. 

If  an  educated  person  is  just  any  kind 
of  a  person,  —  say  a  person  with  a  rea- 
sonably well-built  exterior,  and  that 
exterior  decorated  with  mosaics  in  pat- 
terns, and  pictures  classical,  scientific, 
historical,  grammatical,  or  linguistic; 
but  the  interior  more  or  less  unventi- 
lated  and  unlighted,  with  the  dampness 
of  prejudice  and  provincialism,  hered- 
itary or  acquired,  making  the  walls 
clammy,  and  the  creeping  things  of  es- 
sential meanness  and  self-interest  and 
conceit  going  and  coming  through  the 
foundation  cracks,  —  then  that  person 
is  marked  for  destruction.  If  you  had 
looked  closely  enough  at  the  spiritual 
and  intellectual  house  in  which  each  of 
those  eighty  German  professors  lived 
who  signed  that  statement  of  their  faith 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  you  would 
have  found  the  words  marked  on  it: 
'Delenda  est.'  The  man  who  lives  in  a 
house  marked  for  catastrophe  does  not 
know  it.  From  his  youth  up  he  has  kept 
the  rules,  passed  the  examinations,  re- 
ceived the  degrees,  secured  the  offices 
and  the  emoluments  and  the  privileges. 

But  he  is  an  offense  —  and  catas- 
trophe is  his  portion,  and  the  portion 


488 


THE   EDUCATED   PERSON 


also  of  the  man  by  whom  the  offense 
cometh,  who  taught  him  that  exteriors 
were  as  important  as  interiors,  that  de- 
corations were  more  useful  than  good 
homespun,  that  meat  was  more  than  the 
life,  and  raiment  than  the  body.  Which 
things  were  not  directly  taught,  —  oh, 
no,  —  but  were  too  much  implied; 
were  the  by-products  of  his  total  expe- 
rience at  home,  in  school,  and  in  college. 

I  say,  'at  home,'  and  I  ought  to  say, 
'  particularly  at  home. '  You  and  I  know 
enough  about  homes  to  know  that  it  is 
asking  of  schools  and  colleges  a  very 
great  deal  to  ask  them  to  correct  the 
implications  of  the  home  atmosphere  — 
with  which  their  pupils  are  necessarily 
saturated. 

If  these  implications  are  second-rate, 
are  low-grade,  —  if  the  instinct  of  the 
family  is  for  property  as  against  hu- 
manity, for  instance;  for  'closeness'  as 
against  generosity;  for  self-interest  as 
against  disinterestedness,  in  social  and 
political  things,  —  then  those  are  the 
latent  instincts  of  the  children. 

But  schools  and  colleges  can  be  asked 
to  begin,  not  to  teach  these  moralities, 
but  to  make  it  perfectly  clear  that  they 
are  invariable  corollaries  of  all  that  is 
taught,  and  that  a  boy  or  girl  who  has 
not  distilled  this  by-product  from  his 
books  and  his  teachers  is,  up  to  that 
time,  uneducated,  however  high  his 
marks  may  be.  He  may  know  English 
speech  and  other  speech,  modern  and 
classical  literature,  engineering,  law,  or 
medicine,  and  remain  uneducated,  una- 
wakened,  because  the  only  valuable 
qualities  in  him  have  been  left  interred 
there,  like  Lazarus,  — '  bound  hand  and 
foot  with  grave  clothes,'  —  no  irresisti- 
ble voice,  to  stir  those  emotions  which 
alone  make  life  worth  continuing,  having 
reached  them. 

m 

I  am  taking  my  cue,  in  answering  the 
query  of  the  editor,  from  his  own  com- 


ment in  his  letter  inviting  me  to  the 
'party,'  as  he  called  it.  He  said,  'How 
can  you  decide  what  is  the  best  way  of 
educating  a  boy  until  you  know  what 
kind  of  man  you  want?' 

I  am  the  more  ready  to  do  this  be- 
cause it  has,  for  a  long  time,  seemed  to 
me  that  the  kind  of  man  produced  by 
our  educational  machinery  is  mostly  a 
poor  kind;  that  therefore  this  machine, 
with  its  highly  complicated  gyrations, 
with  many  curious  and  intricate  gears, 
eccentrics,  clutches,  adjustments,  ac- 
celerators and  retarders,  lubricators 
and  frictions,  is  a  good  deal  like  the 
great  modern  printing  press,  with  a 
folding  and  addressing  attachment  on 
the  end;  and  when  —  as  a  gentleman  I 
met  the  other  day  remarked  —  you  un- 
fold the  product,  so  neatly  and  accu- 
rately wrapped  in  a  diploma  and  deliver- 
ed at  your  door  after  graduation  day, 
you  find  that  you  have  something  very 
much  like  the  Sunday  Supplement. 

That  I  considered  an  aspersion,  and  I 
believe  he  admitted  that  it  was;  but  he 
said  it  was  due  to  his  having  listened  too 
much  lately  to  the  conversation  in  uni- 
versity clubs.  But  even  if  the  product 
is  more  like  the  daily  paper,  it  is  still 
true  that  a  very  beautiful  piece  of  mech- 
anism and  a  very  expensive  plant  have 
been  used  to  turn  out  something  that 
ought  to  have  been  very  much  better 
and  more  worthy  of  the  time  and  invest- 
ment and  craftsmanship  involved. 

The  man  talks  well,  —  indeed,  almost 
too  well,  —  and  he  knows  what 's  going 
on,  and  makes  a  decidedly  distinguish- 
ed effect  in  the  smoking-room  of  Pull- 
man cars  and  elsewhere.  You  may  recall 
such  a  man,  perhaps,  to  whom  Faith- 
ful came  on  his  pilgrimage. 

'"Well,  then,"  said  Faithful,  "what 
is  that  one  thing  that  we  shall  at  this 
time  found  our  discourse  upon?" 

'Talkative.  What  you  will.  I  will  talk 
of  things  Heavenly  or  things  Earthly; 
things  moral  or  things  evangelical; 


THE   EDUCATED   PERSON 


things  sacred  or  things  profane;  things 
past  or  things  to  come;  things  more  es- 
sential or  things  circumstantial;  pro- 
vided all  be  done  to  our  profit. 

'Now  did  Faithful  begin  to  wonder; 
and  stepping  up  to  Christian  (for  he 
walked  all  this  while  by  himself),  he 
said  to  him  (but  softly),  — 

"  What  a  brave  companion  have  we 
got!  Surely  this  man  will  make  a  very 
excellent  pilgrim." 

'At  this  Christian  modestly  smiled 
and  said,  "This  man,  with  whom  you 
are  so  taken,  will  beguile  with  this 
tongue  of  his  twenty  of  them  that  know 
him  not.'" 

The  man  does  well,  too,  because  he 
has  a  good  working  knowledge  of  the 
thing  he  is  working  at  —  the  thing  that 
makes  what  he  calls  his  career  and  his 
reputation,  and  gives  him  his  standing. 
He  can  build  good  buildings,  or  good 
machinery,  is  diabolically  clever  on 
'Change,  in  administration  of  business, 
in  court,  in  the  operating-room,  and  ef- 
fective in  the  pulpit. 

His  college  takes  much  pride  in  his 
success  —  and  even  invites  him  to  talk 
to  the  boys  on  the  rules  for  success.  He 
is  a  trustee,  and  helps  her  to  turn  out 
more  men  something  like  himself, 
thinking  that  the  more  of  that  kind  of 
men  there  are  in  the  world,  the  better 
for  it. 

But  what  the  man  actually  is  —  how 
ignorant  in  those  great  spaces  between 
his  stellar  abilities  where  he  should  be 
wise;  how  cynical  where  he  should  have 
faith;  how  timid  where  he  should  ad- 
venture ;  how  indifferent  where  he  should 
be  passionate;  how  critical  where  he 
should  be  devoted  —  have  n't  we  seen 
this  sort  of  thing  very  close-up  recent- 
ly? have  n't  we  seen  too  many  'educa- 
ted men '  of  America  failing  completely 
in  discrimination  and  even  in  decent 
courtesy,  not  even  respecting  the  bur- 
den of  the  bent  and  broken  workman? 

Who  or  what  is  responsible  for  this 


vacuity,  this  elemental  hollowness? 
And  as  time  goes  on,  must  we  expect 
this  to  continue,  that  so  large  a  propor- 
tion of  men  from  universities  shall  fall 
so  unfavorably  under  Emerson's  ex- 
clamation, 'With  what  you  are  thun- 
dering in  [our]  ears,  how  can  [we] 
hear  what  you  say  ? ' 

IV 

And  who  are  'we'?  We  are  the 
people  who  are  paying  the  bills.  'We' 
are  the  folks  who  are  working  while 
you  are  ha ving  '  time  off '  in  which  to 
be  educated. 

We  have  a  big  stake  in  your  educa- 
tion, because  we  actually  have  to  pay 
for  it;  and  we  are  entitled  to  say  that  we 
want  a  different  kind  of  person  to  come 
out  of  universities.  WTe  want  men  who 
have  regard  for  hands  as  well  as  for 
heads,  —  an  equal  regard,  —  for  people 
as  well  as  for  profits.  Having  put  the 
oil  in  your  lamp,  —  as  Graham  Taylor 
said  the  other  day,  —  we  want  light, 
and  a  much  better  light  than  we  are 
getting. 

And  let  no  university  call  its  men 
educated  until  they  understand  that  we 
—  the  men  and  women  who  pour  into 
factories  every  morning  and  out  every 
night;  who  ride  back  and  forth  in  the 
reeking  trolleys,  and  live  in  the  obscure 
parts  of  cities;  who  follow  ploughs  and 
harrows  in  the  country  and  stoke  boil- 
ers at  sea;  whose  labor  makes  the  build- 
ings, the  books,  and  the  salaries  of  the 
professors  possible  —  that  we  must  be 
the  beneficiaries  of  your  training,  and 
not,  to  so  large  an  extent  as  now,  its 
victims;  and  must,  more  and  more,  be 
taken  into  your  confidence,  and  into 
your  esteem  — and  even  into  your 
brotherhood. 

If  the  war  has  not  taught  this  simple 
thing,  then,  among  all  the  dead  losses 
which  can  be  inventoried,  here  is  the 
deadest. 


490 


THE  EDUCATED  PERSON 


When  you  take  the  liberty  of  criticiz- 
ing a  thing,  you  can  properly  be  asked 
to  specify  something  constructive,  too, 
and  to  quit  working  exclusively  with  the 
hatchet. 

The  worst  thing  you  can  do,  however, 
is  to  follow  the  advice  of  the  Mayor  of 
Chicago  and  'get  a  horn.'  That  is  what 
he  has  got,  and  there  is  ample  evidence 
that  he  has  even  two. 

Therefore  I  take  the  liberty  of  march- 
ing quite  by  myself,  perhaps,  in  the  pro- 
cession of  disputants  who  shall  consider 
this  question  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
editor — with  a  transparency,  having 
on  it  certain  words. 

Maybe  you  think  from  what  you  have 
heard  already  that  one  of  those  words 
is  'Excelsior';  but  you  are  mistaken,  for 
the  'lifeless  but  beautiful'  role  is  not 
congenial  to  this  writer  at  all. 

The  first  thing,  then,  that  I  might 
fondly  hope  would  catch  the  piercing 
eyes  of  such  educators  as  may  be  stand- 
ing on  the  curb  as  we  shuffle  past,  is  the 
word  'Relationships'  —  relationships 
with  the  inorganic  as  well  as  the  organic 
world. 

Is  n't  it  fair  to  ask  that  a  man  living 
on  this  planet  shall,  have  more  regard 
for  it,  and  for  the  processes  which,  from 
the  condensation  of  a  swirling  nebula 
into  planets  and  a  sun,  and  by  the  cool- 
ing of  one  of  the  smallest  of  these,  at 
last  found  its  most  profound  expression 
in  a  living  cell?  For,  by  that  means, 
and  that  only,  could  all  this  dramatic 
prodigality  of  time,  space,  and  causal- 
ity arrive  at  an  adequate  conclusion. 
Looking  back  upon  the  way  it  has  come, 
this  cell,  arrived  at  homo  sapiens,  ar- 
rived at  articulate  speech,  and  reason 
and  memory  and  dexterity  of  every  sort, 
mental  and  manual  —  looking  back 
upon  the  magnificence  of  the  process 
that  from  the  nebula  evolved  Christ, 
this  cell  must,  in  the  minute  allowed  it 


above  the  surface,  express  something 
that  shall  illustrate  its  sense  of  obliga- 
tion, 'of  wonder,  love,  and  praise.'  In 
other  words,  the  man  must  be  essen- 
tially religious  —  not  theologically  reli- 
gious, but  intellectually  and  emotion- 
ally religious.  And  he  must  in  some  way 
prove  his  kinship  with  big  things  and 
permanent  things  and  beautiful  things. 

Now,  maybe  this  is  something  large 
enough  to  fill  in  some  of  the  space  which 
educational  institutions  leave  between 
the  subjects  of  their  curricula;  that  a 
man  must  be  more  consciously  and  vol- 
untarily related  to  those  very  calm  and 
contemplative  things,  and  less  a  prey, 
therefore,  to  the  fevers  and  infections  of 
his  particular  day  and  generation,  — 
his  political  party,  his  social  ritual,  and 
his  religious  creed,  —  and  relate  himself 
to  cosmic  processes  spiritually,  before  he 
has  been  physically  returned  to  them, 
suddenly  and  ostentatiously,  in  the 
cemetery. 

And  the  other  word  is  'Discrimina- 
tions.' There  is  no  educational  process 
worth  our  admiration  which  does  not 
produce  people  who  are  on  the  way  to 
appraise  life  fairly,  who  will  know  the 
difference  between  first  class  and  second 
class  —  which  does  not,  in  other  words, 
establish  a  scale  of  values  that  will 
stand  some  scrutiny.  This  is  where  our 
education  breaks  down  most  deplor- 
ably. We  cannot  choose  intelligently 
between  fine  ideas  and  purposes  and 
mediocre  ideas  and  purposes  —  between 
what  is  worth  doing  and  what  is  not, 
considering  the  shortness  of  life;  be- 
tween Beauty  and  the  pretense  of  Beau- 
ty, or  the  total  lack  of  it. 

This  sort  of  thing  has  to  begin,  per- 
haps, with  grandfathers,  or,  at  any  rate, 
in  elementary  schools,  and  carry  on  very 
actively  in  preparatory  schools,  and  ar- 
rive at  some  fruition,  or  promise  of  it, 
in  colleges.  If  neither  the  elementary 
school,  nor  the  preparatory  school  helps 
the  college  in  that  direction  any  more 


THE   EDUCATED   PERSON 


491 


than  they  are  doing  now,  we  cannot 
blame  the  college  too  much.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  college  makes  it 
difficult  for  the  lower  schools  to  get  any 
of  these  'value  scales'  going,  because 
it  confuses  the  issues  terribly  with  its 
'examination'  matters.  It  sets  up  a 
hurdle  at  its  gate,  and  almost  all  the 
time  of  the  lower  schools  must  be  em- 
ployed in  training  to  jump  it.  Great 
numbers  do  learn  to  jump  it;  and  is  it 
any  wonder  that  the  colleges  find  in 
their  pasture  too  large  a  pro  portion  of 
good  jumpers  who  keep  right  on  jump- 
ing examination  after  examination,  un- 
til they  finally  jump  out,  with  a  certifi- 
cate for  jumping?  But  this  is  not  just 
the  kind  of  man  they  want,  is  it?  Why, 
then,  do  they  paralyze  education  in  the 
lower  schools  with  the  Board  Exami- 
nation? Why  don't  they  indicate  that 
what  they  want  is  a  certain  quality  — 
a  certain  heliotropic  instinct  —  upon 
which  they  can  base  what  they  have  to 
give,  with  some  assurance  that  their 
time  will  not  be  as  much  wasted  as  it  is 
now?  I  don't  know  the  answer  to  that 
question  except  on  one  hypothesis,  and 
that  is,  that  these  boys  are  to  be  more 
or  less  creatures  of  privilege  anyhow, 
and  somewhat  immune  from  the  laws  of 
gravitation.  They  are  to  be  '  little  Jack 
Homers,'  and  in  their  various  corners, 
among  other  '  big  boys,'  pull  out  plums 
from  the  pie. 

How  strangely  unconscious  these 
boys  seem  to  be  that  this  great  dining- 
room  of  ours,  called  the  United  States, 
is  becoming  more  and  more  crowded 
every  year,  and  that  a  very  large  ma- 
jority of  the  crowd,  having  done  the 
work  in  the  kitchen  and  made  the  pies, 


are  looking  on  with  an  increasing  sense 
of  the  disparity  involved. 

These  bakers  and  boilers  and  scullery- 
folk  somewhat  impudently  push  up  and 
and  peer  in,  with  then-  sweaty  faces  and 
greasy  garments,  and  go  back  to  the 
kitchen  muttering  —  very  naturally, 
don't  you  think? 

On  the  whole  far  too  many  voyages 
are  started  from  colleges  without  a 
compass  that  points  north.  The  metal 
around  it  has  deflected  it;  and  on  a  voy- 
age among  the  boisterous  winds  blow- 
ing off  our  huge  industrial  continent, 
—  with  newspapers  for  lighthouses,  — 
what  assurance  can  you  give  that  you 
will  not  become  a  mere  menace  to  navi- 
gation? 

I  submit  one  of  the  oldest  and  best 
exhibits  in  this  connection.  It  is  a  pic- 
ture of  a  man,  the  greatest  master  of  the 
art  of  discrimination  the  world  has  ever 
seen;  a  rough  man,  not  at  all  like  the 
sentimental  pictures,  who  lived  all  his 
life,  probably,  in  a  little  one-story  mud- 
house;  who  wrorked  with  his  hands  and 
walked  much  alone  along  the  solitary 
ways  of  a  remote  and  silent  country 
under  the  tropic  sun  and  stars.  On  this 
occasion  you  see  him  handing  back  a 
penny  to  some  very  crafty  gentlemen 
surrounding  him  and  pressing  upon  him 
the  ancient  and  modern  question  of  al- 
legiance, and,  in  his  penetrating,  and 
very  final  way,  requiring  them  to  decide 
for  themselves  where  payments  to 
Csesar  stopped.  There  is  the  crux  of  all 
debates  on  education.  Until  the  'edu- 
cated' man  knows  the  answer  to  that, 
question,  whether  he  goes  by  it  or  not. 
he  is  uneducated,  and,  in  the  history 
of  man,  he  is  marked  Zero. 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


BY  CHARLES  BERNARD  NORDHOFF 


THE  late  Mr.  William  Churchill  re- 
marked, in  the  opening  chapter  of  one 
of  his  distinguished  works  on  Polynesian 
philology:  'About  the  islands  of  the 
central  tract  of  ocean,  romance  has  cast 
its  charm;  its  power  remains  even  in 
these  later  days.  Sensitive  natures  have 
counted  the  world  well  lost  for  the  en- 
joyment of  its  delights;  ignorant  men 
have  yielded  to  the  same  compulsion 
and  have  found  a  dingy  pleasure  in  set- 
tling down  as  beach-combers.  .  .  .  The 
people  have  won  those  who  came  to 
seek  them;  they  have  been  treated  as 
gentlefolk.' 

Even  in  the  days  of  Spanish  explora- 
tion, Europeans  recognized  the  tran- 
quil charm  of  these  islands;  and  now  — 
after  six  years  of  war,  economic  crisis, 
and  social  upheaval  —  a  great  many 
people  are  finding  relief  from  gloomy 
and  alarming  thoughts  in  dreaming  of 
the  South  Seas.  Late  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  fashionable  France  rhapso- 
dized over  the  beauty  of  a  life  freed 
from  restraint,  in  Bougainville's  Nou- 
velle  Cythere;  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  later,  the  sudden  recognition  of 
Gauguin's  genius  caused  a  ripple  which 
has  crossed  two  great  oceans  and  is 
breaking  gently,  at  last,  on  a  score  of 
lonely  coral  reefs. 

Every  mail-boat  arriving  at  Tahiti 
nowadays  brings  its  quota  of  an  extra- 
ordinary pilgrimage  —  painters  and  lit- 
erary men  in  search  of  atmosphere; 
scholars  in  search  of  folk-lore;  weary 
men  of  affairs  in  search  of  forgetful- 

492 


ness;  refugees  from  the  arid  portion  of 
North  America  in  search  of  wassail; 
steerage  passengers  in  search  of  a  land 
where  food  and  work  are  not  akin.  To 
watch  them  come  ashore  at  the  quay 
is  at  once  ludicrous  and  pathetic  —  a 
study  in  the  childishness  of  grown-up 
humanity.  Some  bristle  with  weapons 
to  repel  the  attacks  of  cannibals;  others, 
when  their  luggage  is  opened  at  the 
custom-house,  display  assortments  of 
beads  and  mirrors  for  barter  with  the 
savages.  One  almost  envies  them,  for 
the  radiance  of  the  first  landfall  has 
not  yet  faded  from  their  eyes,  still 
dazzled  with  a  vision  the  pilgrims  have 
traveled  far  to  seek. 

I  have  often  speculated  on  the  motives 
actuating  these  men  and  women  — 
most  of  them  of  a  class  neither  adven- 
turous nor  imaginative.  Why  have  they 
left  home  at  all,  and  why  have  their 
wanderings  led  to  a  place  so  insignifi- 
cant and  remote?  In  some  cases,  of 
course,  the  motives  are  not  complex.  I 
remember  a  middle-aged  Californian, 
who  did  not  hesitate  to  be  frank.  We 
were  sitting  on  the  hotel  verandah,  wast- 
ing an  afternoon  in  idle  talk. 

'Why  did  I  come  to  Tahiti?'  he  said; 
'that's  simple  —  I  wanted  to  live  in  a 
place  where  I  could  have  a  drink  with- 
out breaking  the  law.  I  reckon  I'm  a 
good  American,  but  I  like  to  be  let 
alone.  The  French  are  great  fellows  to 
mind  their  own  business;  I  found  that 
out  during  the  war.  Yes,  I  was  there  — 
over  age,  but  I  got  into  the  National 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


493 


Guard  at  the  start.  When  I  got  home, 
I  took  a  look  around  and  then  made  my 
partner  a  proposition  to  buy  me  out. 
We  had  a  nice  little  business;  my  share 
of  it,  turned  into  bonds,  brings  in  about 
three  thousand  a  year.  When  the  deal 
was  fixed,  I  got  a  map  and  hunted  up 
the  nearest  French  colony  —  I  reck- 
oned it  would  be  quieter  there  than  in 
France.  I  guess  I  '11  leave  my  bones  on 
Tahiti.  My  house  will  be  finished  in 
another  month;  it's  close  to  the  water, 
with  a  big  shady  verandah  where  you 
can  sit  and  look  out  across  the  lagoon 
to  Moorea.  I  don't  want  any  women, 
or  servants,  or  newspapers,  or  planta- 
tions, or  business  of  any  kind  —  I  just 
want  to  be  let  alone;  but  any  man  who 
does  n't  talk  politics  will  be  welcome 
to  drop  in  for  a  drink.' 

Here  was  one  accounted  for.  A  few 
moments  later,  on  the  same  verandah, 
another  man  told  his  story  in  eight 
words,  pregnant  as  they  were  brief. 
There  was  an  Englishman  with  us  — 
a  traveler,  who  was  stopping  over  a 
steamer  in  the  course  of  an  eastward 
tour  around  the  world.  He  had  been 
in  India,  and  was  showing  us  his  col- 
lection of  photographs  of  that  land. 
While  the  pictures  were  passed  about, 
I  noticed  an  elderly  American,  of  mo- 
rose and  corpulent  mien,  sitting  at  some 
distance  from  the  rest  of  the  company 
and  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation, 
though  he  uttered  from  time  to  time  a 
series  of  nasal  sounds  vaguely  suggestive 
of  French  and  correctly  interpreted  by 
the  native  girl  to  mean:  'One  rum- 
punch.'  In  time  we  came  to  the  inevi- 
table picture  of  the  Taj  Mahal;  and 
while  we  gazed  at  it,  marveling  anew, 
the  tourist  spoke  of  the  vast  expense  of 
raising  such  a  monument.  When  he 
had  finished,  the  man  who  wanted  to 
be  let  alone  was  the  first  to  speak. 

'Just  think  of  that  guy,'  he  remarked, 
'  spending  ten  million  dollars  to  bury  his 
wife ! ' 


Musing  on  the  ancient  and  costly  bit 
of  sentiment,  we  sat  for  a  moment  in 
silence  —  a  silence  broken  by  a  sepul- 
chral voice. 

'I'd  give  more  than  that  to  bury 
mine!' 

It  was  the  orderer  of  rum-punches 
who  spoke,  addressing  the  company  for 
the  first  and  last  tune.  He  said  it  with- 
out a  shadow  of  humor  —  so  earnestly, 
so  convincingly,  that  several  seconds 
elapsed  before  any  of  us  smiled.  He 
had  placed  himself.  Curiosity  regard- 
ing him  was  at  an  end;  if  he  chose  to 
spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  the  South 
Seas,  gossip  would  pass  him  by,  to 
whisper  of  others  less  communicative 

—  the  ever-present  rumored  murder- 
er or  defaulting  financier.    For  all  we 
knew,   the   morose   gentleman   might 
have  been  quite  capable  of  building  a 
second  Taj  Mahal. 

One  quiet  and  pleasant  Englishman, 
who  might  have  passed  for  an  elderly 
clerk,  spending  the  savings  of  a  lifetime 
on  his  first  real  holiday,  gave  the  gos- 
sips of  Papeete  a  shock  when  he  ap- 
peared at  the  bank  to  draw  money  on 
a  letter  of  credit  for  a  million  dollars. 
Another  man  came  here  not  long  ago, 
traveling  to  his  former  home  hi  the 
States  —  an  old  trader  who  has  put  in 
forty  years  in  the  Western  islands,  and 
carries  with  him  two  heavy  cedar  chests 
in  which  the  tales  of  eye-witnesses 
vouch  for  the  presence  of  four  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  American  gold. 

By  far  the  greater  number  of  adven- 
turers, unfortunately,  reach  the  South 
Seas  without  worldly  goods  of  any  kind 

—  victims  of  a  delusion,  fostered  by 
nearly  everything  printed  about  this 
part  of  the  world,  that  in  these  blissful 
isles  one  need  not  work  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  customary  three  square  meals. 
There  are  said  to  be  islands,  far  off  and 
inaccessible,   in   the   Paumotu  group, 
where   the  good-natured   brown   man 
will  not  let  a  stray  white  starve;  but,  as 


494 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


a  rule,  the  islands  of  the  Pacific  are  un- 
happy places  in  which  to  find  one's  self 
destitute.  It  is  true  that  a  rapid  depop- 
ulation should  make  living  easy  for  the 
survivors;  but  the  land  is  closely  held, 
and  the  surplus,  which  once  supported 
far  greater  numbers,  is  now  devoted  to 
the  articles  of  luxury  for  which  a  cen- 
tury of  intercourse  with  Europeans 
has  created  a  demand.  Every  steamer 
unloads  one  or  more  enthusiasts  whose 
purses  have  been  emptied  to  buy  pas- 
sage south,  and  whose  heads  are  filled 
with  dreams  of  slumberous  ease  in  a 
palm-thatched  hut,  where  the  tradi- 
tional dusky  maidens,  of  surpassing 
amiability  and  charm,  ply  the  fan  or 
prepare  savory  repasts  of  the  food 
that  nature  provides  in  superfluity.  And 
the  fact  that  such  dreams  are  not  en- 
tirely baseless  makes  them  all  the 
more  deceptive. 

Only  last  year,  a  boat's  crew  from  a 
shipwrecked  vessel  managed  to  reach 
Rapa  Iti,  a  lonely  southern  outlier  of 
Polynesia,  visited  by  a  chance  schooner 
at  intervals  of  a  year  or  two.  The  men 
of  Rapa,  brought  up  from  infancy  to 
the  ways  of  the  sea,  are  in  demand  as 
sailors,  and  the  result  is  that  on  the 
island  the  females  outnumber  the  males 
in  a  proportion  said  to  be  seven  to  one. 
When,  after  many  months,  a  vessel 
arrived  at  Rapa  to  rescue  the  stranded 
mariners,  the  work  of  rescue  had  to  be 
carried  on  almost  violently;  for  the 
least  popular  member  of  the  boat's 
crew  was  provided  with  half-a-dozen 
brown  ladies,  who  hovered  about  anx- 
iously, not  even  permitting  their  lord 
so  simple  a  task  as  raising  the  food  to 
his  own  lips.  The  parting  was  a  mel- 
ancholy one;  the  girls  stood  weeping  on 
the  beach,  while  the  sailors  protested 
that  they  had  no  desire  whatsoever 
to  leave  the  island  —  far  from  it,  they 
asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  left  un- 
disturbed in  the  enjoyment  of  a  life 
they  found  full  of  charm.  But  Rapa 


Iti  is  one  island  out  of  many  score,  and 
he  who  seeks  to  eat  of  the  lotus  in  that 
distant  sea  will  be  reminded  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,  the  Camel,  and 
the  Needle's  Eye. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  at  present  on 
Tahiti,  —  a  retired  shoemaker  with  a 
comfortable  balance  at  the  bank,  — 
who  has  been  trying  for  nearly  a  year 
to  get  to  Rapa.  He  is  a  quaint  and 
agreeable  fellow,  with  a  streak  of  ec- 
centricity which  renders  interesting  an 
otherwise  commonplace  man.  Long 
ago,  in  the  Norman  village  of  his  birth, 
a  seafaring  friend  told  him  of  the  lonely 
island  south  of  the  Austral  group;  and 
since  that  day  Rapa  has  been  the  ob- 
ject of  his  life  —  to  be  dreamed  of  as 
he  stitched  and  pegged  through  the 
monotonous  day,  or  in  the  evening, 
while  he  sipped  a  chopine  of  cider  at 
the  inn.  Last  year  he  sold  his  property, 
closed  his  shop,  bade  his  relatives  fare- 
well, and  started  on  the  voyage  which 
was  to  take  him  half-way  around  the 
world.  But  schooners  for  Rapa  are 
rare,  and  the  French  authorities,  made 
wise  by  past  experience,  do  not  en- 
courage white  settlers  to  establish 
themselves  on  the  more  remote  islands. 
As  things  go,  the  cobbling  dreamer, 
with  his  tools  and  seeds  and  store  of 
clothing,  may  end  his  days  on  Tahiti  — 
his  quest  unfulfilled  to  the  last. 

Unlike  the  majority  of  white  strays, 
he  would  probably  make  a  harmless 
and  contented  settler.  He  is  practical, 
knows  what  he  wants,  and  indulges  in 
no  absurd  visions  of  becoming  a  sav- 
age; a  generation  among  savages  works 
little  change  in  such  a  man. 

II 

The  thought  of  him  brings  to  mind 
another,  almost  at  the  opposite  extreme 
of  the  human  scale,  whose  experiment  in 
solitude  is  already  proving  a  success. 

This  one  is  an  American  of  thirty- 


SOUTH   SEA   MOONSHINE 


495 


five  —  cultivated,  thoughtful,  and  well- 
born; a  graduate  of  a  great  univer- 
sity, and  knowing  intimately  the  people 
and  capitals  of  many  lands.  When  the 
war  was  over,  he  found  himself  out  of 
touch  with  a  life  that  seemed  feverish 
and  over-complex,  and  set  out  to  seek 
a  place  where  he  might  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days  in  tranquillity. 
He  had  visited  Tahiti  before,  and  far  out 
on  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  island 
his  travels  came  to  an  end.  There, 
close  to  the  lagoon,  in  a  thatched  house, 
stocked  with  books  and  good  furniture 
and  porcelain,  he  may  be  found  to-day, 
a  cheerful  and  serene  recluse.  Pos- 
sessed of  enough  to  live  in  modest  com- 
fort, he  seems  to  have  found  the  en- 
vironment best  suited  to  his  quality  of 
mind.  When  he  asked  me  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  him,  I  went  with  some 
curiosity  to  observe  how  my  friend's 
venture  was  working  out. 

I  found  him  settled  to  a  quiet  routine, 
in  a  place  beautiful  enough  to  excite  the 
enyy  of  an  emperor.  The  view  from  his 
verandah  —  a  panorama  of  mountains, 
forest,  river,  and  bright-blue  sea  — 
would  warrant  a  journey  of  a  thousand 
leagues.  During  the  year  of  his  resi- 
dence, he  has  learned  to  speak  Tahitian 
with  surprising  fluency,  and  without 
any  effort  toward  authority,  has  be- 
come a  sort  of  village  patriarch  and 
counselor  in  native  affairs.  There  is 
neither  white  doctor  nor  brown  tahua 
nearer  than  fifty  miles;  perceiving  this 
fact,  my  friend  sent  home  for  elementary 
medical  books  and  a  stock  of  simple 
remedies.  Now  he  administers  iodine 
and  castor  oil  to  such  a  multitude  that 
he  has  been  obliged  to  set  aside  certain 
hours  for  consultation. 

His  good-nature  is  rewarded  at  times. 
On  the  day  of  my  arrival  he  performed 
—  quite  unintentionally  —  a  cure  which 
placed  him  in  a  class  with  the  famous 
healers  of  the  island.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing, a  child  led  an  old  blind  woman  to 


the  door,  asking  treatment  for  a  badly 
infected  cut  on  her  ankle.  The  cut  was 
washed  with  soap  and  water,  rinsed 
with  alcohol,  painted  with  iodine,  and 
sealed  with  adhesive  plaster.  I  arrived 
an  hour  or  two  later;  and  as  we  sat 
down  to  lunch,  a  group  of  men  and 
women  approached  at  a  rapid  gait  and 
stopped  before  the  house,  talking  excit- 
edly among  themselves. 

The  manner  in  which  a  caller  ap- 
proaches the  house  of  his  friend  is 
worthy  of  remark,  for  it  throws  a  curi- 
ous side-light  on  Tahitian  ideas  of  pro- 
priety. Since  heathen  days,  the  grounds 
surrounding  the  dwelling  of  every  man 
of  importance  have  been  enclosed  by  a 
fence  or  hedge.  The  caller  halts  outside 
this  barrier  and  waits,  with  an  air  of 
humility,  until  the  cry  of  welcome  is 
given  by  someone  within. 

'  Haere  mai,'  called  my  host ;  and  next 
moment  the  dining-room  was  full  of 
people.  They  had  come  to  tell  him  — 
all  at  once  —  of  the  wonderful  results 
of  his  medicine  on  old  Teura.  Remedies 
given  at  daybreak  had  been  known  to 
cure  before  dark,  but  this  one  had  done 
its  work  in  a  matter  of  four  hours  — 
effecting  a  cure  without  parallel  in  the 
memory  of  the  village.  The  patient 
was  eager  to  thank  her  benefactor  in 
person,  but  her  family  thought  it  best, 
for  the  present,  to  keep  her  out  of  the 
sunlight.  For  five  years  she  had  been 
blind,  and  now — dimly,  but  more  clear- 
ly every  hour  —  she  could  see! 

The  doctor  took  his  cue  with  just  the 
right  degree  of  casual  professional  in- 
terest —  neither  claiming  nor  disclaim- 
ing credit  for  the  achievement.  So  much 
the  better,  if  they  chose  to  believe  him 
capable  of  miracles;  in  future  his  simple 
admonishments  would  be  heard  with 
more  respect.  It  was  the  moment  to 
drive  home  a  strong  impression;  he  sel- 
dom gave  rum  to  the  natives,  but  now 
glasses  were  filled  and  we  drank  to  the 
restored  vision  of  Teunu 


496 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


When  they  had  gone  and  we  had  fin- 
ished lunch,  the  conversation  turned  to 
native  medicine.  I  told  him  of  an  ex- 
perience of  my  own,  when  I  was  down 
with  an  attack  of  old  malaria  —  a  sou- 
venir of  Vera  Cruz.  (The  Anopheles 
mosquito,  by  the  way,  which  carries  the 
germs  of  malaria,  does  not  thrive  in  the 
islands  of  the  eastern  Pacific,  though  his 
cousin  Stegomia  trails  ominous  striped 
legs  under  one's  nose  at  all  hours  of  the 
day,  and  makes  one  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  a  carrier  of  yellow  fever  ar- 
riving by  chance  in  Polynesia.)  At  the 
height  of  my  illness,  actuated  by  curi- 
osity more  than  anything  else,  I  called 
in  a  Tahitian  doctor  of  the  half-baked 
modern  school.  Perhaps  I  do  the  old 
lady  an  injustice  —  for  my  doctor  was 
elderly  and  feminine;  at  any  rate,  I 
recovered,  and  can  vouch  for  the  po- 
tency of  her  raau,  which  may  or  may  not 
have  had  a  beneficial  effect. 

Ushered  in  reverently  by  an  attend- 
ant, she  squatted  on  the  verandah  be- 
side where  I  lay,  and  regarded  me  for  a 
time  with  shrewd  black  eyes,  set  in  a 
face  of  wrinkled  brown.  Perhaps  she 
was  merely  shy;  perhaps  she  doubted 
the  sincerity  of  a  white  man  willing  to 
pin  his  faith  on  native  medicine.  At 
last  she  seemed  satisfied  and  asked  me 
rapidly  —  and  rather  competently,  I 
thought  —  a  list  of  diagnostic  ques- 
tions. It  did  not  take  her  long  to  decide 
on  the  needful  febrifuge;  within  five 
minutes  she  had  summoned  three  girls 
of  the  household  and  dispatched  them 
in  search  of  her  primitive  drugs.  One 
was  to  gather  a  coarse  grass  found  along 
the  edge  of  the  lagoon;  another  was 
ordered  to  grate  the  meat  and  express 
the  cream  of  half-a-dozen  cocoanuts; 
the  third  set  out  for  the  reef  in  a  canoe, 
to  search  for  a  variety  of  sea-urchin 
called  fetue.  All  this  sounded  ominous 
enough  to  me;  I  began  to  regret  the 
curiosity  which  leads  one  into  scrapes, 
but  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  retreat. 


Before  the  tahua  took  her  leave,  she 
suggested  the  frequent  drinking  of  an 
infusion  of  orange  leaves,  and  informed 
me  that  the  real  cure  could  not  begin 
for  another  day,  as  the  brewing  of  my 
medicine  required  twenty-four  hours. 

I  awoke  next  morning  with  the  vague 
premonitory  depression  familiar  to  all  of 
us — an  overflow  from  the  subconscious, 
independent  of  positive  memory.  What 
was  it  that  made  disagreeable  the  pros- 
pect of  the  coming  day.  —  Ah,  yes, 
the  sea-urchins!  Toward  nine  o'clock 
the  doctor  appeared.  The  cure  began 
with  a  bath  from  head  to  heels  in  a 
dark  tincture  of  the  grass  gathered  the 
day  before;  and  after  the  bath  my  sore 
bones  were  treated  to  an  hour  of  mas- 
sage. In  this  branch  of  their  art,  at 
least,  I  can  affirm  the  competence  of 
the  native  doctors.  The  bath  and  mas- 
sage were  calculated  to  pave  the  way 
for  the  final  coup-de-grdce  —  almost  as 
deadly  as  the  poniard-thrust  between 
the  joints  of  a  mediaeval  gorget.  It 
came  in  the  form  of  a  half-pint  tumbler, 
filled  with  a  viscous  whitish  liquid.  I  do 
not  know  all  its  ingredients,  or  how 
they  were  compounded,  but  the  boiled- 
down  power  of  strange  substances  was 
in  it,  and  it  tasted  worse  than  it  looked. 

'  Some  people,'  remarked  my  doctor, 
gazing  admiringly  at  her  handiwork  in 
the  glass  held  out  to  me,  'cannot  take 
this  medicine  —  it  is  too  strong.  But 
it  will  cure  your  fever!' 

This  was  no  time  to  hesitate  —  I 
seized  the  glass  and  gulped  down  its 
evil  contents.  An  hour  later  I  began  to 
understand  why  some  people  could  not 
take  it,  and  decided  that  I  must  be  one 
of  them.  The  tahua  had  not  exag- 
gerated when  she  said  that  it  was 
strong.  Keats  might  have  had  its  ef- 
fects in  mind  when  he  wrote:  — 

My  heart  aches  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk 

As  the  day  dragged  on,  it  became 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


497 


increasingly  evident  that  I  had  been 
indiscreet.  I  thought  again  of  the 
doctor's  words,  and  I  recalled  —  not 
without  uneasiness  —  a  passage  in  an 
old  missionary  chronicle  of  life  in  these 
same  islands:  'Many  of  their  applica- 
tions, however,  were  powerful.  ...  A 
preparation,  in  which  milk  from  the 
pulp  of  the  cocoanut  formed  a  principal 
ingredient,  was  sometimes  followed  by 
almost  instant  death.  Mr.  Barff  once 
took  this  preparation,  at  the  earnest 
recommendation  of  the  people;  but  it 
nearly  cost  him  his  life,  although  he  had 
not  drunk  more  than  half  the  quantity 
prepared.' 

A  sinister  thought,  especially  since  I 
had  swallowed  the  whole  dose,  one  half 
of  which  had  nearly  caused  the  death 
I  of  the  acquiescent  Mr.  Barff!  Toward 
evening,  when  I  was  long  past  the  stage 
of  being  able  to  smile  at  my  predica- 
ment, I  fell  asleep  —  if  sinking  un- 
pleasantly into  a  loss  of  consciousness 
may  be  described  in  words  so  peaceful. 
I  awoke  at  dawn,  weak  and  giddy,  but 
better  than  I  had  been  for  several  days. 
Perhaps  the  raau  cured  me.  I  only  know 
that  my  curiosity  is  satisfied  —  I  shall 
never  dabble  in  native  remedies  again. 

'You  are  probably  right,'  remarked 
my  friend,  smiling  at  the  announce- 
ment of  this  decision;  'the  last  of  the 
old-fashioned  native  doctors  —  who 
really  knew  something  —  is  dead.  His 
name  was  Tiurai;  I  met  him  when  I 
visited  Tahiti  before  the  war,  and  one 
cannot  doubt  that  he  did,  at  times,  ac- 
complish remarkable  results.  There  is 
so  much  humbug  involved  in  all  native 
medicine  that  it  is  difficult  to  distin- 
guish genuine  skill  from  quackery;  but 
while  old  Tiurai  used  all  the  frills  of  his 
art,  he  certainly  possessed  a  consider- 
able knowledge  of  anatomy  and  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  virtues  of  many 
kinds  of  herbs.  He  never  took  a  fee. 
During  the  last  decade  of  his  life  he  was 
loo  busy  to  travel  about;  people  came 

VOL.  128  — NO.  4 

c 


to  him  from  all  parts  of  Tahiti,  from 
Moorea  and  the  Leeward  group,  and 
even  from  distant  islands  of  the  Pau- 
motu.  Some  of  his  cures  were  too  ab- 
surdly simple  to  seem  real.  I  ran  across 
an  Englishman,  when  I  was  here  before, 
who  had  suffered  for  months  from  an 
abscess  of  the  leg — one  of  those  hate- 
ful things  which  seem  to  heal  from  tune 
to  time,  only  to  break  out  again,  deeper 
and  more  malignant  than  before.  When 
the  sufferer  had  reached  the  point  of 
arranging  a  trip  to  New  Zealand,  some- 
one persuaded  him  to  let  Tiurai  have  a 
go  at  it.  Skeptical,  but  ready  to  try 
anything  in  his  extremity,  the  English- 
man drove  out  to  the  district  where  the 
native  doctor  lived.  A  dozen  carts  were 
drawn  up  before  the  house,  and  groups 
of  people,  with  the  solemn  air  of  mourn- 
ers at  a  death-bed,  sat  under  the  trees 
awaiting  their  interviews.  When  the 
abscess  was  shown  to  Tiurai,  he  gave 
it  only  a  casual  glance  and  said  that  he 
would  send  medicine  the  next  day. 

'In  the  morning  a  boy  appeared  with 
the  remedy:  a  small  bottle  of  what 
seemed  to  be  ordinary  monoi  —  cocoa- 
nut-oil,  scented  with  the  blossoms  of 
the  Tahitian  gardenia.  The  patient 
was  instructed  to  obtain  the  scarlet  tail- 
feather  of  a  tropic  bird,  dip  it  in  the 
oil,  and  draw  a  circle  around  the  ab- 
scess —  at  sunrise,  at  noon,  and  at  sun- 
set. This  sounds  ridiculous  enough,  but 
for  some  reason  the  bad  leg  began  to 
improve  at  once  and  was  healed  within 
a  few  days. 

'Over  certain  organs  of  the  body  — 
notably  the  heart  and  kidneys  —  the 
remedies  of  Tiurai  possessed  a  remark- 
able control;  it  is  a  pity  that  some  Euro- 
pean doctor  did  not  gain  the  old  man's 
confidence  and  persuade  him  to  impart 
the  more  important  of  his  secrets.  He 
died  in  the  epidemic  of  1918  —  the  last 
of  a  long  line  of  tahuas.  His  loss  was  a 
heavy  one  to  the  island;  as  an  obstetri- 
cian alone  he  was  of  immense  value, 


498 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


with  his  curious  system  of  massage, 
which  seemed  to  rob  child-birth  of 
nearly  all  its  suffering.  The  fact  that 
no  others  sprang  up  to  take  his  place 
proves  that  Tiurai  possessed  unusual 
powers.  There  is  a  doctor  practising  at 
Paea  and  another  at  Haapape,  but  the 
natives  have  little  confidence  in  them 
and  consult  them  only  in  trifling  cases. 
This  does  not  apply,  of  course,  to  the 
professional  exorcists,  who  form  a  dis- 
tinct class.  You  will  find  them  in  nearly 
every  village  —  the  trusted  exponents 
of  an  ancient  art.' 

* 

III 

The  modern  exorcists,  to  whom  my 
host  alluded,  are  descendants  of  the 
heathen  Faatere,  employed  in  the  old 
days  by  friends  of  the  demon-ridden,  to 
drive  out  the  evil  spirit  invoked  by  a 
sorcerer.  European  witnesses  of  the 
agony  and  death  of  those  upon  whom 
the  destroying  spirits  preyed  were 
forced  to  confess  that  powers  beyond 
their  comprehension  were  at  work. 
Even  the  hard-headed  missionaries  ad- 
mitted this.  One  of  the  most  distin- 
guished of  them,  writing  of  Tahiti  near- 
ly a  century  ago,  observed:  'It  is  not 
necessary  now  to  inquire  whether  satan- 
ic  agency  affects  the  bodies  of  men.  We 
know  this  was  the  fact  at  the  time  our 
Saviour  appeared  on  earth.  Many  of 
the  natives  of  these  islands  are  firmly 
persuaded  that,  while  they  were  idola- 
ters, their  bodies  were  subject  to  most 
excruciating  sufferings  from  the  direct 
operation  of  satanic  power  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  some  of  the  early  missionaries  are 
disposed  to  think  this  was  the  fact.' 

There  are  still  on  Tahiti  one  or  two 
old  men  considered  capable  of  dire  nec- 
romancy, but  the  belief  is  dying  fast, 
and  nowadays  it  is  the  spirit  of  an  an- 
cestor —  naturally  malicious,  or  offend- 
ed by  some  misdeed  —  which  harries 
the  human  victim.  I  saw  a  case  of  this 


sort  only  a  few  weeks  ago.  In  the  house 
where  I  was  stopping  there  was  a  young 
girl  who  did  the  family  washing  and 
ironing — a  gentle,  good-natured  young- 
ster of  sixteen.  I  was  reading  on  the 
verandah,  one  evening  after  dinner,  and 
noticed  this  girl  near-by,  gazing  out 
over  the  sea  in  the  detached  and  dreamy 
manner  of  her  race.  Suddenly  I  heard 
her  give  a  low  cry,  and,  glancing  up 
from  my  book,  I  saw  that  she  was  cow- 
ering with  an  air  of  fear,  arms  raised 
and  bent  as  if  to  ward  off  invisible  blows. 
When  I  reached  her,  a  moment  later, 
she  had  collapsed  in  a  faint;  I  remember 
the  awkwardness  of  carrying  her  limp 
body  to  a  couch.  I  felt  her  pulse,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  her  heart  was  barely 
stirring.  Then,  screaming  terribly,  and 
with  a  suddenness  that  was  uncanny, 
she  sat  up.  I  had  noticed  that  she  was 
a  rather  pretty  girl,  with  tender  lips  and 
soft  dark  eyes;  now  her  lips  were  dis- 
torted in  a  snarl  and  flecked  with  a 
light  froth,  while  her  eyes,  fixed  and 
open  to  the  fullest  extent,  shone  with  a 
dull  red  glare.  She  sprang  to  her  feet 
with  an  air  of  horrid  desperation.  The 
next  moment  three  of  us  seized  her. 
While  we  took  good  care  to  do  her  no 
harm,  she  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
hurting  us,  and  flung  us  about  as  if 
we  were  children;  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  something  monstrous  in  the 
strength  and  ferocity  of  her  struggles. 

In  the  midst  of  the  scuffle,  an  elderly 
man  appeared  on  the  verandah  —  a 
spirit-doctor  of  some  local  reputation, 
who  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

'Tell  me  quickly,'  he  said,  'where  I 
can  find  a  bottle  of  perfume  —  strong 
perfume.' 

I  told  him  there  was  cologne  on  the 
dressing-table  in  my  room,  and  in  an 
instant  he  had  a  towel  soaked  in  the 
stuff,  waving  it  about  the  frantic  girl's 
head.  Perhaps  the  fit  had  run  its  course; 
for  she  ceased  at  once  to  struggle,  and 
sank  down  on  the  floor,  quiet  and  limp. 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


499 


Someone  had  run  to  fetch  the  Euro- 
pean doctor,  and  when  he  arrived  the 
girl  had  recovered  consciousness.  He 
sat  down  beside  her,  to  ask  questions 
in  a  low  voice.  By  the  troubled  look  in 
her  eyes  I  could  see  that  she  understood ; 
but  though  she  seemed  to  make  an  ef- 
fort to  speak,  no  sound  came  from  her 
lips.  Presently  he  rose.  '  It  is  a  sort  of 
epilepsy,'  he  informed  us;  'though  from 
what  you  say  the  attack  must  have  been 
more  than  usually  violent.  Pauvre  en- 
fant —  there  is  no  cure/ 

When  he  had  gone  the  girl  spoke. 
Her  story  may  have  been  pure  imagina- 
tion, or  the  memory  of  a  singular  and 
vivid  dream;  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives, 
of  course,  it  was  terrifying,  but  neither 
incredible  nor  strange. 

'I  was  resting  after  my  work,'  she 
said,  'watching  the  little  clouds  above 
the  sea.  All  at  once  I  saw  an  old  woman 
standing  before  me.  She  carried  a  staff 
of  black  wood  in  her  hand;  her  gray 
hair  hung  tangled  about  her  shoulders; 
she  gazed  at  me  without  smiling,  and  I 
was  greatly  afraid.  I  knew  her  at  once 
for  my  grandmother,  who  died  when  I 
was  a  child.  Then  she  raised  her  staff 
and  began  to  beat  me,  and  I  put  up  my 
arms  to  ward  off  the  blows.  After  that, 
I  felt  myself  dying.  When  I  awoke  on 
the  couch,  she  was  standing  beside  me, 
and  as  I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  her 
raise  her  club.  Of  the  rest  I  know  noth- 
ing, except  that,  when  the  doctor  ques- 
tioned me,  I  could  not  answer,  for  the 
hand  of  that  woman  was  on  my  lips.' 

'The  tupapau,'  remarked  Mahine, 
the  spirit-doctor,  when  the  girl  had  been 
put  to  bed,  'cannot  abide  perfume;  it 
will  drive  off  the  most  dangerous  of 
them.  But  though  she  pretends  inno- 
cence, I  know  that  girl  has  done  an  ill 
thing,  to  incur  the  anger  of  her  grand- 
mother/ 

In  justice  to  the  spirit-world,  I  must 
add  that  Mahine  was  not  mistaken. 
It  was  discovered  afterward  that  the 


girl  had  acquired  a  lover  and  was  con- 
cealing from  her  family  the  fact  of  an 
impending  motherhood. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  misapprehen- 
sion in  regard  to  the  native  code  of 
morality,  which  most  white  men  dis- 
miss with  the  statement  that  no  such 
thing  exists.  In  reality,  the  discovery 
that  this  child  was  involved  in  an  in- 
trigue was  something  of  a  shock  to  the 
native  mind,  for  she  was  supposedly 
one  of  the  chaste  girls  of  whom  every 
village  possesses  a  few  —  carefully 
guarded,  and  objects  of  considerable 
local  pride.  Chastity  is,  I  believe,  and 
always  has  been,  in  Polynesia,  a  virtue 
as  highly  prized  as  it  is  rare,  though  we 
are  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact,  because 
the  woman  who  cannot  boast  of  it  is 
neither  shunned  nor  scorned. 

Native  morals  —  or  rather  the  lack 
of  them  —  are  responsible  for  the  ad- 
vent of  a  regrettably  large  proportion 
of  visitors  to  the  islands.  This  is  simple 
truth.  The  credulous  and  shoddy  volup- 
tuary —  in  England,  America,  or  France 

—  chances  on  one  of  the  South  Sea 
books  in  vogue,  to  feast  his  mind  on  a 
text  spiced  with  innuendo,  and  his  eyes 
on   portraits  of  brown   ladies  whose 
charms  are  trammeled  only   by  the 
sketchiest  of  attire.   After  that,  if  cir- 
cumstances permit,  he  is  not  unlikely 
to  board  a  steamer  for  the  islands;  but 
a  month  or  two  later  you  will  find  him 
even  more  eager  to  return,  for  the  real- 
ity of  his  tawdry  dream  does  not  exist 

—  the  women  within  his  reach  are,  if 
possible,  less  interesting  than  their  sis- 
ters of  Leicester  Square,  or  Sixth  Ave- 
nue, or  the  Butte. 

'In  general  the  white  men  of  the  is- 
lands are  there  for  one  of  four  reasons : 
work,  drink,  women,  or  a  murky  past. 
But  generalities  are  proverbially  de- 
ceptive, and  a  man  like  my  friend  the 
American  recluse,  who  chooses  to  live 
on  Tahiti  —  decently  and  wholesome- 
ly as  he  would  live  at  home,  —  because 


500 


SOUTH  SEA  MOONSHINE 


he  likes  the  island  and  its  people,  is  a 
perpetual  aggravation  to  gossip.  And 
he  minds  his  own  business  —  here,  as 
elsewhere,  an  unpardonable  sin. 

Gossip  —  the  occupation  of  the  pro- 
vincial and  the  dull  —  makes  no  allow- 
ance for  variations  from  type;  yet  one 
must  remember  that  the  European  who 
does  not  run  to  type  is  the  only  one 
fitted  to  make  a  success  of  life  in  the 
islands  —  far  out  of  the  white  man's 
natural  range.    Consider  again,  for  a 
moment,  the  case  of  my  friend.  He  has 
an  income,  and  his  doctoring  gives  him 
an  occupation;  the  first  is  a  help,  the 
second  an  indispensable  accessory  to 
content.  He  has  eyes  for  the  beautiful 
and  imagination  for  the  strange;  in 
order  to  live  as  he  chooses,  he  is  willing 
to  sacrifice  what  most  of  us  would  never 
in  the  world  give  up.  Like  the  cobbler 
in  quest  of  happiness  on  Rapa  Iti,  he  is 
one  of  the  very  rare  men  who  possess 
resources  within  themselves,  who  are 
able  to  get  enjoyment  from  their  own 
minds,  and  are  not  dependent  on  others 
for   diversion    from   dull   and    paltry 
thoughts.  The  only  white  man  in  a  re- 
mote native  community,  he  lives  with 
the  Polynesian  on  such  terms  of  inti- 
macy as  few  Europeans  could  endure. 
Their  confidence  is  his  reward;  and  be- 
cause they  are  always  welcome  at  his 
house,  where  there  is  a  phonograph  and 
an  inexhaustible  supply  of  cigarettes, 
the  natives  .do  many  things  for  him  — 
favors  he  accepts  as  gracefully  as  they 
are  tendered.  Breadfruit,  bananas,  and 
taro  are  brought  to  his  door  in  greater 
quantities  than  he  can  use;  when  the 
men  of  the  village  return  from  the  reef, 
to  divide  their  fish,  his  portion  is  not 
forgotten.   The  fame  of  his  idyllic  life 
has  spread  abroad,  and  I  wonder  some- 
times if,  in  the  end,  he  will  not  be  forced 
to  seek  tranquillity  in  places  even  more 
remote. 

On   one   occasion  a  little  band  of 
wanderers,    elderly    and    unattached 


white  women  from  the  basin  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, —  devout  readers  of  Gauguin 
and  White  Shadows  in  the  South  Seas,  — 
journeyed  happily  to  his  retreat  and 
gave  him  an  anxious  week.  'Poor  fel- 
low,' they  said,  'living  out  there  all 
alone;  he  must  be  nice  —  everyone 
says  he  is  so  kind  to  the  dear  natives. 
We  can  just  as  well  stop  there  as  in 
Papeete,  and  the  sight  of  a  white  face 
will  do  him  good.' 

They  were  counting  apparently,  on  a 
visit  of  indefinite  duration,  and  he  put 
in  some  agonizing  days  before  his  good- 
nature gave  way  at  last. 

'If  you  will  reflect,'  he  suggested  to 
his  uninvited  guests,  'it  will  become 
evident  that  I  did  not  leave  New  York 
because  I  felt  lonely  there.  As  for  white 
faces,  I  can  always  go  to  Papeete  if  I 
want  to  gaze  at  them  —  a  need  I  have 
not  felt  so  far.' 

To  most  of  us,  in  the  same  circum- 
stances, the  sight  of  white  faces  would 
be  welcome  —  even  the  forbiddingly 
earnest  countenances  of  aesthetic  fe- 
males: thin-lipped,  leathery,  and  gar- 
nished with  black-rimmed  goggles.  We 
do  not  vary  from  the  type  —  and  the 
type  is  better  off  at  home.  A  good 
many  men  and  women  who  come  from 
the  lands  of  the  white  man  to  seek  an 
elusive  dolce  far  niente  in  Polynesia  are 
discovering  this  profound  truth  for 
themselves. 

The  South  Seas  are  no  less  blue  than 
when  the  ships  of  Cook  traversed  them, 
and  the  people  of  the  islands,  though 
dying  fast,  are  perhaps  not  greatly 
changed.  The  palms  still  rustle  sooth- 
ingly as  in  the  days  of  Melville's  en- 
chanted vision;  the  same  trade- wind 
blows,  and  lonely  lagoons  still  ripple 
under  the  stars.  But  the  islands  are  not 
for  people  of  our  race  —  I  say  it,  though 
I  set  at  naught  an  old  illusion.  They 
may  be  places  to  visit  once ;  but  these  are 
lands  in  which  few  white  men  linger, 
and  to  which  fewer  still  return. 


FRIENDLY  NEIGHBORS 


BY  ANNIE  W.  NOEL 


'MRS.  SCOTT  is  dead.' 

Mrs.  Anderson  was  shocked.  She 
laid  down  her  garden-shears  and  looked 
at  Mrs.  Hoxie,  who  was  telling  her. 

For  Mrs.  Anderson  had  been  plan- 
ning to  call;  and  she  turned  involun- 
tarily toward  Mrs.  Scott's  house  just  in 
back  of  her.  Mrs.  Scott  had  bought 
that  house  just  six  years  ago.  She  had 
planted  the  most  wonderful  red  peonies 
—  they  were  blooming  now  —  if  she 
was  dead  — 

Mrs.  Anderson  turned  rather  indig- 
nantly on  Mrs.  Hoxie.  How  should  she 
know?  She  lived  a  whole  block  away  — 

'Mrs.  Wilson  saw  the  hearse  at  the 
door.' 

A  hearse! 

Mrs.  Anderson  gazed  at  the  silent 
house  just  behind.  She  had  been  plan- 
ning to  call. 

'Mrs.  Wilson  was  shocked,'  Mrs. 
Hoxie  went  on.  'She  said  she  felt  she 
ought  to  have  known  it  before  the 
hearse  came,  living  only  four  houses 
away.  A  hearse  is  a  shock,  of  course. 
Mrs.  Wilson  is  a  lovely  woman.' 

That  certainly  was  no  way  to  speak 
of  the  dead.  Mrs.  Anderson  looked 
after  Mrs.  Hoxie  with  resentment. 
Then  her  own  remorse  deepened-  She 
had  been  planning  to  call,  and  the  red 
peonies  blooming  so  heartlessly  in 
Mrs.  Scott's  own  yard  disturbed  her. 
It  was  not  right  to  let  them  stand  that 
way  if  Mrs.  Scott  was  dead.  With  a 
deep  pang  she  wished  she  had  called. 

She  went  into  Mrs.  Lewis's  next  door, 
to  see  if  Mrs.  Lewis  knew. 

Mrs.  Lewis  knew.  She  had  just  read 


it  in  the  New  York  Tribune.  The  New 
York  Tribune  still  lay  on  the  floor 
where  it  had  fallen. 

Tears  were  in  Mrs.  Lewis's  eyes.  It 
seemed  so  wrong,  now,  that  they  had 
lived  so  long  almost  back  to  back  and 
had  never  spoken.  'I  have  met  her  on 
the  street  too,'  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  with 
profound  regret. 

Going  back  to  her  garden,  Mrs.  An- 
derson looked  at  Mrs.  Scott's  sightless 
windows.  She  had  often  wondered  if 
Mrs.  Scott  was  looking.  Now  she  knew 
there  was  no  one  behind  those  windows. 
It  was  dreadful  certainty. 

She  wished  she  had  called. 

She  saw  Mrs.  Allen,  next  door  on  the 
other  side,  and  wondered  if  she  knew. 
She  stepped  to  the  hedge,  irresistibly 
impelled. 

'  I  don't  believe  it,'  replied  Mrs.  Allen, 
with  the  utmost  firmness.  •  *.  • 

Mrs.  Anderson  was  aroused.  WThy  a 
tone  like  that?  Toward  the  dead?  But 
she  replied  gently.  The  hearse  had 
been  seen  at  the  door.  And  Mrs.  Lewis 
had  read  it  in  the  Tribune. 

'Oh!'  replied  Mrs.  Allen,  unrelent- 
ing; 'the  Tribune.' 

She  had  n't  known  her  personally, 
Mrs.  Allen  went  on,  seeming  to  think 
some  explanation  was  due.  All  she 
knew  of  her  was  that,  the  day  after 
they  had  moved  in,  a  voice  had  called 
Mr.  Allen  on  the  'phone,  and  asked 
if  they  were  sure  they  had  a  building- 
permit  to  .put  up  exactly  that  type 
of  ready-cut  garage. 

Mrs.  Anderson's  eyes  drooped  as  she 
looked  at  the  garage.  And  again  she 

501 


502 


FRIENDLY  NEIGHBORS 


wondered,  passionately,  why  she  had 
n't  called  on  Mrs.  Scott. 

Young  Mrs.  Baker  was  just  passing, 
with  little  Marjorie. 

'She's  the  only  other  woman  in  the 
block  with  just  one  child,'  meditated 
young  Mrs.  Baker.  'Is  she  dead?' 
asked  young  Mrs.  Baker  with  energy. 

The  hearse  had  been  seen  at  the  door, 
And  it  was  in  the  Tribune. 

'Just  before  I  left  the  house,  not  ten 
minutes  ago,'  continued  young  Mrs. 
Baker,  only  growing  firmer,  '  the  Board 
of  Health  called  up  to  say  they  had 
been  asked  to  instruct  me  to  keep  Mar- 
jorie on  her  own  premises  until  she  got 
over  her  cough.  A  neighbor.  With  one 
child.  They  are  not  allowed  to  give 
names.' 

Together  they  gazed  at  the  silent 
house. 

A  colored  woman  came  out  and  began 
to  pick  the  peonies. 

'I  suppose  she  would  know,'  said 
Mrs.  Anderson,  with  a  catch  in  her 
voice. 

She  wished  she  had  called. 

The  colored  woman  picked  all  the 
peonies. 

The  house  stared  at  them. 

'I  was  planning  to  call,'  said  Mrs. 
Anderson. 

Mrs.  Anderson  went  in  to  get  her 
market-basket.  She  felt  as  if  she  must 
get  away  for  a  little  while.  But  even 
the  market-basket  was  on  a  shelf  by  the 
window,  and  through  the  window  she 
saw  Mrs.  Scott's  house. 


'Oh!'  cried  Mrs.  Anderson  to  herself, 
'I  wish  I  had  called.' 

At  a  turn  of  the  road  she  stooped  to 
help  a  small  child  with  his  rebellious 
sandal;  and  on  lifting  her  head,  looked 
straight  at  Mrs.  Scott,  pausing,  inter- 
ested. 

'Oh!'  Mrs.  Anderson  caught  herself 
in  time. 

'Yes,'  replied  Mrs.  Scott  amused, 
tactful.  'So  many  did.  It  was  Mr. 
Scott's  mother.  She  had  been  visiting 
us.' 

Swept  on  by  the  current  of  her  relief, 
Mrs.  Anderson  felt  a  great  need  of  say- 
ing something.  She  had  been  so  pro- 
foundly moved.  She  had  experienced 
so  much  in  the  last  hour.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  to  have  things  return  to 
their  former  basis.  She  had  always  felt 
that  she  would  have  liked  Mrs.  Scott. 
She  had  felt  that  Mrs.  Scott  was  not 
quite  understood  by  some.  And  to  have 
died  —  actually  died,  without  anyone's 
knowing  it,  when  she  lived  just  back  — 

But,  no,  she  had  not. 

Mrs.  Anderson  felt  justified  in  the 
feeling  she  had  always  thought  she 
would  have  had  for  Mrs.  Scott. 

She  had  felt  that  Mrs.  Scott  would 
not. 

'I  have  been  intending  to  call,'  she 
said  warmly,  trying  to  crowd  all  the 
passionate  remorse  of  the  last  hour  into 
a  few  words. 

'Yes,  do,'  replied  Mrs.  Scott,  with 
answering  cordiality,  as  she  passed  on. 
'Some  time.' 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON.  Ill 


BY  JOSEPH  FORT  NEWTON 


(No  sooner  had  the  Armistice  been  signed, 
than  there  followed,  not  simply  a  rebound, 
but  a  collapse,  which  no  one  who  lived 
through  it  will  ever  forget.  Swiftly,  tragi- 
cally, the  high  mood  of  sacrifice  yielded  to  a 
ruthless  selfishness,  and  the  solidarity  won 
by  the  war  was  lost,  together  with  most  of 
the  idealism  that  had  stood  the  stress  and 
terror  of  it.  Thejnoral  demobilization  was 
terrify  ing;  the  disillusionment  appalling. 
Men  had  Jived  a  generation  in  five  years; 
and  instead  of  a  new  world  of  which  they 
had  dreamed,  they  found  themselves  in  a 
world  embittered,  confused,  cynical,  gray 
with  grief,  if  not  cracked  to  its  foundations 
—  all  the  old  envies  working  then*  malign 
intent.  Such  a  chaos  offered  free  play  to 
every  vile  and  slimy  influence,  making  the 
earth  an  auditorium  for  every  hoarse  and 
bitter  voice  that  could  make  itself  heard. 
It  was  a  time  of  social  irritation,  moral  re- 
action, and  spiritual  fatigue,  almost  more 
trying  than  the  war  itself,  the  only  joy  being 
that  the  killing  of  boys  had  stopped. 

Old  jealousies  and  new  envies  began  to 
make  themselves  felt  —  among  them  a  very 
emphatic  anti-American  feeling;  a  remi- 
niscence, in  part,  of  the  impatience  at  our 
delay  in  entering  the  war,  joined  with  sus- 
picion of  our  wealth  and  power.  The  same 
was  true  in  America,  in  its  feeling  toward 
England  and  the  other  Allies.  Mrs.  A. 
Burnett-Smith  —  'Annie  S.  Swan'  —  in  her 
admirable  book,  America  at  Home,  tells  how 
fine  and  warm  the  feeling  in  America  was 
before  the  Armistice,  and  how  quickly  it 
changed:  'There  was  a  reaction,  of  which 
was  born  a  coolness,  a  new,  subtle  hostility, 
which  one  could  sense  everywhere.'  Her 
book,  I  may  add,  is  one  of  the  few  of  its 
kind  that  never  fails  of  that  fineness  of  feel- 
ing which  should  always  exist  between  kin- 
dred peoples.  Her  observations  are  interest- 
ing, her  comments  frank  but  kindly,  and  the 


whole  book  is  informed  with  a  charming  and 
sympathetic  personality.  As  Mr.  W.  L. 
George  has  said,  if  the  war  did  not  make  us 
love  our  enemies,  it  at  least  taught  us  to 
hate  our  allies.) 

November  20,  1918.  —  For  one  who 
has  set  great  store  by  the  cooperation  of 
English-speaking  peoples,  the  new  anti- 
American  propaganda  is  like  a  personal 
bereavement.  The  feeling  in  England 
with  regard  to  America  is  certainly,  as 
the  Scotch  would  say,  'on  the  north  side 
of  friendly,'  and  manifests  itself  in  many 
petty,  nagging  ways.  To  read  the  Lon- 
don papers  now,  one  would  think  that 
America,  and  not  Germany,  had  been 
the  enemy  of  England  in  the  war.  Every 
kind  of  gibe,  slur,  and  sneer  is  used  to 
poison  the  public  mind  against  America. 
My  mail  at  the  City  Temple  has  be- 
come almost  unreadable.  It  takes  the 
familiar  forms  —  among  the  upper 
classes  an  insufferably  patronizing  and 
contemptuous  attitude  toward  America 
and  all  things  American;  among  the 
lower  classes  an  ignorant  ill-will.  The 
middle  classes  are  not  much  influenced 
by  it,  perhaps  because,  as  Emerson  said, 
America  is  a  'middle-class  country'  — 
whereof  we  ought  to  be  both  grateful 
and  proud.  This  feeling  against  America 
is  confined,  for  the  most  part,  to  Eng- 
land, —  it  hardly  exists  in  Scotland  or 
in  Wales,  —  and,  like  the  anti-British 
feeling  in  America,  it  is  a  fruitful  field 
for  the  venal  press  and  the  stupid 
demagogue.  Naturally,  a  journal  like 
John  Butt  —  leader  of  the  gutter-press 
—  is  in  its  glory;  but  even  in  the  better 
class  of  papers  one  reads  nasty  flings  at 

503 


504 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


America  and  its  President.  As  for  the 
Morning  Post,  no  one  expects  anything 
other  than  its  usual  pose  of  supercilious 
condescension  and  savage  satire,  and  it 
is  at  its  brilliant  worst.  Six  weeks  ago 
we  were  regarded  as  friends;  to-day  our 
country  is  the  target  of  ridicule  as  clever 
as  it  is  brutal.  No  doubt  it  is  mostly 
nerves  —  a  part  of  the  inevitable  reac- 
tion—  and  will  pass  away;  but  it  is 
none  the  less  a  tragedy. 

November  22.  —  It  is  nothing  short  of 
a  calamity  that  in  this  ugly  hour  of 
reaction  and  revenge  there  is  to  be  a 
national  election.  There  is  no  need  for 
an  election,  no  demand  for  it.  But  to 
those  who  can  see  beneath  the  surface, 
there  is  a  deeper  meaning.  Three 
months  ago  Arthur  Henderson  said : '  If 
we  have  a  national  election  in  Britain, 
you  will  not  get  a  Wilson  peace.'  I  did 
not  realize  at  the  time  what  he  meant; 
but  I  can  now  say  to  him,  'Sir,  I  per- 
ceive that  thou  art  a  prophet.'  There  is 
to  be  a  khaki  election,  such  as  Cham- 
berlain had  following  the  Boer  War,  the 
better  to  coin  into  political  capital  all 
the  anger,  suspicion,  resentment,  and 
disillusionment  burning  in  the  public 
mind.  In  other  words,  it  is  a  deliberate 
scheme  of  the  Prime  Minister  —  or  a 
group  of  strong  men  who  use  him  as  a 
tool  —  to  mobilize  the  least  admirable 
elements  of  England,  —  not  the  great, 
noble  England,  but  a  reactionary,  im- 
perialistic England,  —  and  have  them 
in  solid  phalanx  behind  the  Peace  Con- 
ference. And  in  the  mood  of  the  hour 
the  scheme  will  work,  with  consequen- 
ces both  for  England  and  for  the  world 
which  no  one  can  predict.  Reaction  in 
England  will  mean  reaction  elsewhere, 
if  not  everywhere. 

November  24. — Nothing  was  left  hazy 
after  the  speech  of  the  Premier  in  West- 
minster Hall,  launching  his  Coalition 
campaign.  It  was  a  skillful  speech,  inti- 
mating that  even  the  Throne  may  be  in 
danger,  and  playing  upon  the  fears  and 


hates  of  men.  He  wants  a  Parliament, 
he  said,  in  which  there  shall  be  no  op- 
position, —  no  criticism,  no  discussion, 
—  and  this  proposal  to  prostitute  Par- 
liament was  greeted  with  applause. 
There  is  protest  in  the  Liberal  press; 
but  men  in  the  street  and  tram  give 
each  other  the  knowing  look  and  the 
approving  nod,  praising  'the  Little 
Welsh  Wizard.'  It  is  called  a  '  Coupon 
Election,'  since  each  Coalition  candi- 
date must  have  the  indorsement  of  the 
Prime  Minister,  and  the  food-coupon  is 
the  most  detestable  thing  in  the  public 
mind.  Sir  George  Younger  —  master 
brewer  of  the  kingdom  —  is  the  organ- 
izer and  wire-puller  of  the  campaign. 

As  for  the  Prime  Minister,  he  is  both 
the  author  and  the  hero  of  the  most  re- 
markable blood-and-thunder  moving- 
picture  show  in  political  history;  what 
the  papers  call  'The  Victory  Film,  or 
How  I  Won  the  War.'  He  goes  to  and 
fro,  shrieking  two  slogans.  First,  hang 
the  Kaiser!  Second,  twenty-five  thou- 
sand million  pounds  indemnity!  What 
sublime  statesmanship!  Behind  this 
smoke-screen  of  rhetoric  and  revenge 
the  most  sinister  forces  are  busy;  and 
the  trick  will  work.  Liberals  and  Labor- 
ites  are  unable  to  unite.  Even  if  they 
should  unite,  they  could  not  stem  the 
tide.  Two  things  are  as  plain  as  if  they 
were  written  upon  the  wall.  First,  the 
President  is  defeated  before  he  sails; 
and  second,  if  the  war  is  won,  the  peace 
is  lost. 

November  26.  —  Once  again  opinion  is 
sharply  divided  as  to  the  motives  and 
purposes  of  the  Prime  Minister.  By 
some  he  is  held  to  be  a  messiah,  by 
others  a  light-minded  mountebank.  Still 
others  think  he  is  only  a  political  chame- 
leon, taking  color  from  the  last  strong 
man,  or  group  of  men,  he  meets.  Obvi- 
ously he  is  none  of  these  things,  but 
merely  an  opportunist,  without  any 
principle  or  policy,  —  except  to  retain 
power,  —  feeling  his  way  to  get  all  he 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


505 


can.  The  story  is  that,  walking  in  the 
House  of  Parliament  with  a  friend  the 
other  day,  he  suddenly  stopped,  tapped 
his  breast,  and  said:  'I  sometimes  won- 
der if  this  is  Lloyd  George.'  His  wonder 
is  shared  by  millions  of  people.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  not  the  Lloyd  George  we 
used  to  know,  who  had  the  light  of 
morning  in  his  eyes.  Limehouse  is  far 
in  the  distance.  The  fiery  champion  of 
justice  for  the  Boers  is  a  pathetic  mem- 
ory. The  man  who  defied  the  vested 
interests  of  England  in  behalf  of  the 
poor,  the  aged,  the  disinherited,  is  a 
ghost.  There  is  another  Lloyd  George, 
so  new  and  strange  that  he  does  not 
know  himself.  With  his  personality,  his 
power  of  speech,  his  political  acumen, 
which  almost  amounts  to  inspiration, 
he  could  lead  England  anywhere;  but 
he  has  turned  back.  It  is  one  of  the 
greatest  failures  of  leadership  in  our 
time. 

November  28.  —  Often  one  is  tempted 
to  think  that  the  Labor  Movement  is 
the  most  Christian  thing  on  this  island. 
In  its  leadership,  at  least,  it  is  spiritually 
minded;  its  leaders,  as  I  have  come  to 
know  them,  being  sincere,  earnest,  hon- 
est men  who  have  worked  their  way  up 
from  the  bottom,  or  else  have  been 
drawn  into  the  Movement  by  the  op- 
portunity for  service.  Not  all  of  them 
are  so  minded,  but  the  outstanding 
leaders  and  spokesmen  of  the  Move- 
ment —  who,  unfortunately,  are  in  ad- 
vance of  the  rank  and  file  —  are  men  of 
a  type  unknown,  or  nearly  so,  in  Amer- 
ican labor.  Henderson,  Thomas,  Snow- 
den,  Webb,  MacDonald,  Clynes,  and 
the  rest,  make  a  goodly  group.  Hender- 
son is  a  lay  preacher;  so  is  Thomas.  As 
for  Robert  Smillie,  I  do  not  know  what 
his  religious  affiliations,  if  any,  may  be, 
except  that  he  is  a  disciple  of  Keir 
Hardie,  and  that  his  relentless  idealism 
is  matched  by  the  nobility  of  his  char- 
acter. Tall,  gaunt,  stooped,  his  face 
reveals  the  harsh  attrition  of  earlier 


years;  but  his  smile  is  kindly,  and  his 
eyes  have  in  them  the  light  of  an  un- 
conquerable will.  He  helps  one  to 
know  what  Lincoln  must  have  been 
like. 

In  this  campaign  the  leaders  of  Labor 
are  almost  the  only  keepers  of  the  no- 
bler idealism  of  England,  and  their  pro- 
gramme is  essentially  Christian.  Alas, 
they  have  a  heavy  weight  of  inertia  to 
carry,  and  one  wonders  if  they  can 
fire  the  apathetic  mass,  fatalistically 
submissive  to  its  lot,  and  suspicious  of 
anyone  who  tries  to  alter  it. 

November  29.  —  Anyway,  I  am  hav- 
ing the  time  of  my  life,  going  to  every 
sort  of  political  meeting  and  listening 
to  every  sort  of  speech.  It  is  a  big  show 
and  a  continuous  performance.  The 
best  address  I  have  heard,  so  far,  was 
delivered  by  a  Methodist  preacher  at  a 
Labor  meeting  in  Kingsway  Hall.  His 
sentences  cracked  like  rifle-shots,  and 
they  hit  the  mark.  The  campaign  makes 
me  first  sick,  and  then  homesick;  it  is  so 
like  our  way  of  doing  it.  That  is,  all 
except  the  hecklers.  They  are  so  quick 
and  keen  of  retort.  Also,  the  English 
can  beat  us  at  mud-slinging.  It  is  humil- 
iating to  admit  it,  but  it  is  so.  We  are 
amateurs  in  abusing  the  government; 
but  we  are  young  yet,  and  longer  prac- 
tice will  no  doubt  give  us  greater  skill. 
How  like  our  elections  is  the  hubbub 
and  hysteria  of  it  all.  Mr.  Asquith  told 
me  how  he  made  a  speech  on  world- 
affairs,  and  one  of  his  audience  said: 
'What  we  want  to  know  is,  are  we  going 
to  get  a  pier  for  our  boats ! '  Always  the 
local  grievance  clouds  the  larger  Issue. 
How  familiar  it  is,  as  if  a  man  went  out, 
and  encountered  in  the  street  what  he 
thought  for  the  moment  was  himself. 
Men,  otherwise  sane,  seem  to  lose  their 
senses  in  a  political  campaign.  States- 
men talk  drivel,  promising  what  no  mor- 
tal can  perform,  challenging  the  scorn  of 
man  and  the  judgment  of  heaven.  O 
Democracy  1 


506 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


(As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  Presi- 
dent was  to  attend  the  Peace  Conference  in 
person,  the  Tory  papers  in  London  began 
subtly  and  skillfully  to  paint  a  caricature 
of  him  in  the  public  mind.  He  was  described 
as  a  kind  of  Hamlet,  living  aloof  in  the 
cloisters  of  the  White  House;  a  visionary 
companioned  by  abstractions;  a  thinking- 
machine  so  cold  that  one  could  skate  all 
round  him,  having  'as  good  a  heart  as  can 
be  made  out  of  brains,'  —  'not  a  man  at  all, 
but  a  bundle  of  formulae,'  —  and,  finally, 
by  the  Morning  Post,  as  'a  political  Moody 
and  Sankey'  coming  to  convert  Europe  to 
his  gospel  of  'internationalism,'  which  it 
described  as  a  'disease.'  Such  was  the  re- 
actionary attitude  toward  the  man  who 
made  the  only  constructive  suggestion  seek- 
ing to  prevent  the  '  collective  suicide '  of  war. 
But  only  a  small  part  of  the  British  press 
was  guilty  of  such  a  violation  of  good  form 
and  good  feeling.  The  Times  —  by  virtue, 
no  doubt,  of  its  position,  not  only  as  a 
journal,  but  as  an  institution  —  secured 
from  the  President  a  memorable  interview, 
in  which  he  was  shown  to  be  actually  and 
attractively  human;  and,  further,  that  he 
had  no  intention  of  demanding  the  sinking 
of  the  British  Fleet. 

The  President  arrived  in  London  the  day 
after  Christmas,  and  the  greeting  accorded 
him  by  the  English  people  was  astonishingly 
hearty  and  enthusiastic.  Their  curiosity  to 
see  the  man  whose  words  had  rung  in  their 
ears,  expressing  what  so  many  hoped  but  so 
few  were  able  to  say,  joined  with  their  desire 
to  pay  homage  to  the  first  President  of  our 
Republic  who  had  set  foot  on  English  soil. 
His  visit  was  taken  to  be  a  gesture  of  good- 
will, and  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  the 
way  in  which  he  captured  the  English  peo- 
ple. He  swept  them  off  their  feet.  For  a 
brief  time  his  marvelous  personality,  his 
'magic  of  the  necessary  word,'  his  tact,  his 
charm,  seemed  to  change  the  climate  of  the 
island.  No  man  hi  our  history  could  have 
represented  us  more  brilliantly.  In  Buck- 
ingham Palace  as  the  guest  of  the  King,  in 
the  old  Guildhall  as  a  guest  of  the  City,  at 
the  luncheon  in  the  Mansion  House,  his 
words  were  not  a  mere  formal,  diplomatic 
response,  but  real  in  their  unaffected  sim- 
plicity, and  as  appropriate  as  they  were  elo- 
quent. On  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  going 


with  the  King  to  worship  at  St.  Paul's,  he 
went  to  the  little  Nonconformist  Chapel  at 
Carlisle,  where  his  mother  had  been  a  girl, 
and  his  grandfather  the  minister.  His  brief 
talk  in  the  old  pulpit  was  a  gem,  and  it 
touched  the  people  deeply.  At  the  Mansion 
House  luncheon  we  heard  the  news  of  the 
election  returns  —  the  result  having  been 
delayed  in  order  to  get  the  report  of  the 
soldier  vote.) 

December  28.  —  So  the  President  has 
come  and  gone,  and  the  Prime  Minister 
has  learned  what  was  in  his  Christmas 
stocking.  It  is  a  blank  check,  and  he 
may  now  fill  it  in  with  such  stakes  as  he 
can  win  at  the  Peace  Table.  He  divined 
aright  the  bitter  mood  and  temper  of 
the  hour.  It  is  a  Tory  victory  by  a 
trick,  the  Liberal  Party  having  been 
asphyxiated,  if  not  destroyed;  and  it 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  can  be  re- 
suscitated. Mr.  Asquith  was  defeated; 
Mr.  Bottomley  was  elected!  In  Amer- 
ica that  would  be  equal  to  the  defeat  of 
Elihu  Root  and  the  election  of  Hearst, 
and  would  be  deemed  a  disaster.  So  the 
Prime  Minister  gets  what  he  wanted  — 
a  Parliament  tied,  hamstrung,  without 
moral  mandate,  three  quarters  of  its 
members  having  accepted  the  coupon; 
and  of  the  remainder,  the  largest  party 
consists  of  seventy  Sinn  Feiners  who 
are  either  in  prison  or  pledged  not  to 
sit  in  the  House.  It  is  a  Parliament  in 
which  there  will  be  no  effective  opposi- 
tion, the  Labor  Party  being  insignifi- 
cant and  badly  led.  The  Prime  Minister 
gets  what  he  wants,  but  at  the  sacrifice 
of  the  noblest  tradition  in  British  his- 
tory. Labor  is  sullen,  bitter,  angry.  I 
predict  a  rapid  development  of  the 
dogma  of  Direct  Action;  and,  if  it  is  so, 
the  Prime  Minister  will  have  no  one  to 
blame  but  himself.  Such  is  the  effect  of 
a  trick  election,  the  tragedy  of  which 
grows  as  its  meaning  is  revealed. 

(The  reference  to  Mr.  Bottomley  implies 
no  ill-will  to  him  personally,  though  I  hate 
the  things  for  which  he  stands.  When  it  was 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


507 


announced  that  I  had  accepted  the  invita- 
tion to  the  City  Temple,  I  received  a  long 
cablegram  from  Mr.  Bottomley,  suggesting 
that  I  write  for  his  paper,  John  Bull,  and 
telling  of  his  admiration  for  Dr.  Parker. 
Unfortunately,  as  I  did  not  choose  to  be 
introduced  to  England  through  such  a 
medium,  I  could  not  accept  his  invitation. 
Often  —  especially  after  my  protest  against 
the  increase  of  breweiy  supplies  —  he  wrote 
cruel  things  about  me.  It  did  not  matter; 
I  should  have  been  much  more  unhappy  if 
he  had  written  in  my  praise.  He  is  the  cap- 
tain of  the  most  dangerous  and  disinte- 
grating elements  in  Britain,  —  the  mob  as 
distinct  from  democracy,  —  the  crowded 
public-house,  the  cheap  music-hall,  and  the 
nether  side  of  the  sporting  world.  With 
facile  and  copious  emotions,  he  champions 
the  cause  of  the  poor,  with  ready  tears  for 
ruined  girls  —  preferably  if  the  story  of 
their  ruin  will  smack  a  little  smuttily  in  his 
prper.  Since  the  Armistice,  his  office  has 
been  the  poison-factory  and  centre  of  anti- 
American  propaganda,  and  in  playing  upon 
the  fears  and  hates  and  prejudices  of  people, 
he  is  a  master.  Alas,  we  are  only  too  famil- 
iar with  his  type  on  this  side  of  the  sea.) 

January  4,  1919.  —  Joined  a  group 
to-day  noon,  to  discuss  the  problem  of 
Christian  union,  by  which  they  seemed 
to  mean  Church  union  —  a  very  differ- 
ent thing.  But  it  was  only  talk.  Men  are 
not  ready  for  it,  and  the  time  is  not  ripe. 
Nor  can  it  be  hastened,  as  my  friend 
the  Bishop  of  Manchester  thought  when 
he  proposed  some  spectacular  drama- 
tization of  the  Will  to  Fellowship  dur- 
ing the  war.  Still  less  will  it  come  by 
erasing  all  historical  loyalties  in  one 
indistinguishable  blue  of  ambiguity.  If 
it  is  artificial,  it  will  be  superficial.  It 
must  come  spiritually  and  spontane- 
ously, else  it  will  be  a  union,  not  of  the 
Church,  but  of  the  churchyard.  Dicker 
and  deal  suggest  a  horse-trade.  No,  our 
fathers  parted  in  passion;  in  passion  we 
must  come  together.  It  must  be  a  union, 
not  of  compromise,  but  of  comprehen- 
sion. If  all  the  churches  were  made  one 
to-day,  what  difference  would  it  make? 


Little,  if  any.  Something  deeper  and 
more  drastic  is  needed.  As  the  Elizabe- 
than Renaissance  was  moralized  by  the 
advent  of  Puritanism,  and  the  reaction 
from  the  French  Revolution  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  Evangelical  Revival,  so, 
by  a  like  rhythm,  the  new  age  into 
which  we  are  entering  will  be  quickened, 
in  some  unpredictable  way,  by  a  re- 
newal of  religion.  Then,  perhaps,  on  a 
tide  of  new  life,  we  may  be  drawn  to- 
gether in  some  form  of  union.  In  this 
country  no  union  is  possible  with  a 
State  Church,  unless  the  Free  Churches 
are  milling  to  turn  the  faces  of  their 
leaders  to  the  wall.  So  far  from  being  a 
national  church,  the  Anglican  commun- 
ion is  only  a  tiny  sect  on  one  end  of  the 
island.  Its  claim  to  a  monopoly  of  apos- 
tolicity  is  not  amenable  to  the  law  of 
gravitation  —  since  it  rests  upon  noth- 
ing, no  one  can  knock  away  its  founda- 
tions. Just  now  we  are  importuned  to 
accept  the  '  historic  episcopacy '  for  the 
sake  of  regularity,  as  if  regularity  were 
more  important  than  reality.  Even  the 
Free  Churches  have  failed  to  federate, 
and  one  is  not  sorry  to  have  it  so, 
remembering  the  lines  of  an  old  Wilt- 
shire love-song  which  I  heard  the  other 
day: — 

If  all  the  world  were  of  one  religion 
Many  a  living  thing  should  die. 

January  12.  —  Alas!  affairs  on  the 
lovely  but  unhappy  island  of  Ireland 
seem  to  go  from  bad  to  worse,  adding 
another  irritation  to  a  shell-shocked 
world.  From  a  distance  the  Irish  issue 
is  simple  enough,  but  near  at  hand  it  is 
a  sad  tangle,  complicated  by  immemo- 
rial racial  and  religious  rancors,  and, 
what  is  sadder  still,  by  a  seemingly  hope- 
less incompatibility  of  temperament  be- 
tween the  peoples  of  these  two  islands. 
They  do  not,  and  apparently  cannot, 
understand  each  other.  It  looks  like  the 
old  problem  of  what  happens  when  an 
irresistible  force  meets  an  immovable 
object.  Besides,  the  friction  is  not  only 


508 


PREACHING   IN  LONDON 


between  Ireland  and  England,  but  be- 
tween two  Irelands  —  different  in  race, 
religion,  and  economic  organization.  If 
Ireland  could  be  divided,  as  Lincoln 
divided  Virginia,  the  riddle  would  be 
solved.  But  no  Irishman  will  agree. 

The  English  people,  as  I  talk  with 
them  about  Ireland,  are  as  much  be- 
wildered by  it  as  anybody  else.  They 
do  feel  hurt  at  the  attitude  of  South  Ire- 
land during  the  war,  and  I  confess  I 
cannot  chide  them  for  it.  Ireland  was 
exempted  from  conscription,  from  ra- 
tioning, from  nearly  all  the  hardships  of 
a  war  which,  had  it  been  lost,  would 
have  meant  the  enslavement  of  Ireland, 
as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  A  dis- 
tinguished journalist  told  me  that  his 
own  Yorkshire  relatives  were  forced  into 
Irish  regiments  by  politicians,  to  make 
it  appear  that  Ireland  was  fighting. 
The  Irish  seaboard,  except  in  Ulster, 
was  hostile  seaboard.  It  required  seven- 
ty-five thousand  men  to  keep  order  in 
Ireland,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when 
every  man  was  needed  at  the  front. 
Ulster,  in  the  meantime,  did  magnifi- 
cently in  the  war,  and  it  would  be  a 
base  treachery  to  coerce  it  to  leave 
the  United  Kingdom.  Ulster  may  be 
dour  and  relentless,  but  it  has  rights 
which  must  be  respected.  Yet,  if  Eng- 
land does  not  find  a  way  out  of  the 
Irish  muddle,  she  may  imperil  the  peace 
of  the  world.  So  the  matter  stands,  like 
the  Mark  Twain  story  in  which  he  got 
the  hero  and  heroine  into  so  intricate  a 
tangle  that  he  gave  it  up,  and  ended  by 
offering  a  prize  to  anyone  who  could  get 
them  out  of  it. 

January  14.  —  To-day  a  distinguish- 
ed London  minister  told  me  a  story 
about  the  President,  for  which  he 
vouches.  He  had  it  from  the  late  Syl- 
vester Home,  —  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment and  minister  of  Whitefield's  Chap- 
el,—  who  had  known  the  President 
for  years  before  he  was  elevated  to  his 
high  office.  Home  happened  to  be  in 


America  —  where  he  was  always  a  wel- 
come guest  —  before  the  war,  shortly 
after  the  President  was  inaugurated, 
and  he  called  at  the  White  House  to  pay 
his  respects.  In  the  course  of  the  talk, 
he  expressed  satisfaction  that  the  rela- 
tions between  England  and  America 
would  be  in  safe  hands  while  the  Presi- 
dent was  in  office.  The  President  said 
nothing,  and  Home  wondered  at  it. 
Finally  he  forced  the  issue,  putting  it  as 
a  question  point-blank.  The  President 
said,  addressing  him  in  the  familiar 
language  of  religious  fellowship:  'Bro- 
ther Home,  one  of  the  greatest  calami- 
ties that  has  befallen  mankind  will  come 
during  my  term  of  office.  It  will  come 
from  Germany.  Go  home  and  settle  the 
Irish  question,  and  there  will  be  no 
doubt  as  to  where  America  will  stand.' 
How  strange,  how  tragic,  if,  having 
kept  America  out  of  the  war  for  more 
than  two  years,  —  since  nearly  all  Irish- 
men are  in  the  party  of  the  President, 
—  Ireland  should  also  keep  America  out 
of  the  peace,  and  defeat,  or  at  least  in- 
definitely postpone,  the  organization  of 
an  effective  league  of  nations !  Yet  such 
may  be  the  price  We  must  pay  for  the 
wrongs  of  olden  time,  by  virtue  of  the 
law  whereby  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are 
visited  upon  generation  after  genera- 
tion. Naturally  the  English  people  do 
not  understand  our  urgent  interest  in 
the  problem  of  Ireland,  not  knowing 
how  it  meddles  in  our  affairs,  poisoning 
the  springs  of  good-will,  and  thwarting 
the  cooperation  between  English-speak- 
ing peoples  upon  which  so  much  de- 
pends. 

January  16.  —  At  the  London  Poet- 
ry Society  —  which  has  made  me  one 
of  its  vice-presidents — one  meets  many 
interesting  artists,  as  well  as  those  who 
are  trying  to  sing  the  Everlasting  Song 
in  these  discordant  days  —  Masefield, 
Noyes,  Newbolt,  Yeats,  Mackereth,  to 
name  but  a  few,  with  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  Hardy.  Nor  do  I  forget  May 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


£09 


Doney,  a  little  daughter  of  St.  Francis, 
walking  The  Way  of  Wonder.  A  reading 
of  poetry  by  Sir  Forbes  Robertson  is 
always  an  event,  as  much  for  his  golden 
voice  as  for  his  interpretative  insight. 
The  plea  of  Mackereth,  some  time  ago, 
for  poetry  as  a  spiritual  teacher  and 
social  healer,  was  memorable,  appeal- 
ing to  the  Spirit  of  Song  to  bring  back 
to  hearts  grown  bitter  and  dark  the 
warmth  and  guidance  of  vision.  The 
first  time  I  heard  of  Mackereth  was 
from  a  British  officer  as  we  stood  ankle- 
deep  in  soppy  mud  in  a  Flanders  trench. 
If  only  we  could  have  a  League  of  Poets 
there  would  be  hope  of  a  gentler,  better 
world,  and  they  surely  could  not  make 
a  worse  mess  of  it  than  the  '  practical  * 
men  have  made.  If  the  image  in  the 
minds  of  the  poets  of  to-day  is  a  proph- 
ecy of  to-morrow,  we  may  yet  hope  for 
a  world  where  pity  and  joy  walk  the  old, 
worn  human  road,  and  'Beauty  passes 
with  the  sun  on  her  wings.' 

January  19. — The  Peace  Conference 
opened  with  imposing  ceremony  at 
Versailles  yesterday,  and  now  we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see.  An  idealist,  a 
materialist,  and  an  opportunist  are  to 
put  the  world  to  rights.  Just  why  a 
pessimist  was  not  included  is  hard  to 
know,  but  no  doubt  there  will  be  pessi- 
mists a-plenty  before  the  job  is  done. 
Clemenceau  is  a  man  of  action,  Lloyd 
George  a  man  of  transaction,  and  what 
kind  of  a  man  the  President  is,  in  nego- 
tiations of  this  nature,  remains  to  be  re- 
vealed. The  atmosphere  is  unfavorable 
to  calm  deliberation  and  just  appraise- 
ment. The  reshaping  of  the  world  out- 
of-hand,  to  the  quieting  of  all  causes  of 
discord,  is  humanly  impossible.  To- 
gether Britain  and  America  would  be 
irresistible  if  they  were  agreed,  and  if 
they  were  ready  for  a  brave,  large  ges- 
ture of  world-service  —  but  they  are 
not  ready.  America  had  only  enough  of 
the  war  to  make  it  mad  and  not  enough 
to  subdue  it;  Britain  had  enough  to 


make  it  bitter.  As  a  penalty  of  having 
no  axe  to  grind,  America  will  have  to 
bear  the  odium  of  insisting  upon  sound 
principles  and  telling  unpalatable  truths, 
and  so  may  not  come  off  well.  We 
shall  see  whether  there  is  any  honor 
among  nations,  whether  the  terms  of 
the  Armistice  will  be  made  a  'scrap  of 
paper,'  and  whether  there  is  to  be  a 
league  of  peace  or  a  new  balance  of 
power  —  a  new  imperialism  for  the  old. 
Meanwhile,  all  ears  will  be  glued  to  the 
keyhole,  straining  to  hear  even  a  whis- 
per of  'open  covenants,  openlv  arrived 
at.' 

January  30.  —  On  my  way  back  from 
Scotland  I  broke  my  journey  at  Leices- 
ter, to  preach  in  the  church  of  Robert 
Hall  —  the  Pork-Pie  Church,  as  they 
call  it,  because  of  its  circular  shape.  In 
the  evening  I  lectured  on  Lincoln.  Lei- 
cester, I  remembered,  had  been  the 
home  of  William  Carey,  and  I  went  to 
see  his  little  Harvey  Lane  Church, 
where  he  dreamed  his  great  dream  and 
struggled  with  drunken  deacons.  Just 
across  the  narrow  street  is  the  red-brick 
cottage  where  he  lived,  teaching  a  few 
pupils  and  working  at  his  cobbler's 
bench  to  eke  out  a  living.  It  is  now 
a  Missionary  Museum,  preserved  as 
nearly  as  possible  in  its  original  form 
and  furniture,  its  ceiling  so  low  that  I 
could  hardly  stand  erect.  There,  in  his 
little  back-shop,  —  with  its  bench  and 
tools,  like  those  Carey  used,  —  a  great 
man  worked.  Pegging  away,  he  never- 
theless kept  a  map  of  the  world  on  the 
opposite  wall  of  his  shop,  dreaming  the 
while  of  world-conquest  for  Christ. 
There,  too,  he  thought  out  that  mighty 
sermon  which  took  its  text  from  Isaiah 
54:  2,  3,  and  had  two  points:  Expect 
great  things  from  God;  attempt  great 
things  for  God. 

No  other  sermon  of  that  period  — 
1792  —  had  only  two  points,  and  none 
ever  had  a  finer  challenge  to  the  faith  of 
Christian  men.  We  need  the  vision  of 


510 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


Carey  in  this  broken  world  to-day,  that 
so,  however  humble  our  lot,  we  may 
learn  to  think  in  world-terms  —  in 
terms,  that  is,  of  one  humanity  and  one 
Christianity.  I  felt  myself  standing  at 
the  fountain-head  of  that  river  of  God 
which  will  yet  make  this  war-ridden 
earth  blossom  as  a  rose. 

April  8. —  The  City  Temple  mail- 
bag  entails  an  enormous  amount  of 
labor,  bringing  almost  a  hundred  letters 
a  week;  but  it  is  endlessly  interesting. 
There  are  letters  of  all  kinds  —  a  series 
from  Manchester  proving  that  the 
world  is  hollow  and  that  we  live  on  the 
inside  —  and  from  everywhere:  China, 
India,  France,  America,  and  all  over 
Britain.  If  an  American  says  a  naughty 
thing  about  Britain,  a  copy  of  it  is  sent 
to  me,  underlined.  If  it  is  the  other  way 
round,  I  am  not  allowed  to  forget  it. 
There  are  letters  from  ministers  whose 
faith  has  been  shaken,  and  from  others 
who  want  to  go  to  America;  pitiful  let- 
ters from  shell-shocked  boys  in  hospi- 
tals; letters  from  bereaved  parents 
and  widowed  girls  —  heroic,  appealing, 
heart-breaking,  like  that  from  an  old 
woman  in  the  north  of  England  whose 
life  of  sorrow  was  crowned  by  the  loss 
of  her  two  grandsons  in  the  war.  In 
closing  she  said : '  Me  youth  is  gone,  me 
hope  is  dead,  me  heart  is  heavy;  but  I 
neglect  no  duty.'  To  which  I  could  only 
reply  that,  though  God  had  taken 
everything  else,  in  leaving  her  a  love  of 
righteousness  He  had  left  her  the  best 
gift  He  had. 

As  nearly  all  the  City  Temple  ser- 
mons and  prayers  are  published,  both 
hearers  and  readers  write  to  agree  or 
disagree,  or,  more  often,  to  relate  diffi- 
culties of  faith  or  duty.  The  mail-bag 
is  thus  an  index  to  the  varying  moods  of 
the  time  in  respect  to  matters  of  faith, 
and  I  learn  more  from  it  than  I  am 
able  to  teach  others.  Every  time  a  ser- 
mon has  to  do  with  Christ,  it  is  sure  to 
be  followed  by  a  shower  of  letters,  ask- 


ing that  the  subject  be  carried  further. 
In  spite  of  the  agitations  of  the  world, 
—  perhaps  because  of  them,  —  What 
think  ye  of  Christ?  remains  the  most 
absorbing  and  fascinating  of  all  ques- 
tions. 

Somehow,  in  spite  of  my  practice  for 
the  last  ten  years,  I  have  always  had  a 
shrinking  feeling  about  writing  and 
printing  prayers.  Yet,  when  I  receive 
letters  telling  how  perplexed  and  weary 
folk  are  helped  by  them,  I  relent. 
Public  prayer,  of  course,  is  different 
from  private  devotion;  it  is  individual, 
indeed,  but  representative  and  sym- 
bolic, too.  One  speaks  for  many,  some 
of  whom  are  dumb  of  soul,  and  if  one 
can  help  others  to  pray,  it  is  worth 
while.  Yesterday,  in  the  Authors'  Club, 
a  man  took  me  aside  and  told  me  this 
story.  He  was  an  officer  invalided  out 
of  the  service,  having  been  wounded 
and  smitten  with  fever  in  the  Mesopo- 
tamian  campaign.  He  took  from  his 
pocket  a  tiny  book,  —  it  looked  like  a 
notebook,  —  saying  that  it  contained 
the  bread,  the  meat,  the  milk,  all  that 
had  kept  his  soul  alive  on  the  long 
marches  and  the  weary  waits  in  the 
hospitals.  I  thought  it  was,  perhaps,  a 
copy  of  the  New  Testament,  or  the 
Imitation  of  Christ;  but,  on  opening  it, 
I  found  ten  of  my  little  prayers  cut  from 
the  paper  and  pasted  in  the  book.  Such 
things  help  me  to  go  on,  even  against  a 
shrinking  I  cannot  define. 

April  16.  —  The  hearings  of  the 
British  Coal  Commission,  in  the  King's 
Robing-Room,  some  of  which  I  have 
attended,  look  and  sound  like  a  social 
judgment-day.  Never,  I  dare  say,  has 
England  seen  such  pitiless  publicity  on 
the  lives  of  the  workers,  the  fabulous 
profits  of  the  owners,  —  running  up  as 
high  as  147  per  cent,  —  and  the  '  rig- 
ging' of  the  public.  It  is  like  a  search- 
light suddenly  turned  on.  No  wonder 
the  country  stands  aghast.  Nothing 
could  surpass  the  patience,  the  cour- 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


511 


age,  the  relentless  politeness  of  Robert 
Smillie,  who  conducts  the  case  for  the 
miners.  He  has  had  all  England  on 
dress-parade  —  lords,  dukes,  and  nobles 

—  while  he  examined  them  as  to  the 
titles  to  their  holdings.  They  were  swift 
and  often  witty  in  their  replies,  but  it 
means  much  that  they  had  to  come 
when  summoned  by  a  miner.  They  were 
bored  and  surly,  but  they  humbly  obey- 
ed. Truly,  we  are  in  a  new  England; 
and  though  their  lordships  may  have 
a  brief  success  in  the  King's  Robing- 
Room,  they  are  in  fact  already  defeated 

—  and  they  know  it.   They  win  a  skir- 
mish, but  they  lose  a  battle. 

May  10. —  What  the  Free  Cathol- 
icism may  turn  out  to  be  remains  to  be 
disclosed;  so  far,  it  is  more  clever  and 
critical  than  constructive.  W.  E.  Or- 
chard is  its  Bernard  Shaw,  and  W.  G. 
Peck  its  Chesterton.  At  first,  it  was 
thought  to  be  only  a  protest  against  the 
ungracious  barrenness  of  Nonconform- 
ist worship,  in  behalf  of  rhythm,  color, 
and  symbolism.  But  it  is  more  than 
that.  It  seeks  to  unite  personal  relig- 
ious experience  with  its  corporate  and 
symbolical  expression,  thus  blending 
two  things  too  often  held  apart.  As  be- 
tween Anglicans  and  Nonconformists, 
it  discovers  the  higher  unity  of  things 
which  do  not  differ,  seeking  the  large- 
ness of  Christ  in  whose  radiance  there 
is  room  for  every  type  of  experience  and 
expression.  It  lays  emphasis  on  fellow- 
ship, since  no  one  can  find  the  truth  for 
another,  and  no  one  can  find  it  alone. 
Also,  by  reinterpreting  and  extending 
the  sacramental  principle,  and  at  the 
same  time  disinfecting  it  of  magic,  the 
Free  Catholicism  may  give  new  impetus 
to  all  creative  social  endeavor.  For 
years  it  has  been  observed  that  many 
ultra-high  Churchmen  —  for  example, 
Bishop  Gore,  who  is  one  of  the  noblest 
characters  in  modern  Christianity  — 
have  been  leaders  in  the  social  inter- 
pretation of  Christianity.  Perhaps,  at 


last,  we  shall  learn  that  it  was  not  the 
Church,  but  Humanity,  with  which 
Jesus  identified  Himself  when  He  said: 
'This  is  my  body  broken  for  you.'  The 
great  thing  about  Christianity  is  that 
no  one  can  tell  what  it  will  do  next. 

June  2J  —  Have  been  down  in  Wales 
for  a  day  or  two,  lecturing  on  Lincoln, 
and  also  feeling  the  pulse  of  the  public 
sentiment.  I  found  it  beating  quick  and 
hot.  Indeed,  not  only  in  Wales,  but  all 
over  the  north  of  England,  there  is 
white-hot  indignation  —  all  due  to  that 
wretched  election  last  autumn.  One 
hears  revolutionary  talk  on  all  sides, 
and  only  a  spark  is  needed  to  make  an 
explosion.  When  I  see  the  hovels  in 
which  the  miners  live,  —  squalid  huts, 
more  like  pig-pens  than  human  homes, 
—  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  unrest  of  the 
people,  but  at  their  infinite  patience. 
Physical  and  moral  decay  are  inevitable, 
and  the  spiritual  life  is  like  a  fourth  di- 
mension. I  asked  a  Labor  leader  what 
it  is  that  is  holding  things  together,  and 
he  replied:  'All  that  holds  now  is  the 
fact  that  these  men  went  to  Sunday 
School  in  the  churches  and  chapels  of 
Wales  years  ago;  nothing  else  restrains 
them.'  Thus  a  religious  sense  of  the 
common  good,  of  communal  obligation, 
holds,  when  all  other  ties  give  way.  But 
the  churches  and  chapels  are  empty  to- 
day, and  in  the  new  generation  what 
will  avert  the  'emancipated,  atheistic, 
international  democracy,'  so  long  pre- 
dicted? Religion  must  do  something 
more  than  restrain  and  conserve :  it  must 
create  and  construct.  If  ever  we  find 
the  secret  of  creative  social  evolution,  it 
will  be  in  a  deeper  insight  into  the  na- 
ture and  meaning  of  religion  as  a  social 
reality,  as  well  as  a  private  mysticism. 
This  at  least  is  plain:  the  individual  and 
the  social  gospel  belong  together,  and 
neither  will  long  survive  the  shipwreck 
of  the  other.  Never,  this  side  of  heaven, 
do  I  expect  to  hear  such  singing  as  I 
heard  in  Wales! 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


June  16.  —  Henry  James  said  that 
three  marks  distinguish  London  —  her 
size,  her  parks,  and  her  'magnificent 
mystification.'  To  know  the  mystifica- 
tion one  needs  to  spend  a  night  —  cool, 
moonless,  and  windy  —  on  top  of  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral.  After  climbing  as 
many  steps  as  there  are  days  in  the 
year,  and  a  journey  through  devious 
diagonals,  we  emerge  by  a  tiny  door 
leading  to  the  Golden  Gallery,  three 
hundred  feet  above  the  sleeping  city. 
Sounds  as  they  ascend  are  isolated  and 
identifiable,  even  when  softened  by  dis- 
tance or  teased  by  the  wind.  Fleet 
Street,  westward,  is  a  ravine  of  yellow 
glamour.  Cheapside  looks  like  a  fissure 
in  the  side  of  a  volcano,  where  black- 
ness swallows  up  everything  else.  The 
bridges  play  at  criss-cross  with  lamp- 
reflections  in  the  river.  The  clock-tower 
of  Westminster,  like  a  moon  and  a  half, 
shines  dimly,  and  the  railway  signals  at 
Cannon  Street  Station  look  like  stars 
of  the  under-world  —  crimson,  emerald, 
amber.  By  half-past  three  a  sky,  mot- 
tled with  heavy  clouds,  begins  to  sift 
them  into  planes  and  fills  the  breaks 
with  the  sort  of  light  that  is  'rather 
darkness  visible.'  Slowly  the  pall  over 
the  city,  half  mist  and  half  smoke,  — 
the  same  'presumptuous  smoake'  of 
Evelyn's  day,  —  begins  to  drift  sullenly 
with  the  wind,  like  a  gas-attack.  An 
hour  ago  the  lamplights  made  every- 
thing seem  ghostly;  now  the  ghostliness 
is  theirs.  Presently,  out  of  a  sea  of  slate, 
Wren's  steeples  rise  like  gaunt  spectres, 
with  an  air  compounded  of  amazement 
and  composure.  The  last  thing  to  take 
shape  is  the  Cathedral  itself;  first  the 
gilt  Cross  shines  palely,  then  the  Lan- 
tern grows  to  unearthly  whiteness,  but 
the  Dome  still  broods  in  darkness.  As  we 
watch,  the  campaniles  and  the  statues 
below  turn  from  alabaster  to  ivory. 
Squadrons  of  clouds  float  in  an  atmos- 
phere that  is  turning  from  gray  to  pearl, 
and  from  pearl  to  gold,  like  the  rosy 


amorini  in  a  Venetian  altar-piece.  The 
river  is  astir  with  barges,  and  early 
trams  sprinkle  grains  of  humanity  about 
the  thoroughfares.  Camden  Town 
crawls  back  under  its  pall  of  industrial 
smoke.  At  last  the  city,  in  all  its  infin- 
itude of  detail,  is  revealed,  and  the 
mystification  of  the  night  gives  way  to 
the  day  with  'sovran  eye.'  A  flashing 
glimpse  of  the  Cathedral  from  with- 
in, in  the  glow  of  the  eastern  windows, 
makes  one  wonder  why  we  do  not  offer 
our  worship,  as  they  do  in  the  East, 
at  dawn. 

July  25.  —  With  appalling  clarity  we 
are  beginning  to  see  how  little  we  gained 
by  the  war,  and  how  much  we  lost. 
Instead  of  a  world  worthy  of  the  gener- 
osity and  idealism  of  the  dead,  we  have 
moral  collapse,  revolutionary  influenza, 
industrial  chaos,  and  an  orgy  of  extrava- 
gance. In  politics,  in  business,  in  social 
life,  things  are  done  which  would  have 
excited  horror  and  disgust  in  1914. 
One  recalls  the  lines  of  Chesterton  writ- 
ten after  the  landslide  election  of 
1906:  — 

The  evil  Power,  that  stood  for  Privilege 

And  went  with  Women  and  Champagne  and 

Bridge, 

Ceased:  and  Democracy  assumed  its  reign, 
Which    went    with    Bridge    and    Women    and 

Champagne. 

Nothing  is  more  terrible  than  the  moral 
let-down  all  about  us,  unless  it  is  the 
ease  and  haste  with  which  a  wild  and 
forgetful  world  has  proved  false  to  the 
vows  it  swore  in  its  hour  of  terror. 
Yesterday  a  London  magistrate  said 
that  half  the  crime  in  the  kingdom  is 
bigamy.  Reticences  and  modesties 
seem  to  have  been  thrown  overboard  to 
an  accompaniment  of  the  jazz  dance, 
which  has  become  a  symbol  of  the  mood 
of  the  hour.  Often  it  has  been  said  that 
man  is  the  modest  sex,  but  I  never  be- 
lieved it  until  now.  Young  girls  between 
fifteen  and  twenty-two  are  unmanage- 
able, and  imitate  the  manners  of  courte- 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


513 


sans.  Working  for  good  wages,  they  are 
independent  of  their  parents,  demand- 
ing latchkeys,  to  come  and  go  at  all 
hours;  and  at  the  slightest  restraint 
they  leave  home.  In  broad  daylight  the 
public  parks  are  scenes  of  such  unspeak- 
able vulgarity  that  one  is  grateful  for 
the  protection  of  garden  walls.  Who 
can  estimate  the  injury  done  by  this 
loosening  of  the  moral  bonds,  this  let- 
ting down  of  the  bars  to  the  brute? 
Those  who  speak  of  war  as  a  purifier  of 
morals  are  masters  of  a  Satanic  satire! 

September  12.  —  These  are  days  when 
anything  may  happen.  Having  lived 
for  five  years  in  an  atmosphere  of  vio- 
lence, men  are  irritable,  and  riots  break 
out  on  the  slightest  pretext.  Many  fear 
that  the  history  of  a  century  ago,  when 
Peterloo  followed  Waterloo,  may  re- 
peat itself.  Nobody  is  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  the  Peace  Conference  —  sor- 
riest of  sequels  to  a  victory  won  by 
solidarity  and  sacrifice.  Some  think  the 
treaty  too  hard,  some  too  soft,  and  all 
wonder  how  it  can  be  enforced  without 
sowing  the  seeds  of  other  wars.  The 
Covenant  of  the  League  is  criticized  as 
keenly  here  as  in  America,  but  with 
nothing  like  the  poisonous  partisan  and 
personal  venom  displayed  at  home.  It 
is  felt  that,  if  the  nations  hold  together, 
the  Covenant  can  be  amended  and  the 
treaty  revised  and  made  workable  as 
need  requires;  but  if  they  pull  apart, 
the  case  is  hopeless. 

What  is  happening  in  America  is  hard 
to  make  out,  except  that,  under  cover 
of  a  poison-gas  attack  on  the  President, 
all  the  elements  that  opposed  the  war 
—  including  the  whole  hyphenated  con- 
tingent —  have  formed  a  coalition  of 
hatreds  to  destroy  him.  At  the  Peace 
Conference  he  was  the  victim  of  a  ven- 
detta by  men  of  his  own  country  who, 
for  partisan  purposes,  tried  to  stab  their 
own  President  in  the  back  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  negotiating  a 
treaty  of  peace  in  a  foreign  land!  Not 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  4 

D 


unnaturally  the  attitude  of  the  Senate 
is  interpreted  on  this  side  as  a  repudia- 
tion of  the  war  by  America.  '  You  came 
late  and  go  early;  having  helped  to  put 
out  the  fire,  you  leave  us  to  clean  up  the 
mess,'  my  English  friends  say.  No  won- 
der they  feel  bitter,  and  this  feeling  is 
fanned  by  the  anti-American  fanatics, 
whose  organized  propaganda  —  some- 
thing new  in  England  —  has  been  so 
active  since  the  Armistice.  No  doubt  it 
is  provoked  in  part  by  the  stupid  anti- 
British  propaganda  in  America,  with 
other  elements  added,  the  while  sinister 
forces  are  busy  in  behalf  of  estrange- 
ment between  two  peoples  who  should 
be,  not  only  friends,  but  fellow  workers 
for  the  common  good. 

(An  unhappy  example  of  this  feeling, 
which  marred  the  closing  weeks  of  my  min- 
istry, was  an  alleged  'interview'  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Daily  News,  purporting  to 
come  from  me.  It  made  me  use  words  re- 
mote from  my  thought,  in  a  spirit  foreign 
to  my  nature;  and  the  result  was  an  impres- 
sion so  alien  to  my  spirit,  and  so  untrue  to 
the  facts,  as  to  be  grotesque.  Such  words  as 
these  were  put  into  my  mouth:  'I  have  come 
reluctantly  to  the  opinion  that  an  American 
minister  cannot  really  succeed  in  England. 
There  is  something  in  the  English  character 
or  point  of  view  —  I  cannot  define  it  —  that 
seems  to  prevent  complete  agreement  and 
sympathy  between  the  two.  There  exists  a 
body  of  opinion  amongst  the  middle  men  in 
the  ministry  and  the  churches  that  objects 
to  the  permanent  settlement  of  American 
preachers  in  this  country.'  All  of  which  was 
manufactured  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
however  true  it  may  be  to  English  opinion. 
When  the  man  who  did  it  was  asked  for  his 
reason,  he  said  that  he  wished  'to  keep 
American  ministers  from  coming  to  Eng- 
land.' Of  course,  it  will  take  more  than  that 
to  keep  us  from  going  to  England,  —  though 
I  dare  say  it  will  be  many  a  day  before  an 
American  accepts  an  English  pastorate,  — 
but  the  incident  illustrates  the  state  of  mind 
almost  a  year  after  the  Armistice.  Unfortu- 
nately that  feeling  still  exists,  and  it  makes 
an  exchange  of  pulpits  difficult  for  Amer- 
icans who  have  any  national  self-respect. 


514 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


However,  by  patience  and  mutual  regard 
this  irritation  may  be  overcome  in  the  morn- 
ing of  a  fairer,  clearer  day.) 

October  9.  —  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  lec- 
tured in  the  City  Temple  to-night.  The 
Temple  was  full,  with  many  standing 
in  the  aisles.  His  subject  was  'The 
Structure  of  the  Atom,'  and  he  spoke 
for  more  than  an  hour,  holding  his  au- 
dience in  breathless  interest  Even  the 
children  present  heard  and  understood, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  fairy-story.  Indeed, 
it  was  more  fascinating  than  a  fairy- 
story  —  his  illustrations  were  so  simple, 
so  vivid.  As  a  work  of  art,  the  lecture 
was  a  rare  feat.  If  only  the  men  of  the 
pulpit  could  deal  with  the  great  themes 
of  faith  —  surely  not  more  abstract 
than  the  structure  of  the  atom  —  with 
the  same  simplicity  and  lucidity,  how 
different  it  would  be !  Tall,  well-formed, 
his  dome-like  head  reminding  one  of  the 
pictures  of  Tennyson,  the  lecturer  was 
good  to  look  at,  good  to  hear;  and  the 
total  impression  of  his  lecture  was  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  the  reality  of 
the  Unseen.  He  made  only  one  refer- 
ence to  psychical  studies,  and  that  was 
to  warn  people  to  go  slow,  not  to  leap 
beyond  the  facts,  and,  above  all,  — 
since  spiritualism  is  not  spirituality,  — 
not  to  make  such  matters  a  religion. 
This  advice  came  with  the  greater 
weight  from  the  man  who  more  than  all 
others,  perhaps,  has  lifted  such  investi- 
gations to  the  dignity  of  a  new  science. 

October  12.  —  Mr.  Asquith,  Lord 
Robert  Cecil,  Mr.  Clynes,  and  Premier 
Venizelos  of  Greece,  all  on  the  same 
platform,  speaking  in  behalf  of  the 
League  of  Nations!  Such  was  the  bill  of 
fare  at  the  Mansion  House,  to  which 
was  added  —  for  me  —  a  spicy  little 
chat  with  Mrs.  Asquith,  most  baffling 
of  women.  She  is  lightning  and  fra- 
grance all  mixed  up  with  a  smile,  and 
the  lightning  never  strikes  twice  in  the 
same  place.  Mr.  Asquith  read  his  ad- 
dress —  as  he  has  been  wont  to  do  since 


he  first  became  Prime  Minister  —  in  a 
style  as  lucid  as  sunlight  and  as  color- 
less: a  deliberate  and  weighty  address, 
more  like  a  judicial  opinion  than  an  ora- 
tion, yet  with  an  occasional  flash  of  hid- 
den fire.  Clynes  also  read  his  address, 
which  was  a  handicap,  for  he  is  a  very 
effective  speaker  when  he  lets  himself 
go.  Lord  Robert  —  tall,  stooped,  with 
centuries  of  British  culture  written  in 
his  face  —  was  never  more  eloquent  in 
his  wisdom  and  earnestness;  and  one 
heard  in  his  grave  and  simple  words  the 
finer  mind  of  England.  If  only  he  were 
more  militant,  as  he  would  be  but  for 
too  keen  a  sense  of  humor.  He  has  the 
spiritual  quality  which  one  misses  so 
much  in  the  statesmanship  of  our  day 
—  I  shall  never  be  happy  until  he  is 
Prime  Minister !  Venizelos  was  winning, 
graceful,  impressive;  and  in  a  brief  talk 
that  I  had  with  him  afterward,  he  spoke 
with  warm  appreciation  of  the  nobility 
and  high-mindedness  of  the  President. 
He  has  the  brightest  eyes  I  have  seen 
since  William  James  went  away.  With- 
out the  moral  greatness  of  Masaryk,  or 
the  Christian  vision  of  Smuts,  he  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  personalities  of 
our  time  and  one  of  its  ablest  men. 

October  20.  —  The  President  is  strick- 
en at  a  time  when  he  is  most  needed !  It 
is  appalling !  Without  him  reaction  will 
run  riot.  Though  wounded  in  a  terrify- 
ing manner,  he  still  holds  the  front-line 
trench  of  the  moral  idealism  of  the 
world !  Whatever  his  faults  at  home,  — 
his  errors  of  judgment  or  his  limitations 
of  temperament,  —  in  his  world- vision 
he  saw  straight;  and  he  made  the  only 
proposal  looking  toward  a  common  mind 
organized  in  the  service  of  the  common 
good.  Nothing  can  rob  him  of  that 
honor.  If  our  people  at  home  had  only 
known  the  sinister  agencies  with  which 
he  had  to  contend,  —  how  all  the  mili- 
tarists of  Europe  were  mobilized  against 
him  at  Paris,  —  they  would  see  that  his 
achievement,  while  falling  below  his 


PREACHING  IN  LONDON 


515 


ideal,  as  all  mortal  achievements  do, 
was  nothing  short  of  stupendous.  Those 
who  know  the  scene  from  this  side  have 
an  honorable  pride  in  the  President; 
and  though  his  fight  should  cost  him 
his  life,  when  the  story  is  finally  told  he 
will  stand  alongside  another  who  went 
'the  way  of  dominion  in  pitiful,  high- 
hearted fashion'  to  his  martyrdom.  He 
falls  where  a  brave  man  should  fall,  at 
the  front,  as  much  a  casualty  of  the  war 
as  any  soldier  who  fell  in  Flanders  or 
the  Argonne. 

November  11.  —  Sunday  evening,  the 
9th,  was  my  last  service  as  the  Minister 
of  the  City  Temple,  and  the  sermon 
had  for  its  text  Revelation  3:14  — 
'These  things  saith  the  Amen.'  It  was 
an  effort  to  interpret  that  old,  familiar, 
haunting  word,  —  the  Amen  of  God  to 
the  aspiration  of  man,  and  the  Amen  of 
man  to  the  way  and  will  of  God,  — 
seeking  to  make  vivid  that  vision  which 
sees  through  the  shadows,  and  affirms, 
not  that  all  is  well,  nor  yet  that  all  is  ill, 
but  that  all  shall  be  well  when  'God 
hath  made  the  pile  complete.'  Its  mes- 
sage was  that,  when  humanity  sees 
what  has  been  the  Eternal  Purpose 
from  the  beginning,  and  the  'far-off 
divine  event  to  which  the  whole  crea- 
tion moves,'  the  last  word  of  history 
will  be  a  grand  Amen  —  a  shout  of 
praise,  the  final  note  of  the  great  world- 
song.  To-day,  at  noon,  all  over  the 
Empire,  everything  paused  for  two 
minutes,  in  memory  of  the  dead.  The 
City  Temple  was  open  and  many  peo- 
ple gathered  for  that  moment  of  silent, 
high  remembrance;  and  that  hushed 
moment  was  my  farewell  to  the  great 
white  pulpit,  and  to  a  ministry  wrought 
in  the  name  of  Jesus  in  behalf  of  good- 
will —  speaking  with  stammering  voice 
those  truths  which  will  still  be  eloquent 
when  all  the  noises  of  to-day  have 
followed  the  feet  that  made  them,  into 
Silence. 

November  12.  —  To-night  the  Nation- 


al Council  of  the  Brotherhood  Move- 
ment, which  gave  me  so  warm  a  wel- 
come in  1916,  tendered  me  a  parting 
dinner  —  an  hour  which  I  can  neither 
describe  nor  forget.  Dr.  Clifford  —  a 
veteran  soldier  in  the  wars  of  God  — 
presided,  and  his  presence  was  a  bene- 
diction. Looking  back  over  my  three 
years  and  a  half  in  London,  I  can  truly 
say  that,  though  I  did  not  want  to  come, 
and  would  not  have  come  at  all  but  for 
the  war,  I  do  not  regret  that  I  did  come 
—  save  for  the  scenes  of  horror  and 
suffering,  which  I  pray  God  to  be  able 
to  forget.  Nor  do  I  regret  leaving, 
though  my  ministry  has  been  a  triumph 
from  the  beginning,  in  spite  of  many 
errors  of  my  own  added  to  the  terrible 
conditions  under  which  it  was  wrought. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  carry  in  my 
heart  the  faces  of  my  dear  friends  in 
England,  and  especially  the  love  and 
loyalty  of  the  people  of  the  City  Tem- 
ple —  the  memory  of  their  kindness  is 
like  sacramental  wine  in  the  Cup  of 
Everlasting  Things.  Perhaps,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  sea,  because  I  now 
know  the  spirit  and  point  of  view  of 
both  peoples,  I  may  be  able  to  help 
forward  the  great  friendship. 

November  14.  —  Hung  in  my  memory 
are  many  pictures  of  the  beauty-spots 
of  this  Blessed  Island:  glens  in  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland;  the  'banks  and 
braes  o'  bonny  Doon ' ;  stately  old  cathe- 
drals, —  strong,  piteous,  eloquent,  — 
sheltering  the  holy  things  of  life;  the 
towers  and  domes  of  Oxford;  Stoke 
Poges  on  a  still  summer  day;  the  roses 
of  Westcliff;  the  downs  of  Wiltshire, 
where  Walton  went  a-fishing  and  Her- 
bert preached  the  gospel  —  and  prac- 
tised it,  too;  Rottingdean-on-the-Sea; 
scenes  of  the  Shakespeare  country  — 
the  church,  the  theatre,  the  winding 
Avon;  the  old  Quaker  Meeting-house 
in  Buckinghamshire,  where  Perm  and 
Pennington  sleep;  the  mountains  of 
North  Wales;  great,  gray  London,  in 


516  WORDS 

all  its  myriad  moods:  London  in  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's;  London  from  the 

fog,  the  mist,   the  rain;  London    by  Savoy  in  October,  seen  through  a  lattice 

moonlight;  the  old,  rambling  city  whose  of  falling  leaves,  while  a  soft  haze  hangs 

charm  gathers  and  grows,  weaving  a  over  the  River  of  Years.  It  is  said  that, 

spell  which  one  can  neither  define  nor  if  one  lives  hi  London  five  years,  he  will 

escape;  London  from  Primrose  Hill  on  never  be  quite  happy  anywhere  else  — 

a  clear,  frosty  day;  London  from  the  and  I  am  leaving  it  just  in  time! 


WORDS 

BY   JOSEPH  AUSLANDER 

WORDS  with  the  freesia's  wounded  scent  I  know, 
And  those  that  suck  the  slow  irresolute  gold 
Out  of  the  daffodil's  heart;  cool  words  that  hold 
The  crushed  gray  light  of  rain,  or  liquidly  blow 
The  wild  bee  droning  home  across  the  glow 
Of  rippled  wind-silver;  or,  uncontrolled, 
Toss  the  bruised  aroma  of  pine;  and  words  as  cold 
As  water  torturing  through  frozen  snow. 

And  there  are  words  that  strain  like  April  hedges 
Upward;  lonely  words  with  tears  on  them; 
And  syllables  whose  haunting  crimson  edges 
Bleed:   *O  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem!' 
And  that  long  star-drift  of  bright  agony: 
'Eli,  Eli,  lama  sabachthani!' 


RELIGIOUS  CONTRASTS 


LETTERS   OF   A   PANTHEIST   AND   A   CHURCHMAN 


[!F  the  pantheistic  philosophy  of  life, 
which  has  been  with  honest  conviction 
developed  and  expounded  by  John  Bur- 
roughs, has  been  unsettling  to  the  peace 
and  the  beliefs  of  many  good  persons, 
which  I  much  fear  is  the  case,  it  is  com- 
fortable to  feel  —  as  I  do  after  a  study 
of  it  made  since,  about  eighteen  months 
ago,  this  brief  correspondence  was  ex- 
changed with  him  —  that  it  is  a  whole- 
some unsettlement !  Because  we  are  not 
going  to  stop  with  it.  * 

If  mankind,  whether  now  of  Chris- 
tian, of  Mohammedan,  of  Buddhist,  of 
Agnostic,  or  of  other  persuasion,  know- 
ing too  well  the  incongruities  of  prac- 
tice in  all  of  those  persuasions,  shall  in 
time  take  to  heart  the  Burroughs  philos- 
ophy against  superstition  and  sham, 
against  miracles  and  mysticism,  it  as- 
suredly can,  without  material  halt  in 
its  progress  to  the  light,  consider  with 
him  whether  'we  create  a  Creator,  we 
rule  a  Ruler,  we  invent  a  Heaven  and 


a  Hell.'  For  that  is  but  a  step.  And  the 
next  step  must  be  a  realization  of  the 
absurdity  of  the  concept  that  imper- 
sonal, unreasoning,  blind  Nature,  which 
Burroughs  finds  merciless  and  cruel 
as  well  as  good,  and  finds  to  be  all  he 
can  conceive  of  God,  can  be  itself  the 
author  of  the  marvelous  and  inexo- 
rable laws  by  which  it  is  confessedly 
driven. 

No;  I  have  an  abiding  faith  that  we 
shall  march  forward,  away  beyond 
him,  first  clearing  the  path  of  doubts 
such  as  he  raises,  that  hold  back  our 
thinkers,  and  of  pearly  gates  and  im- 
maculate conceptions  that  hold  back 
our  unthinking;  and  shall  know  that 
out  of  an  unreasoning  and  impersonal 
Nature  cannot  have  been  developed 
blindly  a  highly  reasoning,  dominating, 
if  sinful,  race  of  beings.  And  if  our  God 
is  not  unreasoning  and  impersonal, 
then  it  is  fair  to  believe  Him  reasoning 
and  personal.  —  HERBERT  D.  MILES.] 


(From  Herbert  D.  Miles) 

ASHEVILLE,  N.C.,  October  27,  1919. 
Since  reading  your  recent  article,  I 
have  desired,  and  have  several  times  re- 
sisted an  impulse,  to  write  you;  I  have 
hesitated,  believing  that  you  may  have 
been  annoyed  by  many  a  thoughtless 
critic  or  disputant.  I  am  an  ordinary, 
average  American  business  man,  with 
such  a  man's  inferior  powers  of  analysis 
when  compared  with  your  own.  Had  the 
statements  made  by  you  in  the  article 
in  question  been  made  in  something 
written  by  the  late  Robert  Ingersoll, 
for  example,  they  would  have  disturb- 


ed me  not  a  whit,  as  my  conception  of 
him,  rightly  or  wrongly,  has  always 
been  upon  a  different  plane  from  my 
respect  for  you.  But  since  reading  your 
statements  it  has  seemed,  unhappily,  as 
if  the  Anchor  to  all  that  makes  for  hope 
beyond  this  life  had  suddenly  been  cut 
away. 

It  may  well  be  that  I  have  not  com- 
prehended the  full  meaning  and  intent 
of  your  article.  The  impression  it  gave 
me  was,  that  you  feel  that  it  is  rather 
childish  in  humankind  to  pray;  to  look 
to  a  sort  of  all-wise  Father;  to  believe 
that  any  Power,  higher  than  we  are, 

517 


518 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


cares  for  us  individually;  that  in  doing 
this,  we  are  setting  up  a  sort  of  Golden 
Calf  for  ourselves;  and  that  there  is  but 
a  slight  and  refined  difference  between 
'Church  bells  and  good  Sunday  rai- 
ment' and  the  ceremonies  of  the 
heathen;  that  Jesus  Christ,  and  all  that 
he  has  meant,  is  merely  the  product  of 
an  Oriental  imagination  and  idealism, 
written,  some  generations  after,  into 
the  presumably  established  fact  of  his 
life  and  crucifixion. 

If  it  is  not  asking  too  much,  will  you 
let  me  know  whether  my  interpretation 
of  you,  as  above  expressed,  is  substan- 
tially true? 

(From  John  Burroughs) 

RIVERBT,  N.Y.,  October  30,  1919. 

I  suppose  my  paper,  to  which  you 
refer,  is  capable  of  the  interpretation 
you  place  upon  it.  I  have  enough  such 
essays  to  make  a  volume.  Did  you  see 
one  called  'Shall  we  accept  the  Uni- 
verse? '  In  all  these  papers  I  attempt  to 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man  on  nat- 
ural grounds.  If  you  attempt  to  do  it 
on  theological  grounds  you  get  hope- 
lessly mired.  I  am  a  Pantheist.  The 
only  God  I  know  is  the  one  I  see  daily 
and  hourly  all  about  me.  I  do  not  and 
cannot  separate  Nature  and  God.  If 
you  make  two  of  them,  then  who  made 
and  rules  Nature?  My  God  is  no  better 
and  no  worse  than  Nature. 

Of  the  hereafter  I  have  no  concep- 
tion. This  life  is  enough  for  me.  The 
Christianity  you  believe  in  is  a  whining, 
simpering,  sentimental  religion.  The 
religion  of  the  old  Greeks  was  much 
more  brave  and  manly.  Christianity 
turns  its  back  on  Nature  and  relegates 
it  to  the  Devil.  I  am  done  with  the  re- 
ligion of  Kings  and  Despots.  We  must 
have  a  religion  of  democracy,  and  find 
the  divine  in  the  common,  the  univer- 
sal, the  near-at-hand.  Such  is  the  reli- 
gion of  Science.  The  Christian  myths 
have  had  their  day.  Only  the  moral  and 


ethical  part  of  Christianity,  which  har- 
monizes with  Science,  will  endure.  Its 
legend  must  perish. 

(From  Herbert  D.  Miles) 
ABBEVILLE,  N.C.,  November  6,  1919. 

Thank  you  for  your  very  clear  letter 
of  the  30th  October.  It  answers  my  in- 
quiry perfectly,  and  I  am  sure  that  you 
do  not  wish  from  me  any  attempt  to 
dissuade  you  from  your  position,  even 
should  I  have  the  temerity  to  attempt 
such  a  thing.  But  I  do  feel  that  I  pos- 
sibly have  a  more  or  less  fortunate  de- 
tachment, in  that  I  have  not  read  any 
of  your  former  papers  pertaining  to  re- 
ligion, nor  on  the  other  hand  have  I 
indulged  in  the  reading  of  any  books, 
higher  criticisms,  or  papers  of  a  contro- 
versial nature  defending  either  broad  or 
narrow  views  of  Christianity.  So  I  be- 
lieve it  possible  that  we  might  find  a 
common  ground  and  even  concede  each 
other  something  —  which  might  do 
each  of  us  good. 

I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  asked  your- 
self whether  our  civilization  would  get 
us  anywhere  if  we  were  all  Pantheists, 
like  you?  It  seems  to  me  that,  as  we 
cannot  all  be  distinguished  naturalists, 
and  cannot  all  have  your  firmness  of 
character,  those  of  us  who  are  merely 
average  men  would  be  apt  to  be  wholly 
without  an  'Anchor'  save  human  law; 
and  as  we  make  human  law,  that  would 
easily  become  changed.  We  should 
have  a  feeling  of  'after  us,  the  deluge'; 
and  license,  rather  than  self-control,  of 
the  majority,  would  rule. 

And  I  wonder  if  you  state  more  than 
a  half-truth  when  you  say  that  the 
Christian  religion  is  a  simpering,  senti- 
mental thing,  and  that  the  religion  of 
the  ancient  Greeks  was  much  more 
brave  and  manly?  I  know  professing 
teachers  of  our  Christian  religion  to-day 
who  are  as  brave  and  manly  as  any 
Greek  who  ever  lived;  I  have  no  doubt 
there  were  simpering  sentimentalists  in 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


519 


ancient  Athens.  Indeed,  as  you  know, 
Socrates  encountered  some.  I  would  as 
soon  admire  the  religion  of  a  tiger,  if  it 
comes  to  that;  the  tiger  is  as  brave  as, 
and  less  sensual  than,  the  old  Greek. 

If  I  knew  you  better,  I  might  make 
fun  of  your  saying  that  you  are  done 
with  the  religion  of  Kings  and  Despots. 
Plenty  of  these  in  history,  you  will  re- 
call upon  reflection,  were  essentially 
Pantheists.  I  know  you  are  thinking 
of  the  recent  war  —  after  quoting  the 
Greeks,  who  were  never  at  peace!  I 
agree  with  you  that  the  Christian  myths 
have  had  their  day. 

You  say  you  cannot  separate  Nature 
and  God;  if  we  make  two  of  them,  you 
ask,  then  who  made  and  rules  Nature? 
The  obvious  answer  is,  'God.'  Surely 
you,  of  all  persons,  respect  Nature  too 
much  to  believe  it  capable  of  making  it- 
self? And  are  you  not,  indeed,  unfair, 
when  you  say  that  'Christianity  turns 
its  back  on  Nature  and  relegates  it  to 
the  Devil '  ?  How  does  that  look  to  you, 
in  quotation  marks?  Is  the  teaching  of 
Christ's  brotherhood  turning  our  back 
upon  Nature?  Or  are  you  in  this  refer- 
ring merely  to  Christian  myths,  or  fail- 
ures? Did  Roosevelt  turn  his  back  upon 
Nature  —  and  was  he  a  Pantheist? 

Before  I  heard  from  you,  I  kept  turn- 
ing over  in  my  mind,  'What  have  I 
left,  as  an  "Anchor,"  after  stripping  all 
myth  and  sentiment  and  unanalytic  be- 
lief from  Christian  theory  and  prac- 
tice?' As  a  result,  I  wrote  for  myself 
the  enclosed,  entitled  'My  Anchor.'  I 
hope  you  can  agree  with  it,  and  that  it 
may  even  modify  some  of  your  precon- 
ceived conclusions;  you  are,  I  know,  too 
big  a  man  to  receive  it  with  other  than 
an  open  mind  and  heart. 

MY  ANCHOR 

I  MUST  HAVE  AN  ANCHOR.  In  the  midst  of 
cold  storms  of  skepticism  and  realism,  my 
little  ship  of  life  must  be  stripped  to  the 
bare  mast  of  indisputable  Fact;  my  good 


old  sails  of  childlike  faith  and  inspiring  tra- 
dition must  be  furled,  if  I  am  not  to  drift 
upon  the  shoals  of  Doubt.  I  must  have  an 
anchor  to  my  belief  in  God  and  in  Immor- 
tality, that  shall  make  it  unassailable  by 
Atheist  or  Agnostic,  unshakable  by  Dog- 
matist or  Pharisee,  understandable  by  Child 
or  Hottentot;  that  will  encourage  me  to 
pray. 

I  know  that  the  Seed  is  the  child  of  the 
Flower,  as  much  as  the  Flower  is  the  child 
of  the  Seed:  in  each  is  life;  in  each  is  death. 
I  know  that  power  is  given  the  Sun  to  trans- 
mit its  light  and  heat;  to  the  Moon  to  draw 
our  great  oceans;  to  Man  to  think  and  to 
dominate;  to  the  Bird  to  sing  and  to  fly;  to 
the  infinitesimal  Pneumococcus  to  destroy 
our  bodies;  it  is  unthinkable  that  all  of  this 
can  be  self-made. 

I  know  then,  that  a  Higher  Power  does 
reign,  stronger  than  its  own  creations;  inde- 
structible by  them,  and  so  immorta  1 .  I  know 
that  this  Higher  Power  operates  only 
through  Law;  that  —  though  it  seem  cruel 

—  law,  being  higher,  takes  precedence  over 
life;  as  sacrifice,  being  higher,  takes  preced- 
ence over  self-preservation. 

I  know  that  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  whether 
divine  or  human,  was  not  a  myth;  that  his 
doctrine  of  brotherhood  has  gone  farther 
and  deeper  than  that  of  any  other  teacher, 
and  is  truer.  I  know  that  our  Bible,  whether 
or  not  more  than  an  imperfect,  Oriental, 
man-made  exposition  of  the  law  and  his- 
tory, is  for  the  most  part  an  inspiring  and  a 
beautiful  thing.  Each  must  take  that  as 
does  him  most  good,  but  must  not  make 
doubts  of  it,  or  of  the  common  sense  of 
some  of  its  devout  acceptors,  an  excuse  for 
pride,  or  for  abstinence  from  worship  or 
from  prayer. 

I  believe,  through  deduction  from  what  I 
know,  that  the  Higher  Power,  called  God, 

—  and  dreamed  of  in  all  lands,  among  all 
races,  at  all  times,  in  some  form  plural  or 
singular,  —  does  assume  to  us,  as  pledged 
for  him  by  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  a  relation  of 
Fatherhood.   I  cannot  know  how  he  quali- 
fies this  to  the  very  young,  the  savage,  or 
the  misguided.    It  does  not  matter.   I  be- 
lieve that  this  gift  makes  natural  and  logical 
both  prayer  and  a  hope  of  a  share  in  his  love 
and  immortality. 

THIS  IS  MY  ANCHOR. 


520 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


(From  John  Burroughs) 
WEST  PARK,  N.Y.,  November  25,  1919. 

The  arranging  of  a  trip  to  California 
for  the  winter  has  imposed  so  many 
new  tasks  upon  me  that  my  correspond- 
ence has  been  neglected.  I  have  re- 
ceived many  letters  of  approval  con- 
cerning this  article  and  others  of  similar 
import,  and  very  few  of  disapproval.  I 
am  no  more  moved  by  one  than  the 
other.  Some  former  articles  of  mine 
you  might  find  interesting.  'Shall  we 
accept  the  Universe?'  —  'Is  there  De- 
sign in  Nature?'  and  so  on.  The  aim  of 
them  all  is  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to 
man  on  natural  grounds.  The  theologi- 
cal grounds  do  not  make  any  impression 
upon  me.  I  am  much  less  interested  in 
what  is  called  God's  word,than  in  God's 
deeds.  All  bibles  are  man-made;  but 
we  know  the  stars  are  not  man-made, 
and  if  they  are  on  our  side,  why  bother 
about  anything  else?  Pantheism,  as 
Emerson  says,  does  not  make  God  less, 
but  makes  him  more.  If  you  look  into 
the  matter,  you  will  find  that  we  are  all 
Pantheists.  If  I  were  to  ask  you  what 
and  where  God  is,  you  would  say  he  is  a 
Spirit  and  that  he  is  everywhere.  The 
good  church  people  would  be  compelled 
to  say  that,  too.  Is  not  that  Panthe- 
ism? A  person  cannot  be  everywhere. 
Personality  is  finite. 

Our  civilization  is  not  founded  upon 
Christianity  —  would  that  it  were  in 
many  ways!  The  three  great  evils  of 
our  age,  of  most  ages,  —  war,  greed,  in- 
temperance, —  would  then  be  eradi- 
cated. How  much  of  the  real  essence 
of  Christianity  —  love  —  the  heathen 
Chinese  could  teach  us  in  such  matters! 
There  is  vastly  more  of  the  essence  of 
Christianity  in  Chinese  civilization 
than  in  ours.  We  live  by  the  head,  the 
Chinese  by  the  heart. 

Our  material  civilization  is  the  result 
of  our  conquests  over  Nature,  or  of  the 
discovery  and  application  of  natural 
law,  or  Science.  Christianity  as  a  sys- 


tem has  lost  its  moral  force.  Our 
scheme  of  salvation  rests  upon  the  dog- 
ma of  the  fall  of  man.  But  man's  fall 
has  been  upward.  Evolution  gives  the 
key  to  his  rise,  and  not  theology.  It  is 
a  wonder  to  me  that  man  has  surviv- 
ed his  creeds  —  Calvinism,  Buddhism, 
Roman  Catholicism,  and  all  the  other 
isms.  If  science  failed  him,  his  creeds 
would  not  save  him.  Do  you  not  sup- 
pose that  such  a  man  as  Huxley,  Tyn- 
dall,  Spencer,  or  Darwin  would  be  a 
safe  man  to  administer  our  human  af- 
fairs? And  these  men  were  Agnostics 
or  Pantheists.  Yet  do  they  not  uphold 
our  ethical  system?  The  truth  alone  — 
moral  and  scientific  truth  —  can  make 
us  free  and  safe. 

I  can  subscribe  to  most  of  the  articles 
in  your  creed,  or  'Anchor,'  if  I  put  them 
in  the  language  of  naturalism. 

As  soon  as  I  try  to  think  of  the  uni- 
verse in  the  terms  of  our  experience,  I 
am  in  trouble.  The  universe  never  was 
made,  in  the  sense  that  my  house  was 
made.  It  is  eternal  —  without  begin- 
ning and  without  end ;  or,  say,  self-made, 
if  you  prefer.  It  is  the  God  in  which  we 
live  and  move  and  have  our  being. 
You  and  I  are  only  a  drop  in  this  ocean 
of  being. 

I  believe  the  Man  of  Sorrows  was  an 
historical  fact,  and  that  I  would  have 
loved  him  had  I  known  him;  but  he  is 
no  more  to  me  now  than  Socrates  is. 
All  his  alleged  miracles  are  childish 
fables.  If  he  really  died  on  the  Cross, 
he  never  rose  from  the  dead.  Natural 
law,  which  is  the  law  of  God,  cannot  be 
trifled  with  in  that  way. 

I  do  not  cherish  the  dream  of  immor- 
tality. If  there  is  no  immortality,  we 
shall  not  know  it.  We  shall  not  lie 
awake  o'  nights  in  our  graves  lamenting 
that  there  is  no  immortality.  If  there 
is  such  a  thing,  we  shall  have  to  accept 
it,  though  the  thought  of  living  forever 
makes  me  tired,  and  the  thought  of  life, 
without  my  body  as  the  base  for  my 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


521 


mind's  activities,  is  unthinkable.  What 
begins  must  end.  The  flame  of  the  can- 
dle goes  out,  though  not  one  of  its  ele- 
ments is  lost.  My  consciousness,  which 
is  the  flame  of  my  body,  ends  at  death, 
as  a  psychical  process  ceases.  But  what- 
ever of  energy  was  involved  in  it  goes 
on  forever.  The  sum  of  energy  of  the 
universe  is  constant. 

I  think  as  highly  of  the  Bible  as  you 
do.  It  is  the  Book  of  Books,  yet  it  is 
only  a  book  —  man-made.  I  fail  to 
find  any  anchorage  in  any  creed,  or 
book,  or  system,  but  only  in  Nature  as 
revealed  to  my  own  consciousness.  I 
shall  have  a  paper  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  by-and-by,  in  which  I  combat 
what  Professor  Osborn  calls  a  biological 
dogma,  namely  that  Chance  rules  in 
the  world  of  life  as  in  the  world  of  dead 
matter.  I  cannot  escape  the  all-embrac- 
ing mind  or  spirit  that  pervades  all 
living  things.  I  have  no  purpose  to  con- 
vert you  to  my  views  of  these  great 
problems.  Every  man  must  solve  the 
problems  of  life  and  death  for  himself. 
He  cannot  accept  those  of  another. 

(From  Herbert  D.  Miles) 
ABBEVILLE,  N.C.,  December  1,  1919. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter  of  25th 
November.  I  had  thought  merely  to 
write  you  an  acknowledgment  and 
wish  you  a  happy  journey  to  California. 
However,  as  you  are  open-minded,  and 
Truth  alone  is  what  you  crave,  you  will 
not  mind  my  including  some  reflections 
upon  your  letter,  without  any  expecta- 
tion upon  my  part  that  you  will  care  to 
continue  the  correspondence.  I  shall 
try  to  find  your  former  articles  to  which 
you  refer,  and  shall  certainly  read  your 
coming  one,  in  the  Atlantic.  I  take  it, 
however,  that  you  have  expressed  to  me 
the  fundamentals  of  your  beliefs  or 
want  of  beliefs,  and  that  all  you  have 
said,  or  shall  say,  must  be  merely  elab- 
orations. 

May  I  say  that  I  believe  you  are 


really  a  pretty  good  Christian?  as  you 
are,  of  course,  a  better  citizen  than 
most  '  professing  Christians '  —  not  ex- 
cepting myself.  I  can  subscribe  to,  or 
pass  as  unimportant,  your  ideas  as  to 
the  Universe  being  without  beginning 
or  end ;  that  the  Miracles  are  fables ;  that 
Man  has  'fallen  upward,'  rather  than 
as  dogma  has  it;  and,  of  course,  that 
God  is  a  Spirit. 

But  you  jump  from  extolling  the  an- 
cient Greeks  to  extolling  the  Chinese. 
You  are  not  constructive.  Perhaps  you 
are  not  even  fair  to  your  own  genera- 
tion and  people!  Do  not  be  merely  de- 
structive, I  beg  of  you.  Your  views  are 
good  as  far  as  they  go,  but  are  necessa- 
rily depressing.  Do  either  create  a  better 
church,  for  unified  work  of  its  tremen- 
dously far-reaching  kind,  in  'anchoring ' 
Society;  create  a  better  comfort  than 
prayer;  create  a  better  instinctive  hope 
than  immortality;  or  encourage  the 
Church,  encourage  our  rising  genera- 
tion to  stand  back  of  it,  encourage 
prayer,  and  encourage  spiritual  hopes 
and  ideals!  I  wonder  if  you  know  what 
the  Church  is  as  a  'stabilizer,'  in  spite 
of  its  shortcomings;  in  spite  of  the 
slanders  of  it,  often  from  lazy  or  mis- 
guided persons?  What  its  real  accom- 
plishment is,  in  this  country,  and  the 
sum  of  it? 

What  a  responsibility,  to  print  ar- 
ticles that  may  affect  the  rising  genera- 
tion against  it,  and  to  give  nothing 
constructive  in  its  place! 

I  want  you  to  think  again,  as  to  your 
statement  that  civilization  is  not  found- 
ed upon  Christianity.  I  know  you  mean 
partly  that  Christianity  is  too  good 
to  recognize  such  a  bad  child;  but, 
thinly  watered  as  our  practice  of  the 
Golden  Rule  is,  civilization  is  founded 
upon  Christianity.  I  do  not  think  you 
believe  that,  if  the  chief  part  of  the 
Arytin  Race  had  originally  drifted  from 
Heathenism  to  Confucianism  or  Bud- 
dhism, —  yes,  or  Pantheism,  —  instead 


522 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


of  to  the  new  Christianity,  it  would  still 
have  achieved,  as  now,  the  world-leader- 
ship in  the  arts  and  sciences  which  we 
call  civilization.  Perhaps  you,  and  some 
other  leaders  in  the  sciences,  do  not 
know  your  own  debt  to  Christianity. 

Your  letter  which  I  am  reviewing 
gives  one  an  impression  of  a  very  good 
man  striving  to  reconcile  certain  pre- 
conceived and  rooted  ideas,  partly  Ag- 
nostic, partly  Christian,  with  life  and 
history;  trying  to  forget  that  the  things 
material  are  the  really  temporal,  and 
that  there  are  things  spiritual  which, 
in  the  nature  of  what  could  constitute 
immortality,  must  be  the  things  im- 
mortal. 

I  take  it  that  you  do  not  seriously 
consider  things  spiritual.  You  say  the 
thought  of  life,  without  your  body  as 
the  base  for  your  mind's  activities,  is 
unthinkable.  Of  course,  that  merely 
proves  a  personal  limitation,  and  a  re- 
grettable one.  I  wonder  if  you  give  se- 
rious place  to  the  world's  best  Poets  — 
who  are  unscientific,  naturally  —  but 
spiritual?  John  Butler  Yeats  has  re- 
cently written : '  Poetry  is  the  champion 
and  the  voice  of  the  inner  man.  Had 
we  not  this  champion  to  speak  for  us, 
externality  would  swamp  the  world,  and 
nothing  would  be  heard  but  the  noise  of 
its  machinery.'  If  the  thought  of  living 
forever  makes  you  tired,  as  you  say, 
then  perhaps  the  noise  of  the  machin- 
ery, —  very  pleasant  machinery,  much 
of  it,  —  being  all  you  have  listened  to, 
has  worn  you  out! 

Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I  do  not 
think  your  articles  are  'stabilizers';  or 
that  they  bring  hope,  or  comfort,  or 
happiness;  or  replace  the  want  of  these 
with  anything  more  than  'the  noise  of 
the  machinery.'  I  would  not  take  seri- 
ously, if  I  were  you,  the  approval  you 
cite  from  the  majority  of  your  corre- 
spondents. If  you  will  reflect,  you  will 
agree,  I  am  sure,  that  after  a  speech 
upon,  say,  Tariffs,  Temperance,  or 


what  not,  —  things  upon  which  the 
world  is  divided  into  two  or  more 
camps,  —  those  who  rush  up  to  grasp 
the  speaker's  hand  are  those  who  al- 
ways did  agree  with  him,  or  those  who 
wished  uneasy  doubts,  or  unstable  con- 
victions, bolstered  up. 

I  am  sincerely  glad  that  you  can  sub- 
scribe to  'most  of  the  articles  in  my 
creed,  or  "Anchor."  '  But  please  do  not 
call  my  Anchor  a  creed.  Creeds,  as  you 
know,  are  not  based  upon  '  indisputable 
fact.'  That  in  my  church  was  made  in 
the  third  century ;  we  have  learned  some- 
thing since.  They  should  be  anchors. 
In  mine  are  Church,  Prayer,  Immortal- 
ity. I  fear  you  leave  these  out.  You  ap- 
parently refuse  to  contemplate  a  world 
made  up  of  Pantheists,  which  could, 
and  would,  say,  and  act,  'After  us,  the 
deluge.' 

No,  I  do  not  think  that  Darwin,  Hux- 
ley, et  al.  would  have  been  safe  men  to 
administer  our  human  affairs,  since  you 
ask.  Roosevelt,  of  a  later  civilization, 
knew  all  that  they  did  and  much  more; 
he  was  a  Christian  and  an  administra- 
tor for  you.  Emerson  may  have  praised 
Pantheists  at  one  period  of  his  life; 
hardly  when  he  was  at  his  best. 

Well,  a  happy  winter  to  you  in  Cali- 
fornia. I  see  that  I  am  trying  to  tie  you 
to  all  of  my  Anchor,  believing  that,  in 
the  winter  of  your  years,  you  are  still 
pliable.  If  you  are,  you  are  a  wonder! 
But  do  consider  the  'inner  man'  spoken 
of  by  Yeats;  and  the  effect  of  your  ar- 
ticles, if  not  constructive. 

(From  John  Burroughs) 
LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA,  December  29,  1919. 
I  with  my  son  and  four  friends,  have 
been  here  a  week,  and  we  are  very  hap- 
py. The  world  here  is  all  sun,  sky,  and 
sea,  never  a  cloud  in  sight,  and  the 
Pacific    breaking    its   long   roll    upon 
the  rocks  one  hundred  yards  below  us. 
In  February  we  go  to  Pasadena  until 
spring. 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


523 


Referring  to  our  correspondence  of  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  your  statement 
that  you  did  not  think  Huxley,  Spen- 
cer, et  al.  would  be  safe  men  to  admin- 
ister our  human  affairs,  and  that  our 
civilization  is  based  upon  Christianity 
—  I  wonder  if  you  remember  that  the 
founders  of  our  government,  Washing- 
ton, Jefferson,  Franklin,  did  not  accept 
Christianity?  They  were  Deists.  Both 
Franklin  and  Jefferson  spoke  very  dis- 
respectfully, not  to  say  contemptuously, 
of  the  Christian  scheme  of  salvation; 
and  Washington  said  in  so  many  words 
in  a  message  to  Congress,  'The  govern- 
ment of  the  United  States  is  not  in  any 
sense  founded  on  the  Christian  reli- 
gion.' The  founders  of  the  Republic 
were  free-thinkers.  Washington  enter- 
tamed  the  infidel  Volney  at  the  White 
House,  and  had  the  works  of  Voltaire 
in  his  library.  He  gave  Volney  a  letter 
of  recommendation  to  the  American 
people,  in  which  he  said  that,  if  men  are 
good  workmen,  'they  may  be  Jews  or 
Christians,  or  they  may  be  Atheists.' 
Jefferson  quotes  Gouverneur  Morris  as 
saying  that  'General  Washington  be- 
lieved no  more  in  that  system  [Chris- 
tianity] than  I  do.' 

You  confound  our  ethical  system, 
which  we  all  accept,  with  Christianity. 
Our  ethical  system  is  the  growth  of 
ages.  What  is  true  in  Christianity  is 
not  new,  and  what  is  new  is  not  true. 
Our  civilization  is  founded  upon  reason 
and  science.  I  have  said  in  one  of  my 
printed  articles  that  'a  man  is  saved, 
not  by  the  truth  of  what  he  believes,  but 
by  the  truth  of  his  belief.'  His  creed 
may  be  perfectly  absurd,  like  that  of 
the  Christian  Scientists,  but  if  it  affords 
him  an  'anchorage,'  if  he  can  fit  it  into 
his  scheme  of  life,  that  is  enough.  The 
religion  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  was 
not  ours;  but  see  what  nerves,  what 
poets,  what  philosophers,  developed 
under  it! 

The  religion  of  ancestral  worship  of 


the  Japs  and  Chinese  saves  them.  The 
mass  of  our  own  people  believe  in 
Christianity  on  Sundays  (or  used  to  be- 
fore the  automobile  came  in) ;  but  how 
few  of  them  practise  it- in  their  daily 
lives.  They  practise  the  square  deal, 
because  it  is  good  policy;  it  pays  best 
in  the  long  run. 

(From  Herbert  D.  Miles) 
ASHEVILLE,  N.C.,  January  12,  1920. 
My  pleasure  in  having  your  letter  of 
a  few  days  ago  was  not  unmixed  with  a 
certain  feeling  of  guilt,  in  view  of  the 
possibility  of  our  .questions  being  too 
complicated,  and  your  strength  too  lim- 
ited, to  attempt  adequate  discussion  in 
writing  —  a  view  that  is  held  I  am  sure 
by  Dr.  Barrus,  from  whom  I  have  re- 
cently heard:  It  is  charming,  as  you 
say,  at  La  Jolla,  with  'never  a  cloud  in 
sight.'  I  am  a  little  prejudiced,  even  in 
this  January  season,  in  favor  of  my 
home  country  here  in  Asheville;  the 
clouds  over  the  great  old  Blue  Ridge 
mountains,  which  are  falling  back  tier 
upon  tier  in  the  distance  to  the  west, 
from  my  windows,  are  ever-changing 
visions  of  beauty,  and  fall  upon  real 
trees,  in  their  shadows,  —  something 
that  you  have  few  of  in  California,  ex- 
cept in  spots,  where  you  have  the  great- 
est in  the  world,  —  and  our  occasional 
rough  and  cold  day  serves  to  make  even 
more  delightful  our  usual  bright  and 
lovely  days,  of  the  temperature  of  the 
northern  May. 

Without  prolonging  what  we  shall 
not  allow  to  degenerate  into  an  argu- 
ment which  would  convince  neither  of 
us,  allow  me  merely  to  comment  upon 
your  new  remarks.  I  have  a  feeling 
that  you  constantly  miss  something 
vital,  in  your  line  of  thought  and  your 
conclusions;  that  may  be  characteristic 
of  the  Pantheist!  You  say,  apparently 
in  contradiction  of  my  insistence  that 
civilization  is  based  upon  Christianity, 
that  Washington,  Jefferson,  and  others 


524 


RELIGIOUS   CONTRASTS 


did  not  accept  Christianity;  and  you  go 
on  to  quote  Washington  as  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  United  States.  Without 
going  into  any  dispute  as  to  all  this,  are 
we  to  assume  that  you  consider  civiliza- 
tion to  have  begun  with  the  establish- 
ment of  the  United  States?  I  would  say 
rather  that  these  gentlemen  of  history, 
without  doubt  virtuous  and  great, 
made  the  same  error  that  John  Bur- 
roughs —  also  without  doubt  virtuous 
and  great  —  is  making :  that  they  wholly 
failed  in  realizing  the  debt  they  were 
under  to  that  slowly  developing,  but 
none  the  less  potent,  and  true  thing  — 
Christianity !  How  many  practise  Chris- 
tianity in  their  daily  lives  is  beside  the 
mark.  Would  you  condemn  a  great 
physician  because  (as  is  usually  the 
case)  he  fails  to  practise  what  he 
preaches?  That  is,  would  you  damn  his 
science?  You  say  that  civilization  is 
founded  upon  'reason  and  science.' 
Well,  does  that  damn  Christianity? 
You  say  that  our  ethical  system  is  the 
growth  of  the  ages.  What  of  it?  Do 
Christians  claim  that  we  would  have  no 
ethical  system  without  Christ  and  the 
Christian  principles?  By  no  means. 
But  we  would  have  Athens  and  the 
Roman  Empire  over  again  —  and  the 
Hun. 

In  a  nutshell,  my  dear  Mr.  Bur- 


roughs, —  to  put  it  in  that  perfectly 
frank  manner  at  which  neither  of  us  has 
taken  offense,  —  your  writings  upon 
religion  have  pleased  you,  and,  as  with 
anything  you  write,  they  have  been  re- 
ceived with  respect;  but  they  have 
shown  us  a  God,  near  in  the  sense  of  his 
being  in  a  spadeful  of  dirt,  but  billions 
of  miles  away  and  terribly  nebulous, 
when  it  comes  to  having  a  Father  to 
whom  to  pray.  You  may  like  that,  but 
it  is  bad  for  the  rest  of  us;  you  have, 
therefore,  done  much  harm  and  dis- 
turbed much  fairly  earned  peace  of 
mind  —  innocent  though  you  undoubt- 
edly have  been  of  any  such  intention. 
You  have  missed  the  bull's-eye.  This 
is:  'Love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all 
thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  soul;  and  love  thy  neighbor 
as  thyself.'  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
that  you  have  not  personally,  in  your 
life,  done  all  of  that;  I  mean  that  the 
teaching  of  Pantheism  puts  God,  as  I 
have  stated,  billions  of  miles  away,  — 
a  nebulous  thing,  —  regardless  of  the 
theory  of  his  being  in  all  Nature;  a 
theory  which  Christianity  embraces,  for 
that  matter.  We  cannot  love,  in  that 
manner  so  completely  pictured  in  the 
above  quotation,  a  Pantheistic  God  — 
which  is  why  I  hold  that  you  miss  the 
bull's-eye. 


REBECCA 


BY  ARTHUR  SHERBURNE  HARDY 


'WHY  should  n't  I,  if  I  want  to?' 

The  reins  fell  on  Billy's  rough  back 
with  an  emphatic  slap,  but  met  with  no 
response.  The  shaggy  hoofs  continued 
to  pound  the  frozen  road  with  the  stolid 
indifference  to  stimuli  born  of  the  con- 
viction that  in  the  long  run  a  steady 
gait  was  the  part  of  wisdom. 

The  road  covered  two  miles  for  the 
arrow's  one,  with  that  contempt  for 
grade  and  distance  which  characterized 
the  early  settler,  who  first  chose  his 
dwelling-place  and  compelled  the  road 
to  follow.  Between  the  low  stone  walls, 
whose  boulders  were  continually  evinc- 
ing a  desire  to  return  to  their  earlier 
resting-places,  down  the  rocky  pitch  to 
the  creaking  bridge  in  the  meadow,  and 
up  again  through  the  moaning  forest,  it 
wound  its  way,  mysterious,  unending. 

Another  slap. 

'  I  can  —  if  I  want  to.' 

Approving  this  sentiment,  Billy, 
halfway  up  the  hill,  stopped  and,  pull- 
ing the  reins  through  the  saddle  rings, 
reached  for  a  tuft  of  withered  grass, 
which  all  summer  long  had  escaped  hoof 
and  wheel,  to  perish  in  the  winter. 

'I  might  —  if  I  was  n't  fifty.' 

At  fifty,  when  it  was  too  late,  past 
prudence  seemed  a  mockery  —  a  gate 
to  happiness  locked  by  prudery.  Re- 
becca sighed.  If  she  could  stand  at  that 
gate  again! 

'Indeed  I  would!' 

The  reins  tightened  with  a  jerk, 
haunches  flattened  instantly,  and  legs 
strained  to  the  load. 


But  was  it  happiness?  Of  course  it 
was.  Everything  beyond  the  gate  must 
be. 

Nearing  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  white 
finger  of  the  spire  rose  slowly  above  the 
sky-line,  then  the  roof,  other  roofs, 
straggling  fences,  the  schoolhouse  — 
duty!  On  the  whitewashed  wall  be- 
hind the  teacher's  desk,  Rebecca  saw 
the  motto,  —  her  own  handiwork,  — 

Be  Good  and  You  will  be  Happy. 

Had  n't  she  been  good?  When  would 
she  be  happy? 

In  village  parlance  Rebecca  'ran'  the 
farm  —  one  of  those  hilly  rock-strewn 
farms  demanding  constant  prodding  to 
prevent  it  from 'running out.'  Down  by 
the  brook  in  the  birch  woods  were 
pleasant  places  —  pools  of  dark  silent 
water,  where  the  brook  brooded  before 
deciding  to  take  the  leap  to  the  next 
one,  to  pause  again,  out  of  breath;  shal- 
lows where  it  sang  to  Rebecca,  who 
never  sang  except  at  seven-day  inter- 
vals in  the  church  choir.  The  brook 
was  always  singing,  even  in  winter, 
cheerily,  to  the  shivering  birches. 

But  pleasant  places  produced  nothing. 
Pleasant  places  never  did.  Alluring, 
they  bred  idleness,  all  that  brood  of 
prohibited  pleasures  generically  grouped 
by  the  minister  under  the  word  'sin.' 
The  bare  upland  pasture  where  the 
cows  grazed,  the  shed  where  they  were 
milked,  the  barn-cellar  where  the  pigs 
wallowed,  the  chicken-yard  bereft  of 
grass,  the  vegetable  patch,  with  its  tat- 

525 


526 


REBECCA 


tered  scarecrow  rocking  in  the  wind  — 
these  counted.  No  food  or  raiment  came 
from  that  wanton,  running  without 
thought  of  the  future,  purpose,  or  con- 
science, through  meadow  and  wood  to 
the  sea. 

Sometimes  —  not  now,  in  winter, 
but  when  the  crocuses  came  —  Rebecca 
wrestled  spiritually  with  the  brook  — 
a  thing  without  roots  or  attachments, 
a  mere  gadabout,  scornful  of  duty,  of 
everything  behind  it,  in  its  eagerness  to 
get  on.  Life  was  real,  life  was  earnest. 
As  for  the  goal  beyond  the  grave,  she 
wished  that  it  might  come  occasionally 
at  the  end  of  the  day,  instead  of  at 
the  end  of  living,  like  Billy's  grain  and 
blanket.  Even  at  fifty  the  grave  was  a 
long  way  off. 

Strictly  speaking,  Rebecca  was  forty- 
eight,  a  fact  she  strictly  adhered  to  in 
public.  In  the  privacy  of  her  own 
thoughts,  when  grim  and  vindictive, 
she  was  fifty;  down  among  the  birches, 
forty;  and,  in  crocus-time,  even  thirty. 
'  Steady,  capable  woman  —  no  non- 
sense about  Rebecca!'  was  the  village 
verdict,  knowing  little  of  what  it  could 
not  see  or  touch. 

Billy's  wants  attended  to,  Rebecca 
went  into  the  house.  Her  mother,  sit- 
ting by  the  window,  had  been  watching 
for  her  return. 

'You've  been  gone  a  long  time.' 

For  an  ailing  old  woman,  watching 
day  after  day  at  the  window  of  a  hilltop 
farm,  every  hour  was  'a  long  time.' 
But  the  querulous  voice  passed  over 
Rebecca's  soul  without  leaving  a  trace. 
After  forty  years  of  duty,  its  surface, 
like  Billy's  hide,  had  ceased  to  be  super- 
sensitive.  Rebecca  possessed  what  the 
minister  called  'a  healthy  spirit.' 

'  Yes,  mother,'  she  said,  warming  her 
hands  at  the  range;  'Billy  is  n't  as  spry 
as  he  used  to  be.' 

'Did  you  see  the  Squire?' 

'Yes,  mother.' 

•'Is  it  true?' 


'Yes,  mother,  it's  true.* 

And  the  truth  shall  make  you  free! 
The  sentence  from  the  minister's  ser- 
mon came  from  nowhere,  like  a  bird 
alighting  on  a  twig  —  ridiculously  in- 
apposite. That  impertinent  busybody, 
the  irresponsible  mind,  was  one  of  Re- 
becca's trials. 

Then,  for  a  long  time,  there  was  si- 
lence, their  thoughts'going  their  separate 
ways.  Much  hard  and  solitary  thinking 
preceded  'getting  together'  for  these 
two. 

Rebecca  hung  her  squirrel  coat  in  the 
closet  and  turned  to  the  door. 

'  Where  are  you  going  now,  Rebecca? ' 

'To  the  office,  mother.' 

The  'office'  was  a  low  one-story 
building,  with  a  single  door  and  room, 
where  her  father  used  to  consult  his 
clients  —  even  hilltop  villages  requir- 
ing lawyers  as  well. as  ministers  and 
doctors. 

That,  however,  was  long  ago,  and  the 
office  had  descended  to  Rebecca,  with 
its  legend  in  gilt  letters  still  on  the  panel 
of  its  door.  Here  she  kept  the  farm- 
accounts,  her  books,  and  her  dreams. 
Whenever  she  spoke  of  'going  home,'  it 
was  the  office  she  had  in  mind. 

It  boasted  a  desk,  above  which  Wash- 
ington was  perpetually  delivering  his 
farewell  address;  a  horsehair  sofa,  whose 
billowy  surface  was  reminiscent  of 
former  clients;  a  bookcase  with  dia- 
mond panes,  —  the  law  books  had  been 
relegated  to  the  upper  shelves,  —  and  a 
redeeming  fireplace,  open,  hospitable, 
framed  in  a  white  mantelpiece,  with 
Ionic  columns  and  garlands  of  roses 
in  plaster,  on  which,  under  the  clock, 
stood  a  group  of  two  grotesque  porce- 
lain figures  in  bright  colors:  a  woman, 
holding  high  a  tambourine,  and  a  man 
with  a  guitar.  The  child  Rebecca  had 
given  these  gay  figures  ecstatic  adora- 
tion, as  representing  a  wonderful  world 
inhabited  by  fairies,  gypsies,  and 
other  mythical  persons  —  to  which 


REBECCA 


527 


they  evidently  belonged.  That  also  was 
long  ago.  If  Rebecca's  glance  rested  on 
them  now,  it  was  only  the  glance  of 
mingled  scorn  and  pity  appropriate  to 
misguided  creatures  doomed,  like  the 
butterflies  fluttering  in  autumn  sun- 
shine, to  an  untimely  end.  Yet  there 
they  remained  enthroned,  with  the  sofa 
and  the  sign  on  the  door  and  the  clock 
which  never  ran  down  —  relics  of  the 
past,  which  would  not  let  go. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  growing  dark  al- 
ready. Rebecca  wound  the  clock,  —  it 
was  Saturday  night,  —  threw  a  fresh 
log  on  the  smouldering  coals,  and  sat 
down  in  the  rocker  before  the  hearth, 
watching  the  little  flames,  hissing,  and 
beginning  to  curl  up  over  their  prey. 
Shadows  danced  on  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ing, and  red  lights  on  the  polished  balls 
of  the  andirons. 

It  had  all  been  like  a  dream,  only,  un- 
like a  dream,  it  had  not  vanished.  It 
was  true  —  and  Christopher  was  com- 
ing Monday  morning. 

The  beat  of  Rebecca's  heart  quick- 
ened. It  had  been  as  steady  in  the 
Squire's  office  as  the  Squire's  clock, 
even  when  he  said,  'You're  a  rich 
woman,  Rebecca.'  'Am  I?'  Rebecca 
had  said  to  herself.  'What's  more,'  the 
Squire  went  on,  'and  what  ain't  com- 
mon, your  Uncle  Caleb's  set  it  down 
fair  and  square  in  the  will,'  —  the 
Squire's  spectacles  dropped  from  his 
forehead  to  his  nose,  —  "To  my  niece, 
Rebecca,  in  recognition  of  her  sterling 
qualities."  : 

Rebecca's  lip  softened,  then  straight- 
ened. Uncle  Caleb  had  bided  his  time. 

'I've  a  telegram  here  somewhere 
from  Christopher. '  —  It  was  then  Re- 
becca's heart  gave  its  first  jump. — 'He's 
coming  up  from  York.'  The  Squire's 
fingers  fumbled  among  his  papers. 
'He's  executor.  He  says,  "Tell  Re- 
becca I'll  see  her  Monday." 

Recalling  this  announcement,  Re- 
becca's heart  jumped  again.  She  had 


slid  from  the  rocker  to  the  rug;  but  at 
the  crunch  of  heavy  boots  on  the  snow, 
sprang  to  her  desk.  It  would  never  do 
to  have  Hansen  find  her  dreaming  like 
a  silly  girl  on  the  rug  before  the  fire. 

Hansen  was  the  overseer.  He  came 
in,  his  red  beard  dripping  with  moisture, 
and  they  went  over  the  milk  receipts  to- 
gether. It  was  disconcertingly  evident 
that  Hansen  had  something  on  his  mind. 

'Is  that  all,  Hansen?' 

'Of  course,  Miss  Rebecca,'  —  Han- 
sen began  every  sentence  with  'of 
course,'  —  'if  what's  being  said  in  the 
village  is  true,  you  '11  be  wanting  to  get 
that  wire  up  from  the  mill.  We  could 
save  — ' 

'Yes,  Hansen.'  Hansen  was  always 
trying  to  squeeze  something  more  out 
of  the  land  by  putting  something  more 
in.  'We  will  go  into  that  Monday.' 

Faithful  man  was  Hansen,  —  look- 
ing after  the  farm  as  if  it  were  his  own, 
—  her  right  hand. 

When  he  had  gone,  Rebecca  went 
back  to  the  rug.  On  the  wall  over  the 
mantel  the  clock  ticked  on,  solemnly, 
intent  on  duty,  indifferent  to  the  time 
it  recorded. 

H 

Christopher  and  Rebecca  had  played 
together  once  in  the  pleasant  places  by 
the  brook.  Christopher  was  a  wonder- 
ful playmate.  He  knew  every  bird  by 
its  note,  where  it  hid  its  nest,  —  in 
tree,  in  hedge,  or  meadow,  — how  many 
eggs  the  nest  should  hold,  and  of 
what  color.  He  knew  the  bait  each  fish 
loved  best,  and  could  catch  the  wariest 
with  a  bent  pin.  No  colt  ever  foaled  on 
the  hill  had  unseated  him,  though  he 
had  to  cling  desperately,  bare-back,  to 
the  mane.  Even  the  brown  Durham 
bull  looked  askance  at  Christopher.  As 
for  the  dogs,  they  ran  to  meet  him  at 
the  mere  sight  of  the  stocky  little  fig- 
ure, bare-headed,  hands  in  ragged  trou- 
sers, sure  of  adventure. 


528 


REBECCA 


Where  Christopher  got  his  chief  pos- 
session —  imagination  —  is  a  secret  un- 
told. It  did  not  grow  on  hilltop  farms, 
and  he  was  never  seen  with  a  book  out 
of  school.  What  tales  he  could  tell! 
The  little  flaxen-haired  girl  listened  to 
them  for  hours,  open-mouthed,  eyes 
bulging  with  wonder.  He  confided  to 
her  what  he  was  going  to  do  when  he 
was  a  man.  Among  other  things  he  was 
going  to  find  the  North  Pole.  He  spoke 
of  the  North  Pole  as  if  it  were  a  marble 
in  his  pocket.  Wonderful  hours  those 
were,  among  the  buttercups  by  the 
brook  and,  on  rainy  days,  in  the  hay- 
mow! No  real  person  walking  the  vil- 
lage street  was  half  as  real  as  the  phan- 
toms that  trod  Christopher's  stage. 
Wonderful  hours !  spiced  with  the  sense 
of  stolen  joys  —  for  motherless  Chris- 
topher was  the  son  of  the  village  ne'er- 
do-weel,  without  favor  outside  of  the 
animal  kingdom. 

And  then,  gradually,  almost  insen- 
sibly, Christopher  drew  away,  like  a 
young  sapling  from  its  fellows  of  slower 
growth,  and  Rebecca  was  left  behind, 
alone,  clinging  to  childish  toys,  dream- 
land, and  all  the  creations  of  Chris- 
topher's riotous  imagination,  outgrown 
and  spurned  now  for  the  solid  things 
beckoning  to  manlier  ambition.  And 
then,  suddenly,  leaping  out  of  the  dark, 
came  one  by  one  those  events  over 
which  there  is  no  control  —  Christo- 
pher's disappearance,  her  father's  death, 
her  mother's  failing  health,  closing  in 
on  her  like  the  walls  of  a  narrowing 
room,  walking  roughshod  over  the 
dreams,  hardening  her  hands,  putting 
that  fixed,  determined  look  in  her  eyes; 
till  one  by  one  the  actors  on  Christo- 
pher's stage  died,  its  lights  went  out, 
and  of  those  splendid  hours  nothing 
was  left  but  a  few  rebellious  tears  shed 
in  the  'office,'  when  accounts  were  done 
and  the  fire  was  very  low. 

After  all,  Christopher  had  run  true 
to  life.  It  was  in  the  natural  order  of 


things  that  he  should  disappear,  as  nat- 
ural and  inevitable  as  that  the  sheep 
should  get  the  foot  disease  —  predes- 
tined and  foreordained,  like  blight  and 
frost  and  potato  bugs. 

It  was  quite  otherwise  with  Uncle 
Caleb.  He  was  a  surprise. 

Uncle  Caleb  owned  the  mills,  only 
four  miles  away,  though  it  might  as  well 
have  been  a  hundred.  Once  in  a  while, 
to  be  sure,  he  drove  out  to  the  hilltop, 
and  Rebecca  was  conscious  of  approv- 
ing glances  in  his  shrewd  gray  eyes. 
They  talked  a  little  of  the  crops.  Then 
he  went  away.  And  now  he  had  brought 
Christopher  back  —  Christopher  and 
money  at  forty-eight !  All  the  fat  worms 
wiggling  to  the  surface  when  the  ground 
thawed  out  for  a  day  could  not  bring 
the  birds  back  in  winter.  Uncle  Caleb 
was  only  a  winter  sun,  waking  to  mo- 
mentary life  what  would  better  be  left 
to  sleep. 

The  clock  struck  five.  It  was  getting 
near  supper-time.  She  covered  the  fire, 
put  her  desk  to  rights,  and  went  out, 
locking  the  door.  The  key  she  kept  in 
her  pocket,  as  if  there  were  secrets  in 
the  office  to  guard. 

Her  mother  looked  up  as  she  came  in. 

'Rebecca,  I've  been  thinking —  ' 

'We  can  talk  of  that  to-morrow, 
mother.  I  am  tired  to-night.' 

'But,  Rebecca,  to-morrow's  the  Sab- 
bath.' 

'I  know  it,'  said  Rebecca  grimly. 

But  just  before  going  to  bed,  as  if  the 
word  '  Christopher '  was  not  a  bombshell 
loaded  with  potentialities,  in  her  most 
casual  manner  she  let  drop  the  sen- 
tence: 'Christopher's  coming  Monday, 
Mother.' 

'Dear  me!  how  time  flies.' 

A  gleam  of  humor  twinkled  in  Re- 
becca's eyes. 

'I  wonder  if  he  found  the  North 
Pole.' 

'The  what?' 

'Nothing.  Good-night,  mother.' 


REBECCA 


529 


III 

Rebecca  had  conquered  the  major 
devils  on  the  ride  home  from  the 
Squire's.  They  had  all  slunk  away, 
cowed  by  that  ominous  word  'fifty'  — 
except  one.  This  latter  she  slew  before 
going  down  to  breakfast  Monday  morn- 
ing. Heroines  in  the  books  on  the  lower 
shelves  behind  the  diamond  panes  in- 
variably glanced  in  their  mirrors  before 
facing  important  interviews.  Like  Is- 
rael of  old,  Rebecca  hardened  her  heart. 
Nothing  on  her  bureau-cover  would 
make  the  slightest  difference,  had  she 
desired  any.  There  would  be  only  what 
she  had  seen  hundreds  of  times  —  a 
woman  almost  forty-eight,  not  quite; 
slim;  an  oval  face,  tanned  by  wind 
and  sun;  grayish  eyes  quick  to  show 
certain  indescribable  danger-signals; 
the  flaxen  hair  deepened  to  brown;  a 
mouth,  firm,  but  ready  to  soften;  and 
a  nose  —  nothing  the  matter  with  it, 
only  she  did  not  like  it.  She  had  no 
interest  in  these  things.  So  she  went 
downstairs,  ignoring  the  mirror,  thereby 
missing  what  had  not  been  seen  in  it 
since  — 

But  her  mother  saw,  when  Rebecca 
brought  the  breakfast-tray  —  and  won- 
dered. 

Then,  without  warning,  while  pour- 
ing the  coffee,  a  horse  neighed  in  the 
yard,  and  there,  at  the  hitching-post, 
was  Christopher,  the  Christopher  of  the 
brook,  only  bigger,  with  the  same  quick 
confident  gesture,  the  same  compelling 
voice  calling  to  her  in  the  doorway:  — 

'Hullo,  little  girl!' 

Formality  dropped  from  her  like  a 
cloak. 

'Hullo,  Christopher!  Come  in.' 

Christopher  had  falsified  hill  proph- 
ecy. Persistent  rumor  had  forced  the 
admission  that,  instead  of  going  to  the 
bad,  he  had,  as  Uncle  Caleb  predicted, 
made  good.  Uncle  Caleb  was  a  shrewd 
old  fellow,  saying  little  beyond  an  oc- 


casional 'I  told  you  so.'  Moreover,  suc- 
cess had  not  spoiled  Christopher.  It 
was  impossible  to  spoil  him.  'Sound  as 
a  winter  apple,'  Uncle  Caleb  had  said 
to  the  Squire,  when  making  his  will. 
And  here  he  was,  sitting  opposite  Re- 
becca, clean-shaven,  talking  about  Cey- 
lon and  India  and  London  and  Cairo, 
as  familiarly  as  he  used  to  talk  about 
fairies  and  giants  and  the  North  Pole. 

Rebecca  listened  as  the  little  flaxen- 
haired  girl  had  listened,  her  eyes  grow- 
ing brighter,  her  mouth  softer,  her  heart 
lighter  —  till  suddenly,  lighting  a  cigar 
and  looking  straight  in  her  eyes,  he 
said:  — 

'Look  here,  Rebecca,  we  have  busi- 
ness to  talk  over.  Where  shall  we  go?' 

Except  for  the  maid  clearing  the  ta- 
ble, there  was  no  particular  reason  for 
going  anywhere;  but  just  here  the  little 
fox,  which  had  slipped  his  leash  and  laid 
the  fire  in  the  office  early  in  the  morning 
before  anyone  was  up,  spoke. 

'  We  might  go  to  the  office.  It 's  near- 
er than  the  brook  —  and  warmer.' 

'Just  the  place!'  said  Christopher. 
'So  the  brook's  still  there.' 

'Yes,  it's  still  running  away,  Chris- 
topher.' 

Not  a  word  had  he  said  about  what 
she  had  refused  to  see  in  the  mirror;  but 
now,  sitting  in  the  rocker,  the  pine  cones 
blazing  and  stars  coming  and  going  in 
the  soot  of  the  chimney-brick,  — 

'You're  looking  fine,  Rebecca.' 

'Am  I?  I've  got  the  farm  in  fine 
shape.'  She  parried  the  amused  smile 
in  his  blue  eyes  with  'Tell  me  about 
yourself,  Christopher.' 

He  began  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, just  as  he  did  in  the  hay-mow 
when  she  said,  'I'm  ready  —  now  be- 
gin.' Perhaps,  in  the  hay-mow,  neither 
of  them  wholly  believed  the  things  he 
said;  but  they  both  believed  in  Chris- 
topher. That  was  his  glory  and  charm, 
his  intrepid,  nonchalant  self-confidence, 
his  faith  in  himself,  serene,  without  a 


530 


REBECCA 


trace  of  vanity.  '  Why,  it 's  easy  as  wa- 
ter running  down  hill,'  he  used  to  say. 
Listening  again,  Rebecca  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  juggler  she  had  once 
seen  with  Uncle  Caleb,  tossing  the  balls 
in  dazzling  arcs  till  her  eyes  blinked. 
Only  now  the  juggler's  balls  were  reali- 
ties. Christopher  had  really  killed  a 
real  tiger  in  a  real  jungle.  The  gold  at 
the  foot  of  the  rainbow  was  in  his 
pocket.  He  had  actually  made  the 
journeys  they  had  taken  together  on 
the  magical  carpet.  And,  little  by  little, 
her  spirit  kindling  at  the  touch  of  his, 
getting  the  farm  in  fine  shape  dwindled 
to  utter  insignificance,  the  cares  that 
worried  her  and  the  triumphs  that  ela- 
ted her  appeared  miserable,  petty  trifles. 

'I  suppose  I  could,  if  I  wanted  to,' 
she  murmured. 

'Rebecca,  you  must.'' 

'Must  what?'  said  Rebecca. 

'Live!  It's  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log. 
You  're  a  rich  woman,  Rebecca  —  rich.* 
She  liked  the  sound  of  her  name  amaz- 
ingly. 'Sell  the  farm,  rent  it,  give  it 
away.  Do  you  want  to  spend  the  rest  of 
your  life  —  * 

'No,  I  don't,'  she  interjected,  seeing 
visions;  'but  there's  mother.' 

'That's  easy.  Put  the  breath  of  life 
in  her  too.  Take  her  with  you.' 

'Where?'  said  Rebecca,  breathless 
herself. 

Christopher  smiled  his  radiant  smile. 

'Practical  little  woman!  Don't  I 
remember  how  you  used  to  save  the 
crumbs  for  the  chickens !  You  have  n't 
got  to  bother  with  crumbs  now.  Leave 
it  to  me.  I'll  manage  the  whole  thing 
for  you  —  mother  and  all.' 

It  was  dazzling,  the  old  spell  was 
sweeping  her  along  with  him.  But  on 
the  horizon  hung  one  black  cloud,  in 
the  back  of  her  mind  one  awful  ques- 
tion. She  summoned  all  her  courage, 
desperately. 

'I  suppose  you  are  married,  Chris- 
topher?' 


'Bless  you,  no!'  laughed  Christopher. 

She  hurried  over  the  thin  ice,  wildly, 
strangely  happy. 

'Nor  found  the  North  Pole,  I  reckon.' 

He  laughed  again. 

'  The  North  Pole 's  all  right  for  a  may- 
pole, Rebecca,  but  you  and  I  are  getting 
along  to  —  well,  say  August.  Nothing 
grows  there,  no  more  than  in  your  cow- 
pasture  —  though  you  have  got  a  lot  of 
stones  out  of  it.' 

'Yes,  I  have,'  said  Rebecca  dreamily. 

'Don't  talk  it  over  with  your  mother. 
Just  do  it.  That 's  my  motto.  Do  it  and 
it's  done.  I  have  my  eye  on  a  house  for 
you  in  73d  Street  already.' 

The  color  print  of  Washington,  the 
clock,  the  bookcase,  and  the  horsehair 
sofa  were  all  fading  away;  the  farm  it- 
self, substantial,  century-old,  rooted  in 
the  granite  hills,  dissolving  in  a  rosy 
mist.  She  was  treading  air,  drinking  at 
fountains  sealed  for  years.  How  could 
she  ever  have  been  contented  to  — 

'Where  do  you  live,  Christopher?' 

He  was  standing  now  beside  her,  his 
hand  patting  her  shoulder. 

'  You  don't  have  to  think  of  me,  little 
woman.  I'm  looking  after  you.  Say, 
Rebecca,  could  you  put  me  up  for  the 
night?  I'd  really  like  to  go  over  the  old 
place.' 

Rebecca  had  never  in  her  life  been 
looked  after. 

'Of  course,  Christopher.' 

rv 

Christopher  came  back  for  supper 
just  as  hungry  as  the  ragged  boy  for 
whom  Rebecca  saved  her  'piece  of  pie,' 
remarking  cheerfully  that  he  had  had 
the  worth  of  his  dinner.  She  knew  now 
what  he  had  meant:  exactly  what  he 
said  — 'To  go  over  the  old  place.'  He 
had  done  it  thoroughly.  It  was  natural 
enough,  not  having  gone  to  the  bad, 
that  he  should  pay  off  old  scores  by  call- 
ing on  the  minister,  returning  good  for 


REBECCA 


531 


evil  with  a  check  toward  lifting  the 
mortgage.  Natural,  too,  was  the  con- 
sultation at  the  quarry  for  a  monument 
to  mark  the  resting-place  of  the  ne'er- 
do-weel  —  a  pyramid  overtopping  hum- 
bler headstones.  There  was  a  certain 
propriety  in  these  retributive  proceed- 
ings which  appealed  to  Rebecca's  sense 
of  justice  —  and  humor.  Above  all,  his 
invasion  of  the  schoolhouse,  scandaliz- 
ing demure  Miss  Robbins  and  delight- 
ing the  children  by  a  vivid  recital  of 
former  misdemeanors. 

All  this  was  exactly  like  Christopher; 
but  when,  after  supper,  her  mother  hav- 
ing gone  to  bed,  he  proposed  a  second 
adjournment  to  the  office,  she  said: 
'There's  no  fire  there,  Christopher.' 

'Well,  who  always  built  the  fires  in 
the  birches,  I'd  like  to  know!' 

What  was  the  use!  There  was  no 
withstanding  Christopher. 

So  Christopher  built  the  fire  and  sat 
in  the  rocker,  and  Rebecca  sat  at  her 
desk,"and  the  clock  stared  solemnly  at 
the  vacant  sofa. 

'It  may  be  a  wrench  at  first,  Re- 
becca; the  week  after  I  went  away,  I 
was  miserable  for  the  smell  of  the  fern, 
and  the  wild  strawberries  —  you  re- 
member, don't  you?  in  the  wood-lot. 
But  it  will  be  different  with  you.  You  '11 
get  over  that  in  no  time.' 

Oh,  yes!  Rebecca  remembered.  But 
somehow,  rolling  off  a  log  did  not  seem 
quite  so  easy  as  it  did  to  Christopher. 

'Why  not  run  down  with  me  to-mor- 
row?' 

It  was  like  a  pistol-shot,  and  instant- 
ly she  told  the  first  lie  of  her  life. 

'I  can't.  The  inspector's  coming  to- 
morrow, to  look  over  the  herd.' 

'Put  him  off.  Leave  it  to  Hansen.' 

Nothing  ever  daunted  Christopher. 

'I  can't,'  she  repeated  helplessly. 

She  was  looking  Truth  in  the  face, 
bravely,  ready  for  any  number  of  lies  if 
necessary.  What  would  happen  to  her 
immortal  soul  was  of  no  consequence. 


Christopher  took  out  his  notebook 
and  plunged  into  figures.  Rebecca  was 
familiar  with  figures.  They  had  plagued 
her  all  her  life.  He  drew  his  chair  be- 
side hers  and  reached  for  her  pencil, 
checking  off  the  items  of  Uncle  Caleb's 
inventory  with  comments  —  '  solid  — 
good  as  gold  —  nothing  better '  —  while 
Rebecca's  world,  as  the  solid  total 
mounted,  melted  steadily,  ruthlessly 
away. 

'You  see,  Rebecca,'  said  Christopher 
when  she  gave  him  his  candle  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  'you  have  n't  got  to 
worry  about  the  farm.  It  cuts  no  ice 
anyway.  Think  it  over.' 

'I  have.' 

'That's  right.  And  say,  Rebecca, 
don't  bother  about  me.  I'm  going  to 
catch  the  early  train.'  His  blue  eyes 
twinkled.  'Just  leave  a  piece  of  pie  on 
the  table.  I  have  n't  forgotten.  Good- 
night, little  woman.  You'll  see  straight 
by  morning.  There's  nothing  like  a 
good  night's  sleep  to  clear  away  the  fog.' 

'No,'  said  Rebecca.  'Good-bye, 
Christopher.' 

Alone  in  her  room,  Rebecca  went  to 
the  mirror.  She  was  not  afraid  of  it 
now.  The  little  foxes  were  as  dead  as 
the  major  devils. 

She  sat  down  by  her  window.  A 
white  mist  hung  over  the  brook.  The 
tops  of  the  birches  were  still,  like  float- 
ing islands.  But  there  was  no  fog  in  her 
heart.  It  was  clear  as  daylight.  It  was 
daylight,  and  sleighbells  were  jingling 
in  the  yard. 

In  the  office  Hansen  was  fumbling 
his  cap.  'I  thought,  Miss  Rebecca, 
seeing  as  how  Mr.  Christopher  talked 
about  selling  —  well  —  maybe  I  might 
like  to  buy  it  myself.' 

Rebecca  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

'I  have  n't  the  least  idea  of  selling. 
You  can  see  those  people  to-day  about 
running  the  wire  up  from  the  mill.' 


IS  THERE  ANYTHING  IN  PRAYER? 


BY  J.   EDGAR  PARK 


ONE  of  the  earliest  discoveries  made 
by  the  adventurer  who  dares  to  pene- 
trate into  the  land  of  Common  Sense  is 
that  in  that  land  mere  wishing  does  not 
accomplish  very  much.  Sundered  lovers 
wished  their  hearts  away  for  centuries, 
longing  for  the  sound  of  the  other's 
voice  through  the  intervening  miles  of 
space.  But  all  was  of  no  avail  until  to 
that  wishing  was  added  the  minute 
knowledge  of  electro-magnetism,  which 
resulted  in  the  invention  of  the  tele- 
phone. 

The  longest  road  in  the  world  is  the 
road  that  lies  between  feeling  and  fact. 
The  road  can  be  made  passable  only  by 
knowledge.  Wishing  is  just  the  initial 
motive  force  designed  to  drive  one  to 
seek  the  knowledge  of  the  way.  Pro- 
cessions of  longing,  beseeching  human 
beings  through  plague-stricken  cities, 
imploring  the  removal  of  the  curse,  ef- 
fected nothing  until  their  desires  were 
converted  into  patient  investigation  of 
the  causes  and  cure  of  plague.  The  pro- 
cessions were  valuable  in  so  far  as  they 
incited  and  stung  the  lethargic  scientific 
mind  into  investigation  and  discovery. 
Wishing,  looked  upon  as  an  end  in  it- 
self, is  barren,  but  it  is  the  initial  stage 
of  all  progress. 

Desire,  when  it  can  be  transmuted 
into  action,  is  the  joy  of  life.  Desire, 
when  it  cannot  immediately  be  trans- 
muted into  action,  is  the  basic  problem 
of  literature,  art,  philosophy,  and  re- 
ligion. What  is  to  be  done  with  it? 

Prayer  is  the  organization  of  unsatis- 
fied desire.  Unless  it  is  organized  in 
some  way  it  leads  to  ruinous  conse- 

582 


quences.  Worry,  nervous  disorders,  de- 
pression, temptation,  morbid  mental 
conditions  —  these  are  the  names  of 
some  of  the  results  of  unorganized, 
unsatisfied  desires.  A  mother  returns 
home  on  a  sudden  call,  to  find  her  child 
sick  unto  death.  She  immediately  gets 
the  best  doctors  and  the  best  nurses, 
and  does  all  she  can  for  his  cure.  At 
last  she  has  done  all  she  is  able  to  do. 
Can  she  then  put  the  matter  from  her 
mind  and  go  to  the  movies?  No,  there 
remains,  after  she  has  done  everything 
possible  for  her  child,  a  mass  of  desire 
for  that  child's  recovery  which  she  has 
not  been  able  to  work  off  into  action. 
What  is  she  to  do  with  it?  She  may 
either  go  into  another  room  and  worry 
herself  to  death  over  the  child,  and  thus 
make  herself  a  prophet  of  death  to  the 
child  and  the  whole  household,  or  she 
may  pray.  Prayer  is  the  control  of  the 
overflow  of  desire  above  that  which  can 
be  immediately[transmuted  into  action. 

What  then  is  her  mental  attitude  in 
prayer?  It  has  been  largely  represented 
as  that  of  a  slave  asking  for  a  favor  be- 
fore the  throne  of  an  oriental  potentate. 
'I  have  done  many  favors  for  Thee  in 
the  past.  I  have  contributed  to  thy 
church,  and  attended  thy  services,  and 
kept  thy  laws.  Now  I  humbly  ask,  as  a 
return  for  these  offerings,  the  life  of  this 
child!' 

Or  it  has  been  supposed  that  here  is 
the  one  exception  to  the  otherwise  inex- 
orable principle  that  mere  wishing  does 
not  accomplish  anything.  She  is  simply 
to  wish  and  ask,  as  a  child  would  wish 
and  ask  a  parent  for,  something  desired. 


IS   THERE   ANYTHING   IN   PRAYER? 


533 


Prayer  in  both  these  cases  is  looked 
upon  as  a  triangle.  The  mother  and  the 
child  are  at  the  base  angles;  God  is  at 
the  apex.  The  mother  sends  up  a  prayer 
to  God,  which  God  considers,  and,  if  it 
seems  good  to  Him,  sends  down  the 
answer  to  the  child.  The  conditions  of 
effective  prayer  under  these  conditions 
are,  as  set  forth  in  a  recent  hand-book 
on  prayer,  faith,  humility,  and  submis- 
sion. 

There  has  been,  however,  a  growing 
school  of  religious  thinkers  who  have 
felt  that  the  use  of  terms  and  figures 
like  these  must  not  blind  us  to  the  fact 
that  the  realm  of  prayer  is  no  exception 
to  the  general  rule;  that  it  is  necessary, 
not  only  to  wish,  but  to  know  how 
to  wish;  that  there  are  laws  governing 
the  organization  of  unsatisfied  desires, 
which  must  be  observed.  Prayer  for 
them  is  not  so  much  a  triangle  as  a 
straight  line.  Prayer  is  the  organiza- 
tion of  one's  unsatisfied  desires  so  that 
God  may  work  through  them  for  the 
end  desired.  The  mother's  unsatisfied 
desire  for  the  life  of  the  child  may  be  so 
organized  as  to  be  the  channel  through 
which  the  healing  power  of  God  may 
reach  the  child.  Prayer  is  not,  then, 
that  passive  acquiescence  of  the  Irish- 
man, who  hung  the  Lord's  Prayer  over 
his  bed  and,  every  night,  before  he 
jumped  in,  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  petitions  and  ejaculated, 
'  Them 's  my  sentiments ! '  Prayer  is  an 
activity  of  will  and  mind  and  feeling, 
which  makes  us  the  natural  channel 
through  which  good  effects  flow  to 
those  for  whom  we  pray.  Psychology 
studies  the  conditions  of  that  activity. 
Religion  asserts  that  these  good  effects 
are  the  result,  not  merely  of  a  personal, 
but  also  of  a  cosmic  wish. 

What  is  the  condition  of  mind  of  such 
a  mother,  which  most  conduces  to  the 
'cure  of  the  child?  If  it  is  true,  as  we 
have  surmised,  that  prayer  is  not  sim- 
ply wishing,  but  organized  and  directed 


wishing,  then  it  is  evident  that,  as  in 
any  other  art,  power  in  prayer  will  come 
with  practice.  It  is  necessary,  as  in  any 
other  art,  to  begin  with  little  things  and 
gain  skill  and  power  from  the  small  to 
the  great.  Prayer  is  the  personal  influ- 
ence, which  we  recognize  so  well  in  so- 
cial intercourse,  at  its  highest  point  of 
efficiency.  We  all  recognize  that  per- 
sonal influence  is  a  hard  attainment; 
power  in  prayer  is  equally  open  to  all, 
but  requires  great  effort  to  attain. 
Much  as  we  may  dislike  the  word,  there 
is  a  technique  of  prayer  which  can  be 
mastered.  The  mother  must  have 
learned  to  pray,  in  order  to  be  of  much 
help  to  her  child  at  such  a  crisis.  To  be 
a  healing  personality  is  a  high  achieve- 
ment. But  let  us  suppose  that  she  has 
been  practising  prayer  for  years.  She 
has  gained  her  power  in  the  attainment 
of  lesser  ends  than  this  very  life  of  her 
child.  It  is,  in  general,  almost  impossi- 
ble to  generate  in  the  face  of  a  sudden 
emergency  a  hitherto  unused  power. 
Prayer  ought  to  start  with  trifles  —  the 
sublimation  of  petty  personal  desires, 
the  gaining  of  a  rational  spiritual  atti- 
tude toward  minor  social  problems  in 
the  home  and  school.  Prayer  does  not 
generally  emerge  into  the  consciousness 
as  a  desire  for  the  evangelization  of  the 
world  in  this  generation;  it  rather  be- 
gins with  a  desire  for  a  new  doll  or  the 
winning  of  a  game. 

Some  years  previously,  this  mother 
has  found  that  her  child  was  not  getting 
on  well  at  school.  He  began  to  bring 
home  bad  report-cards,  he  did  not  like 
the  teachers,  he  hated  the  studies. 
The  mother  finds  herself  beginning  to 
anticipate  more  trouble.  She  expects 
another  bad  report,  more  tales  of  being 
disliked  by  the  teachers,  more  inability 
to  do  the  work  prescribed.  Her  very 
face  as  she  meets  the  child  at  the  door 
tells  what  she  anticipates.  Suddenly 
she  realizes  that  the  whole  atmosphere 
of  the  home  is  melancholy  with  the 


534 


IS   THERE   ANYTHING   IN   PRAYER? 


sense  of  impending  failure.  Her  personal 
influence,  through  the  black  background 
of  her  consciousness,  is,  in  spite  of  any- 
thing she  may  say,  foreboding.  Then 
she  endeavors  to  'get  hold  of  herself; 
to  prevent  this  thwarted  desire  for  her 
child's  happiness  and  success  from  turn- 
ing sour  and  becoming  a  fixed,  if  almost 
unconscious,  conviction  that  the  child 
will  not  get  on  well  at  school. 

She  begins  to  pray.  She  invokes  an- 
other conviction,  that  the  good  Spirit 
of  the  universe  has  no  such  intention 
for  her  child.  She  recalls  some  of  the 
great  passages  of  religious  inspiration, 
the  words  of  the  saints  who  have  been 
sure  of  a  power  outside  ourselves,  as 
well  as  in  ourselves,  making  for  right- 
eousness. Thus  gaining  the  prayer- 
mood,  she  then  reminds  herself  that  she 
must  be  the  channel  for  bringing  this 
good-will  into  the  life  of  her  child.  She 
replaces  the  picture  of  failure,  which 
threatens  to  become  fixed  in  her  mind, 
with  a  more  vivid  and  living  picture  of 
success.  With  all  the  love  and  sym- 
pathy and  imaginative  fire  she  possesses, 
she  pictures  to  herself  her  petition  being 
granted  —  the  new  attitude  on  the 
part  of  her  child,  his  awakened  interest 
in  his  studies,  his  liking  for  his  teachers, 
his  expectation  of  success.  She  prays 
intensely,  with  all  her  desire,  through 
and  in  this  mental  picture. 

This  act  is  exceedingly  difficult;  but, 
if  done,  it  changes  the  whole  atmosphere 
of  the  home.  The  very  face  of  the 
mother  as  she  meets  the  child  is  mag- 
netic of  success  for  the  child  instead 
of  being  prophetic  of  failure.  In  the 
thousand  ways,  known  and  unknown,  in 
which  the  mother's  mind  touches  the 
mind  of  the  child,  encouragement,  ex- 
pectation of  achievement,  faith  in  his 
powers  now  flow  in  upon  the  will  of  the 
child.  In  petitions  of  this  nature,  the 
whole  personality  is  stirred ;  desire,  intel- 
lect, and  imagination  are  at  their  high- 
est point  of  efficiency,  that  she  may  be- 


come a  conductor  of  God's  good-will. 
She  concludes  her  prayer  with  thanks- 
giving to  God  that  the  prayer  has  been 
granted,  a  supreme  act  of  faith. 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
between  the  man  who  says,  'I  am  going 
to  give  up  my  bad  habit,'  and  the  man 
who  says,  'I  have  given  up  my  bad 
habit.'  So  there  is  between  feeling  that 
God  may  answer  the  prayer  and  that 
God  has  answered  it.  The  latter  is  the 
act  of  faith  that  the  answer  will  be  hind- 
ered only  by  the  defect  of  the  channel. 
The  answer  is  granted;  the  flood  of  hap- 
piness and  success  is  forcing  its  way 
through  the  narrow  and  obstructed 
channel  of  the  mother's  personal  influ- 
ence upon  the  child.  Prayer  has  substi- 
tuted such  an  influence  for  the  previ- 
ous, almost  unconscious,  suggestions  of 
failure.  There  is  no  dogmatism  in  such 
prayer  as  to  the  method  of  the  answer 
—  that  is  left  to  the  infinite  possibilities 
of  actual  experience.  The  claim  is  sim- 
ply made  on  the  universe  for  the  happi- 
ness of  the  child,  and  in  the  making  of 
the  claim  the  psychological  machinery 
is  set  in  motion  for  its  being  honored  by 
the  universe.  And  this  effort  to  organ- 
ize unsatisfied  desire  not  only  has  its 
influence  upon  those  for  whom  we  pray, 
but  tends  to  purify  and  enlighten  the 
desire  itself,  so  that,  when  the  petition 
is  granted,  it  may  be  on  a  much  higher 
plane  than  when  it  was  first  offered. 
Yet  it  is  the  same  prayer.  The  desire  is 
always  satisfied.  But  it  often  is  sub- 
limated in  the  process  of  satisfaction. 

In  the  face  of  the  impending  death  of 
her  child,  a  mother  who  has  so  prac- 
tised prayer  on  lesser  matters  has  great 
powers.  Her  very  face  in  the  sick-room, 
as  the  child  dimly  sees  it,  is  on  the  side 
of  health  and  life.  And  who  can  tell  in 
what  numberless  ways  the  minds  of 
those  who  love  touch  one  another,  all 
unseen  even  by  the  argus  eyes  of  science  ? 
Miracles  occur,  and  the  tide  of  life  re- 
turns into  sluggish  veins,  when  the  de- 


IS   THERE  ANYTHING   IN   PRAYER? 


535 


sire  of  life  is  kindled  through  the  touch 
of  kindred  minds. 

Many  objections  will  occur  to  one 
who  reads  for  the  first  time  this  theory 
of  prayer.  Does  not  this  explanation  of 
prayer,  it  will  be  asked,  run  counter  to 
the  practice  of  One  who  said  in  his 
prayer,  'Not  My  will  but  Thine  be 
done'?  This  phrase  has  been  greatly 
misused.  It  has  been  misused  so  as  al- 
most to  justify  the  Irishman's  type  of 
prayer,  before  mentioned.  Rousseau 
best  expressed  a  prevailing  interpreta- 
tion of  it  thus : '  I  bless  God,  but  I  pray 
not.  Why  should  I  ask  of  Him  that  He 
would  change  for  me  the  course  of 
things,  do  miracles  in  my  favor?  I,  who 
ought  to  love,  above  all,  the  order  estab- 
lished by  his  wisdom  and  maintained  by 
his  providence —  shall  I  wish  that  order 
to  be  dissolved  on  my  account?  As  lit- 
tle do  I  ask  of  Him  the  power  to  do  well. 
Why  ask  what  He  has  already  given?' 

But  God's  highest  will  is  carried  out 
only  through  human  wills  working  at 
white  heat.  Prayer  is  not  asking  God 
to  change  the  course  of  things,but  ask- 
ing Him  to  help  me  to  be  a  part  of  that 
course  of  things.  I  become  so,  not  in 
spite  of  my  will,  but  through  my  will. 
The  Master  used  this  phrase,  not  be- 
fore He  had  exerted  his  own  will,  but 
after  the  great  drops  of  the  sweat  of  de- 
sire were  falling  from  his  brow  to  the 
ground.  The  phrase  is  no  idle  excuse 
for  listless  praying;  in  it  we  see  the  sub- 
limation of  desire  taking  place.  Idle 
prayers,  which  place  this  phrase,  mis- 
used, in  the  forefront,  will  ever  excuse 
injustice  and  sickness  and  unhappiness 
as  the  will  of  God.  Justice,  happiness, 
health,  surely  these  are  the  will  of  God 
for  all;  as  to  the  detailed  method  of 
their  coming,  our  desires  in  prayer  are 


ever  being  enlarged  and  enlightened  by 
the  inflow  upon  us  of  the  cosmic  de- 
sires of  God. 

Again,  it  will  be  asked  if  this  theory 
will  not  lend  itself  to  the  idea  that,  if 
you  want  a  purse  of  money,  you  must 
imagine  it  very  vividly  lying  on  the 
pavement  outside  your  house,  and  then 
go  out  and  find  it.  A  father  heard  his 
little  girl  praying  for  the  red  doll  in  the 
window  of  the  corner  store,  and  told 
her  she  ought  not  to  pray  for  things  like 
that;  she  ought  to  pray  to  be  a  good 
girl,  or  for  the  heathen.  The  fact  was 
that  she  did  not  want  specially  to  be  a 
good  girl  in  the  father's  meaning  of  that 
phrase,  and  she  did  not  care  about  the 
heathen,  but  she  did  want  the  red  doll. 
Why  make  a  hypocrite  of  her  at  the 
start?  So  it  is  with  money.  If  that  is 
what  you  really  want,  pray  for  it.  If 
you  pray  sincerely,  you  will  receive  an 
answer  which  will  satisfy  you.  Possibly 
not  the  pocket-book,  but  an  ability  to 
get  up  earlier  in  the  morning,  or  to  keep 
awake  between  meals,  or  to  reduce  your 
expenditures.  The  answer  always  comes 
and  abundantly  satisfies  anyone  who 
dares  persistently  to  carry  out  the  art 
of  praying.  But  prayer  always  initiates 
effort. 

Prayer  is  a  hard  task  without  the 
mystic  sense  of  the  personality  of  God. 
In  all  the  lesser  problems  of  life  it  is  easy 
.  enough  to  look  upon  it  as  the  simple 
demonstration  of  a  natural  law.  But 
when  the  storms  are  out  and  the  floods 
let  loose,  when  one  has  done  all  one  can 
by  action  and  has  done  all  one  can  by 
prayer,  then  life  is  hard  and  cruel,  in- 
deed, unless  one  can  feel,  behind  all  the 
laws  and  beneath  all  the  principles,  in 
higher  reaches  of  spiritual  communion, 
a  love  that  understands  and  forgives. 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


BY  E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL 


THE  most  important  country  in  the 
world  to  Americans  to-day  is  Japan. 
Before  you  question  this  assertion, 
think  it  over  for  a  moment.  Japan  is 
the  only  nation  whose  commercial  and 
territorial  ambitions,  whose  naval  and 
emigration  policies  are  in  direct  con- 
flict with  our  own.  Japan  is  our  only 
serious  competitor  for  the  trade  of 
China.  She  is  the  key  that  can  lock  the 
Open  Door.  Japan  is  the  only  country 
whose  interests  in  the  Pacific  clash  with 
ours.  She  is  the  only  power,  save  Eng- 
land, which  is  in  a  position  to  challenge 
our  naval  supremacy  —  and  the  Brit- 
ish navy,  as  we  are  perfectly  aware,  can 
never  conceivably  be  directed  against 
ourselves.  With  the  temporary  eclipse 
of  Germany  as  a  world-power,  Japan 
is  the  only  potential  enemy  on  our  hori- 
zon; she  is  the  only  nation  that  we  have 
reason  to  fear.  The  problem  that  de- 
mands the  most  serious  consideration 
of  the  American  people  and  the  highest 
quality  of  American  statesmanship  is 
the  Japanese  Question.  On  its  correct 
and  early  solution  hangs  the  peace  of 
the  world. 

It  is  to  the  great  mass  of  reasoning 
and  fair-minded  people  in  both  coun- 
tries, who,  I  believe,  wish  to  know  the 
unvarnished  truth,  no  matter  how  un- 
flattering it  may  be  to  their  national 
pride,  how  controversive  of  their  pre- 
conceptions, how  disillusionizing,  that 
I  address  myself.  In  writing  this  article 
I  have  discarded  euphemisms.  At  the 
risk  of  being  accused  of  sensationalism, 

536 


I  propose  to  rip  away  the  diplomatic 
subterfuge  and  political  camouflage 
which  have  so  long  concealed  or  dis- 
torted the  facts  of  the  situation.  But, 
before  I  proceed,  let  me  make  it  amply 
clear  that  I  am  not  anti-Japanese. 
Neither  do  I  hold  a  brief  for  Japan.  I 
am  an  American  and,  because  I  wish  to 
see  my  country  morally  in  the  right,  I 
deplore  the  tactless  and  blundering 
manner  in  which  we  are  handling  the 
Japanese  question.  I  am  a  friend  of 
Japan  and,  because  I  wish  her  well,  I 
view  with  grave  misgivings  the  aggres- 
sive imperialism  which  appears  to  be 
dominating  her  foreign  policy.  I  am 
absolutely  convinced  that,  unless  the 
two  peoples  can  be  jolted  into  a  realiza- 
tion of  whither  they  are  drifting  as  a 
result  of  their  mutual  suspicions  and  the 
policies  of  their  respective  governments, 
the  present  irritation,  constantly  in- 
flamed in  both  countries  by  pernicious 
propaganda,  will  shortly  break  into  an 
open  sore.  Notwithstanding  the  soft 
pedal  put  upon  frank  discussion  of  the 
question  by  the  diplomatists  in  Tokyo 
and  Washington,  despite  the  shocked 
and  vehement  denials  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Japan  Society,  nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  the  two  nations  are 
daily  drawing  nearer  to  war. 

The  cause  of  the  existing  bitterness 
between  the  two  countries  is  double- 
barreled.  We  have  halted  Japanese 
immigration  into  the  Far  West,  and 
would  like  to  halt  Japanese  expansion 
in  the  Far  East.  The  Japanese,  for  their 


ARE   WE   GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE   DEAL? 


537 


part,  consider  themselves  affronted 
and  humiliated  by  the  discriminatory 
legislation  which  has  been  directed 
against  their  nationals  in  certain  of  our 
Western  states,  and  they  resent  as 
meddlesome  our  objections  to  the 
policies  which  they  are  pursuing  in  those 
Far  Eastern  regions  which  they  have 
come  to  regard  as  being  within  their 
own  sphere  of  influence.  We  have 
erected  a  'No  Trespass'  sign  on  the 
American  continent  by  our  adhesion  to 
the  doctrine  of  James  Monroe.  To  that 
the  Japanese  make  no  objection;  they 
admit  that  it  is  our  own  concern.  Over 
the  Eastern  part  of  the  Asiatic  conti- 
nent the  Japanese  have  themselves 
erected  a  'Keep  Off '  sign,  basing  their 
policy  on  a  doctrine  not  dissimilar  to 
our  own.  We  insist  on  a  recognition  of 
our  claim  of  'America  for  the  Amer- 
icans,' while  at  the  same  time  denying 
Japan's  claim  of  'Asia  for  the  Asiatics.' 
There  you  have  the  two  basic  causes  — 
immigration  and  imperialism  —  of  the 
friction  between  Japan  and  the  United 
States.  Everything  else  —  Shantung, 
Siberia,  Korea,  Yap  —  is  subsidiary. 

The  near-hostility  that  characterizes 
the  relations  of  the  two  great  nations 
that  face  each  other  across  the  Pacific 
is  due,  I  am  convinced,  not  to  any  in- 
herent ill-will  on  the  part  of  either  peo- 
ple for  the  other,  but  to  a  mutual  lack 
of  knowledge  and  sympathetic  under- 
standing. In  other  words,  both  Amer- 
icans and  Japanese  have  shown  them- 
selves unable,  or  unwilling,  to  think  the 
other's  mind.  It  is  not  enough  for 
groups  of  representative  Americans 
and  Japanese  to  gather  about  banquet 
tables  and  indulge  in  sonorous  protesta- 
tions of  mutual  friendship  and  inter- 
national good-will,  or  to  cable  each 
other  greetings  couched  in  terms  of  ful- 
some praise.  What  is  needed  at  the 
present  juncture  is  an  earnest  endeavor 
on  the  part  of  each  people  to  gain  a 
better  understanding  of  the  tempera- 


ment, traditions,  ambitions,  problems, 
and  limitations  of  the  other,  and  to 
make  corresponding  allowances  for 
them  —  in  short,  to  cultivate  a  chari- 
table attitude  of  mind.  The  possibili- 
ties of  cordial  relationship  and  of  har- 
monious cooperation  between  the  two 
nations  are  so  tremendous,  the  interests 
at  stake  are  so  vast  and  far-reaching, 
the  consequences  of  an  armed  conflict 
would  be  so  catastrophic  and  over- 
whelming, that  it  is  unthinkable  that 
the  two  peoples  should  be  permitted  to 
drift  into  war  through  a  lack  of  know- 
ledge and  appreciation  of  each  other. 

The  Japanese  Question  is  an  ex- 
tremely complicated  one.  Its  ramifica- 
tions extend  into  politics,  industry, 
commerce,  and  finance.  It  stretches 
across  one  hundred  and  fifty  degrees  of 
longitude.  It  affects  the  lives  and  des- 
tinies of  six  hundred  millions  of  people. 
Its  roots  are  to  be  found  as  far  apart  as 
a  Japanese  military  outpost  in  Siberia 
and  the  headquarters  of  a  labor-union 
in  Sacramento;  as  the  office  of  a  bank- 
ing firm  in  Wall  Street  and  the  palace 
of  the  President  of  China  in  the  For- 
bidden City. 

To  understand  algebra,  you  must 
have  a  knowledge  of  arithmetic.  To 
understand  the  Japanese  Question,  you 
must  have  at  least  a  rudimentary  know- 
ledge of  the  various  factors  that  have 
combined  to  produce  it.  It  has  grown 
to  its  present  menacing  dimensions  so 
silently,  so  stealthily,  that  the  average 
well-informed  American  has  only  a 
vague  and  usually  inaccurate  idea  of 
what  it  is  all  about.  He  has  read  in  the 
newspapers  of  the  anti-Japanese  agita- 
tion in  California,  of  the  Gentlemen's 
Agreement,  of  '  picture  brides,'  of  mys- 
terious Japanese  troop-movements  in 
Siberia,  of  Japanese  oppression  in  Korea, 
of  the  Open  Door,  of  the  quarrel  over 
Shantung,  of  the  dispute  over  Yap; 
but  to  him  these  isolated  episodes  have 
about  as  much  significance  as  so  many 


538 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


fragments  of  a  complicated  jig-saw 
puzzle.  So,  at  the  risk  of  repeating 
facts  with  some  of  which  you  are  doubt- 
less already  familiar,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  piece  the  puzzle  together,  so  that 
you  may  see  the  picture  in  its  entirety 
and  judge  of  its  merits  and  faults  for 
yourself. 

n 

Some  truths,  more  half-truths,  many 
untruths  have  been  said  and  written  in 
each  country  about  the  other.  The 
clear  waters  of  our  old-time  friendship 
have  been  roiled  by  prejudice  and 
propaganda.  Much  of  our  appalling 
ignorance  of  Japanese  character,  aims, 
and  ideals  is  traceable  to  our  national 
propensity  for  generalization  —  always 
an  inexact  and  dangerous  method  of 
estimating  another  people,  and  doubly 
dangerous  in  the  case  of  a  people  as 
complex  as  the  Japanese.  Let  us  not 
forget  that  we  were  accustomed  to 
think  of  the  French  as  a  volatile,  ex- 
citable, easy-going,  pleasure-obsessed, 
decadent  people  until  the  Marne  and 
Verdun  taught  us  the  truth.  Such  a 
misconception  was  deplorable  in  the 
case  of  a  people  from  whom  we  had 
nothing  to  fear;  it  is  inexcusable,  and 
might  well  prove  disastrous,  in  the  case 
of  the  Japanese.  I  have  heard  Amer- 
icans who  pride  themselves  on  being 
well-informed,  men  whose  opinions  are 
listened  to  with  respect,  betray  an  igno- 
rance of  Japan  and  the  Japanese  which 
would  be  ludicrous  under  other  condi- 
tions. 

And  the  ignorance  of  many  intelli- 
gent Japanese  in  regard  to  ourselves  is 
no  less  disheartening.  Their  way  of 
thinking  is  not  our  way  of  thinking; 
many  of  their  institutions  and  ideas 
and  ideals  are  diametrically  different 
from  ours.  Believe  it  or  not,  as  you 
choose  —  the  great  majority  of  intelli- 
gent Japanese  are  utterly  unable  to 
understand  our  thinly  veiled  distrust 


and  dislike  of  them.  That  many  of  our 
people  distrust  and  dislike  the  Japa- 
nese, there  can  be  no  gainsaying.  Yet  the 
average  American  usually  finds  some 
difficulty  in  giving  a  definite  and  co- 
gent reason  for  his  attitude  toward  the 
Japanese. 

Underlying  all  the  misunderstand- 
ings between  the  two  nations  is  race- 
prejudice.  Our  racial  antipathy  for  the 
Japanese  is  instinctive.  It  has  its 
source  in  the  white  race's  attitude  of  ar- 
rogant superiority  toward  all  non-white 
peoples.  We  inherited  it,  along  with 
our  Caucasian  blood,  from  our  Aryan 
ancestors.  It  is  as  old  as  the  breed. 
The  Japanese  do  not  realize  that  they 
are  meeting  in  this  an  old  problem; 
that  the  American  attitude  is  not  an 
attempt  to  place  a  stigma  of  inferiority 
on  them,  but  merely  the  application  to 
them  of  the  Caucasian's  historic  atti- 
tude toward  all  peoples  with  tinted 
skins.  If  the  Japanese  question  this,  let 
them  observe  the  attitude  of  the  Eng- 
lish toward  the  brown-skinned  peoples 
of  Egypt  and  India.  But  this  racial 
prejudice  is  by  no  means  one-sided.  The 
Japanese  consider  themselves  as  superi- 
or to  us  as  we  consider  ourselves  superior 
to  them.  Make  no  mistake  about  that. 
The  Japanese  are  by  no  means  free 
from  that  racial  dislike  for  Occidentals 
which  lies  near  to  the  hearts  of  all  Orien- 
tals; but  they  have  the  good  sense,  good 
manners,  and  tact  to  repress  it.  That  is 
where  they  differ  from  Americans. 

Another  reason  for  American  dislike 
of  the  Japanese  is  the  latter's  assertion 
of  equality.  We  don't  call  it  that,  of 
course.  We  call  it  conceit  —  cockiness. 
The  reason  that  we  get  along  with  an- 
other yellow  race,  the  Chinese,  is  be- 
cause they,  by  their  abject  abasement 
and  submissiveness,  flatter  our  sense  of 
racial  superiority.  Our  pride  thus  ca- 
tered to,  we  give  them  a  condescending 
pat  of  approval,  just  as  we  would  give 
a  negro  who  always  'knows  his  place,' 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


and  holds  his  hat  in  his  hand  when  he 
addresses  a  white  person,  and  says  '  sir ' 
and  'ma'am,'  and  does  not  resent  ill- 
treatment  or  injustice.  The  Japanese, 
on  the  contrary,  stands  up  for  his  rights; 
he  is  not  at  all  humble  or  submissive  or 
in  the  least  awed  by  threats;  and  if  an 
irate  American  attempts  to  'put  him 
in  his  place,'  as  he  is  accustomed  to  do 
with  a  Chinese  or  a  Filipino  or  a  negro, 
he  is  more  likely  than  not  to  find  him- 
self on  the  way  to  jail  in  the  grasp  of  a 
small  but  extremely  efficient  and  un- 
sympathetic policeman. 

I  asked  an  American  whom  I  met  in 
Yokohama  if  he  had  enjoyed  his  stay  in 
Japan. 

'Not  particularly,'  he  answered.  'I 
don't  care  for  the  Japs;  give  me  the 
Chinese  every  time/ 

'Why?' I  queried. 

He  pondered  my  question  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

'I'll  sum  it  up  for  you  like  this,'  he 
replied.  'The  Chinese  treat  you  as  a 
superior;  the  Japanese  treat  you  as  an 
equal.' 

Until  Commodore  Perry  opened  Ja- 
pan to  Western  civilization  and  com- 
merce, we  held  all  Mongolians  in  con- 
tempt, being  pleased  to  consider  them 
as  inferior  peoples.  But  in  the  case  of 
the  Japanese  this  contempt  changed  in 
a  few  years  to  a  patronizing  condescen- 
sion, such  as  a  grown  person  might  have 
for  a  precocious  and  amusing  child. 
We  congratulated  ourselves  on  having 
discovered  in  the  Japanese  a  sort  of  in- 
fant prodigy;  we  took  in  them  a  propri- 
etary interest.  We  watched  their  rapid 
rise  in  the  world  with  an  almost  paternal 
gratification.  And  the  Japanese  flat- 
tered our  self-esteem  by  their  open  ad- 
miration and  imitation  of  our  methods. 

I  think  that  our  national  antipathy 
for  the  Japanese  had  its  beginnings  in 
their  victory  over  the  Russians.  Up  to 
that  time  we  had  looked  on  the  Japa- 
nese as  a  brilliant  and  ambitious  little 


people,  whom  we  had  brought  to  the 
notice  of  the  world,  and  for  whose 
amazing  progress  we  were  largely  re- 
sponsible. But  when  Japan  adminis- 
tered a  trouncing  to  the  Russians,  who 
are,  after  all,  fellow  Caucasians,  Amer- 
ican sentiment  performed  a  volte-face 
almost  overnight.  We  were  as  pro- 
Russian  at  Portsmouth  as  we  had  been 
pro-Japanese  at  Chemulpo.  This  sud- 
den change  in  our  attitude  toward  them 
has  always  mystified  the  Japanese. 
Yet  there  is  really  nothing  mystifying 
about  it.  We  were  merely  answering  the 
call  of  the  blood.  As  long  as  we  be- 
lieved Japan  to  be  the  under  dog,  we 
were  for  her;  but  when  she  became  the 
upper  dog,  the  old  racial  prejudice 
manifested  itself.  A  yellow  people  had 
humbled  and  humiliated  a  Caucasian 
people,  and  we,  as  Caucasians,  resented 
it.  It  was  a  blow  to  our  pride  of  race. 
(A  somewhat  similar  manifestation  of 
racial  prejudice  was  observable  when 
the  negro  pugilist,  Jack  Johnson,  de- 
feated Jim  Jeffries.)  That  a  yellow 
race  had  proved  its  ability  to  defeat  a 
white  race  shocked  and  alarmed  us. 
We  abruptly  ceased  to  think  of  the 
Japanese  as  an  obscure  nation  of  polite 
and  harmless  little  yellow  men.  They 
became  the  Yellow  Peril. 

Though  the  Japanese  are  of  Asia, 
they  cannot  be  treated  as  we  are  ac- 
customed to  treat  other  Asiatics.  To 
attempt  to  belittle  or  patronize  a  na- 
tion that  can  put  five  million  men  in 
the  field  and  send  to  sea  a  battle-fleet 
scarcely  inferior  to  our  own  would  be 
as  ridiculous  as  it  would  be  short- 
sighted. Japan  is  a  striking  example  to 
other  colored  races  of  the  value  of  the 
Big  Stick.  She  has  never  been  sub- 
jugated by  the  foreigner.  In  spite  of, 
rather  than  with  the  assistance  of,  the 
white  man,  she  has  become  one  of  the 
Great  Powers,  and  at  Versailles  helped 
to  shape  the  destinies  of  the  world.  Yet 
when  she  claims  racial  equality  we 


540 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


deny  and  resent  it.  Our  refusal  to  treat 
the  Japanese  as  equals,  while  at  the 
same  time  showing  a  wholesome  re- 
spect for  their  power,  reminds  me  of  an 
American  reserve  lieutenant,  a  South- 
erner, on  duty  at  a  cantonment  where 
there  was  a  division  of  colored  troops, 
who  refused  to  salute  a  negro  captain. 
He  was  called  before  the  commanding 
officer,  who  gave  him  his  choice  between 
saluting  the  negro  or  being  tried  by 
court-martial. 

'I  suppose  I '11  have  to  salute  the  uni- 
form,' he  muttered  rebelliously;  'but 
I  '11  be  damned  if  I  '11  salute  the  nigger 
inside  it.' 

Ill 

I  have  already  said  that  racial  pre- 
judice is  at  the  bottom  of  our  misun- 
derstandings with  the  Japanese.  Im- 
mediately overlying  it  is  our  fear  of 
Japanese  industrial  competition,  a  fear 
which  is  whetted  by  our  disapproval  of 
Japanese  commercial  methods.  If  you 
will  look  into  it,  you  will  find  that  there 
has  hardly  ever  been  a  conflict  between 
nations  into  which  some  economic  ques- 
tion has  not  entered  as  the  final  and 
essential  factor.  This  fear  of  Japanese 
competition  is  not  confined  to  residents 
of  the  Pacific  Coast.  It  animates  every 
American  manufacturer  and  merchant 
who  does  business  in  the  Orient.  This 
competition  would  be  serious  enough  if 
the  Japanese  played  the  game  as  we 
play  it;  but,  unfortunately,  they  all  too 
frequently  disregard  the  rules  of  the 
game.  To  put  it  bluntly,  we  do  not 
approve  of  Japanese  business  ethics; 
we  have  found  to  our  cost  that  their 
standards  of  business  honor  are  all  too 
often  not  the  same  as  ours.  As  one 
American  importer  put  it:  — 

'The  Japanese  business  man  has  two 
great  faults  —  conceit  and  deceit.  He 
is  overbearing  and  undeveloped.  He 
seems  incapable  of  ordinary  commer- 
cial foresight.  In  order  to  make  an  im- 


mediate profit,  he  will  lose  a  lifelong 
and  profitable  customer.  He  will  ac- 
cept an  order  for  anything,  whether  he 
can  deliver  it  or  not.  He  would  accept 
an  order  for  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  f.o.b 
next  Thursday,  Kyoto  —  hoping  that 
something  might  turn  up  in  the  mean- 
time that  would  enable  him  to  get  it.' 

Though  it  frequently  happens  that  a 
Japanese  merchant  does  not  under- 
stand what  the  American  buyer  is  talk- 
ing about,  his  vanity  will  not  permit 
him  to  admit  his  ignorance;  instead, 
he  will  accept  the  order  and  then  fill  it 
unsatisfactorily.  An  American  import- 
er, who  has  made  semi-annual  visits  to 
Japan  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and 
who  frankly  likes  the  Japanese,  told  me 
regretfully  that,  of  all  the  firms  with 
whom  he  did  business,  those  whom  he 
could  rely  upon  to  send  him  goods  of 
the  same  quality  as  their  samples  could 
be  numbered  on  the  fingers  of  a  sin- 
gle hand.  As  another  foreigner  —  an 
Englishman  —  doing  business  in  Japan 
expressed  it:  'The  Japanese  business 
man  has  his  nerve  only  on  a  rising  mar- 
ket. As  soon  as  the  market  shows  signs 
of  falling,  he  hesitates  at  nothing  to  get 
from  under.  When  the  silk  market  rose, 
hundreds  of  Japanese  firms  defaulted 
on  orders  which  they  had  already  ac- 
cepted from  foreign  importers,  as  they 
would  have  lost  money  at  the  old  prices. 
When,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  a 
slump  in  the  money  market  in  the 
spring  of  1920,  the  customs  warehouses 
at  Yokohama  and  Kobe  were  piled  high 
with  goods  ordered  from  abroad  which 
the  consignees  refused  to  accept.* 

A  trademark,  copyright,  or  patent 
does  not,  as  a  rule,  prevent  the  Japa- 
nese manufacturer  from  appropriating 
any  idea  of  which  he  can  make  use; 
though  I  am  glad  to  say  that  recent 
legislation  has  done  much  to  protect 
the  foreigner  from  such  abuses.  For 
example,  Bentley's  Code,  which  sells 
in  the  United  States  for  thirty  dollars, 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


541 


and  which  is  fully  protected  by  copy- 
right, has  been  copied  by  a  Japanese 
publishing  house,  which  sells  it  for  ten 
dollars.  A  famous  brand  of  safety  razor, 
which  sells  in  the  United  States  for 
five  dollars,  is  copied  by  the  Japanese 
in  everything  save  quality,  and  is  mar- 
keted by  them,  under  the  originator's 
name  and  in  a  facsimile  of  the  original 
package,  for  a  fifth  of  the  price  charged 
for  the  genuine  article.  The  same  is 
true  of  widely  advertised  brands  of  soap, 
tooth-paste,  talcum  powder,  perfume, 
and  other  toilet  preparations.  An  imi- 
tation of  Pond's  Extract,  for  instance, 
is  sold  in  a  bottle  exactly  like  that  of  the 
American-made  article  except  that  a 
faint  line,  scarcely  discernible,  turns  the 
P  into  an  R.  This  infringement  was 
fought  in  the  courts,  however,  the 
American  manufacturer  winning  his 
case.  A  particularly  unpleasant  speci- 
men of  Japanese  commercial  methods 
came  to  light  last  spring  at  Tien-Tsin, 
when  the  American  Consul-General 
entered  an  official  protest  against 
the  action  of  the  Japanese  Chamber 
of  Commerce  of  that  city,  which  had 
distributed  thousands  of  hand-bills, 
wrapped  in  daily  newspapers,  intimat- 
ing that  a  certain  American  trading 
company  was  on  the  verge  of  insol- 
vency —  a  statement  which  was  with- 
out foundation  in  fact.  The  Japanese 
Chamber  of  Commerce  refused  to  re- 
tract its  allegations,  and  the  American 
house,  which  had  been  a  powerful 
competitor  of  the  local  Japanese  firms, 
was  nearly  ruined. 

These  are  only  a  few  examples  of 
Japanese  business  methods.  I  heard 
similar  stories  from  every  American 
business  man  whom  I  met  in  Japan. 
Indeed,  I  cannot  recall  having  talked 
with  a  single  foreigner  doing  business 
with  the  Japanese  who  did  not  com- 
plain of  their  practice  of  imitating 
patented  or  copyrighted  articles,  of  sub- 
stituting inferior  goods,  and  of  not 


keeping  their  contracts  when  it  suits 
them  to  break  them. 

The  amazing  commercial  success  of 
the  Japanese  has  not  been  achieved  by 
these  methods,  but  in  spite  of  them. 
It  has  been  brought  about  largely  as 
the  result  of  artificial  and  temporary 
conditions.  At  a  period  when  the  rest 
of  the  world  was  engaged  in  a  life-and- 
death  struggle,  Japan,  far  from  the 
battlefields,  was  free  to  engage  in  com- 
merce, and  she  possessed,  moreover, 
certain  articles  which  other  nations 
must  have  and  for  which  they  had  to 
pay  any  price  she  demanded.  Nor 
could  the  Japanese  merchant,  any  more 
than  the  American,  realize  that  this 
was  a  purely  temporary  condition  and 
could  not  continue  indefinitely. 

The  commercial  unscrupulousness  of 
the  Japanese  has  worked  great  injury  to 
the  friendly  relations  of  Japan  and  the 
United  States.  The  distrust  and  dis- 
like which  such  methods  have  engen- 
dered in  American  business  men  was 
strikingly  illustrated  one  evening  in 
the  smoking-room  of  a  transpacific 
liner.  In  chatting  with  a  group  of  re- 
turning American  business  men  I  casu- 
ally mentioned  the  case  of  a  fellow 
countryman  who  had  recently  brought 
American  commercial  methods  into  dis- 
repute in  Japan  by  giving  'exclusive' 
agencies  for  certain  widely  advertised 
articles  to  several  firms  in  the  same  city. 
Instead  of  deploring  such  trickery, 
my  auditors  applauded  it  to  a  man. 
'Fine!'  they  exclaimed.  'Good  work! 
Glad  to  hear  of  a  Yankee  who  can  beat 
the  Japs,  at  their  own  game!'  They 
were  as  jubilant  over  that  dishonest 
American's  success  in  turning  the  tables 
on  the  Japanese  as  was  the  American 
public  when  it  learned  that  we  had  per- 
fected a  poison-gas  more  horrible  in  its 
effects  than  that  introduced  by  the 
Germans. 

f     Now,  mind  you,  I  do  not  wish  to 
^  be  understood  as  suggesting  that  com- 


542 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


mercial  trickery  is  characteristic  of 
all  Japanese  business  men.  There  are 
business  houses  in  Japan  —  many  of 
them  —  that  meet  their  obligations  as 
punctiliously,  that  maintain  as  high  a 
standard  of  commercial  honor,  as  the 
most  reputable  firms  in  the  United 
States.  But,  unfortunately,  these  form 
only  a  small  minority.  It  seems  a 
thousand  pities  that  the  honest  and  far- 
sighted  business  men  of  Japan,  and 
the  Japanese  chambers  of  commerce 
and  similar  business  organizations  do 
not  take  energetic  steps  to  discour- 
age dishonesty  in  dealings  with  for- 
eigners, if  for  no  other  reason  than 
the  effect  that  it  would  have  on  Amer- 
ican public  opinion.  The  series  of  confer- 
ences held  last  year  in  Tokyo,  between  a 
self-constituted  delegation  of  American 
bankers  and  business  men  and  a  num- 
ber of  representative  Japanese,  offered 
a  splendid  opportunity  for  a  candid 
discussion  of  this  delicate  and  irritating 
question.  If  the  Americans,  instead  of 
confining  themselves  to  patriotic  plati- 
tudes and  hands-across-the-sea  senti- 
ments, had  had  the  courage  to  tell  the 
high-minded  Japanese  who  were  their 
hosts  how  objectionable  such  methods 
are  to  Americans,  and  what  incalculable 
harm  they  are  causing  to  Japanese- 
American  relations,  it  would  have 
worked  wonders  in  promoting  a  better 
mutual  understanding. 

Now,  in  spite  of  what  I  have  said 
about  the  methods  of  a  large  section  of 
the  Japanese  commercial  class,  I  am 
convinced  that  the  Japanese  are,  as  a 
race,  honest.  Though  pocket-picking 
is  said  to  be  on  the  increase  in  Japan, 
burglary  and  highway  robbery  are  ex- 
tremely rare,  while  the  murders,  shoot- 
ing affrays,  daylight  robberies,  and 
hold-ups  which  have  become  common- 
places in  American  cities  are  virtually 
unknown.  I  should  feel  as  safe  at 
midnight  in  the  meanest  street  of  a 
Japanese  city  as  I  should  on  Common- 


wealth Avenue  in  Boston  —  consider- 
ably safer,  indeed,  than  I  should  on  cer- 
tain New  York  thoroughfares  after 
nightfall.  I  asked  an  American  woman 
who  has  lived  for  many  years  in  Japan 
if  she  considered  the  Japanese  dishonest. 
'In  Yokohama,'  she  replied,  'I  never 
think  of  locking  the  doors  or  windows 
of  my  house,  yet  I  have  never  had  any- 
thing stolen.  But  when  I  was  staying 
last  winter  at  a  fashionable  hotel  in 
New  York,  I  was  robbed  of  money, 
jewels,  and  clothing  the  night  of  my 
arrival.' 

Nor  could  I  discover  any  substantia- 
tion of  the  oft-repeated  assertion  that 
positions  of  trust  in  Japanese  banks  are 
held  by  Chinese.  Certainly  this  is  not 
true  of  Japanese-controlled  institutions, 
such  as  the  Yokohama  Specie  Bank, 
the  Bank  of  Japan,  and  the  Dai  Ichi 
Ginko,  as  I  can  attest  from  personal 
observation.  It  is  true  that  Chinese 
are  employed  in  considerable  numbers 
in  fiduciary  positions  in  the  Japanese 
branches  of  foreign  banks,  such  as  the 
Hong  Kong  &  Shanghai  Banking  Cor- 
poration and  the  Bank  of  India,  Aus- 
tralia &  New  Zealand;  but  these  have 
generally  come  over  from  China  with 
the  banks'  European  officials,  their  em- 
ployment denoting  no  lack  of  faith  in 
Japanese  integrity.  Yet  such  stories, 
spread  broadcast  by  superficial  and 
usually  prejudiced  observers,  have 
helped  to  give  Americans  a  totally  er- 
roneous impression  of  the  Japanese. 

My  personal  opinion  is  that  com- 
mercial dishonesty  in  Japan  is  directly 
traceable  to  the  contempt  in  which 
merchants  were  long  held  in  that 
country.  Until  quite  recent  years  the 
position  of  the  merchant  in  Japan  was 
analogous  to  that  of  the  Jew  in  the 
Europe  of  the  Middle  Ages.  He  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  social  scale.  At  the 
top  was  the  noble;  then  came  the 
samurai,  or  professional  fighting  man; 
followed  in  turn  the  farmer  and  the 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


artisan;  and  last  of  all  came  the  mer- 
chant. The  farmer  and  the  artisan  have 
always  held  a  higher  place  than  the 
merchant  because  they  are  producers, 
whereas  the  merchant  has  been  looked 
upon  as  a  huckster,  a  haggler,  a  bar- 
gainer, who  made  his  living  by  his  wits. 
The  Japanese  merchant,  moreover,  has 
had  barely  half  a  century  in  which  to 
learn  the  game  of  business  as  it  is 
played  in  the  West.  Coming  from  a 
despised  and  down-trodden  class,  is  it 
any  wonder  that  in  that  brief  span  he 
has  not  wholly  eradicated  his  ancient 
methods,  that  he  has  not  yet  acquired 
all  our  Western  virtues  and  ideals? 
Let  us  be  fair  in  judging  him.  The  Jew 
has  been  under  the  influence  of  the  West 
for  two  thousand  years,  yet  his  business 
ethics  are  not  always  beyond  reproach. 

There  is  yet  another  reason  for  the 
doubtful  business  methods  practised  by 
many  Japanese  merchants.  And  that 
reason,  curiously  enough,  was  provided 
by  ourselves.  It  was  Kei  Hara,  Prime 
Minister  of  Japan,  —  himself  a  business 
man  and  the  first  commoner  to  hold 
the  position  of  premier, — who  brought 
this  to  my  attention. 

'You  should  not  forget  that  my 
people  learned  what  they  know  of 
modern  business  methods  from  you 
Americans/  he  reminded  me.  'It  was 
your  Commodore  Perry  who,  in  the 
face  of  Japanese  opposition,  opened 
Japan  to  American  commerce.  It  was 
from  the  American  traders  who  fol- 
lowed him  that  the  Japanese  received 
their  first  lessons  in  the  business  ethics 
of  the  West.  The  early  American 
traders,  in  the  methods  they  practised, 
provided  the  Japanese  with  anything 
but  a  laudable  example.  If  they  could 
cheat  a  Japanese,  they  considered  it 
highly  creditable;  they  took  advantage 
of  his  ignorance  by  giving  him  inferior 
goods  and  by  driving  sharp  bargains; 
they  constantly  bamboozled  him.  Is  it 
any  wonder,  then,  that  the  Japanese 


merchant,  patterning  his  methods  on 
those  pursued  by  the  Americans, 
adopted  American  commercial  trickery 
along  with  other  things?  But,  mind 
you/  he  added,  'I  am  not  condoning 
commercial  trickery  among  my  people. 
I  am  only  explaining  it.' 

IV 

We  now  come  to  a  consideration  of 
the  political  factor  in  Japanese-Amer- 
ican relations.  In  order  to  estimate  this 
factor  at  its  true  importance,  it  is  nec- 
essary to  envisage  the  trying  political 
situation  in  which  Japan  finds  herself. 
Since  their  victory  over  the  Russians 
in  1904  the  Japanese  have  seen  them- 
selves gradually  encircled  by  a  ring  of 
unsympathetic  and  suspicious,  if  not 
openly  hostile  peoples.  Overshadowing 
the  Island  Empire  on  the  north  is  the 
great  bulk  of  Bolshevist  Russia,  still 
smarting  from  the  memories  of  the  Yalu 
River  and  Port  Arthur,  and  bitterly 
resentful  of  Japan's  military  occupation 
of  Eastern  Siberia  and  Northern  Sak- 
halin. Every  patriotic  Russian  feels 
that  Japan,  in  occupying  these  terri- 
tories, has  taken  unfair  advantage  of 
Russia's  temporary  helplessness;  he 
listens  cynically  to  the  protestations  of 
the  Japanese  Government  that  it  has 
occupied  them  merely  in  order  to  keep 
at  arm's  length  the  menace  of  Bol- 
shevism, and  that  it  will  withdraw  its 
troops  as  soon  as  a  stable  and  friendly 
government  is  established  in  Russia. 

To  the  west,  the  Koreans,  though 
now  officially  Japanese  subjects,  are  in 
a  state  of  incipient  revolt,  to  which 
they  have  been  driven  by  the  excesses 
of  the  Japanese  military  and  the  harsh- 
ness of  Japanese  rule.  To  the  south- 
east, China,  huge  and  inert,  loathes  and 
fears  her  island  neighbor,  their  common 
hatred  of  Japan  being  the  one  tie  which 
binds  the  diverse  elements  of  the  Re- 
public together.  As  a  protest  against 


544 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


Japanese  aggression  in  Manchuria  and 
Shantung,  the  Chinese  have  instituted 
a  boycott  of  Japanese  goods,  which  is 
gravely  affecting  Japanese  commerce 
throughout  the  Farther  East.  In  re- 
gions as  remote  from  the  seat  of  the 
controversy  as  the  Celebes  and  Borneo 
and  Java  and  Siam,  I  found  Japanese 
merchants  being  forced  out  of  business 
because  the  Chinese  refused  to  trade 
with  them  or  to  have  business  relations 
with  anyone  else  who  traded  with  them. 
In  Formosa,  taken  from  China  as  spoils 
of  war  in  1895,  the  head-hunting  sav- 
ages who  inhabit  the  mountains  of  the 
interior  remain  unsubjugated,  only  the 
Guard  Line,  a  series  of  armed  block- 
houses connected  by  electrically  charged 
entanglements,  standing  between  the 
Japanese  settlers  and  massacre. 

In  the  Philippines,  there  is  always 
present  the  bogey  of  Japanese  imperial- 
ism, both  the  Filipinos  and  the  Amer- 
ican residents  being  convinced  that 
Japan  is  looking  forward  to  the  day 
when  she  can  add  these  rich  and  tempt- 
ing islands  to  her  possessions.  In  far- 
distant  Australia  and  New  Zealand  the 
Japanese  are  distrusted  and  disliked, 
stringent  legislative  measures  having 
recently  been  adopted  to  prevent  fur- 
ther Japanese  immigration  into  those 
commonwealths.  On  the  Pacific  coast 
of  the  United  States  and  Canada  a  vio- 
lent anti-Japanese  agitation  is  in  full 
swing,  new  and  severer  legislation  be- 
ing constantly  directed  against  them. 
In  Hawaii  the  Japanese  already  out- 
number all  the  other  elements  of  the 
population  put  together. 

Influenced  by  the  attitude  of  her 
great  overseas  dominions,  and  fearful 
of  its  effect  on  her  relations  with  the 
United  States,  England  is  gravely  con- 
sidering the  advisability  of  renewing 
her  alliance  with  Japan  when  it  ter- 
minates next  year.  Holland,  having 
ever  in  the  front  of  her  mind  her  great, 


rich  colonies  in  the  East  Indies,  looks 
with  a  suspicious  eye  on  Japan's  steady 
territorial  expansion  and  on  the  sig- 
nificant increase  in  the  strength  of  her 
military  and  naval  establishments. 
France,  ever  seeking  new  markets, 
views  with  alarm  Japan's  attempt  to 
dominate  China  commercially.  And 
Germany  is  not  likely  either  to  forget 
or  to  forgive  the  taking  of  Tsing-Tau 
and  her  former  insular  possessions  in 
the  Pacific.  To-day  Japan  is  as  com- 
pletely isolated,  as  universally  dis- 
trusted, as  was  Germany  at  the  begin- 
ning of  1914.  Not  only  has  she  aroused 
the  suspicions  of  the  peoples  of  the 
West,  but  she  has  alienated  her  neigh- 
bors in  the  East. 

The  Japanese  have  been  hurt  and 
bewildered  by  this  almost  universal 
distrust  of  them.  Yet,  instead  of  at- 
tempting to  win  back  the  good-will  of 
the  West,  which  was  theirs  until  little 
more  than  a  dozen  years  ago,  by  giving 
convincing  proofs  of  their  peaceable  in- 
tentions; instead  of  making  an  effort 
to  regain  the  confidence  of  half  a  bil- 
lion Chinese  and  Russians  by  a  prompt 
withdrawal  from  their  soil,  the  Jap- 
anese have  made  the  psychological  mis- 
take of  adopting  an  attitude  of  stub- 
bornness and  defiance.  They  have 
replied  to  criticisms  by  embarking  on  a 
military  programme  which  will  make 
them  the  greatest  military  power  on 
earth;  their  naval  programme  calls  for 
a  neck-and-neck  shipbuilding  race  with 
the  United  States;  in  Siberia  they  have 
strengthened  their  occupational  forces 
instead  of  showing  a  disposition  to 
withdraw  them.  They  seem  utterly  in- 
capable of  realizing  that  the  world  has 
the  very  best  of  reasons  for  being  sus- 
picious of  imperialistic  nations;  that  it 
is  in  no  mood  to  tolerate  anything  sa- 
voring of  militarism.  The  peoples  of  the 
earth  had  hoped  that  those  policies  had 
passed  with  the  Hohenzollerns. 


(To  be  continued) 


NOTES  ON  ECONOMY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


BY  SAMUEL  W.   McCALL 


THERE  is  probably  nothing  related 
to  government  that  is  advocated  more 
and  practised  less  than  economy.  It  is 
a  theme  that  lends  itself  easily  to  dis- 
course which  rarely,  if  ever,  material- 
izes in  action.  The  party  that  is  out  is 
always  bewailing  the  extravagance  and 
criminal  wastefulness  of  the  party  that 
is  in.  And  when  the  people  show  them- 
selves credulous  enough  to  entrust  the 
critics  with  power,  the  only  difference 
likely  to  be  seen  is  in  an  increased  ex- 
travagance and  waste.  The  fervor  of 
the  promise  is  usually  found  to  be  hi  in- 
verse ratio  to]  the  amount  of  perform- 
ance that  is  vouchsafed. 

There  has  never  at  any  period  been 
a  greater  demand,  or  a  more  alluring 
opportunity,  for  economy  in  govern- 
ment than  in  that  period  which  began 
when  the  World  War  came  to  an  end, 
November  11,  1918.  Expenditure  had 
never  attained  a  higher  peak.  Our  great 
wealth  and  the  tremendous  stake  in- 
volved, which  was  nothing  less  than 
the  freedom  of  nations  and  the  continu- 
ance of  civilization,  had  justified  an 
expenditure  colossal  beyond  all  prece- 
dent. 

It  was  not  merely  that  all  money 
that  might  be  needed  should  be  expend- 
ed, but  all  money  that  might  seem  to 
be  needed,  even  if  in  the  end  it  should 
appear  that  it  was  wasted.  A  prudent 
government  could  take  no  chances  of 
losing  the  war  by  spending  too  little,  if 
any  of  the  money  that  was  saved 
might  do  good.  Subject  to  the  impera- 
tive demand  for  honesty,  the  resources 
of  the  country  were  all  to  be  employed, 
VOL.  its— NO.  4 

E 


if  only  they  might  be  of  use,  even  if, 
like  so  many  shells  that  were  fairly 
fired  at  the  enemy  and  did  not  reach 
him,  much  of  what  was  expended  did 
not  appear  to  have  any  influence  upon 
the  result. 

The  need  of  such  vast  expenditure 
came  abruptly  to  an  end  on  the  day  of 
the  Armistice.  It  became  then  at  once 
necessary  that  all  the  energy  previously 
employed  in  spending  should  be  de- 
voted to  saving.  And  when  Congress 
was  in  session  the  following  spring,  and 
our  soldiers  had  returned  to  this  coun- 
try and  been  disbanded;  when  our  mu- 
nition factories  had  ceased  their  opera- 
tion, and  employment  was  dwindling, 
and  the  mass  of  our  people  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  the  first  keen  pinches  of  ex- 
cessive taxation,  it  became  the  para- 
mount duty  of  Congress  ruthlessly  to 
cut  expenditure  to  the  bone.  But  to  pass 
over  the  debatable  transition  period 
when  deficiencies  were  to  be  met,  and 
to  make  no  exalted  demand  upon  the 
first  Congress  after  the  war,  surely 
'normalcy'  in  expenditure  must  be 
indeed  a  coy  creature  if  she  cannot  be 
prevailed  upon  to  show  herself  by  the 
Congress  that  emerged  from  the  throes 
of  the  last  presidential  campaign,  and 
convened  nearly  two  years  and  a  half 
after  fighting  had  ceased.  The  ex- 
penditure of  the  present  fiscal  year 
should  be  little  greater  than  the  normal 
expenditure  of  the  government,  with 
the  exceptions  to  which  I  shall  here- 
after refer.  Not  to  show  results  at  this 
time  would  be  wholly  without  justifica- 
tion, and  those  results  should  not  be 

545 


NOTES  ON  ECONOMY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


expressed  in  a  few  coppers  saved  here 
and  there,  —  a  paltry  reward  for  so 
much  eloquence  about  extravagance, 
—  but  should  reach  into  billions. 

At  the  end  of  the  Civil  War  the 
South  was  impoverished  and  was  an 
unfruitful  field  for  the  tax-gatherer. 
A  fifth  of  the  present  population  of  the 
country  was  at  the  moment  staggering 
under  a  burden  of  expenditure  as  great, 
when  the  difference  in  wealth  is  con- 
sidered, as  that  which  rested  upon  us 
after  the  World  War.  And  yet  the 
statesmen  of  that  period  resolutely 
cut  down  expenditure  and  taxation, 
attacked  our  enormous  debt,  and  put 
it  in  process  of  extinction.  We  should 
do  well  now  to  imitate  the  spirit  they 
then  displayed. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  World  War 
the  operation  of  all  the  machinery  of 
our  government  cost,  in  a  round  sum,  a 
billion  dollars.  That  this  amount  was 
not  generally  regarded  as  representing 
an  economical  basis  may  be  inferred 
from  what  the  leaders  of  each  party 
said  about  the  other  when  each  party 
had  in  turn  expended  substantially  a 
like  sum.  But  as  against  this  billion, 
we  are  told  that,  for  the  fiscal  year 
which  runs  through  the  winter  and  well 
into  the  summer  of  the  fourth  year  after 
the  Armistice,  four  and  a  half  billions 
are  needed.  There  would  appear  to  be 
little  need  of  our  having  more  govern- 
ment now  than  before  the  war;  but 
granting  that  fifty  per  cent  more  gov- 
ernment is  necessary,  an  additional 
five  hundred  million  dollars  would  be 
required,  which  is  more  than  the  total 
annual  cost  of  the  government  under 
Cleveland.  We  should  add  to  that  the 
billion  dollars  necessary  to  pay  the 
interest  upon  the  war-debt;  and  then, 
to  be  generous,  if  not,  indeed,  extrava- 
gant, five  hundred  millions  more  may 
be  added,  to  cover  contingencies.  We 
should  then  have  a  cool  three  billions, 
or  three  tunes  the  amount  required  just 


before  we  entered  the  war.  What  need 
—  or,  indeed,  excuse  —  is  there  for 
spending  more  than  three  billion  dol- 
lars during  the  present  fiscal  year?  But 
when  four  and  a  half  billions  are  de- 
manded, one  may  fairly  ask  whether 
the  resources  of  statesmanship  have 
been  seriously  employed,  much  less, 
exhausted. 

Useless  expenditure  will  attempt  to 
fasten  itself  upon  the  treasury,  and  the 
life  of  the  emergencies  which  make  it 
necessary  will  be  protracted  by  every 
art.  But  if  it  js  attacked  with  resolution, 
it  will  yield. 

An  instance  of  this  is  shown  in  the 
reduction  of  our  army.  It  was  proposed 
to  cut  the  army  to  150,000  men,  and  a 
variety  of  objections  was  urged  against 
the  proposal.  The  one  seeming  to  have 
the  most  merit  was  that  contracts  of 
enlistment  had  already  been  made,  and 
the  government  would  need  to  repudiate 
many  of  its  contracts  with  its  soldiers 
in  order  to  make  the  reduction.  But 
Congress,  to  its  credit,  insisted  upon 
cutting  down  the  army;  and,  almost 
before  the  bill  had  passed,  the  reduction 
was  effected.  The  men  were  very  will- 
ing to  be  released  from  their  contracts. 

To  cut  off  a  billion  and  a  half  of 
expenditure  more  than  is  now  proposed 
would  go  far  toward  emancipating  the 
productive  energies  of  the  country,  and 
toward  that  revival  of  industry  which 
is  so  necessary  to  the  restoration  of 
prosperity,  and  especially  to  the  reem- 
ployment  of  labor. 

There  is  an  intimate  relation  between 
the  expenditure  of  government  and 
what  is  called  disarmament,  in  which 
Mr.  Borah  has  so  nobly  led.  A  great 
saving  of  public  money  would  un- 
doubtedly result  from  putting  in  force 
an  international  agreement  making  a 
radical  reduction  in  armaments;  and 
no  harm  could  come  to  any  nation  if  the 
reduction  were  made  proportional  and 
world-wide.  Very  great  items  in  mili- 


NOTES  ON  ECONOMY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


547 


tary  expenditure,  grouped  under  the 
title  of  the  'cost  of  past  wars,'  would  of 
course  be  untouched.  The  interest  up- 
on war-debts,  and  the  pension  rolls 
would  still  remain. 

Disarmament  also  would  have  a  dis- 
tinct bearing  upon  the  future  peace  of 
the  world.  Sometimes  the  possession 
of  powerful  armaments  might  tempt 
nations  to  use  them.  It  would  be  a  very 
great  thing  to  do  away  wholly,  by  gen- 
eral agreement,  with  many  of  those  ter- 
rible engines  which  have  been  devised 
simply  for  the  destruction  of  man.  If 
in  mythical  times,  as  I  have  at  another 
time  said,  a  single  one  of  our  modern 
dreadnaughts  or  submarines  had  been 
seen  upon  the  ocean,  whoever  should 
have  destroyed  such  an  enemy  of  man- 
kind would  have  received  the  general 
applause  of  the  world,  as  did  the  hero 
who  slew  the  fabled  Hydra.  How  im- 
measurably greater  then  would  be  the 
fame  of  him  who  should  to-day  make 
free  our  oceans,  swarming  with  these 
monsters,  and  send  them  all  to  the 
bottom. 

But  there  is  extremely  little  likeli- 
hood of  such  a  result.  The  portents  of 
modern  war  have  ceased  to  spread 
terror  among  a  race  which  sets  no  limit 
upon  its  daring.  If  the  old  Hydra 
should  come  back  in  our  time,  and 
should  appear  to  be  more  horrible  than 
the  other  engines  of  destruction,  it  is 
likely  that  our  munition-makers  would 
at  once  take  it  up  and  attempt  to 
reproduce  great  numbers'  of  the  mon- 
ster, and  our  appropriation  bills  would 
doubtless  supply  suitable  sums  for 
their  purchase.  To  carry  out  a  sweep- 
ing disarmament  would  imply  a  radical 
change  of  view  with  regard  to  war, 
which  would  be  very  wholesome. 

But  we  must  guard  against  any 
illusions  regarding  the  effect  of  a 
reduction  of  armament,  extreme  or 
otherwise,  upon  the  likelihood  of  war. 
Such  a  policy  would  not  go  to  the  root 


of  the  peace-problem.  Neither  reduc- 
tion of  armaments  nor  complete  dis- 
armament would  furnish  a  sufficient 
solution. 

Our  country  declared  war  in  1812, 
when  it  had  practically  no  army  at  all. 
Cleveland  sent  his  warlike  Venezuelan 
message  to  Congress  in  1894,  when 
we  were  defenseless  against  England. 
France  declared  war  against  Germany 
hi  1870,  with  hardly  half  the  military 
strength  that  her  adversary  possessed. 
Time  and  again  nations  with  relatively 
weak  armaments  have  embarked  upon 
war.  For  very  many  years  the  laws  of 
England  recognized  only  the  militia, 
whose  training  was  limited  to  fourteen 
days  a  year;  and  Macaulay,  in  his  lively 
fashion,  wrote  of  the  concern  of  patriots 
at  staking  the  independence  of  then- 
country  upon  the  result  of  a  contest 
between  ploughmen  officered  by  justices 
of  the  peace  and  veteran  warriors  led 
by  marshals  of  France.  And  yet  Eng- 
land and  her  kings  more  than  once  took 
the  chances  and  went  to  war.  Nations 
will  still  have  their  differences,  and 
under  the  present  system  they  are 
likely  to  go  to  war  to  settle  them,  or  to 
attain  their  ambitions,  even  if  they  all 
have  weak  armies  and  navies,  or  none 
at  all. 

War  has  become  a  matter  largely  of 
chemistry,  and  a  nation  might  rely 
upon  its  superior  laboratories  in  order 
quickly  to  blow  up  or  poison  its  ad- 
versary. It  might  rely  upon  its  supe- 
rior proficiency  in  the  art  of  flying, 
and  its  flocks  of  commercial  air-planes 
would  be  at  once  available  for  warlike 
use.  It  requires  no  argument  to  prove 
that  the  military  microbe,  which  has 
infected  the  blood  of  man  for  un- 
counted centuries,  still  persists.  Unless 
nations  shall  provide  some  way  to  set- 
tle their  controversies  peaceably,  they 
can  be  relied  upon  now  and  then  to 
settle  them  by  force.  Thus,  while  a 
material  reduction  of  armaments  will 


548 


NOTES  ON  ECONOMY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


bring  about  a  welcome  saving,  it  will 
leave  the  general  question  of  peace  far 
from  a  final  settlement. 

It  is  indispensable  that  there  should 
be  an  arrangement  among  nations  to 
resort  to  some  peaceful  method  of  set- 
tling differences  before  taking  up  arms, 
and  scarcely  less  necessary  if  they  have 
no  armaments  at  all  than  if  they  pos- 
sess them. 

The  plan  with  which  Mr.  Wilson 
associated  his  name  may  have  been  far 
from  perfect  in  all  its  details,  but  it 
was  the  noblest  attempt  at  practical 
idealism  that  has  ever  been  made  by 
any  statesman.  It  was  evident  that 
there  must  be  some  general  and  central 
agreement  to  outlaw  war,  and  that 
the  nations  must  band  themselves  to- 
gether for  that  purpose,  or  that  wars 
would  happen  in  the  future  just  as 
they  had  happened  in  the  past.  It 
was  just  as  evident,  also,  that  another 
general  war,  with  the  methods  of  war- 
fare that  have  come  in,  as  barbarous 
as  they  are  destructive,  might  mean  the 
obliteration  of  civilization,  if  not  the 
extinction  of  the  race. 

It  is  objected  that  such  an  arrange- 
ment would  infringe  upon  the  sover- 
eignty of  nations.  Precisely  the  same 
objection  might  be  made  against  an 
agreement  for  the  reduction  of  arma- 
ments. What  more  sovereign  power  is 
there  in  a  nation,  and  what  one  is  more 
necessary  to  its  preservation  than  the 
power  to  arm?  If  by  agreement  it 
consents  to  put  a  limitation  upon  this 
power,  it  could  as  well  be  argued  that 
it  was  limiting  its  sovereignty.  But 
the  right  of  a  nation  to  shoot  up  the 
world  and  to  endanger  civilization 
should  be  limited,  just  as  the  right  of 
an  individual  to  shoot  up  the  communi- 
ty in  which  he  lives  is  limited. 

Any  treaty  obligation  is,  in  the  sense 
in  which  the  argument  has  been  ad- 
vanced, a  limitation  upon  sovereignty, 
that  is,  a  limitation  upon  the  power  of 


a  nation  to  do  anything  it  may  choose. 
In  order  to  meet  the  requirement  of 
such  a  claim,  we  should  have  interna- 
tional anarchy,  when  each  nation 
would  be  subject  to  no  law  of  nations, 
but  only  to  its  own  will  and  to  such 
self-imposed  notions  of  righteousness 
as  it  might  see  fit  to  recognize  and  put 
in  force.  So  long  as  the  area  of  law  is 
circumscribed  within  the  boundaries  of 
states,  and  separate  aggregations  of 
men  do  not  come  within  its  sway,  we 
shall  have  a  lawless  universe.  The 
right  of  collective  bodies  of  men  to 
murder,  pillage,  and  commit  piracy 
against  their  neighbors  is  no  greater 
than  that  of  the  individual,  and  the 
assertion  of  such  a  right  involves  a 
brutal  and  barbarous  conception  of  a 
nation,  which  should  at  once  be  brought 
to  an  end. 

But  we  are  told  that  the  thing  has 
all  been  settled  by  the  last  election; 
and  Mr.  Harvey,  having  referred  to  the 
little  glory,  at  his  own  appraisal,  with 
which  we  emerged  from  the  war,  de- 
,clares  that  we  are  to  have  no  part  in 
the  League.  That,  he  tells  us,  was  de- 
creed by  America  by  7,000,000  major- 
ity. It  must  be  conceded  that,  if  we 
are  to  accept  any  part  of  the  League, 
we  are  proceeding  in  that  direction 
with  impressive  deliberation.  Perhaps 
we  are  to  come  to  it  by  way  of  the 
Pacific.  But  as  to  the  significance  of 
the  sweeping  majority,  a  distinguish- 
ed and  influential  group  of  Republi- 
cans, headed  by  Mr.  Taft,  Mr.  Hughes, 
and  Mr.  Root,  told  us  before  the  elec- 
tion that  the  only  way  to  enter  the 
League  was  to  have  a  Republican  vic- 
tory. Then,  too,  we  must  not  overlook 
the  fact  that  great  race-groups  were 
functioning  and  voting  with  reference 
to  their  fatherlands.  No  one  can  tell 
just  what  was  decreed  by  the  voters 
—  whether  the  amended  League  of 
Messrs.  Hughes  and  Root,  or  the  no 
league  of  Messrs.  Johnson  and  Harvey. 


NOTES  ON  ECONOMY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


549 


After  one  of  the  tremendous  tides 
sometimes  following  a  heavy  storm 
at  sea,  the  waters  reach  heights  before 
almost  unknown,  and  it  seems  doubtful 
whether  the  old  landmarks  will  ever 
again  appear.  But  on  the  next  day, 
perhaps,  when  the  sun  shines  and  the 
waters  have  gone  back  to  the  old  level, 
the  only  result  one  can  see  of  the  far- 
thundering  upheaval  is  that  there  are 
scattered  upon  the  sand  some  strange 
little  creatures  such  as  were  never 
seen  before,  which  have  been  thrown 
up  from  the  nether  realms  and  will 
disappear  with  the  next  tide.  Even  the 
familiar  bones  of  some  old  wreck  are 
still  there,  and,  as  if  more  widely  to 
proclaim  their  uselessness,  are  even 
pushed  up  higher  upon  the  sands. 

In  the  same  way,  great  results  in  pol- 
itics are  not  apt  to  come  to  pass  from 
what  are  called  *  tidal  waves.'  Grandilo- 
quent majorities  sometimes  indicate 
that  the  political  atmosphere  is  seeking 
its  equilibrium  by  a  tempest,  and  that 
the  settled  current  of  popular  opinion 
may  ultimately  blow  in  the  opposite 
direction.  The  sweeping  victory  of 
Pierce,  in  1852,  for  example,  settled 
nothing,  and  a  reaction  set  in  which 
nullified  his  victory.  Only  the  most 
commonplace  results  followed  upon 
the  triumphant  election  of  the  first 
Harrison.  But  Lincoln,  chosen  by  a 
mere  plurality,  with  the  majority  of 
all  votes  cast  for  other  candidates,  and 
Wilson,  another  plurality  president, 
creeping  in  between  Taf t  and  Roosevelt, 
were  linked  with  things  that  shaped 
destiny  and  shook  the  world.  To  bor- 
row an  instance  from  across  the  sea 
—  the  Kaiser  has  not  yet  been  hanged, 
notwithstanding  the  astonishing  vic- 
tory of  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  with  that 
among  his  assortment  of  issues,  three 
years  ago.  Generally,  anything  has 
been  settled  by  tidal  waves  except  the 
thing  about  which  the  politicians  have 
most  fiercely  declaimed. 


If  nothing  is  to  be  done  by  our  coun- 
try upon  the  peace-problem  except  a 
cutting  down  of  armaments,  the  work 
of  garnering  the  supreme  result  of  the 
war  will  remain  undone.  When  the 
fighting  was  ended,  the  almost  univer- 
sal opinion  of  the  country  would  have 
found  expression  in  the  phrase  so 
pathetically  reiterated  by  President 
Harding  on  the  return  to  the  country 
of  thousands  of  our  fallen  heroes:  'It 
must  not  be  again.' 

If,  upon  the  day  of  the  Armistice, 
President  Wilson  had  declared  that,  in 
the  treaty  which  he  was  to  negotiate,  he 
would  not  consent  to  our  entering  into 
any  combination  of  nations  to  outlaw 
war,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that,  in 
that  moment  of  victory,  his  declaration 
would  not  have  been  received  with 
general  execration.  Of  one  thing  we 
may  be  sure  —  as  a  result  of  such  a 
reversal,  peace  would  have  had  cham- 
pions new  and  strange,  and  there 
would  have  been  a  radically  different 
cast  appearing  afterward  hi  the  roles 
of  the  morning  stars  singing  together 
for  joy.  But  the  issue  was  adjourned, 
and  the  pressing  duty  of  the  hour  was 
put  off.  It  seemed  to  become  stale. 
Eternal  debate  took  the  place  of  action. 
Our  memories  became  blunted,  as  year 
after  year  the  grass  sprang  up  anew  on 
the  French  battlefields. 

But  the  course  to  be  taken  is  as  clear 
before  us  to-day  as  it  was  two  years  or 
more  ago.  There  is  already  formed  a 
union  of  nations,  of  which,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  all  the  nations  of  the  West- 
ern Hemisphere  are  members  except 
our  own.  Germany,  it  is  understood,  is 
willing  to  join  when  the  right  to  do  so 
shall  be  given  her.  Russia  is  at  this 
time  too  dismembered  and  chaotic  to 
speak  with  the  voice  of  national  author- 
ity upon  any  subject.  In  effect,  Amer- 
ica is  the  only  part  of  the  organized 
world  that  stands  aloof.  Let  us  make 
clear  the  conditions  upon  which  we  will 


550 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


join  hands  with  the  civilized  nations. 
The  choice  is  clearly  before  us.  We  can 
show  ourselves  willing  that  the  world 
should  go  on,  as  it  has  gone,  exposed  to 
the  danger  that  some  maniac  may  throw 
the  brand  that  will  wrap  the  universe  in 
flames,  and  then  we  may  marshal  and 
consume  our  wealth,  and  drag  our  boys 


patriotism  send  them  to  destruction;  or 
we  may  play  the  part  of  reasonable 
creatures  and  unite  with  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  make  the  thing  measurably 
impossible  by  extending  the  reign  of 
law  over  nations.  Not  to  choose  the 
latter  course  would  be  basely  to  array 
ourselves  with  the  forces  at  war  with 


from  their  mothers,  and  with  paeans  of     civilization. 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


BY  S.  C.  VESTAL 


THE  world  has  long  been  seeking  to 
solve  the  great  problem  of  the  main- 
tenance of  peace.  War  is  as  old  as 
man;  and  he  who  wishes  to  limit  its  rav- 
ages may  learn  its  most  useful  lessons 
from  some  rather  old  books  —  Thucy- 
dides,  Demosthenes,  Grotius,  and  our 
own  Federalist.  To  the  neglect  of  these 
lessons  we  may  lay  the  carnage  of  the 
last  seven  years  and  the  futile  efforts 
to  form  a  league  of  nations.  If  we  would 
put  aside  our  prepossessions,  and  study 
a  few  books  that  may  be  found  in  any 
good  library,  we  might  easily  learn 
what  may  and  may  not  be  done  to 
eliminate  war.  In  the  matter  of  pre- 
venting war,  nothing  is  so  absurd  that 
it  has  not  been  advanced  by  some  writer. 
What  is  most  needed  is  a  statement  of 
the  problem.  We  may  safely  assume, 
for  the  purpose  of  this  study,  that  hu- 
man nature  is  unchanging,  —  though  it 
varies  greatly  in  different  races,  —  and 
that  morality  is  stationary. 

A  sharp  distinction  must  be  carefully 
kept  in  mind  between  domestic  and 


international  peace,  and  between  civil 
and  international  wars.  Much  of  the 
confusion  and  incoherence  of  thought 
about  peace  and  war  is  due  to  our 
failure  to  make  this  distinction. 

International  war  and  civil  or  do- 
mestic war  are  separate  and  distinct 
phenomena.  An  international  war  is  a 
contest  between  nations  or  states;  a 
civil  or  domestic  war  is  a  contest  be- 
tween parts  of  the  same  nation  or  state. 
The  character  of  the  military  operations 
is  very  much  alike  in  both  cases;  but 
the  political  problems  involved  are  as 
far  apart  as  the  poles.  Nevertheless, 
we  continually  meet  people  in  search  of 
a  formula  that  would  have  prevented 
the  American  Revolution  and  the  Boer 
War,  which  were  civil  wars  within  the 
British  Empire,  and  the  great  interna- 
tional war  of  1914.  No  one  with  sufficient 
logic  to  distinguish  these  cases  expects 
to  find  a  specific  for  civil  wars.  There 
is  none,  except  good  government;  but 
it  is  not  infallible.  We  shall  first  con- 
sider civil  wars. 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


551 


It  is  a  fundamental  doctrine  of  free 
government,  as  stated  by  Mr.  Lincoln, 
that  any  people  anywhere,  being  in- 
clined and  having  the  power,  has  the 
right  to  rise  up  and  shake  off  the  exist- 
ing government,  and  form  a  new  one 
that  suits  it  better.  This  right  is  not 
confined  to  cases  where  the  whole  people 
may  choose  to  exercise  it,  but  extends 
to  a  majority  of  any  portion  of  a  people. 
Such  a  majority  is  justified,  and  never 
hesitates,  in  putting  down  a  minority 
intermingled  with  it,  as  were  the  Tories 
in  our  own  Revolution  and  the  loyal 
Union  men  in  the  Southern  Confeder- 
acy during  the  Civil  War. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  parts  of  a  state 
were  permitted  to  secede  without  let  or 
hindrance,  it  would  soon  be  dismem- 
bered; and,  if  the  rule  prevailed  gener- 
ally, the  world  would  be  delivered  to 
private  war  and  chaos,  as  was  Europe 
in  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries  of  the 
Christian  era.  The  shades  of  night 
would  descend  upon  the  world.  It  is 
necessary  to  the  existence  of  civiliza- 
tion that  every  state  resist  rebels  with 
all  its  might  rather  than  let  itself  be 
dissolved  into  innumerable  small  com- 
munities. War  against  rebels  is  justi- 
fied by  the  great  law  of  self-preserva- 
tion. No  one  can  gainsay  the  right  of 
sovereignty  to  deny  the  right  to  re- 
volt. 'We  do  not  want  to  dissolve  the 
Union,'  said  Mr.  Lincoln  on  the  eve  of 
a  great  crisis  in  our  national  history; 
'you  shall  not.' 

In  every  epoch  of  human  existence, 
civil  wars  have  caused  far  greater  loss 
of  life  than  international  wars.  More 
lives  were  sacrificed  in  the  Taiping  re- 
bellion in  China,  than  in  all  the  inter- 
national wars  in  the  period  between 
Napoleon's  victory  at  Marengo,  June 
14,  1800,  and  the  Armistice  of  Novem- 
ber 11,  1918.  The  greater  number  of 
the  states  of  the  world  are  prompted  by 
domestic  considerations  in  determining 
the  strength  of  their  armed  forces, 


although  this  fact,  in  regard  to  any 
particular  state,  is  rarely  recognized  by 
statesmen  in  their  public  utterances. 
For  obvious  reasons  the  danger  of  for- 
eign invasion  is  always  alleged  as  the 
reason  for  appropriations  for  armed 
forces.  Internal  conditions  in  every 
European  state  make  necessary  a  for- 
midable army  to  preserve  domestic 
tranquillity;  and  the  armaments  in 
North  and  South  America  are,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  determined  by  similar 
needs.  In  1914  the  armaments  of  about 
fifteen  states  exceeded  domestic  re- 
quirements by  reason  of  armament 
competition. 

Prior  to  the  World  War  the  strength 
of  our  army  was  fixed  almost  wholly  by 
the  requirements  of  domestic  peace,  and 
our  military  expenditures  were  largely 
caused  by  civil  strife.  The  American 
Union  was  not  saved  by  oratory.  It 
was  saved  by  the  blood  which  dyed  the 
slopes  of  Gettysburg;  it  was  saved  by 
the  determination  of  the  bravest  of  its 
people.  The  first  generations  of  Amer- 
icans after  the  Revolution  pushed  the 
right  of  revolution  to  the  utmost  limits; 
the  generation  after  the  Civil  War  ap- 
preciated the  right  of  governments  to 
exert  their  full  strength  to  put  down 
rebellion. 

A  majority  of  existing  governments 
would  be  overthrown  immediately  by 
rebels  if  their  armed  forces  were  dis- 
banded or  seriously  reduced,  and  all 
the  newly  established  governments 
would  face  the  same  predicament.  It  is 
worthy  of  note  that  the  strength  of  the 
British  army  has  been  determined  in 
time  of  peace  mainly  by  the  necessity 
of  keeping  order  in  the  dominions  under 
the  British  flag;  and  that  no  govern- 
ment of  France  would  face  the  possi- 
bility of  a  second  Commune  or  a  new 
French  Revolution  without  the  ready 
and  loyal  support  of  at  least  three 
hundred  thousand  men. 

It  is  the  duty  of  a  state  to  maintain 


552 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


peace  within  its  borders,  and  every 
state  must,  for  purely  domestic  reasons, 
have  power  to  raise  and  support  armies 
and  maintain  a  navy.  This  power  must 
exist  without  limitation,  because  it  is 
impossible  to  foresee  or  to  define  the  ex- 
tent and  variety  of  the  national  emer- 
gencies. No  shackles,  therefore,  can 
wisely  be  placed  upon  the  authorities 
to  whom  the  maintenance  of  domes- 
tic peace  is  committed.  Competitions 
in  armaments  do  not  arise  from  the 
presence  in  the  world  of  the  armed 
forces  necessary  to  maintain  domestic 
peace. 

The  test  of  a  country's  fitness  for 
self-government  is  its  ability  to  main- 
tain domestic  peace.  The  power  that 
protects  a  country  from  outside  inter- 
ference is  bound,  by  the  law  of  nations 
and  its  duty  to  foreign  nations,  to  pre- 
serve order  within  the  protected  area. 
To  expect  England,  for  instance,  to 
withdraw  from  India,  renouncing  all 
responsibility  for  the  domestic  peace  of 
the  land,  but  continuing  to  protect  it 
from  invasion,  as  so  many  demand,  is 
an  absurdity  in  thought,  which  recalls 
the  petition  of  the  Filipino  munici- 
pality for  Philippine  independence  and 
an  increase  in  the  local  garrison  of 
United  States  soldiers.  Self-government 
is  of  the  nature  of  a  faculty;  it  should 
be  the  privilege  of  those  who  are  able 
to  develop  the  faculty. 

Any  scheme  of  disarmament  which 
reduces  the  armed  forces  of  a  state 
below  the  requirements  for  domestic 
tranquillity  must  provide  for  interven- 
tion of  armed  forces  from  abroad  —  an 
intolerable  contingency  for  any  peo- 
ple possessing  the  faculty  of  self-gov- 
ernment. The  problem  of  maintaining 
domestic  peace  confronts  every  gov- 
ernment on  the  planet,  and  it  would 
confront,  in  an  aggravated  form,  any 
world-state  that  might  be  erected  to 
eliminate  international  war — a  subject 
which  now  claims  our  attention. 


II 


Periodically  some  bandit  nation  runs 
wild  and  strikes  a  league  with  the  Turks, 
the  professional  revolutionists,  the  dis- 
contented, and  the  ignorant  of  all  na- 
tions, and  seeks  to  impose  its  rule  upon 
the  world  in  the  name  of  liberty  and  the 
freedom  of  the  seas.  We  cannot  get  rid 
of  these  peoples  and  we  cannot  get 
rid  of  their  will  to  rule  us  and  reform  us 
by  violent  means;  nor  can  we  induce 
them  to  subside  into  inactivity,  with- 
out the  use  of  force  of  some  kind. 

In  coming  to  the  rescue  of  the  Allies 
who  were  resisting  the  efforts  of  Ger- 
many, the  latest  of  these  bandits,  to 
impose  her  despotic  rule  upon  the  world, 
the  United  States  was  obeying  the  Law 
of  Mutual  Aid,1  which  has  impelled 
threatened  nations,  throughout  record- 
ed history,  to  aid  one  another  against 
aggressive  powers  that  menaced  their 
liberties.  It  is  the  law  that  impelled  the 
nations  to  unite  against  Cyrus,  Da- 
rius, Philip  of  Macedon,  Alexander, 
Republican  Rome,  England  under  the 
Plantagenets,  Charles  V,  Philip  II,  Fer- 
dinand II,  Louis  XIV,  the  French  Re- 
public, Napoleon,  and,  finally,  Imperial 
Germany.  It  is  a  law  of  nature,  which 
persists  unaffected  by  the  wrecks  of  re- 
publics and  empires  and  the  change  of 
creeds,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and 
forever.  It  is  beyond  the  power  of  fate, 
and  no  intellectual  revolution  can  sup- 
press or  alter  it. 

1 1  have  taken  this  term  from  a  suggestion  in 
Vattel,  in  order  to  avoid  the  expression  'Bal- 
ance of  Power,'  which  signifies  the  same  thing, 
but  is  misunderstood  and  misapplied  by  nearly 
all  recent  popular  writers.  In  common  parlance 
the  Balance  of  Power  means  the  balancing  of  one 
power  or  state  against  another,  or  of  coalitions 
of  powers  against  each  other.  Article  X  of  the 
League  of  Nations  is  an  excellent  definition  of 
the  Balance  of  Power,  or  Law  of  Mutual  Aid; 
but  its  advocates  exclaim  loudly  against  the  Bal- 
ance of  Power,  and  say  there  must  be  no  more  of 
it.  Does  this  come  from  ignorance  or  a  willful 
abuse  of  language?  —  THE  AUTHOR. 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


553 


Prance,  in  accordance  with  the  prin- 
ciple, recently  came  to  the  rescue  of 
Poland  when  she  was  apparently  in  her 
last  agonies.  This  universal  law  has 
been  scoffed  at  by  the  demagogues  of 
all  nations,  living  and  extinct,  who  have 
appealed  to  the  opposite  principle  of 
neutrality;  but  when  the  occasion  has 
come,  they  have  followed  the  law  with- 
out knowing  it.  This  law  is  embodied 
in  our  Constitution  in  the  clause  which 
requires  that  the  'United  States  .  .  . 
shall  protect  each  of  them  [the  states] 
against  invasion,'  not  only  from  abroad 
but  from  each  other,  as  the  seceding 
Confederate  States  learned  at  Antietam 
and  Gettysburg;  it  is  embodied  in  its 
most  gracious  and  pleasing  form  in  the 
Monroe  Doctrine,  whereby  the  United 
States  virtually  guarantees  every  Amer- 
ican nation,  regardless  of  its  form  of 
government,  against  invasion  by  any 
non-American  state. 

Germany  began  the  war  in  1914,  in 
the  belief  that  the  Law  of  Mutual  Aid 
did  not  exist,  or,  as  the  German  Chan- 
cellor expressed  it  in  his  speech  of  De- 
cember 2,  1914,  that  the  'balance  of 
power  .  .  .  had  become  out  of  date 
and  was  no  longer  practicable.'  She  be- 
lieved that  the  passionate  attachment 
of  the  nations  to  the  doctrine  of  neu- 
trality would  enable  her  to  isolate  and 
attack  her  immediate  neighbors  with- 
out the  danger  of  intervention  of  other 
countries.  She  found  to  her  sorrow  that 
the  law  did  exist,  and  that  nation  after 
nation  joined  the  forces  arrayed  against 
her,  until  she  became  an  outlaw  among 
nations.  If  the  Germans  had  realized 
the  inevitable  fate  that  awaited  them, 
when  they  began  their  war  of  aggres- 
sion in  1914;  if  Prince  Bismarck,  who 
thoroughly  understood  the  law  and 
carefully  kept  Germany  from  becoming 
its  victim,  had  been  at  the  helm,  they 
would  not  have  begun  it;  nor  would  they 
have  piled  up  great  armaments  in  prep- 
aration for  a  great  war  of  aggression. 


But  how,  we  may  ask,  are  the  states- 
men to  be  enlightened,  who  are  usually 
at  the  head  of  the  two  or  three  aggres- 
sive nations  of  the  world?  The  answer 
to  this  question  will  solve  the  arma- 
ment competition  question  therapeu- 
tically,  armaments  being  merely  a 
symptom  of  a  disease. 

The  answer  is  as  old  as  Demosthenes, 
and  may  be  found  in  nearly  every  one 
of  his  orations.  Mr.  Wilson  recognized 
the  malady,  diagnosed  it  correctly,  and 
sought  to  treat  it  therapeutically.  A 
correct  diagnosis  is  not  always  followed 
by  correct  treatment,  and  those  who 
agree  least  with  Mr.  Wilson's  remedy 
would  do  well  to  examine  his  diagnosis 
with  care.  It  was  a  bold  and  remark- 
able confession  of  error,  that  the  man 
who  appealed  to  Americans  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  World  War  to  be  neutral 
in  thought  and  action,  publicly  stated, 
when  his  eyes  were  opened,  that  neu- 
trality in  such  a  war  is  intolerable,  and 
finally  signed  a  treaty  designed  to  abol- 
ish neutrality  in  war,  and  even  sought 
to  deprive  his  successors  in  office  of  the 
discretionary  power  which  he  himself 
had  exercised  in  the  tragic  months  of 
July  and  August,  1914. 

The  civilized  world  is  a  community 
of  free  commonwealths.  The  forcible 
absorption  of  any  one  of  these  by  an- 
other is  contrary  to  the  interests  of  the 
rest,  as  the  state  thus  aggrandized  be- 
comes a  menace  to  its  neighbors.  The 
Law  of  Mutual  Aid,  founded  purely 
upon  self-interest,  prompts  nations  to 
come  to  the  aid  of  states  threatened  with 
absorption,  in  whole  or  in  part,  by  pow- 
erful neighbors;  the  doctrine  of  neu- 
trality, one  of  the  fundamental  bases 
of  modern  international  law,  which  is 
largely  designed  to  favor  conquest,  bids 
nations,  so  long  as  they  are  not  actually 
attacked,  to  sit  idly  by,  neutral  in 
thought  and  deed,  while  neighboring 
states  are  being  crushed  by  superior 
might. 


554 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


Mr.  Wilson  put  his  finger  upon  the 
disease;  neutrality  is  not  the  way  to 
peace  between  free  commonwealths; 
it  is  the  way  to  the  peace  which  exists 
under  despotism.  The  world  will  adopt 
peaceful  habits  only  when  the  ambi- 
tious aggressor  among  nations  is  as  cer- 
tain to  encounter  overwhelming  force 
as  would  be  the  aggressor  among  the 
states  of  the  American  Union. 

How  may  this  certainty  be  secured? 
It  is  not  enough  that  a  state  should 
merely  avoid  aggression.  To  preserve 
peace  and  independence,  something 
further  is  needed.  While  it  is  impossible 
to  rely  upon  the  self-restraint  of  na- 
tions, it  is  possible  to  limit  their  ag- 
gressions. A  country  that  aspires  to  con- 
quest is  the  most  vicious  of  wild  beasts. 
We  cannot  exempt  ourselves  from  its 
attacks  by  resolving  to  avoid  them. 
The  negative  policy  of  curbing  one's 
own  ambition  must  therefore  be  sup- 
plemented by  a  positive  programme. 

Does  the  Law  of  Mutual  Aid  lead  to 
a  new  Holy  Alliance?  No,  since  the 
Holy  Alliance  aimed  only  at  prevent- 
ing revolutions  arising  within  national 
boundaries,  and  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  measures  designed  to  prevent 
one  state  from  attacking  another.  It  is 
well,  of  course,  to  remember  that  radi- 
cal revolutionary  governments  tear  up 
previous  treaties.  No  treaty  with  the 
Tsar's  government  binds  the  Bolshe- 
viki.  -Revolutionary  governments  are 
invariably  aggressive  toward  other 
nations.  The  French  Republic,  in  a 
single  campaign,  gained  greater  suc- 
cesses than  all  previous  monarchs  of 
France.  Toward  revolutionary  govern- 
ments it  is  wise  to  pursue  a  policy  of 
non-intervention,  but  nations  must  be 
prepared  to  meet  their  aggressions. 

Ill 

Before  we  consider  what  may  be  done 
to  facilitate  the  natural  operation  of  the 


Law  of  Mutual  Aid,  it  is  well  to  point 
out  the  ways  that  must  be  avoided. 

A  super-state,  a  government  over 
governments,  such  as  the  League  of 
Nations,  is,  from  its  nature,  doomed  to 
failure.  It  is  a  confederation,  as  op- 
posed to  a  federation,  which  is  a  gov- 
ernment over  individual  human  beings. 
The  United  States  is  a  federation,  and, 
as  a  government,  is  efficient,  because  it 
legislates  for  individuals,  has  power  to 
tax  them  and  to  command  their  serv- 
ices, and  can  compel  obedience  by  the 
process  of  a  court. 

A  confederation  legislates  for  gov- 
ernments, lives  by  doles  from  govern- 
ments which  collect  from  individuals, 
and  can  compel  the  obedience  of  the 
subordinate  states  only  by  acts  of  war. 
In  a  confederation  every  breach  of  law 
involves  a  state  of  war.  When  a  con- 
federation is  under  the  control  of  a  strong 
coercing  state,  as  were  the  Roman  Re- 
public and  the  Assyrian  Empire,  its  his- 
tory is  marked  by  civil  wars.  It  was 
such  a  form  of  government  that  Ger- 
many intended  to  give  to  the  world.  A 
confederation  which  is  not  under  such 
control  —  such  as  the  United  States 
under  the  Articles  of  Confederation  and 
the  League  of  Nations  —  is  a  mere 
semblance  of  government,  the  shadow 
without  the  substance,  built  of  wrong 
materials,  and  resting  upon  no  founda- 
tions whatsoever. 

It  is  futile  to  think  of  forming  a  su- 
per-state by  conferring  upon  it  the 
power  to  make  peace  and  war,  without 
giving  it  the  power  of  unlimited  taxation 
directly  upon  the  men  and  women  of 
the  world.  Whoever  controls  the  purse 
controls  the  sword.  This  fact  is  recog- 
nized in  the  rule  of  unanimity  required 
for  important  acts  in  every  confedera- 
tion of  the  soft-core  type.  Such  a  rule 
is  a  sure  indication  of  a  government 
based  upon  unsound  principles. 

A  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  arbitration 
as  a  bloodless  substitute  for  interna- 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


555 


tional  war  has  become  a  part  of  the 
habitual  thought  of  the  world;  but  sen- 
sible men  must  be  on  their  guard  against 
this  cup  of  enchantments.  Nations  do 
not  go  to  war  over  things  that  can 
be  arbitrated,  and  arbitration  treaties 
serve  only  as  caustic  irritants  of  the 
relations  between  states.  The  fallacy 
in  arbitration  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
causes  of  war,  being  political  in  their 
nature,  can  be  settled  only  by  political 
agencies,  never  by  courts  of  justice. 
The  pretexts  upon  which  nations  de- 
clare war  are  a  mere  covering  brought 
forward  to  conceal  the  real  political 
cause,  which  is  invariably  the  desire  for 
conquest.  To  arbitrate  the  pretext  is 
like  treating  the  symptoms  in  medical 
practice.  International  arbitration,  as 
a  means  of  applying  the  principles  of 
justice  to  the  causes  which  lead  to  war, 
is  a  farce. 

In  no  known  instance  could  arbitra- 
tion treaties  have  averted  war.  In 
every  case  the  aggressor  began  hostili- 
ties for  the  purpose  of  making  conquest. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  break 
treaties,  and  an  arbitration  treaty  is  as 
easily  broken  as  any  other.  Moreover, 
nations  are  unwilling  to  impawn  their 
future  being  and  action  by  binding 
themselves  to  abide  by  the  irrevocable 
decisions  of  judges  who  base  their 
opinions  upon  what  they  decide  is  the 
law;  nor  are  they  willing  to  confer  legis- 
lative power  upon  judges  by  authoriz- 
ing them  to  say  what  shall  be  the  law. 

Nations  cannot  afford  to  enter  into 
an  agreement  that  will  permit  other  na- 
tions to  hale  them  into  court,  to  answer 
for  political  acts  which  may  or  may  not 
lead  to  war.  To  do  so  is  to  resign  their 
governments  into  the  hands  of  the 
court.  Those  who  advocate  such  action 
take  no  heed  of  the  fixed  unwillingness 
of  men  to  settle  political  matters,  either 
domestic  or  international,  by  judicial 
means. 

In  regard  to  proposals  to  postpone 


actual  hostilities  until  there  can  be  an 
investigation  as  to  the  merits  of  a  con- 
troversy, it  may  be  said  at  once  that 
there  are  never  any  merits  in  the  'con- 
troversy.' The  quarrels  of  nations  that 
are  not  bent  upon  conquest  begin  and 
end  in  words,  and  no  elaborate  machin- 
ery for  making  investigations  is  neces- 
sary hi  such  cases.  The  aggressions  of 
the  international  bandit  aiming  at  the 
conquest  of  weaker  nations  can  be 
stayed  only  by  the  known  readiness  of 
nations  to  aid  each  other  in  case  of  at- 
tack. Nations  that  seek  protection  in 
treaties  of  investigation  and  arbitration 
are  foolish. 

IV 

We  shall  now  consider  the  positive 
measures  that  may  be  taken  to  avert 
international  war. 

The  nations  have  been  able  to  pre- 
serve their  independence  against  ban- 
dit states  only  by  long  and  bloody  wars. 
How  may  they  preserve  their  liberty 
without  the  necessity  of  waging  these 
wars?  Surely  in  no  other  way  than  by 
making  it  unmistakably  evident  that 
inevitable  defeat  awaits  the  ambitious 
aggressor.  Positive  measures  for  the 
maintenance  of  international  peace 
must  be  based  upon  the  Law  of  Mutual 
Aid,  and  must  recognize  the  fact  that 
the  control  of  the  sword  cannot  be  taken 
from  the  hands  of  the  great  legislative 
assemblies  which  now  control,  and 
which  seem  destined  to  control  for  all 
time,  the  nations'  purse-strings. 

Two  methods,  both  of  which  are  tried 
and  approved  deterrents  of  war,  meet 
these  requirements. 

1.  The  first  method  is  by  defensive 
alliance  treaties,  of  which  the  treaty 
long  subsisting  between  England  and 
Portugal  is  a  good  example.  The  ob- 
jection to  such  treaties  is  that  one  or 
more  of  the  parties  may  begin  a  war  of 
aggression  and  claim  assistance,  as  when 
the  aggressive  French  Republic  claimed 


556 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


the  assistance  of  the  United  States  dur- 
ing Washington's  administration,  and 
Germany  and  Austria  claimed  the  as- 
sistance of  Italy  in  their  war  of  aggres- 
sion in  1914.  It  should  be  observed  that 
thejstate  whose  assistance  is  claimed  un- 
der such  a  treaty  is  judge  of  the  occa- 
sion —  a  right  which  the  United  States 
and  Italy  asserted  and  made  good.  A 
general  defensive  alliance  treaty,  in 
which,  to  copy  the  language  of  our  Con- 
stitution, the  United  States  'shall  pro- 
tect each  of  them  against  invasion,'  has 
much  to  recommend  it.  After  the 
treaty  of  alliance  with  France  lapsed 
and  was  declared  at  an  end,  the  United 
States  did  not  renew  it,  and  she  has 
carefully  avoided  such  treaties.  She 
has  refused  upon  more  than  one  occa- 
sion to  embody  the  principles  of  the 
Monroe  Doctrine  into  a  defensive  al- 
liance treaty  with  the  nations  of  the 
American  continent.  It  is  therefore 
idle  for  us  to  discuss  this  phase  of  the 
subject. 

2.  The  second  method  is  by  legis- 
lative declarations  of  policy,  such  as 
that  contained  in  the  preamble  of  the 
Annual  Mutiny  Act  prior  to  1867, 
which  stated  that  one  of  the  purposes 
of  the  British  army  was  *  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  balance  of  power  in  Europe ' ; 
or  by  executive  declarations  of  policy 
similar  to  that  enunciated  by  Mr. 
Monroe,  in  which  the  nation,  through 
its  executive,  announces  that  the  in- 
vasion of  one  state  by  another  will  be 
regarded  as  an  unfriendly  act  by  the 
state  making  the  declaration.  The 
Monroe  Doctrine  is,  in  effect,  a  spon- 
taneous offer  of  assistance,  on  the  part 
of  a  nation  which  refuses  to  enter  into 
defensive  alliances,  to  all  the  states  of 
the  New  World  against  any  non- 
American  state  that  may  attack  any 
of  them.  It  leaves  the  nation  free  to 
adopt  such  measures  as  it  may  see  fit 
to  pursue,  and  makes  it  judge  of  the 
time  and  the  occasion.  It  is  stronger 


than  any  treaty,  and  has  been  a  most 
potent  deterrent  of  war  and  conquest. 
However  unfriendly  an  American  re- 
public  might  be,  our  aid  would  come  to 
it  as  promptly  as  to  any  other.  The 
Monroe  Doctrine  is  not  based  upon 
sentimentality,  but  upon  the  more 
stable  and  respectable  basis  of  self- 
interest,  which  demands  that  we  avoid 
the  close  neighborhood  of  strong  ag- 
gressive powers.  It  is  maintained  by 
the  United  States  for  purely  defensive 
purposes;  but  it  has  been  of  infinite  ad- 
vantage to  the  Latin-American  states. 

The  great  merit  of  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine is  that  it  has  caused  the  nation  to 
think  along  correct  lines  and  see  its 
duty  clearly;  it  has  given  guiding  prin- 
ciples that  have  removed  all  doubt  and 
hesitation  in  troublous  times;  and  it 
has  served  as  a  warning  to  possible 
trespassers.  The  maintenance  of  peace 
is  a  problem  of  education.  The  Monroe 
Doctrine  has  preserved  peace  by  edu- 
cating our  people,  our  statesmen,  and 
our  potential  adversaries. 

What  oceans  of  blood  would  have 
been  saved  if  the  nations  and  their  rul- 
ers had  been  educated  in  their  duties  in 
the  strenuous  days  that  preceded  the 
German  attack  on  Liege  in  1914 !  Want 
of  education,  want  of  a  correct  policy, 
have  cost  the  United  States  $26,000,- 
000,000,  and  the  nations  a  world  war. 
Our  defect,  so  far  as  want  of  declara- 
tion of  policy  is  concerned,  has  been 
remedied  by  Mr.  Harding  in  his  In- 
augural Address,  by  the  following  words, 
which,  let  us  hope,  will  be  quoted  in 
after  times,  as  are  the  words  of  Mr. 
Monroe:  — 

Our  eyes  never  will  be  blind  to  a  devel- 
oping menace,  our  ears  never  deaf  to  the 
call  of  civilization.  ...  In  expressing  as- 
pirations, in  seeking  practical  plans,  in 
translating  humanity's  new  concept  of 
righteousness,  justice,  and  its  hatred  of  war 
into  recommended  action,  we  are  ready  most 
heartily  to  unite;  but  every  commitment 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


must  be  made  in  the  exercise  of  our  na- 
tional sovereignty.  .  .  .  We  have  come  to 
a  new  realization  of  our  place  in  the  world 
and  a  new  appraisal  of  our  nation  by  the 
world.  The  unselfishness  of  these  United 
States  is  a  thing  proved,  our  devotion  to 
peace  for  ourselves  and  for  the  world  is  well 
established,  our  concern  for  preserved  civili- 
zation has  had  its  impassioned  and  heroic 
expression.  There  was  no  American  failure 
to  resist  the  attempted  reversion  of  civili- 
zation; there  will  be  no  failure  to-day  or 
to-morrow. 

Paraphrasing  the  language  of  Mr. 
Lincoln,  I  should  say:  Let  this  duty  of 
the  nation  be  breathed  by  every  Amer- 
ican mother  to  the  lisping  babe  that 
prattles  in  her  lap;  let  it  be  taught  in 
schools,  in  seminaries,  and  in  colleges; 
let  it  be  written  in  primers,  in  spelling- 
books,  and  in  almanacs;  let  it  be 
preached  from  the  pulpit,  proclaimed 
in  legislative  halls,  and  enforced  in 
courts  of  justice.  And,  in  short,  let  it 
become  the  political  religion  of  the  na- 
tion; and  let  the  old  and  the  young,  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  grave  and  the 
gay,  of  all  sexes  and  tongues  and  colors 
and  conditions,  sacrifice  unceasingly 
upon  its  altars. 

The  writer  believes  that  the  Harding 
Doctrine  will  do  for  the  world  at  large 
what  the  Monroe  Doctrine  has  done 
for  the  American  continents.  It  will 
not  prevent  civil  wars  or  small  inter- 
national wars;  but  it  is  an  announce- 
ment to  the  world  that  we  stand  ready 
to  join  in  crushing  any  bandit  nation 
that  attempts  world-conquest.  If  taken 
by  us  at  its  full  import,  it  will  prevent 
a  repetition  of  the  World  War,  and  it 
will  lead  to  a  large  measure  of  disarma- 
ment. It  will  be  what  we  make  of  it. 

The  nations  need  no  additional  ma- 
chinery of  government  to  preserve  in- 
ternational peace.  The  world  had  suffi- 
cient organization  to  have  averted  war 
in  1914.  What  it  needed  then,  and 
what  it  needs  now,  is  enlightened  pol- 
icy, based  upon  a  careful  and  searching 


557 

study  of  war  and  politics.  Organization 
without  spirit  is  an  empty  shell.  When 
the  spirit  is  right,  organization  adjusts 
itself  to  the  needs  of  the  hour. 


There  are  certain  axiomatic  princi- 
ples in  'world-polities'  that  are  of  fun- 
damental importance  in  the  practical 
application  of  the  Law  of  Mutual  Aid. 
Several  of  these  principles  will  now  be 
considered. 

Competition  in  land  armaments  be- 
tween adjacent  continental  nations  is 
not  a  mutual  affair,  as  it  is  assumed  to  be 
in  all  discussions  on  disarmament:  it  is 
a  one-sided  phenomenon.  A  powerful 
nation,  like  Germany,  arms  to  conquer 
a  weaker  neighbor,  which,  in  turn,  arms 
for  defense.  There  is  a  vast  difference 
between  arming  for  offense  and  arming 
for  defense,  as  every  thoughtful  reader 
of  the  daily  press  must  have  realized  in 
the  month  of  August,  1914.  The  defen- 
sive armaments  of  the  weaker  nation 
are  not  a  menace  to  the  stronger  na- 
tion, which  needs  no  great  preponder- 
ance to  assure  itself  against  the  attack 
of  its  weaker  neighbor.  War  comes, 
not  from  armies  and  navies,  but  from 
the  belligerent  intentions  of  nations. 
The  aggressors,  the  beginners  of  wars, 
the  leaders  in  the  so-called  armament 
competitions,  are  the  strong  nations, 
not  the  weak.  Excessive  armaments  in 
time  of  peace  are  a  phenomenon  of  quite 
recent  times,  due  to  the  ambition  of 
Germany  and  one  or  two  other  states 
that  have  followed  her  example.  Con- 
vince these  states  that  the  Law  of  Mu- 
tual Aid  will  be  applied  against  them, 
that  the  fate  of  Germany  awaits  them 
if  they  attack  their  neighbors,  and  land 
armaments  will  automatically  decline 
to  the  scale  required  in  each  state  to 
maintain  domestic  peace,  beyond  which 
it  is  not  desirable  that  they  be  reduced. 

Competition  in  naval  armaments  is 


558 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


one  of  the  effects  of  excessive  land  ar- 
maments. There  is  never  any  naval 
competition  between  countries  that 
maintain  small  armies,  however  great 
their  naval  forces  may  be.  This  is  a 
fact  of  supreme  importance  at  the  pres- 
ent time.  Nations  like  Great  Britain 
and  the  United  States,  which  maintain 
strong  navies,  but  comparatively  weak 
skeleton  armies  raised  by  voluntary  en- 
listment in  time  of  peace,  measure  their 
naval  strength,  not  by  each  other's 
naval  strength,  but  by  that  of  countries 
which  have  powerful  conscript  armies 
backed  by  trained  reserves  ready  for 
instant  mobilization. 

Recent  propaganda  does  not  disprove 
the  foregoing  statement.  For  more  than 
four  centuries  England  has  gauged  her 
building  programme  by  that  of  the  most 
powerful  navy  of  those  European  pow- 
ers which  maintained  large  armies. 
She  will,  beyond  all  doubt,  continue  the 
same  policy  for  a  period  of  time  that 
can  be  measured  only  in  centuries.  If 
we  are  wise,  we  shall  follow  a  somewhat 
similar  policy,  taking  into  account 
Asiatic  as  well  as  European  neighbors, 
which  maintain  powerful  conscript 
armies. 

England  has  never  considered  the 
strength  of  the  American  navy  hi  de- 
termining her  two-power  standard,  not 
because  blood  is  thicker  than  water,  as 
some  would  have  us  believe,  but  be- 
cause she  has  known  full  well  that  she 
has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  aggression 
of  a  country  whose  army  does  not  great- 
ly exceed  the  needs  of  domestic  peace. 
And  we  have  been  indifferent  about  her 
navy  for  the  same  reason.  Nations  that 
depend  upon  naval  power  for  defense 
never  enter  upon  a  war  that  can  in  any 
way  be  avoided.  The  English,  like  the 
Romans,  have  generally  had  wars 
thrust  upon  them,  and,  like  the  Romans, 
have  generally  begun  their  wars  with 
disasters.  As  England  and  America 
have  each  a  tremendous  interest  in  the 


peace  of  the  civilized  world,  which  can 
be  threatened  only  by  countries  having 
large  armies,  each  is  vitally  interested 
that  the  other  shall  not  neglect  its 
naval  forces.  Their  navies  are  the  main- 
stay of  the  peace  forces  of  the  world. 

A  strong  naval  power,  which  main- 
tains a  comparatively  small  army,  is 
not  a  menace  to  any  strong  military 
power,  unless  the  military  power,  by 
its  aggressions,  unites  the  world  in  a 
coalition  against  itself;  in  other  words, 
England,  which  relied  upon  her  navy 
as  her  first  line  of  defense,  would  never 
have  begun  a  war  of  aggression  against 
Germany;  and  the  United  States,  with 
its  small  army,  will  never  begin  a  war 
of  aggression  against  Japan,  which 
keeps  up  a  large  and  efficient  army. 

No  nation  ever  attempts  to  gain  a 
preponderance  of  armaments  upon  both 
land  and  sea  unless  it  is  actuated  by  ag- 
gressive purposes.  The  nation  which, 
like  Germany,  attempts  to  gain  such 
preponderance,  brands  itself  as  an  in- 
ternational bandit. 

The  liberties  of  the  nations  will  be  at 
an  end  whenever  any  country  which 
has  the  best  army  in  the  world  gains 
command  of  the  sea;  or,  vice  versa,  when- 
ever any  country  which  has  the  best 
navy  in  the  world  builds  up  the  most 
formidable  army.  The  hegemony  of 
the  ancient  world  soon  passed  to  Rome, 
when  that  Republic,  already  possessed 
of  an  invincible  army,  wrested  the  com- 
mand of  the  sea  from  Carthage.  The 
defeat  of  the  British  fleet  at  Jutland 
would  have  placed  the  modern  world  in 
a  similar  position  in  regard  to  Germany, 
unless,  indeed,  the  American  fleet  could 
have  restored  the  command  of  the  sea 
to  the  Allies. 

The  modern  world  is  distinguished 
from  the  ancient  chiefly  by  the  fact 
that  it  has  not  been  brought  under  the 
domination  of  a  single  nation.  It  has 
been  saved  from  this  fate  by  the  for- 
tunate fact  that  the  strongest  military 


WORLD-EQUILIBRIUM 


559 


state  has  never  been  the  strongest  naval 
power,  thanks  to  the  insular  situation 
of  England,  to  her  ability  to  command 
the  sea,  and  to  her  inability  to  become 
the  strongest  military  power.  Herein 
lies  the  secret  of  the  existence  of  the 
free  commonwealths  of  the  modern 
world.  One  of  the  ugliest  aspects  of  our 
civilization  was  presented  by  the  cam- 
paign in  the  press,  prior  to  the  World 
War,  against  the  policy  of  England  to 
maintain  a  two-power  standard  against 
the  German  navy. 

The  key  to  the  international  situa- 
tion lies  in  the  European-Asiatic  con- 
tinent, because  Europe  and  Asia,  if 
united  under  one  strong,  efficient,  co- 
ercing state,  would  have  ample  land 
and  naval  forces  to  compel  the  rest  of 
the  world  to  accept  the  policy  of  the 
coercing  state;  and  free  government 
would  be  at  an  end.  No  such  danger 
can  come  from  any  of  the  other  con- 
tinents, on  account  of  their  smaller  size. 

The  establishment  of  republican  gov- 
ernment does  not  solve  the  problem  of 
international  peace.  Hereditary  auto- 
cracy has  more  often  imperiled  the 
world's  liberties;  but  the  dangers  com- 
ing from  republics  and  democracies 
have  been  more  serious.  Rome  con- 
quered as  a  republic,  and,  as  an  empire, 
combatted  only  for  a  choice  of  masters. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  last  century, 
republics  seemed  dangerous  to  Europe 
because  Republican  France  threatened 
its  liberties,  which  were  defended  by 
several  hereditary  autocrats.  In  1914, 
autocratic  Germany  threatened  world- 
stability,  and  the  danger  was  ascribed 
to  the  form  of  government.  Such 
theories  are  wrong.  It  is  not  the  form  of 
government  but  the  act  of  aggression 
that  is  dangerous.  Many  good  souls 
were  troubled  because  autocratic  Rus- 
sia and  Samurai-ridden  Japan  and 
feudal  Serbia  and  Montenegro  gave 
support  to  the  Allied  cause.  But  all 
great  coalitions  have  contained  auto- 


cratic governments.  The  Allies  have 
fought  against  domination  by  a  single 
state,  not  against  any  particular  form 
of  government.  There  is  no  instance  in 
history  of  the  defeat  of  a  republican 
state  by  an  autocratic  state,  both  states 
being  otherwise  fairly  matched;  but 
history  is  replete  with  the  defeat  and 
overthrow  of  monarchies  by  republics 
in  fair  and  open  fight. 

Absolute  suppression  of  all  trade  with 
the  bandit  nation  should  be  enforced  in 
future  wars,  if,  unfortunately,  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  continues  to  repeat 
itself.  In  the  last  war  the  Allies  did  not 
declare  a  blockade,  in  order,  apparently, 
to  avoid  irritating  neutrals,  whose  bat- 
tles they  were  fighting.  They  preferred 
to  follow  an  illegal  practice,  as  meas- 
ured by  international-law  standards, 
which  attained  the  same  ends  and  per- 
mitted the  compensation  of  owners  of 
ships  and  cargoes.  The  Second  Peace 
Conference  of  1907  stipulated  that  com- 
mercial and  industrial  relations  be- 
tween belligerents  and  neutrals  should 
be  especially  protected  and  encouraged. 
This  is  the  freedom  of  the  seas  which 
Germany  desired — freedom  from  block- 
ade, which  was  necessary  to  bring  her 
to  her  knees  and  stop  her  aggressions. 
The  international  law  of  Grotius  justi- 
fies the  measures  which  the  Allies  en- 
forced, or  should  have  enforced,  against 
Germany;  indeed,  if  they  had  pro- 
claimed the  principles  of  the  Father  of 
International  Law  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  they  would  have  had  a  moral 
and  intelligible  code  to  follow.  Truth 
is  so  delicate  that,  if  we  deviate  ever 
so  slightly  from  it,  we  fall  into  error. 
Grotius  was  a  citizen  of  one  of  a  num- 
ber of  small  nations  which  were  threat- 
ened by  the  German  empire  of  the  day, 
and  he  wrote  as  the  citizen  of  an  'allied' 
country.  Looking  out  upon  a  world 
much  like  our  own,  his  thoughts  are  as 
fully  applicable  to  our  larger  world  as  if 
they  were  written  yesterday. 


560 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


The  greatest  crime  that  a  state  can 
commit  is  to  kindle  a  war,  either  by  its 
own  aggressions  or  by  creating  the  be- 
lief that  it  will  play  an  unworthy  part. 
War  is  not  the  supreme  evil.  The  su- 
preme evil  is  the  habit  of  regarding  war 
as  the  supreme  evil.  No  nation  has 
more  serious  difficulties  to  encounter 
than  one  whose  courage  and  firmness 
are  doubted.  What  a  bandit  nation  be- 
lieves to  be  true  is,  so  far  as  its  action  is 
concerned,  the  same  as  the  truth. 

A  primary  power  with  a  fearless  and 
efficient  government  rarely  gets  into 
war.  Such  a  government  does  not  at- 
tack its  neighbors,  and  does  not  provoke 
war  by  its  reputation  for  inefficiency 
and  want  of  spirit.  The  administra- 
tions of  James  Monroe,  Andrew  Jack- 
son, Grover  Cleveland,  and  Theodore 
Roosevelt  were  eras  of  peace. 

It  is  the  duty  of  every  nation  to  main- 
tain such  armed  forces  as  are  necessary 
to  preserve  domestic  peace.  Where 
free  government  prevails,  the  control 


of  these  forces  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
representatives  of  a  majority  of  the 
people,  who  have  no  interest  in  resort- 
ing to  factious  methods  and  no  desire 
to  support  needless  armaments. 

The  path  to  international  peace  lies, 
not  in  neutrality,  or  in  World  Confed- 
eration, or  hi  arbitration,  or  in  any 
particular  form  of  government,  but  in 
the  unfailing  application  of  the  Law  of 
Mutual  Aid.  International  peace  is  a 
problem  of  education.  World  wars  will 
be  averted  and  excessive  armaments 
will  vanish  only  when  that  law  is  so  well 
understood  and  so  sure  in  its  applica- 
tion that  ambitious  nations  will  re- 
nounce the  hope  of  conquering  neigh- 
bors as  little  disposed  to  endure  as  to 
offer  an  injury. 

Although  the  United  States  will  not 
enter  into  formal  guaranties,  the  events 
of  the  World  War  and  the  declarations 
of  her  political  departments  give  assur- 
ance that  she  will  join  the  world  against 
any  power  that  threatens  disaster  to 
free  nations. 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


BY  MAXWELL  H.   H.   MACARTNEY 


IT  is  unfortunate  that  the  opinion  of 
the  world  at  large  on  the  conditions  ob- 
taining to-day  in  Berlin  should  so  often 
be  derived  from  persons  falling  into  one 
of  two  classes. 

The  one  class  consists  of  those  per- 
sons who  put  up  at  the  most  expensive 
hotels;  eat  at  the  most  expensive  res- 
taurants; look  in  at  the  most  expensive 


places  of  entertainment;  and  then,  hav- 
ing naturally  enjoyed,  at  comparatively 
low  cost  (for  the  mark  stands  at  only 
about  one  twelfth  of  its  pre-war  value), 
much  obsequious  and  by  no  means  dis- 
interested attention,  rush  away  with  the 
impression  that  the  Germans  are  gay, 
charming,  forgiving  creatures,  who  are 
perhaps  drinking  too  much  (German) 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


561 


champagne  for  a  supposedly  bankrupt 
nation,  but  are  simply  delighted  to 
welcome  all  their  ex-enemies  back  in 
their  midst. 

The  second  class  is  made  up  of  those 
over-earnest  travelers  who,  coming  out 
to  the  country  with  their  minds  already 
made  up,  fall  a  facile  prey  to  the  prop- 
aganda of  those  Germans  whose  mis- 
sion it  is  to  convince  the  world  of  the 
utter  ruin,  material  and  intellectual, 
of  the  Fatherland. 

From  neither  of  these  classes  is  it 
possible  to  get  that  true  picture  of  an 
ex-enemy's  life  in  Berlin  to-day  which 
can  be  given  only  after  a  long  stay  here, 
and  after  one  has  mingled  with  all 
classes  of  society.  Even  so,  it  is  ex- 
tremely hard  for  any  one  individual  to 
paint  a  satisfactory  picture,  because 
the  attitude  of  the  German  is  not  the 
same  toward  the  American  that  it  is 
toward  the  Englishman  or  the  French- 
man; and  this  attitude  again  is  apt  to 
vary  according  as  you  are  being  dealt 
with  in  a  private,  a  business,  or  an  offi- 
cial capacity. 

Of  course,  if  one  is  asked  simply,  as  I 
sometimes  am  on  my  rare  visits  back  in 
England,  whether  things  are  made  de- 
liberately unpleasant  for  the  ex-enemy 
private  individual  now  resident  in  Ger- 
many, or  whether  it  is  safe  to  speak 
French  or  English  in  a  restaurant,  the 
reply  is  astonishingly  simple.  I  say 
advisedly  'astonishingly  simple/  be- 
cause, as  one  who  had  spent  some  time 
in  Germany  before  the  war,  I  was  fully 
prepared  to  meet  with  a  considerable 
amount  of  passive  ill-will,  if  not  of  ac- 
tive hostility,  even  in  everyday  life. 
Many  of  my  German  friends  of  those 
days  had  adopted  toward  me  much  the 
same  attitude  that  the  Walrus  and  the 
Carpenter  adopted  toward  the  oysters; 
and,  upon  the  actual  outbreak  of  war, 
this  latent  hostility,  as  we  all  know, 
was  developed  into  a  rabid  yet  calcu- 
lated animosity,  to  which  there  was,  at 

VOL.  188— NO.  4 


any  rate  at  the  outset,  no  true  parallel 
on  the  side  of  the  Entente. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  result  and 
length  of  the  war,  exhibitions  of  private 
ill-will  are  not  very  much  more  marked 
than  they  were  before  1914.  Very  pos- 
sibly, indeed,  the  result  and  length  of 
the  struggle  have  had  their  effect.  A 
defeated  Germany  does  not  feel  very 
safe  in  giving  way  to  a  too-unbridled  ex- 
hibition of  her  true  sentiments. 

It  may  be,  too,  that  the  very  length 
of  the  war  has  had  its  effect,  quite  apart 
from  the  result.  Even  if  a  short  war, 
such  as  that  upon  which  Germany  had 
reckoned,  would  have  been  over  before 
the  ingrained  hatred  marking  the  mid- 
dle stages  of  the  struggle  had  taken  root 
hi  all  our  minds,  the  long-drawn-out 
hardships  of  four  and  one-half  years  of 
unintermittent  fighting  reacted  upon 
the  feelings  of  all  but  the  most  ferocious 
fire-eaters.  Anyway,  whatever  the  rea- 
sons may  be,  it  is  only  the  bare  truth  to 
say  that,  so  long  as  the  private  indi- 
vidual of  an  ex-enemy  nation  behaves 
himself  with  ordinary  restraint,  he  is 
very  unlikely  to  have  cause  to  complain 
of  his  treatment  in  the  everyday  affairs 
of  existence,  and  may  even  be  agree- 
ably surprised. 

I  will  give  two  personal  experiences 
hi  support  of  this  statement.  The 
Armistice  was  not  very  many  weeks  old 
when  I  happened  to  be  traveling  in  Ger- 
many on  a  very  crowded  train,  the  bulk 
of  the  passengers  being  soldiers  from 
the  notorious  Ehrhardt  brigade.  Every 
seat  in  the  train  had  long  before  been 
occupied,  and  I  was  compelled  to  clam- 
ber, with  my  valises  and  wraps,  on  to 
the  couplings  between  two  carriages, 
and  to  travel  in  this  manner  in  the 
midst  of  a  bunch  of  similarly  adhesive 
soldiers.  After  we  had  gone  a  short 
distance,  one  of  the  soldiers  who  had 
been  eyeing  me  curiously,  inquired  if 
I  was  a  foreigner.  I  answered  with  a 
simple  affirmative.  He  then  inquired 


562 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN   BERLIN  TO-DAY 


my  nationality.  I  replied  that  I  was  an 
Englishman.  For  a  moment  there  was 
a  profound  silence  all  round,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  think  that  I  should  be 
accidentally  shoved  off  the  moving 
train,  when  a  voice  asked,  'Have  you 
got  any  English  cigarettes? '  As  it  hap- 
pened I  had  a  couple  of  packets  of  a 
brand  that  I  very  much  disliked,  and 
I  distributed  the  contents  of  one  all 
round.  This  sop  to  Cerberus  had  the 
happiest  results.  When  at  the  next 
junction  I  had  to  change  trains,  two  or 
three  of  the  soldiers  climbed  down  with 
me  and  insisted  upon  carrying  my 
very  portable  luggage  for  me  to  the 
farther  platform. 

The  second  experience  occurred  not 
many  months  ago,  when  I  was  coming 
up  on  a  journey  from  Vienna  to  Berlin. 
When  we  got  into  the  German  train  at 
Tetschen,  there  was  a  young  English- 
man standing  in  the  corridor  who  look- 
ed rather  wistfully  at  my  golf-clubs. 
The  train  was  full,  as  usual,  and  he  had 
failed  to  find  a  seat.  After  we  had  gone 
a  short  way,  he  opened  the  door  of  our 
compartment  and  asked  if  there  was  a 
vacant  seat.  On  being  told  that  there 
was,  he  sat  down,  explaining  to  me 
that  he  had  only  a  second-class  ticket 
but  would  gladly  pay  the  difference  on 
to  Berlin. 

Presently  came  along  the  ticket- 
collector,  to  whom  the  Englishman 
handed  his  ticket,  saying  in  very  broken 
German  that  he  wanted  to  pay  the  ad- 
ditional fare.  The  collector  grunted, 
and  went  off  and  fetched  an  inspector, 
to  whom,  after  the  Englishman  had 
vainly  tried  to  explain  the  situation  in 
German,  he  addressed  himself  in  Eng- 
lish. In  the  meantime  I  had  explained 
matters  to  him  in  German;  but,  paying 
no  attention  to  me,  the  inspector  turned 
to  the  Englishman  and  said, '  We  don't 
speak  English  here.  You're  in  Ger- 
many now,  and  if  you  have  anything  to 
say,  you  must  say  it  in  German.'  Then, 


looking  round  for  applause,  he  contin- 
ued in  German:  'Who  gave  you  permis- 
sion to  travel  in  a  first-class  compart- 
ment? You  have  broken  the  regulations 
and  must  pay  twice  the  first-class  fare 
for  the  whole  distance.' 

This  rudeness  and  official  punctilio, 
however,  brought  forth  a  storm  of  pro- 
test from  my  fellow  voyagers.  They 
all  declared  that  they  themselves  were 
quite  ignorant  of  the  regulations  in 
question;  and  how  then  should  an 
Englishman,  or  any  other  foreigner,  be 
expected  to  know  them.  The  place  was 
vacant,  the  Englishman  had  volunteer- 
ed to  pay  the  difference,  and  that  was 
surely  sufficient. 

The  official  declined  to  listen  to  any 
expostulations.  The  Englishman  there- 
upon said  that  he  would  willingly  leave 
the  compartment  and  asked  for  the  re- 
turn of  his  ticket,  which,  it  turned  out, 
was  a  through  ticket  to  Hamburg.  The 
inspector,  however,  declined  to  give  it 
up  until  the  sum  claimed  had  been  paid; 
and  the  more  his  own  compatriots 
abused  him  for  his  scurvy  behavior,  the 
more  violently  and  obstinately  he  stuck 
to  the  letter  of  the  law.  The  matter  was 
not  settled  until  we  got  actually  to  Ber- 
lin, and,  forming  a  small  deputation, 
laid  the  full  facts  before  a  yet  higher 
functionary,  who,  thank  goodness, 
had  some  notions  of  elementary  justice 
and  reason. 

Much  capital  was  made  last  year,  in 
the  Franco-British  press,  out  of  an  as- 
sault delivered  by  Prince  Joachim  of 
Prussia  upon  a  party  of  French  officers 
who  were  dining  with  their  wives  in  the 
Hotel  Adlon,  Berlin.  The  episode  was 
certainly  disgraceful;  but  it  must  be 
admitted  that  Prince  Joachim  has  long 
been  notorious  as  a  blustering  bully, 
and  that  upon  this  occasion  he  had  been 
gazing  upon  the  champagne  when  it 
bubbled.  In  the  ordinary  course,  a 
conversation  in  French  provokes  little 
or  no  comment;  and,  so  far  from  the 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


563 


speaking  of  English  being  objected  to, 
people  are,  on  the  contrary,  only  too 
eager  to  refurbish  their  acquaintance 
with  that  tongue,  and  to  give  you  full 
particulars  of  where  they  have  worked 
in  England  or  America,  where  they  were 
interned,  and  what  they  hope  to  do  as 
soon  as  passports  again  become  avail- 
able to  German  citizens. 

The  last  two  incidents  are,  however, 
instructive,  for  they  illustrate  the  in- 
transigeance  of  the  old  German  Junker 
and  official  classes  of  all  grades,  and 
they  show  the  difficulties  to  be  con- 
tended against  by  such  Germans  as 
have  taken  the  lessons  of  the  war  to 
heart,  and  are  struggling  to  make  the 
disappearance  of  militarism  coincide 
also  with  the  spread  of  a  more  urbane 
and  democratic  spirit.  The  dice  are, 
however,  weighted  against  them,  so 
long  as  the  present  generation  of  Junk- 
ers and  officials  survives. 

n 

When,  however,  it  comes  to  business 
or  official  relations,  one  very  soon  real- 
izes that  the  German  is  unable  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  score  off  his  late 
enemies  as  much  as  he  can.  One  of  the 
commonest  illustrations  of  this  pro- 
pensity is  the  twenty-five-per-cent  sur- 
tax which  Germans  try  to  impose  upon 
foreigners.  You  can  go  into  a  shop,  for 
example,  and  order  a  number  of  articles. 
As  soon  as  the  assistant  finds  out  from 
your  name  or  address  (if  you  have  not 
long  before  been  betrayed  by  your  ac- 
cent) that  you  are  a  foreigner,  down 
goes  the  twenty-five-per-cent  Zuschlag 
on  the  bill.  But  for  the  wise,  the  remedy 
is  simple.  You  begin  by  pointing  out 
that,  under  the  terms  of  the  peace 
treaty,  Germans  are  forbidden  to  dif- 
ferentiate against  foreigners;  and,  if 
that  produces  no  effect,  you  walk  out 
with  the  intimation  that  to-morrow  you 
will  get  the  goods  ordered,  through  a 


German  friend  —  and  at  another  shop. 

Nothing,  again,  could  be  more  cour- 
teous than  the  way  in  which  my  col- 
league and  myself  have  been,  in  appear- 
ance, treated  by  the  authorities,  but 
we  are  fully  aware  that,  as  representa- 
tives of  the  bitterly  hated  'Northcliffe 
Press,'  whose  alleged  calumnies  against 
Germany  are  almost  a  daily  theme  with 
the  majority  of  newspapers,  we  are, 
nevertheless,  quite  cordially  disliked, 
and  that  we  are  never  likely  to  get  any 
real  favor  shown  to  us.  Quite  the  con- 
trary. Coincidence  is  notoriously  long 
in  the  arm,  but  was  it  altogether  a  co- 
incidence, I  wonder,  that  when,  not 
long  ago,  we  wanted  to  get  a  certain 
report  over  to  London  before  it  had  ap- 
peared in  the  German  press,  our  tele- 
phone, which  had  previously  worked 
quite  admirably,  suddenly  became  ge- 
stort,  and  remained  in  that  useless  con- 
dition for  an  unaccountably  long  period  ? 

That  amusing  Dickens  creation,  Mr. 
Joseph  Bagstock,  used,  if  I  remember 
right,  to  be  fond  of  referring  to  himself 
in  the  following  terms:  'Tough,  sir, 
tough  is  Joey  B.  Tough  and  de-vilish 
sly.'  Well,  Joey  B.  was  as  tender  as 
spring  lamb  and  as  angelically  simple 
as  Amelia  Sedley,  in  comparison  with 
many  Germans  whom  I  could  name. 
One  cannot,  perhaps,  blame  them  too 
severely.  The  under  dog  is  never  en- 
amored of  his  situation,  and  when  that 
under  dog  has  been  accustomed  for  half 
a  century  to  be  the  top  dog  and  to  have 
his  enemy  by  the  throat,  he  is  doubly 
infuriated  when  the  positions  suddenly 
become  reversed.  If,  then,  the  Ger- 
mans can  put  spokes  in  some  of  our 
wheels,  they  naturally  do  so,  and  it  is 
*  up  to  us '  to  see  that  we  give  them  back 
as  good  as  they  give. 

Besides,  it  is  not  only  we  civilians 
who  suffer  from  these  more  or  less  im- 
potent struggles.  Germany  has  never 
ceased  to  regard  and  proclaim  the 
Treaty  of  Versailles  as  an  outrageous 


564 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


swindle,  into  which  she  was  lured  by 
the  hypocritical  protestations  and  four- 
teen points  of  President  Wilson;  by 
reliance  upon  the  published  war-aims 
of  the  Allies;  by  anything,  in  short, 
rather  than  by  military  defeat  in  the 
field;  and  between  the  ratification  of 
the  Peace  and  the  advent  of  the  inse- 
cure Wirth  Cabinet,  she  has  striven  un- 
ceasingly to  carry  out  as  few  of  the  con- 
ditions as  she  possibly  can.  She  has 
wriggled  (and  Bavaria  is  still  wriggling) 
over  the  disarmament  question;  she 
has  called  to  Heaven  in  evidence  of  her 
inability  to  pay  the  compensations  and 
reparations  demanded  of  her;  she  has 
reduced  the  trials  of  the  'war  criminals' 
to  a  farce.  Her  much-boasted  revolu- 
tion of  1918  swept  away,  indeed,  the 
Hohenzollerns,  but  left  behind  the 
bureaucrats,  who  were  indispensable 
because  they  knew  where  to  find  the 
blotting-paper  and  sealing-wax,  and 
who  have  not  yet  learned  that  the  old 
verbose  and  truculent  notes,  which  may 
have  suited  the  temper  of  a  people 
bristling  with  bayonets,  do  not  come 
well  from  a  people  which,  after  plung- 
ing more  than  half  the  civilized  world 
into  misery  and  shying  at  nothing, 
however  barbarous,  in  its  struggle  for 
supremacy,  has  now  had  its  fangs  drawn. 

m 

So  much  may  be  said  to  be  more  or 
less  the  common  experience  of  all  Ger- 
many's former  enemies.  But  this  super- 
ficial equality  of  treatment  does  not 
mean  that  Germany,  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  makes  no  distinction  between 
her  foes.  If  President  Wilson  shares 
with  the  late  King  Edward  and  M. 
Clemenceau  the  distinction  of  being 
bitterly  hated,  the  American  people  as 
a  whole  is  more  popular  here  than  any 
of  the  others.  This  is  only  natural  for 
the  following  reasons. 

There  are,  in  the  first  place,  so  many 


Germans  and  friendly  neutrals  in  the 
United  States,  that  a  German  can 
hardly  work  up  a  permanent  hatred  of 
the  American  people  as  a  whole.  In  the 
second  place,  he  realizes  that  the  inter- 
ests of  the  United  States  and  of  Ger- 
many were  never  in  serious  conflict 
before  the  war;  and  thinks  that,  if  his 
leaders  had  not  bungled  their  diploma- 
cy and  their  moral  conduct  of  the  war 
so  idiotically,  there  would  have  been  a 
sporting  chance  that  the  United  States 
would  never  have  taken  up  arms  at  all. 
Thirdly,  the  comparatively  late  arrival 
of  the  American  troops  on  the  scene  of 
action  naturally  meant  that  there  was 
relatively  little  fighting  between  the 
two  nations  —  though  the  gallant  ac- 
tion of  the  Americans  round  Chateau- 
Thierry  in  the  summer  of  1918  prob- 
ably discouraged  any  German  desire 
for  a  full-dress  campaign  on  a  large 
scale.  Fourthly,  America  alone  among 
the  greater  belligerents  has  sought  no 
territorial  or  monetary  advantage  at 
Germany's  expense.  And,  fifthly,  the 
charitable  endeavors  of  Mr.  Hoover's 
mission  and  other  relief  organizations 
(duly  advertised  in  the  press)  have  pro- 
duced a  sentiment  of  sincere  gratitude, 
which  has  further  reinforced  the  pleas- 
ure felt  at  reported  American  impa- 
tience with  what,  apparently,  is  some- 
times regarded  by  you  'over  there'  as 
our  meticulous  determination  to  en- 
force the  Treaty  of  Versailles.  This 
attitude,  of  course,  delighted  the  Ger- 
mans, and  encouraged  them  to  hope 
that,  when  once  the  Harding  adminis- 
tration was  firmly  in  the  saddle,  Ger- 
many might  look  to  the  United  States 
as  to  the  first  great  nation  which  would 
break  down  the  tabu  by  which  she  is 
now  surrounded;  which  would  lend  her 
money;  and  which  would  enable  her  to 
recover  from  her  present  prostration. 

Recent  events  have  greatly  dashed 
these  hopes.  The  unwavering  loyalty 
of  America  to  her  associates  over  rep- 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


565 


arations,  and  the  clearly  inspired  tele- 
grams of  the  Washington  correspond- 
ent of  the  Times,  indicating  that  Mr. 
Harding  would  welcome  an  agreement 
between  the  English-speaking  peoples, 
have  been  gall  and  wormwood  to  a 
Germany  determined  to  play  off  the 
members  of  the  Entente  against  one 
another.  The  press  has  not  ventured  to 
give  a  free  rein  to  its  indignation;  but 
the  feeling  is  there,  and  is  embittered 
by  a  dawning  perception  that  Mr. 
Lloyd  George's  outburst  on  Upper 
Silesia  is  not  likely  to  end  in  anything 
substantial.  The  methodical  German, 
then,  while  pushing  back  his  nascent 
exuberance  for  the  United  States,  is 
concentrating  simply  upon  the  material 
and  practical  aspects  of  future  rela- 
tions. Realizing  that,  for  the  moment, 
the  situation  is  not  ripe,  Germany  is 
devoting  her  attention  more  immedi- 
ately to  Russia  and  nearer  markets; 
but  she  never  lets  the  United  States  out 
of  her  sight;  and  speeches  made  at 
meetings  of  the  Hamburg-Amerika 
line  and  similar  large  concerns  show, 
not  only  that  the  restoration  of  pre- 
war relations  with  the  United  States 
remains  the  cardinal  object  of  German 
policy,  but  that,  judged  by  the  statis- 
tics of  shipping,  it  is  beginning  to 
be  realized.  With  this  success  Germany 
is  momentarily  content,  and  that  is 
why  American  business  men,  journal- 
ists, and  others  find  doors  open  to  them 
which  are  closed  to  men  of  French  or 
British  nationality. 

Not,  I  think,  that  the  individual 
Englishman  is  personally  disliked.  It  is 
generally  admitted  that  the  British  oc-  • 
cupation  of  the  Cologne  area  has  been 
marked  by  tact  and  forbearance,  and 
the  British  missions  in  Berlin  have  fre- 
quently been  praised  to  me  for  the 
quiet,  unobtrusive  manner  in  which 
they  go  about  their  business.  The  in- 
nate reluctance  of  the  Englishman  to 
make  himself  conspicuous  has  stood 


him  here  in  good  stead.  Except  on 
special  occasions,  the  British  officers 
are  almost  always  in  mufti.  When  one 
recollects  the  outburst  against  Great 
Britain  with  which  the  war  opened,  and 
the  immense  popularity  of  Herr  Lis- 
sauer's  'Hymn  of  Hate,'  it  is  really  as- 
tonishing to  find  so  little  overt  trace  of 
anti-British  feeling.  There  are,  of 
course,  the  recognized  Anglophobes, 
headed  by  Herr  G.  Bernhardt  of  the 
Vossische  Zeitung;  but  it  is  certainly 
curious  how  little  the  average  German 
reflects  that  it  was,  after  all,  to  the 
British  that  the  German  navy  had  ul- 
timately to  surrender  in  such  dramatic 
fashion;  that  it  was  the  British  Empire 
which  took  over  the  bulk  of  Germany's 
colonial  possessions;  and  that  it  is  to 
the  British  Empire  that  Germany  must 
look  again  for  many  of  her  indispen- 
sable raw  materials  and  for  customers 
for  her  finished  products.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Great  Britain  stands  more  than 
ever  before  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Ger- 
man Michael.  But  the  average  German 
does  not  apparently  look  so  deeply  as 
this,  and  merely  notices  that  Great 
Britain  is  showing  a  readiness  to  re- 
sume trade-relations  with  him,  and  to 
this  end  is  prepared  —  within  the  limits 
of  the  Treaty  of  Versailles  —  to  give 
him  an  opportunity  to  avoid  national 
bankruptcy. 

This  is  not,  of  course,  to  say  that  the 
British  —  or  even  the  Americans  — 
are  positively  popular  or  feted  here. 
Whatever  may  be  the  faults  of  the 
Germans,  they  have,  at  least,  a  spirit 
of  national  pride,  which  is  sometimes 
lamentably  lacking  among  the  Aus- 
trians  and  Hungarians.  During  the 
many  months  which  I  spent  in  Austria 
and  Hungary  during  1919  and  1920,  I 
heard  many  of  the  Allies  declare  that 
they  found  the  friendliness  and  hos- 
pitality of  the  inhabitants  almost  too 
embarrassing.  This  criticism  is  not 
without  justification.  But  neither  Aus- 


566 


AN  EX  ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


tria  nor  Hungary  ever  seriously  re- 
garded herself  as  at  war  with  Great 
Britain,  France,  or  the  United  States. 
The  troops  of  these  nations  practically 
never  came  into  conflict  with  one  an- 
other, and  the  pre-war  personal  rela- 
tions between  the  wealthier  and  better- 
class  families  in  Great  Britain,  for 
example,  and  Austria-Hungary  had 
been  in  many  cases  very  cordial  and 
intimate.  It  was,  then,  often  very  awk- 
ward for  an  Englishman,  Frenchman,  or 
American  to  find  himself  being  invited 
to  luncheons  and  dinners  and  dances 
with  unfeigned  friendliness,  during  a 
time  when  the  Allied  representatives 
in  Paris  were  preparing  —  in  the  trea- 
ties of  Saint-Germain  and  Trianon  — 
settlements  infinitely  more  disastrous 
to  Austria  and  to  Hungary  than  was 
the  Treaty  of  Versailles  to  Germany. 
Sometimes,  in  fact,  the  situation  be- 
came intolerable,  and  some  virulent 
outburst  against  our  newest  European 
allies  compelled  one  to  remind  one's 
very  hosts  that,  after  all,  they  had 
begun  the  war  by  their  ultimatum  to 
Serbia. 

There  is  no  fear  of  any  of  the  Allies 
being  similarly  embarrassed  in  Ger- 
many. Not  long  ago  some  of  the  Berlin 
correspondents  gave  prominence  to  a 
'house  law'  of  the  von  der  Golz  fam- 
ily, the  members  of  which  bound  them- 
selves to  enter  into  no  friendly  relations 
with  their  ex-enemies,  but  to  confine 
their  dealings  with  them  to  strictly 
official  matters.  There  was,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  nothing  remarkable  about  this. 
A  German  baron  to  whom  I  mentioned 
this  'house  law,'  and  with  whom,  as 
another  old  Cambridge  man,  I  had 
fancied  myself  on  tolerably  good  terms, 
bluntly  told  me  that  there  was  nothing 
extraordinary  in  this  family  pact,  which 
was  being  observed  in  many  houses. 
His  avowal  confirmed  my  own  observa- 
tions and  experience.  Exceptions  may 
be  made,  for  reasons  of  policy,  in  the 


case  of  recognized  Germanophiles  of 
influence;  but  the  ordinary  ex-enemy 
will  have  no  opportunity,  even  if  he  has 
the  desire,  to  mingle  in  the  intimate 
home  life  of  any  German  family  of 
good  extraction.  This  may  be  bad 
Christianity,  but  it  is  understandable 
amour  propre,  and  human  nature. 

IV 

But  if,  in  the  case  of  the  other  Allies, 
there  has  been  a  certain  German  ex- 
ternal correctness,  there  has  been,  and 
is  to-day,  one  great  exception.  If  Great 
Britain  was  the  most  hated  enemy  dur- 
ing the  war,  France  is  now  loathed  with 
a  deadly  hatred  of  which  no  secret  is 
made.  Before  the  war  Germany  cer- 
tainly did  not  hate  France  so  much  as 
France  hated  Germany;  and  even  dur- 
ing the  war  the  German  press  often 
expressed  its  admiration  for  the  brav- 
ery of  the  French  poilus.  All  such  ad- 
miration has  long  vanished.  Not  long 
ago  an  American  to  whom  I  was  speak- 
ing of  this  bitter  hatred  had  a  simple 
yet  striking  example  of  the  truth  of 
these  words.  He  was  inclined  to  be 
skeptical,  so  I  rang  the  bell  for  the 
waiter  and  asked  him  what  he  thought 
of  the  French.  The  man's  eyes  literally 
blazed,  as  he  declared  that  he  would 
willingly  march  against  the  French 
again  to-morrow  because,  he  said, 
'they  wish  to  make  a  nation  of  slaves 
of  us.'  When  he  had  gone  out  of  the 
room,  I  rang  for  the  chambermaid,  and 
she  was  equally  outspoken  hi  her  de- 
testation of  the  French. 

People  in  railway-carriages  speak 
quite  openly  about  this  hatred,  and 
canvass  the  time  —  it  may  be  twenty- 
five  years,  it  may  be  longer  —  when  the 
final  reckoning  with  France  is  to  come. 
'We  want,'  the  Germans  say,  'no  al- 
lies. We  ask  only  to  be  left  alone  with 
the  French,  and  we  are  sure  that  the 
next  time  France  will  not  have  Eng- 


AN  EX-ENEMY  IN  BERLIN  TO-DAY 


567 


land  and  America  on  her  side.'  Such 
remarks  I  have  heard  literally  scores  of 
times,  and  they  undoubtedly  represent 
the  average  German's  views  and  wishes. 
Time  will,  of  course,  do  something 
toward  softening  down  these  feelings; 
but  it  is  an  undeniable  fact  that  many 
Germans  of  my  personal  acquaintance 
are  systematically  training  up  their 
children  to  hate  France,  and,  above  all, 
are  teaching  them  that  they  must 
avenge  the  alleged  wrongs  done  to 
German  women  by  the  French  black 
troops  hi  the  occupied  area. 

Meanwhile,  such  is  the  actual  hatred 
for  France  that,  no  matter  how  dis- 
tinctly the  Allied  press  proclaims  that 
this  or  that  decision  was  a  joint  decision 
of  the  Allies,  the  whole  blame  is  invari- 
ably put  upon  France.  Every  rebuff 
administered  to  Germany  is  due  to 
French  cruelty  and  revenge.  The  in- 
culcation of  this  spirit  of  hatred  against 
France  is,  of  course,  the  more  easy  since 
France  is  the  country  in  whose  name 
the  Allied  Missions  here  act,  and  thus 
the  French  have  the  perhaps  not  al- 
ways congenial  task  of  pulling  the  chest- 
nuts out  of  the  fire  for  their  partners. 

At  the  same  time,  the  French  appear 
hardly  to  have  grown  accustomed  to 
their  victory,  and  scarcely  to  realize 
that  after  forty-four  years  of  shivering 
under  the  German  menace,  they  have 
won  for  themselves  a  freedom  which, 
if  rightly  used,  will  enable  them  to  pur- 
sue, as  long  as  one  can  reasonably  fore- 
see, a  policy  of  national  dignity  com- 
mensurate with  the  position  to  which 
France  is  entitled  by  the  valor,  charm, 
industry,  and  intelligence  of  her  popu- 
lation. 

The  temptation  to  repay  all  at 
once  the  many  indignities  from  which 
they  suffered  after  1871  has  been  too 
strong  for  many  Frenchmen.  Not  only 


are  the  professional  journalists  too 
often  unbridled  in  their  remarks,  but 
men  such  as  M.  Poincare  are  losing  no 
opportunity  of  keeping  French  feeling 
against  Germany  at  white  heat. 

The  still  dangerous  question  of  Upper 
Silesia  is  exceptionally  deplorable.  The 
French  representatives  on  the  Inter- 
Allied  Mission  have  made  virtually  no 
pretense  of  impartiality,  and  their  atti- 
tude is  resented  the  more  in  that  Silesia 
is  so  closely  bound  up  with  the  tradi- 
tions of  Frederick  the  Great;  while  the 
Poles  are  not  only  despised  by  the  Ger- 
mans for  their  lack  of  business  capacity, 
but  are  hated  by  them  with  the  hatred 
that  the  oppressor  always  feels  for  his 
victim.  Not  even  the  loss  of  Alsace- 
Lorraine  could  move  Germany  to  such 
fierce  hatred  for  France  as  the  surren- 
der of  Upper  Silesia  to  the  Poles,  after 
what  would  be  eternally  proclaimed  as 
tampering  with  the  results  of  a  gerry- 
mandered plebiscite. 

The  next  few  years  are  going  to  be 
critical  for  the  future  of  Europe. 
France  above  all  is  walking  to-day 

per  ignes 
Suppositos  cineri  doloso, 

and,  no  less  than  Germany,  has  tempora- 
rily forgotten  the  wise  old  dictum  of 
Bismarck,  that  in  politics  there  is  no 
room  for  either  hatred  or  love.  Man- 
kind, it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  eventually 
achieve  a  higher  level  than  these  words 
connote.  But  to-day  we  are  not  even 
on  that  humble  plane,  and  the  super- 
ficial observer,  who  eats  his  dinner  in 
Berlin  to  the  strains  of  the  latest  Eng- 
lish or  American  musical  comedy,  is 
making  a  great  mistake  if  he  thinks 
that  the  German  will-to-power  has 
been  finally  crushed,  and  that  there  is 
no  longer  a  steady,  relentless  national 
purpose  behind  the  cheap  veneer  of  the 
neo-Teutonic  republicanism. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


THE   SIMPLE   SPELLERS 

AN  anaemic  youth  in  horn  goggles  has 
called  on  me  in  the  interests  of  the 
Simple  Spellers.  He  shamelessly  ap- 
propriated to  himself  and  his  cause  two 
good  hours  of  my  time,  seeking  by  pro- 
cesses which,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
must  pass  for  argumentation,  to  enlist 
me  in  his  army.  I  suppose  someone 
pays  him  for  his  time.  I  wish  some- 
one would  pay  me  for  mine;  it  was  the 
best  I  had,  and  it  is  gone  where  I 
cannot  recover  it.  And  the  gist  of  his 
shameless  argument  was  that  simplified 
spelling  saves  time! 

He  seemed  to  be  obsessed  with  the 
naive  theory  that  we  save  time  if  we 
don't  spend  it;  whereas  everyone  who 
uses  time  knows  that  to  spend  it  before 
it  spends  itself  is  the  only  way  to  save 
it.  Accordingly  I  could  get  no  real  in- 
formation from  him  as  to  whose  time 
the  simplification  of  spelling  would 
save,  or  how.  The  idea  seems  to  be  that 
every  time  you  write  thru  instead  of 
through  you  save  a  second;  and  if  you 
write  it  often  enough,  you  might  in  the 
course  of  some  years  accumulate  time 
enough  for  a  vacation  in  Italy  or  an  ap- 
pendicitis operation.  It  appears  to  be 
based  on  the  fatuous  notion  that  time  is 
money,  and  can  be  kept  in  the  savings 
bank  at  compound  interest  till  you  need 
it.  Suppose  you  write  ten  thousand 
simply  spelled  words  a  day,  saving  a 
second  on  each,  or  two  hours  and  forty- 
two  minutes  on  the  day's  work.  Then 
you  write  for  two  hours  and  forty-two 
minutes  and  save  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  more  — and  so  on  to  infinity.  It  is 
subject  to  diminishing  returns,  but  it 
goes  on  forever,  and  when  you  get  down 

568 


to  split  seconds  you  can  take  a  fresh 
start.  It  is  a  beautiful  theory,  but  it 
does  n't  apply  to  me.  I  could  never  save 
time  by  writing  thru;  I  should  spend  in- 
finitely more  time  trying  to  remember 
to  write  it,  and  in  hating  it  after  I  had 
written  it,  than  I  could  save  were  it 
briefer  than  the  very  soul  of  wit. 

I  suppose  I  am  an  exception  in  that  I 
am  still  old-fashioned  enough  to  do  my 
own  writing;  I  am  not  yet  incorporated 
and  speeded  up  by  means  of  multiple 
dictaphones  and  typists.  If  I  were,  I 
suppose  I  should  get  five  cents  a  word 
no  matter  .how  they  were  spelled,  and 
should  be  glad  of  simple  spelling  as  a 
saving  in  'overhead.'  I  should  gloat 
over  the  thought  that  my  stenographer, 
by  using  simple  spelling  (if  she  suc- 
ceeded in  learning  it) ,  would  increase  my 
profit  by  a  hundred  dollars  a  day.  She 
might  save  time;  a  few  of  her  would. 
But  if  I  know  anything  about  her,  she 
would  add  it  to  her  recreation  periods, 
and  devote  it  to  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow. So  she  will  do,  anyway.  She  will 
have  her  simple  pleasures,  nor  need  I 
purchase  them  for  her  at  the  cost  of 
seeing  my  perfectly  good  English  trans- 
lated into  the  syncopations  of  Josh 
Billings  or  Ring  Lardner. 

But  how  about  the  children?  Must 
their  little  minds  be  burdened  with 
superfluous  letters?  or  shall  they  be 
freed  by  an  Emancipation  Proclama- 
tion of  the  Simple  Spellers?  'If  it  were 
done  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were  well 
it  were  done  quickly.'  But  I  do  not  re- 
call any  burden  of  superfluous  letters 
that  weighed  heavily  on  my  infant 
mind.  My  observation  tells  me  that 
there  are  two  kinds  of  people,  those  who 
learn  to  spell,  and  those  who  do  not; 


and  neither  kind  worries  about  '  mean- 
ingless combinations  of  letters'  —  no 
one  does  that  but  the  Simple  Spellers. 
Indeed,  I  question  whether  learning 
to  spell  is  a  question  of  memorizing 
sequences  of  letters,  any  more  than 
drawing  is  a  matter  of  memorizing  se- 
quences of  lines,  curves,  and  angles.  I 
do  not  believe  that  through  is  seven  let- 
ters; it  is  a  fact,  like  a  maple  leaf  that  I 
know  when  I  see  it,  and  with  slight 
training  I  can  draw  it  with  my  pencil. 
With  pen  or  typewriter  I  make  the 
symbol  for  the  word  by  a  series  of  reflex 
motions;  I  do  not  count  the  letters.  If 
you  ask  me  how  I  know  through  from 
though,  I  should  probably  mention  the 
difference  of  the  r,  but  the  fact  is  I 
know  them  as  I  know  Uncle  Jim  from 
Uncle  Peter  without  consciousness  of 
the  distinguishing  features.  I  know  that 
is  Uncle  Jim  because  he  looks  like  Uncle 
Jim;  you  need  n't  simplify  him  on  my 
account;  I  never  burdened  my  mind 
with  details  in  learning  him. 

Spelling  is  not  a  craft  by  itself:  it  is  a 
part  of  writing  and  reading,  training  of 
eye  and  hand.  When  a  boy  writes 
starboard  martyr  for  Stabat  Mater,  or 
forehead  for  forward,  he  writes  what  he 
hears;  the  fault  is  not  with  his  ear,  but 
with  his  visual  image  of  the  words.  It 
means  that  he  is  not  a  reader,  and  is  not 
accustomed  to  the  appearance  of  the 
words.  To  try  to  teach  him  the  distinc- 
tions by  lists  of  letters  alone  would  be 
about  as  useless  as  to  try  to  teach  him 
to  distinguish  people  he  never  saw  by 
means  of  verbal  descriptions.  I  doubt 
if  the  one  system  is  really  easier  to  learn 
than  the  other.  I  am  still  to  be  con- 
vinced that  the  burden  of  our  present 
system  would  be  sufficiently  lightened 
by  the  change  to  compensate  anyone 
for  the  burden  it  would  certainly  be  on 
a  generation  or  two  of  children  to  have 
to  learn  both  systems;  and  I  see  no 
security  that  the  change  could  be  made 
with  less  effort. 


569 

The  Simple  Speller  has  his  answer 
ready.  The  gain  would  be  in  logicality, 
and  to  become  more  logical  in  any  de- 
partment of  life  is,  he  is  assured,  worth 
any  sacrifice.  I  have  no  such  assurance. 
To  make  spelling  logical  would  be  only 
the  first  step  toward  making  language 
logical.  Now  logic  is  a  good  tool  where 
it  fits,  but  it  does  not  fit  every  contin- 
gency of  life.  It  is  a  good  thing  in  lan- 
guage up  to  a  certain  point  —  which 
nobody  has  discovered.  If  it  had  been 
the  ruling  principle  of  language  from 
the  start,  and  if  our  splay-footed  ances- 
tors who  first  began  to  grunt  with  mean- 
ing could  have  looked  down  through 
the  centuries  and  seen  what  they  were 
letting  us  in  for,  language  might  have 
been  logical,  and  we  too.  In  that  case 
we  should  probably  have  but  one  lan- 
guage in  the  world  to-day,  one  of  down- 
right Prussian  efficiency,  fitted  ac- 
curately to  every  service  of  life  except 
that  of  imagination.  Is  that  our  ideal? 
If  so  we  must  change  ourselves  first ;  for 
if  by  a  gesture  of  magic  we  could  make 
our  language  overnight  as  logical  as 
mathematics,  how  long  would  it  stay 
so  with  our  minds  working  as  they  do? 
The  language  of  a  people  is  like  the  skin 
of  a  man;  as  a  rule,  it  fits  snugly,  and  it 
is  not  often  that  we  can  better  its  fit  by 
taking  thought,  except  as  by  taking 
thought  we  better  ourselves. 

Indeed,  the  Simple  Spellers  are  ill- 
advised  to  seek  more  logic  till  they  learn 
to  use  better  what  they  have.  The  only 
arguments  they  have  offered  me  are 
drawn  from  antecedent  probability, 
which,  if  I  remember  my  logic,  is  the 
weakest  argument  known,  since  it  is 
built  of  inference  before  experience  and 
buttressed  with  parabolic  evidence. 
What  we  want  to  know  about  simplified 
spelling  is  whether  it  will  simplify  life 
for  us  and  our  children;  what  effect  it 
would  have  on  us  as  a  nation;  whether 
it  is  anything  that  would  compensate 
us  for  the  agony  of  the  change.  Why 


570 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS*   CLUB 


not  look  to  those  who  have  tried  it? 
The  Germans  have  simplified  their 
spelling  as  far  as  a  people  could,  and 
still  use  the  old  symbols.  At  this  time 
it  might  be  impossible  to  get  a  fair  an- 
swer to  the  question  what  the  effect  of 
the  system  has  been  on  the  nation,  how 
much  time  the  people  have  saved  by 
it,  and  how  they  have  spent  it.  The 
French  understand  themselves  pretty 
well;  they  have  a  fairly  sure  instinct  for 
what  they  can  and  cannot  make  them- 
selves do.  In  the  Year  One  of  the  Age 
of  Reason,  which  was  1792  by  dead  reck- 
oning, they  rationalized  by  fiat  every- 
thing in  France  except  human  nature 
and  spelling.  Human  nature  then  took 
its  course,  and  before  long  everything 
was  back  where  it  was  before,  except 
for  a  few  matters  chiefly  political. 

Even  so  do  spelling  reforms  come  and 
go,  leaving  few  traces.  You  can  make 
a  formal  garden  by  rule  and  compass, 
but  eternal  vigilance  and  labor  are 
the  price  of  it;  if  you  allow  yourself 
the  least  interval  of  relaxation,  the  ir- 
regularities of  nature  will  reassert  them- 
selves. Simple  spelling  cannot  estab- 
lish itself  by  decree,  for  it  has  no 
authority.  It  must  win  its  place  by 
consent  of  the  governed,  and  it  has  not 
a  winning  personality.  So  far  it  has 
not  learned  to  smile.  And  if  it  has  a 
scintilla  of  imagination,  its  sponsors 
would  do  well  to  let  it  show.  I  do  not 
find  simplified  spelling  useful;  I  know 
it  isn't  beautiful;  it  isn't  even  funny. 
Therefore,  my  word  for  it  is  that  of  the 
king  to  the  harper :  — 

Either  ye  serve  me  foot  and  hand, 

Or  lift  my  heart  with  glee; 
Else  ye  have  neither  roof  nor  land, 

Nor  guerdon  get  from  me. 


CONVERSATIONS 

When  still  I  prefaced  my  name  with 
'Miss,'  none  but  my  intimates  ever 
thought  of  engaging  me  in  conversa- 


tion about  the  qualifications  of  my 
laundress  and  the  amount  of  her  weekly 
charge;  acquaintances  did  not  ask  me  if 
I  found  it  well-nigh  impossible  to  secure 
satisfying  food  at  a  reasonable  price, 
and  anyone  would  have  blushed  to  in- 
quire whether  or  not  I  made  my  own 
clothes.  But  once  I  had  changed  Miss 
for  Mrs.,  the  veriest  strangers  began  to 
take  a  surprising  interest  in  the  domes- 
tic machinery  of  my  life;  commonplaces 
assumed  astounding  conversational  im- 
portance. And  it  is  not  that  I  resent 
kindly  inquiries  about  the  brand  of 
macaroni  we  prefer,  or  whether  we 
burn  soft  coal  or  briquets,  but  that  I 
deplore  the  passing  of  a  time  when  peo- 
ple talked  to  me  about  interesting,  im- 
personal things  and  I  did  not  have  to 
intrigue  them  into  such  conversation. 

As  I  study  what  seems  to  be  the  cir- 
cumscribed conversational  opportuni- 
ties of  married  women,  I  wonder:  Does 
some  mischievous  fairy  go  to  marriage 
feasts,  and  cast  a  spell  upon  the  bride 
that  robs  her  of  all  interest  in,  or  abil- 
ity for,  real  conversation?  Or  does  the 
world  only  think  so?  Whatever  the 
answer,  there  are  hundreds  of  us  who 
have  escaped  the  wicked  fairy's  curse, 
escaped  to  protest  and  to  plead. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  in  both  material 
and  practice  I  am  much  better  fitted 
for  participation  in  worthy  conversa- 
tion than  I  was  two  years  ago.  But, 
unfortunately,  I  seem  not  only  to  have 
exchanged  my  name  for  that  of  my 
husband,  but  to  have  given  my  right  to 
any  ideas  on  any  worth-while  subjects 
'to  boot.'  Do  we  have  a  chance  caller, 
she  settles  herself  with,  'Dear  me,  how 
you've  changed  this  house!  Didn't 
you  have  a  great  deal  of  trouble  getting 
help?'  Then  follow  the  usual  questions 
about  the  butcher,  the  grocer,  the  laun- 
dress, the  coal. 

If  John  passes  through  the  hall,  and 
I  ask  him  to  come  in  and  greet  our 
neighbor,  her  face  brightens  and  she 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


571 


cries,   with  genuine  enthusiasm,  'Oh, 

Mr.  B ,  I  've  been  wanting  to  meet 

you!  Please  tell  me  what  to  give  my 
little  ten-year-old  girl  to  read';  and, 
'Do  you  approve  of  profusely  illustra- 
ted books  for  children?'  This  happens 
to  be  a  subject  which  has  claimed  my 
profound  interest,  and  about  which  I 
have  well-defined  opinions;  but  it  never 
occurred  to  the  mother  of  the  ten- 
year-old  to  ask  my  advice.  John  care- 
fully tells  her  what  he  knows  to  be  my 
conclusions  in  the  matter;  she  thanks 
him  volubly  and  at  length  leaves,  hop- 
ing that  I  will  not  lose  my  laundress, 
because  'they  are  so  hard  to  get  in  this 
town.' 

We  have  a  guest  to  tea.  She  com- 
pliments me  on  the  quality  of  the  straw- 
berry-jam, asks  if  I  made  it  myself,  and 
if  it  was  n't  hard  to  get  sugar,  and  then 

turns  to  John  with, '  Mr.  B ,  what  do 

you  think  of  this  new  play?  Is  it  pos- 
sible, do  you  think,  that  the  leading 
lady  merits  all  the  favorable  comment 
she  is  receiving? '  By  chance,  this  gifted 
leading  lady  has  been  my  friend  for 
years  —  we  have  enjoyed  many  a  pleas- 
ant dinner  together;  but  I  refrain  from 
mentioning  the  fact  and  give  my  atten- 
tion to  John's  criticisms  of  the  play  and 
the  further  questions  of  our  guest,  who 
presently  rewards  my  attention  by  ask- 
ing me  if  I  have  seen  any  pictures  of 
the  star  and  if  I  don't  think  her  pretty. 
When  John  and  I  first  began  to  meet 
this  boycott  of  wives  in  the  field  of 
conversation,  we  attempted  to  combat 
it.  When  conversation  was  directed  to 
him  which  he  felt  that  my  experience 
fitted  me  to  discuss  better,  he  said  so 
and  passed  the  leadership  to  me.  We 
soon  discovered  that  the  unusualness 
of  this  manoeuvre  so  pained  and  sur- 
prised our  guests  that  it  made  con- 
structive conversation  momentarily 
impossible  for  them.  It  was  apparent 
that  we  must  abandon  our  course,  if  we 
were  not  to  suffer  the  charge  of  being 


boorish  hosts  and  uncomfortable  guests. 
We  still  protest  occasionally,  but,  as  a 
rule,  we  exchange  an  understanding 
glance,  and  then  John  talks,  and  I  as- 
sume what  seems  to  be  the  inevitable 
role  of  a  married  female  person  —  that 
of  serene  onlooker  at  all  conversations 
that  have  not  to  do  with  household 
matters  that  any  Swedish  maid-of-all- 
work  is  better  equipped  to.  discuss  than 
am  I. 

Unmarried  women,  who  are  them- 
selves engaged  in  interesting  public 
work,  are  the  leaders  hi  this  uncon- 
scious shut-out  of  their  married  sisters. 
I  know  a  very  intelligent  and  talented 
woman  whose  husband  is  an  architect. 
He  has  a  studio  in  his  home,  where  his 
wife  works  with  him.  There  is  not  a 
plan  he  makes  which  has  not  incor- 
porated in  it  some  idea  that  was  hers. 
Yet  I  have  more  than  once  seen  bach- 
elor-girl guests  in  their  home  all  but 

exclude  Mrs.  M from  a  spirited 

conversation  on  building  art,  and  con- 
clude the  talk  with  that  exasperating 
air  which  says  plainly,  'If  only  these 
clever  men  married  women  who  could 
appreciate  them!' 

Last  summer,  at  my  express  request, 
John  and  I  devoted  the  leisure  we  could 
find  in  two  months  to  the  fascinating 
subject  of  French  verse.  Our  guest,  an 
unmarried  girl  of  enviable  attainments, 
came  in  from  the  verandah  one  eve- 
ning, where  she  had  been  hi  conver- 
sation with  John,  and  said,  'It 's  won- 
derful what  John  has  got  out  of  his 
study  of  French  poetry.' 

'Yes,'  I  replied,  'we  have  enjoyed  it, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  the  French 
idea  of  rhythm  —  ' 

I  got  no  further.  'Oh,'  said  my 
guest  in  surprise,  'I  knew  that  John 
had  been  studying  the  subject,  bid  I 
did  n't  know  that  he  had  made  you  do  it.' 
I  am  still  wondering  if  I  was  rude  to 
her.  I  never  can  remember  what  I  said, 
only  what  I  felt.  I  know  that  we  did 


572 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


not  talk  of  poetry:  we  talked  of  the 
relative  merits  of  cooked  and  uncooked 
breakfast-foods,  and  I  was  advised 
about  what  to  give  John  for  a  summer 
breakfast. 

What,  I  ask  myself  over  and  over, 
what  do  these  clever  girls  imagine 
becomes  of  women  like  themselves? 
Many  of  them  marry.  Do  they  think 
that  marriage  miraculously  invests  all 
women  with  an  abnormal  interest  in 
potatoes  and  pans,  and  inhibits  their 
having  ideas  on  the  very  subjects  of 
which  they  were  masters  before  mar- 
riage? Do  they  imagine  that,  with  their 
names,  they  will  gladly  relinquish  all 
right  to  an  interest  in  the  activities  for 
which  they  were  trained  by  college  and 
work,  and  that  they  will  be  content 
ever  after  to  lift  their  voices  only  in 
discussions  of  scalloped  oysters,  sheet- 
ing, and  adenoids? 

As  I  go  about  pondering  these  things, 
I  keep  my  left  glove  on  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, and  often,  on  the  car  and  in  the 
station,  I  enjoy  delightful  conversa- 
tions about  opera,  drama,  Mr.  Chester- 
ton—  yea,  thigmotaxis,  if  I  like!  If 
my  charming  seat-mate  knew  what  was 
under  my  glove,  she  would,  —  eight 
chances  out  of  ten,  —  with  perfunctory 
suiting  of  her  mind  to  my  pace,  ask  me 
if  I  had  any  children;  and  being  an- 
swered in  the  negative,  she  would  re- 
gard me  reproachfully  and  then  speak 
of  the  weather. 

Yes,  yes,  surely,  children  and  the 
high  cost  of  living  and  jam  and  laun- 
dry and  all  these  domestic  subjects 


should  be  interesting  to  a  married 
woman.  I  am  interested  in  them.  I 
love  children,  I  like  to  make  jam,  my 
laundress  is  a  wonderful  person,  and  I 
appreciate  her.  But  I  do  not  want  my 
mind  condemned  to  an  exclusive  diet  of 
domestic  subjects.  Only  ignorant  men 
are  excused  if  they  talk  of  their  busi- 
ness to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  topics. 
True,  a  woman  can  lead  conversa- 
tion into  avenues  that  interest  her,  if 
she  tries.  I  affirm  it:  she  can,  she  does. 
But  why,  always,  if  she  be  a  married 
woman,  must  she  try?  Why  is  she 
always  compelled  to  prove  that  she 
can  perform  a  housemaid's  duties  with- 
out having  a  housemaid's  mind?  Many 
of  us  are  women  who  did  vital  public 
work  before  our  marriage  —  we  are  the 
same  women  still.  Why  does  no  one 
ever  pay  us  the  compliment  of  taking 
our  intelligence  for  granted? 

JOY 

When  I  am  glad 
There  seems  to  be 

A  toy  balloon 
Inside  of  me. 

It  swells  and  swells 

Up  in  my  chest, 
And  yet  I  do 

Not  feel  distressed. 

And  when  I  go 
Along  the  street, 

It  almost  lifts 
Me  off  my  feet. 


A  NOTE  FOR  MORALISTS 

In  the  'Atlantic's  Bookshelf  last  month,  Joseph  C.  Lincoln's  new  book  received  a 
warm  encomium  in  which  quite  incidental  reference  was  made  to  less  creditable  'best 
sellers,'  'such  undesirable  characters,'  so  the  reviewer  called  them,  'as  Harold  Bell 
Wright. '  It  did  not  seem  to  us  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  the  term,  used  in 
this  connection,  could  be  endowed  with  moral  significance;  but  since  it  has,  in  one 
quarter  at  least,  been  open  to  suspicion,  we  beg  the  reader  to  discard  any  such  imputa- 
tion. We  have  not  the  honor  of  Mr.  Wright's  acquaintance,  but  that  his  '  character,' 
in  the  moral  sense,  is  good,  we  take,  on  competent  authority,  absolutely  for  granted. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


Arthur  Pound,  an  alumnus  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Michigan,  lives  at  Flint,  a  manufac- 
turing centre  for  automobiles,  where  he 
follows  many  pursuits,  among  them  the  pub- 
lication of  a  lively  weekly  and  the  conduct  of 
&  job-printing  plant.  His  knowledge  of  the 
human  problems  of  factory  management  is 
the  result  of  years  of  intelligent  and  imag- 
inative study.  Elizabeth  Taylor,  once  a  lec- 
turer on  the  folk  customs,  the  Arctic  farm- 
ing, and  the  curious  traditions  of  the  people 
of  Iceland,  wrote  these  letters  at  intervals 
during  the  five  years'  siege  of  the  Faroes  by 
German  submarines.  Katharine  Fullerton 
Gerould  lives  in  Princeton,  New  Jersey. 
Emma  Lawrence  (Mrs.  John  S.  Law- 
rence), the  author  of  'At  Thirty,'  which  we 
printed  last  month,  lives  in  Boston. 


years  ago  in  Johannesburg,  once  only  in  twenty- 
six  years;  only  twice  in  my  whole  life  have  I  been 
within  visiting  distance  of  a  cinema  show. 


Vernon  Kellogg,  whose  earliest  reputation 
was  won  in  the  field  of  biology,  served  dur- 
ing the  war  as  a  first  lieutenant  to  Mr. 
Hoover,  and  is  now  revisiting  the  scenes  of 
his  extraordinary  success.  Jean  Kenyon 
Mackenzie,  who  tells  us,  after  her  missionary 
wanderings  over  the  earth,  that '  the  praise 
of  steamers  is  the  worship  of  the  exile,'  sends 
us  these  poems  from  her  present  home  in 
Riverdale  on  the  Hudson.  Edward  Yeomans 
is  a  Chicago  manufacturer  who  has  recently 
published  through  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
Press  a  singularly  fresh  and  invigorating  vol- 
ume on  Education  —  Shackled  Youth. 


Hans  Coudenhove,  whose  first  paper  on 
this  subject  we  printed  in  the  August  num- 
ber, may  be  fairly  described  as  a  detached 
critic.  We  quote  from  a  recent  interesting 
letter  of  his. 

The  people  who  are  responsible  for  my  com- 
ing to  Africa,  and  spending  my  life  in  the  wilds, 
have  all  died  long  ago.  Their  names  are  Fenimore 
Cooper,  Mayne  Reid,  Jules  Verne,  and  R.  L. 
Stevenson,  R.I.P.!  I  had  no  intention,  when  I 
first  came  out,  to  stay  more  than  a  few  years. 
But  tropical  Africa  grows  upon  you.  Before  1905 
I  occasionally  visited,  besides  Portuguese  East 
Africa,  Madagascar  and  the  Mascarenhas,  — 
comparatively  civilized  countries,  like  the  differ- 
ent South  African  colonies,  —  but  since  1905  I 
have  not  left  the  Tropics.  I  have  been  hunting, 
chiefly  for  the  pot,  and  prospecting;  but  the 
most  passionate  pursuit  of  my  life,  and  the  chief 
interest  of  my  existence,  is  the  study  of  the  ani- 
mal kingdom,  not  from  a  biological,  but  from  a 
psychological  point  of  view.  I  avoid  all  European 
settlements  and  feel  happy  only  when  I  live  in 
my  tent  —  a  happiness  which  increases  at  the 
ratio  of  the  number  of  miles  which  separate  me 
from  civilization.  I  am  afraid  that  my  long  and 
intimate  intercourse  with  Nature  has  given  me  a 
grievance  against  the  being  about  whom  H.  Fair- 
field  Osborn  has  written: ' Man  who,  through  the 
invention  of  tools  in  middle  Pleistocene  time, 
about  125,000  years  ago,  became  the  destroyer 
of  creation.'  I  have  never  seen  an  aeroplane. 
...  I  have  been  in  a  theatre  last  seventeen 


Charles  Bernard  Nordhoff,  whose  ele- 
ment, ah*,  earth,  water,  is  the  one  he  hap- 
pens to  be  in,  writes  from  Tahiti.  Annie  W. 
Noel,  the  most  understanding  of  suburban- 
ites, sends  us  her  first  contribution  from  her 
home  in  Upper  Montclair,  New  Jersey. 
Joseph  Fort  Newton  is  minister  of  the 
Church  of  the  Divine  Paternity  in  New 
York  City.  Joseph  Auslander  is  an  Amer- 
ican poet  who  has  been  teaching  at  Harvard. 

*  *  * 

The  correspondence  between  John  Bur- 
roughs and  Herbert  D.  Miles  began  with  a 
challenge  from  Mr.  Miles  regarding  Mr. 
Burroughs's  book,  Accepting  the  Universe. 
The  challenge  was  accepted,  and  many 
letters  made  their  way  between  Asheville, 
North  Carolina,  and  the  famous  Slabsides. 
Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy,  diplomatist,  edi- 
tor, and  novelist,  has  contributed  to  the  At- 
lantic for  a  full  generation.  J.  Edgar  Park 
is  the  minister  of  the  Second  (Congrega- 
tional) Church  of  Newton,  West  Newton, 
Massachusetts . 

*  *  * 

E.  Alexander  Powell  is  a  wide-ranging 
war  correspondent,  with  many  years  of 

573 


574 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


remarkable  experience  behind  him.  In  the 
list  of  his  important  services  was  the  cor- 
respondence covering  the  Turkish  and  Per- 
sian revolutions,  the  Balkan  wars,  and  the 
French  campaign  in  Morocco.  He  was  the 
only  correspondent  officially  attached  to 
the  Belgian  forces  in  the  campaign  of  1914, 
and  was  decorated  Chevalier  of  the  Order 
of  Leopold.  Later  he  accompanied  the  Ger- 
mans during  the  advance  on  Paris.  He  was 
in  Antwerp  during  the  siege,  and  was  the 
only  correspondent  to  witness  the  entry  of 
the  Germans.  Mr.  Powell  has  been  con- 
nected with  the  Plattsburg  camp  and  with 
the  movement  for  military  education  of 
young  Americans.  Samuel  W.  McCall,  long 
a  member  of  Congress  for  Massachusetts, 
and  for  three  years  (1916-18)  Governor  of 
the  State,  is  well  known  as  a  statesman  and 
publicist  of  notable  independence  of  thought 
and  expression.  Colonel  S.  C.  Vestal,  of 
the  Coast  Artillery  Corps,  sends,  at  the  edi- 
tor's request,  this  paper  outlining  the  theo- 
ries discussed  in  his  interesting  and  highly 
important  volume,  The  Maintenance  of 
Peace.  Maxwell  H.  H.  Macartney  has 
been  for  many  years  a  correspondent  of  the 

London  Times. 

*  *  * 

The  future  that  the  Orient  holds  out  to 
Christianity  has  been  the  subject  of  an  At- 
lantic debate  of  no  small  interest. 

ST.  JOHN'S  UNIVERSITY, 
SHANGHAI,  CHINA, 

June  15,  1921. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

In  the  June  number  of  the  Atlantic  there  is  an 
article  by  Mr.  Chang  Hsin-hai  entitled  '  The  Re- 
ligious Outlook  in  China:  a  Reply,'  which  con- 
tains some  statements  requiring,  it  seems  to  me, 
some  modification  or  correction. 

Mr.  Chang,  we  learn,  is  now  studying  at  Har- 
vard University.  Perhaps  he  is  not  aware  that 
Harvard  was  established  by  the  Christian  people 
of  Massachusetts  'for  the  education  of  English 
and  Indian  youth  in  knowledge  and  godlyness'; 
in  other  words,  that  it  was  a  missionary  college 
receiving  in  early  years  generous  aid  from  Eng- 
land for  the  special  object  of  educating  the  na- 
tives, a  college  like  those  in  China  whose  activity 
and  influence  he  is  deprecating. 

It  is  untrue  to  say  that '  missionaries  have  ar- 
ranged that  students  may  know  as  little  as  possi- 
ble of  the  grandeur  and  dignity  of  their  own  na- 
tional genius,  the  force  and  beauty  of  their  own 
civilization,  and  the  splendid  character  and  disci- 
pline of  their  own  great  men.'  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
all  educational  institutions  in  China  provide 
courses  of  study  in  Chinese  literature,  Chinese 


history,  and  Chinese  philosophy,  as  well  as  Chi- 
nese essay-writing,  and  in  most  institutions  such 
courses  are  not  optional,  but  required.  Confu- 
cius's  birthday  is  quite  generally  celebrated  in 
mission  schools. 

Instead  of  its  being  the  case  that  'missionary 
educational  institutions  have  always  been  looked 
on  with  suspicion,'  intelligent  and  progressive 
Chinese  have  generally  looked  on  them  with 
favor,  have  contributed  generously  to  their  ex- 
pansion and  maintenance,  and  have  sent  their 
own  boys  and  girls  to  be  educated  in  them.  The 
Minister  of  Education  in  Peking,  Mr.  Fan  Yuan- 
lien,  sent  a  representative  to  the  meeting  of  the 
East  China  Christian  Educational  Association, 
held  in  Shanghai  in  February  of  this  year,  who 
'addressed  the  convention,  expressing  the  appre- 
ciation of  the  Ministry  of  the  work  done  in  Mis- 
sion schools  and  the  desire  to  cooperate  and  keep 
in  touch  with  Mission  educational  work.' 

Fortunately  Mr.  Chang  does  not  mention  med- 
ical mission  work:  the  benevolence  of  the  doctors, 
Chinese  and  foreign,  in  the  Christian  hospitals 
throughout  China  is  so  conspicuous,  that  one 
would  stultify  one's  self  by  any  unfriendly 
criticism. 

There  is  no  danger  of  a  dull  uniformity  of  ideas 
when  China  becomes  christianized:  on  the  con- 
trary, Christianity  is  usually  charged  with  too 
great  a  diversity.  To  begin  with,  there  are  the 
differences  between  the  Roman  Catholics  and 
the  Protestants.  Among  the  former,  the  various 
orders  which  are  carrying  on  the  propagation  of 
their  faith  differ  strikingly,  and  among  the  latter 
variety  is  even  more  marked.  But  that  China  is 
actually  being  evangelized,  there  can  scarcely  be 
a  doubt.  Mr.  Chang's  article  is  a  symptom  of  the 
alarm  felt  in  certain  anti-Christian  circles  at  the 
rapid  advance  made  by  the  religion  of  the  Cross. 
China  is  indeed  'now  willing  to  reckon  with  the 
more  powerful  civilization  of  the  West  and  to  fol- 
low it  in  certain  important  aspects,'  and  the  most 
important  of  these  aspects  is  the  spiritual,  for 
'It  is  the  spirit  that  giveth  life.' 
Yours  faithfully, 

MONTGOMERY  H.  THROOP. 
*  *  * 

This  lady  from  Philadelphia  knows  her 
Aristotle  to  some  purpose. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Mrs.  Gerould,  in  her  brilliant  article  on  'Mo- 
vies' in  the  July  number,  says  that  the  motto  of 
the  screen-play  should  be  'Good-bye,  Aristotle'; 
but  Aristotle  taught  that  several  things  besides 
the  'Three  Unities'  went  to  the  making  of  a  good 
play.  He  lays  tremendous  stress  on  action, 
'For,'  says  he,  'Tragedy  is  an  imitation,  not  of 
men,  but  of  actions  —  for  happiness  consists  in 
action,  and  the  supreme  good  itself,  the  very  end 
of  life  is  action  of  a  certain  kind  —  not  quality.' 
The  things  that  he  thought  essential  to  a  play,  in 
the  order  of  their  importance,  were  Plot,  Action, 
Characterization,  Sentiments. 

Not  a  bad  formula  for  a  scenario! 
Sincerely  yours, 

MARY  ELEANOR  ROBERTS. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


Mr.  Christopher  Morley  includes  the  fol- 
lowing lines  in  his  Bowling  Green,  taking  for 
his  text  a  remark  of  the  Shop-Talk  editor, 
and  developing  the  theme  with  his  usual 
felicity. 

PLEASURES   OF  NUNCPROTUNCKING 

'It  is  one  of  the  compensations  of  a  publisher's 
existence  that  he  is  compelled  to  live  a  de6nite 
part  of  his  life  in  the  future  —  to  proceed,  as  the 
lawyers  say,  nunc  pro  tune.' 

—  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

The  publisher:  consider  him, 
Who  never  lives  ad  interim. 
He  is  compelled  to  haw  and  hem. 
He  cannot  live,  like  us,  pro  tern. 
For  future  days  he  packs  his  trunk, 
Exclaiming  sadly,  Nunc  pro  tune! 

Upon  reading  the  lines,  our  merry  print- 
er's devil  sat  down  at  the  linotype,  and  has- 
tily dashed  off  the  following  untutored 
trifle. 

This  poem  of  Morley's  was  not  slow 
To  reach  us  in  our  status  quo. 
It  hit  the  very  hominem 
Who  was  its  terminus  ad  quern. 
Eheu!  The  poem  made  quite  a  stir, 
And  we'd  reply  to  Christopher, 
But  we  are  out  of  rhymes  just  nunc, 
And  he  will  have  to  wait  till  tune. 

*  *  * 

It  is  always  valuable  to  hear  many  sides 
of  a  many-sided  question. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

You  have  given  considerable  space  of  late  to 
discussion  of  the  growth  of  anti-Semitic  senti- 
ment in  this  country,  and  justly,  for  the  question 
is  a  burning  one.  The  chief  indictment  against 
the  Jews  seems  to  be  that  they  refuse  to  be  assim- 
ilated, to  intermarry,  even  to  mingle  —  that  they 
stand  aloof,  as  a  race  apart. 

I  hold  a  brief  for  the  Jew  who  wishes  to  be 
assimilated.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  difficulties 
under  which  he  labors?  He  may  live  in  a  Chris- 
tian community,  and  have  a  dozen  Christian  in- 
timates; he  may  even  join  the  Church.  He  is, 
nevertheless,  unable  to  become  a  member  of  the 
local  club,  to  which  all  his  friends  belong.  He  has 
not  the  family  backing,  the  ramifying  connec- 
tions that  make  for  social  standing  in  the  com- 
munity. If  he  has  married  a  Christian,  her 
friends  feel  that  she  has  condescended  a  bit,  even 
though  he  is  an  exceptionally  fine  fellow;  and  his 
friends  think  it's  a  pity  that  he  should  have  cut 
adrift  like  that,  when  there  are  so  many  attract- 
ive Jewish  girls  to  be  had.  There  is  always  a  cer- 
tain constraint  in  their  presence  if  the  question 
of  religion  is  touched  upon,  be  it  ever  so  remotely. 
They  decide  to  send  their  children  to  the 
neighboring  private  school  attended  by  their 
friends'  children.  Before  this  can  be  done,  wires 
sufficient  to  delight  the  heart  of  Tony  Sarg  must 
be  pulled.  The  father  is  then  summoned  to  the 


575 

principal's  sanctum,  and  given,  gently,  tactfully, 
but  unmistakably,  to  understand,  that  this  is  a 
Christian  school  and  that  his  children  are  being 
admitted  by  special  dispensation. 

The  question  of  finding  accommodations  at 
good  hotels  has  been  discussed  ad  infinitum,  and  I 
will  not  bore  you  with  the  numberless  instances 
of  Jews  who  have  been  turned  away,  to  their 
great  embarrassment,  simply  because  they  are 
Jews,  though  they  have  culture,  breeding,  and 
Christian  connections.  And  with  the  refusal  goes 
a  sneer  at  the  Jew  for  trying  to  force  himself 
where  he  does  not  belong.  How  about  assimila- 
tion here? 

Finally,  is  it  not  unjust  to  the  Jew  who  is 
adaptable,  who  wishes  to  be  a  one-hundred-per- 
cent American,  to  find  himself  constantly  classed 
with  the  objectionable,  noisy  aliens  who  are 
flooding  this  country? 

Perhaps  these  few  arguments  may  set  some  of 
your  readers  to  thinking,  and  to  putting  at  least 
part  of  the  blame  for  non-assimilation  where  it 
really  belongs. 

Sincerely  yours, 

H.  L.  K. 

*  *  * 

The  Chicago  Tribune  hoists  us  a  friendly 
signal  now  and  then,  this  time  a  warning 
from  a  contributor. 

A  CALL  FOR  THE  WATCH  ON  THE  RHYME 
SIR,— 

In  its  August  number,  the  Atlantic  Monthly  has 
a  sonnet  in  which  us,  glamorous,  radius  and  con- 
tinuous, and  diameters  and  carpenters  are  used  as 
rhymes.  And  this  from  Boston!  Please  pass  the 
beans!  OLE  OLESON. 

Even  the  editor  was  aware  that  the  At- 
lantic's poet  neither  meditated  nor  em- 
ployed the  usual  sequent  rhymes,  preferring 
the  more  complex  assonance  that  has  after 
all  a  charm  of  its  own.  But  any  critic  from 
Chicago  deserves  a  Boston  audience. 


Yeats's  Lake  Isle  of  Innesfrae  comes  to 
mind  as  one  reads  this  account,  not  of  a 
dream,  but  of  a  dream  come  true. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

I  am  living  a  unique  life.  Do  you  want  me  to 
write  about  it?  I  am  living  on  an  ancestral  farm 
with  my  son  (you  have  an  article  from  him  now, 
on  stock  exchange  and  speculation),  and  we  are 
almost  independent  as  far  as  living  costs  go. 
About  all  we  buy  is  soda,  sugar,  coffee,  cheese, 
and  an  occasional  piece  of  meat  (when  our  canned 
meat,  which  we  kill  and  put  up  on  the  place,  gives 
out). 

We  raise  and  grind  our  own  wheat  for  break- 
fast-food; have  our  own  milk  and  cream  (buy 
butter);  grind  our  own  corn-meal,  and  get  our 
wheat  ground  for  flour;  have  all  the  fruit  and 
vegetables  we  want;  and  our  living  costs  us  about 
a  dollar  or  so  a  week,  apiece.  For  this  we  live  on 


576 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


the  top,  everything  being  fresh  and  appetizing. 
Our  inner  life  is  delightful.  We  have  all  sorts  of 
good  books,  papers  and  magazines,  music,  and 
perfect  quiet,  with  only  the  birds  singing  about 
us.  I  throw  down  a  blanket  and  sleep  under  the 
trees,  and  the  birds  and  I  begin  the  day  together. 

I  have  lovely  flowers,  to  the  raising  of  which  I 
attend,  often  before  the  sun  is  up. 

We  have  a  car,  and  the  roads  are  fine,  so  we 
can  exchange  our  idyllic  existence  for  the  advan- 
tages (?)  of  city  life  whenever  we  so  desire. 

Our  habit  of  life  being  so  simple  is,  I  think, 
largely  responsible  for  our  quiet,  happy,  and  use- 
ful existence. 

Neither  my  son  nor  I  (we  are  alone  here)  eat 
breakfast;  and  when  we  eat  at  noon,  it  is  that 
cracked  wheat,  hot  or  cold  —  generally  out  of  the 
fireless  cooker.  No  cooking  for  me  until  evening, 
when  I  throw  a  few  of  our  new  potatoes  into  the 
pot,  and  cook  some  eggs,  and  provide  fresh  apple- 
sauce and  sweet  corn,  five  minutes  from  the  field 
before  cooking. 

It  seems  to  me  that  from  this  quiet  harbor, 
where  life  sings  on  so  quietly  and  happily,  there 
might  come  a  message  of  simplicity  and  happi- 
ness to  a  bedeviled  city  population  which  could 
produce  something  of  the  effect  on  country-lovers 
that  Thoreau's  Walden  did  on  me  when  I  read  it 
in  Chicago,  and  yearned  with  all  my  heart  to  go 
and  do  likewise. 

This  life  seems  heavenly  to  me;  and  not  one 
person  who  has  been  here  but  feels  the  charm 
and  wants  to  return. 

Yours  truly, 

ELLEN  DE  GRAFF. 


Apparently  the  amenities  of  stamp-col- 
lecting may  be  appreciated  by  the  stamp- 
collector's  family,  or  then,  again,  they  may 
not. 

'  Dear,  your  balance  is  running  low.' 

'Bought  some  more  stamps.' 

And  again  I  had  to  listen  to  the  Evils  of  Throw- 
ing Away  Money.  Would  it  not  be  well  to  stop 
squandering  my  hard-earned  cash  on  mere 
scraps  of  paper,  etc.,  etc. 

Scraps  of  paper,  indeed!  Was  not  this  stamp 
one  of  the  great  rarities?  And  here  was  a  gem 
procured  in  Alaska.  Not  an  ordinary  one-cent 
stamp  as  the  family  would  have  it,  but  one  which 
had  been  sent  all  the  way  from  Washington  by 
rail,  steamer,  and  pack,  to  the  gold-fields,  there 
to  lie  until  I  should  stumble  across  it.  Useless  to 
explain  that  it  was  a  variety  unknown  until  I 
found  this  specimen. 

And  this  little  engraving,  worth  many  times 
its  weight  in  gold,  was  found  in  a  country  post- 
office,  where  the  postmaster  refused  to  show  me 
his  stock  one  Saturday  afternoon  because  he  kept 
his  stock  upstairs  in  the  safe, '  and,'  he  explained, 
'some  of  the  women  are  up  there  taking  a  bath.' 
No  romance  in  stamps?  Why,  here  was  romance 
to  saturation! 


Useless  to  try  to  explain  why  sane  men  with 
national-bank  letter-heads  and  big-corporation 
stationery  forgot  their  stenographers  and  scrawled 
me  letters  telling  me  of  their  finds.  No,  it  was  a 
childish  pastime.  Foolish,  frivolous,  and  fruit- 
less. 

One  fine  day,  a  strange  chap  walked  into  my 
office  and  asked  whether  I  would  sell  my  collec- 
tion. I  would.  I  would  convince  that  family  of 
mine  there  was  something  in  that  album. 

Things  moved  rapidly.  I  took  the  stranger 
home,  showed  him  the  treasures,  took  his  check, 
and  sent  him  down  the  road  with  my  Alaska  find, 
my  bathroom  stamps  —  my  hobby.  (There  is  no 
climax  to  this  tale  —  the  check  was  O.K.  Phi- 
latelists habitually  trust  one  another.) 

Now,  I  Would  show  in  one-syllable  words  what 
I  had  parted  with.  With  the  proceeds  I  bought  a 
car,  and  every  time  the  family  admired  the  flit- 
ting scenery  I  reminded  them  that  they  rode  on 
postage-stamps. 

But  my  victory  fell  flat.  I  had  lost  my  hobby. 
No  longer  could  I  turn  to  my  album  for  solace 
after  an  off  day  at  the  office.  No  pages  to  turn 
long  winter  evenings  into  hours  of  pleasure.  I 
felt  lost. 

Once  a  collector,  always  a  collector.  I  became 
interested  in  old  maps.  The  romance  of  old 
charts  with  their  sea  serpents,  mermaids,  and 
Terra  Incognita  fascinated  me.  I  began  gathering 
old  books  of  travel,  with  their  quaint  cartograph- 
ical insets;  old  folio  atlases,  with  their  hand- 
painted  pages.  The  void  would  be  filled!  I  would 
make  a  collection  that  would  be  a  pleasure  and  a 
joy  forever. 

'  Dear,  your  balance  is  running  low.' 

Our  correspondent  is  conservative.  An- 
other stamp-collector  of  our  acquaintance 
sometimes  receives  from  his  banker  a  letter 
that  reads,  in  substance,  'Dear,  your  bal- 
ance is  overdrawn.' 


In  these  days  of  General-Information 
tests,  it  is  refreshing  to  know  that  at  least 
one  young  candidate  for  future  honors  is 
beginning  early  to  store  up  geographical 
lore  against  the  day  of  the  Edison  examina- 
tions. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

That  the  Monthly  has  a  certain  fixed  place  in 
the  scheme  of  things  is  well  known  to  all  readers. 
Extra  proof  'out  of  the  mouth  of  babes'  may  be 
of  interest. 

Small  boy  of  four  who  has  his  'toy  world' 
(globe),  and  interests  beyond  his  own  fireside:  -1- 

'I  know  the  names  of  the  oceans.' 

'  Well,  and  what  are  they? ' 

'One  is  Atlantic  and — I  think  the  other  is 
Monthly.' 

Yours  sincerely, 

D.  A.  STEWART. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


NOVEMBER,  1921 


PRISON  FACTS 


BY  FRANK  TANNENBAUM 


'THIS  is  a  very  nice  view,  is  n't  it?' 
The  warden  was  speaking  —  a  tall 
broad-shouldered  man  in  the  early  for- 
ties, with  a  rugged  complexion,  power- 
fully thick  hands,  and  an  open  face  with 
twinkling  eyes.  A  self-made  man,  who 
had  risen  from  the  rank  of  a  guard  to 
his  present  position  of  responsibility  in 
one  of  the  largest  prisons  in  the  country. 
He  had  taken  me  to  the  old  prison,  and 
pointed  to  the  place  on  the  wall  where, 
twenty  years  before,  he  had  started  his 
career,  pacing  the  wall  with  a  rifle  on 
his  shoulder.  He  was  proud  of  his  newly 
won  responsibility  and  conscious  of  it 
—  it  was  a  new  thing. 

We  sat  on  the  porch  facing  the  prison. 
A  broad,  quiet  river  flowed  by  the 
house,  with  a  distant  range  of  low  hills, 
green  and  bright.  It  was  a  wonderful 
summer  morning!  The  sun  barely  ris- 
ing above  the  tree-tops,  the  dew  still 
glistening  in  the  shade,  the  birds  sing- 
ing in  their  varied,  joyful,  and  madly 
hilarious  moods,  all  gave  the  setting  a 
cheerful  atmosphere  that  filled  every 
fibre  with  the  love  of  life.  In  front  of 
us  was  the  prison  —  long  gray  walls 
partly  covered  with  ivy,  the  ground 
round  about  planted  with  flowers,  and 
the  green  grass  neatly  kept.  The  sun, 
driving  the  shadowed  curtain  of  early 

VOL.  1S8—NO.  5 

A 


dawn  from  the  upper  turrets  of  the  in- 
side building,  made  everything  vibrant 
and  happy. 

We  were  sitting  in  soft  chairs,  smok- 
ing our  pipes,  looking  at  the  prison,  and 
talking  about  its  manifold  problems. 
The  warden  was  a  very  good  fellow, 
kind-hearted  and  well-intentioned.  He 
was,  however,  a  man  of  no  learning, 
almost  illiterate.  His  whole  training  was 
the  training  he  had  received  in  the 
prison;  his  equipment  was  that  which 
the  prison  environment  provided.  A 
varied  contact  with  many  men  who  had 
come  under  his  observation,  combined 
with  a  natural  exuberance  and  intelli- 
gence, with  a  background  of  good-will 
that  had  remarkably  well  escaped  the 
corroding  influence  of  the  prison  atmos- 
phere, had  given  him  a  really  unusual 
personal  equipment  and  power.  He 
was  telling  me  that  he  had  been  trained 
under  the  greatest  of  prison  men,  and 
considered  himself  a  good  disciple. 
'These  men  can  only  be  treated  in  one 
way  —  that  is,  strict  and  steady  disci- 
pline. Always  be  just  to  the  men,  but 
punish  them  quick  and  sharp  when  they 
break  the  rules.'  This  completed  his 
philosophy  of  life  —  strictness,  just- 
ness, treat  all  men  alike,  and  let  punish- 
ment follow  the  breaking  of  a  rule  as 


578 


PRISON   FACTS 


the  night  follows  the  day  —  without 
exception,  without  fuss,  constant  and 
inevitable.  He  liked  to  talk  about  him- 
self, his  experiences,  the  men  he  had 
met,  the  characters  he  had  handled, 
and  was  proud  beyond  words  that  the 
men  considered  him  'square.' 

We  sped  the  rising  sun  into  the  upper 
sky  by  exchanging  stories  and  adven- 
tures. Once,  years  ago,  he  had  visited 
New  York  City,  and  the  marvel  of  it 
still  dwelt  with  him.  He  told  me  how 
he  had  been  taken  down  the  subway, 
had  watched  the  crowds  on  Broadway, 
and  stood  bewildered  before  the  '  crazy, 
shrieking,  hair-tearing  lunatics '  in  front 
of  the  Stock  Exchange.  The  tall  build- 
ings impressed  him,  and  the  rumbling 
Elevated;  but,  most  of  all,  the  crowded 
East  Side.  'I  did  n't  tell  my  wife  and 
children  half  that  I  saw,  because  they 
would  n't  have  believed  me  anyway; 
and  would  you  think  that  people  would 
live  like  a  lot  of  pigs,  when  they  could 
come  out  here  in  the  open  and  free 
West?  But  man  is  a  funny  creature, 
ain't  he?  and  there  is  no  explaining 
him.' 

It  was  Sunday,  and  chapel-time  came. 
He  turned  us  —  my  wife  and  me  — 
over  to  the  assistant  warden,  with  in- 
structions to  take  us  to  chapel. 

The  assistant  warden  was  a  smaller 
man,  stocky,  a  little  gray,  quiet,  an- 
swering questions  in  monosyllables,  and 
watchful.  As  the  gates  swung  open,  we 
followed  him  into  the  prison.  This  is 
one  of  the  new  structures,  a  model  of 
the  Auburn  type  —  probably  the  best 
of  its  kind  in  the  world.  Everything  was 
spick  and  span:  the  yard,  the  buildings, 
the  halls,  the  brass,  the  marble  floor  — 
all  looked  shiny.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  a  speck  of  dust.  In  an- 
swer to  a  question,  the  assistant  warden 
said,  'We  make  'em  spruce  'er  up.' 
The  halls  were  strangely  silent.  We 
could  hear  the  echo  of  our  steps  go 
rumbling  down  the  line.  Nothing  was 


visible  but  an  occasional  guard  in  his 
blue  uniform  and  yellow  buttons, 
standing  in  a  corner,  and  saluting  with 
his  club  as  we  went  by. 

The  chapel,  a  half-circular  room  with 
something  like  fifteen  hundred  seats,  was 
empty  when  we  walked  in  and  seated 
ourselves  in  the  last  row,  the  assistant 
warden  standing  at  our  back.  The 
stained  windows  with  their  steel  bars, 
the  gray  walls,  heavy  and  barren,  gave 
the  whole  chapel  a  sombre  and  dull 
setting.  After  a  few  silent  and  restless 
moments,  a  door  opened.  The  assistant 
warden  nodded  his  head,  and  a  second 
later  a  brazen  gong  struck  upon  the  air. 
Suddenly,  we  heard  the  shuffling  tramp, 
tramp,  tramp  of  a  thousand  prison  feet, 
marching  on  us  from  all  sides.  They 
came  down  four  aisles  —  in  single  file, 
dressed  in  gray  suits,  their  heads  bare, 
their  arms  folded,  shoulders  stooping, 
bodies  bent  a  little  forward  as  if  they 
were  falling  into  the  chapel  rather  than 
walking,  eyes  to  the  ground  and  faces 
turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left.  There  was  a  listless  weariness 
about  these  spiritless  men,  a  kind  of 
hopeless  resignation,  an  acceptance  of 
an  unrelenting  fate  and  a  broken  sub- 
mission, that  made  the  metaphor  of 
'  being  broken  on  the  wheel '  seem  a  real, 
stalking,  ghost-like  apparition.  About 
every  twenty  feet  a  guard  in  blue  uni- 
form and  Sunday  suit,  with  shoes  nice 
and  shiny,  and  armed  with  a  heavy 
loaded  cane,  kept  company. 

As  they  reached  the  end  of  the  aisle, 
the  guard  struck  the  marble  floor  with 
his  loaded  'butt,'  and  the  men  turned 
half  around,  and  filed  in  front  of  their 
seats.  He  struck  the  ground  again,  and 
they  faced  the  platform.  Another  rap 
from  the  stick,  and  this  sound  seated 
the  men.  This  continued  row  after  row, 
until  all  the  men  were  in  their  seats. 
When  the  doors  were  closed,  the  guards 
placed  at  their  proper  distances,  facing 
the  men,  with  their  sticks  in  front  of 


PRISON   FACTS 


579 


them,  another  rap  on  the  ground  and 
the  hands  of  the  men  dropped  to  their 
sides.  In  all  this  time  not  a  head  had 
been  turned,  not  a  sound,  not  a  whisper, 
not  a  word,  nothing  —  not  even  a  ver- 
bal command  —  had  escaped  the  thou- 
sand men  in  the  room.  Nothing  but 
the  tramping,  shuffling  feet,  the  iron 
clang  against  the  marble  floor  —  and 
the  stooping  forms  dressed  in  gray. 

A  few  minutes  later,  a  signal  from  the 
watchful  master  of  ceremonies  at  our 
back,  and  a  side  door  on  the  stage 
opened.  A  man  dressed  in  black  was 
ushered  on  to  the  platform.  He  was 
a  little  man,  bald-headed,  with  thick 
eyeglasses  and  a  red  puggy  face.  As 
he  crept  across  the  platform,  he  kept 
pushing  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  pull- 
ed out  a  yellow  paper  folded  many 
times,  and  began  to  open  it.  He  placed 
the  paper  on  the  speaker's  desk  in  front 
of  the  platform,  pulled  out  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, mopped  his  face,  cleaned  and 
adjusted  his  thick  glasses,  hemmed  and 
coughed  a  few  times,  stuck  the  paper 
against  his  nose,  and  began  to  read.  He 
had  a  thin,  squeaking  voice,  which  did 
not  reach  half  across  the  room. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  setting 
and  the  bearing  of  the  spiritual  leader 
of  this  silent  and  subdued  flock  without 
seeming  unkind  and  ungenerous.  I 
write  without  prejudice  and  without 
bias  —  but  one  must  tell  the  truth.  He 
was  an  ignorant  man.  He  stumbled 
over  the  big  words,  would  get  half-way 
through  them,  only  to  turn  back  for 
another  start.  There  was  nothing  in- 
spiring about  him,  nothing  cheerful, 
nothing  interesting.  It  was  dull,  stupid, 
insipid.  The  men  could  not  hear  what 
he  read  as  he  read  to  himself,  and  could 
not  understand  him  as  he  swallowed  his 
words.  The  whole  performance  lasted 
some  fifteen  minutes,  including  a  few 
prayers;  and  then  the  little  man  on  the 
platform  folded  his  yellow  paper  and 
scuttled  off"  through  the  side  door. 


As  the  door  closed,  the  first  sound  of 
the  keeper's  stick  against  the  marble 
floor  roused  the  men  in  the  last  row. 
They  stood  up,  folded  their  arms,  faced 
half-about  and  began  to  shuffle  out,  fol- 
lowed by  the  next  row  and  the  next, 
and  so  until  the  end.  Each  movement 
was  determined  by  the  sound  of  the 
keeper's  stick. 

As  they  came  out,  we  got  a  better 
look  at  the  men.  Most  of  them  were 
young  and  tall,  broad  of  shoulder  and 
well  built  —  men  reared  in  the  West, 
on  farms,  who  had  come  into  the  cities 
and  been  dragged  into  the  whirlpool  of 
undercurrents  that  brought  them  to 
prison.  Their  faces  were  gray,  their 
eyes  sunken,  dim,  dull,  and  moody.  As 
they  noticed  us  sitting  in  the  last  row, 
their  eyes  shifted  a  little  in  startled 
surprise,  —  it  was  unusual  for  visitors 
to  be  seen  downstairs  in  the  chapel,  — 
but  hastily,  fearfully,  their  eyes  turned 
to  the  ground  again  when  they  noticed 
the  little  silent  and  grim  figure  at  our 
back. 

The  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the  men 
could  be  heard  as  they  crept  down  the 
distant  halls.  Silence  fell  upon  the 
chapel  —  a  hard  silence,  a  feeling  of 
horror,  suppression,  and  distortion  per- 
vaded the  air  and  filled  it  with  some- 
thing of  infinite  sadness.  I  turned  my 
head  to  look  at  my  wife,  and  the  tears 
were  running  down  her  cheeks  —  tears 
that  would  not  be  controlled.  When  the 
last  sound  had  died  down,  a  keeper  ap- 
peared at  one  of  the  doors,  nodded  his 
head,  and  the  guardian  at  our  back 
said,  'We  can  go  now.'  I  asked  if  the 
men  had  to  attend  chapel.  He  said, 
'Yes,  prayers  is  good  for  them.'  I  have 
been  haunted  by  the  chapel  service. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  anything  quite 
so  humiliating,  inhuman,  and  sterile. 

Is  this  a  typical  Sunday  morning 
service?  No,  I  have  seen  others  more 
cheerful,  less  grim  —  places  where  laugh- 
ter and  applause  could  be  heard,  where 


580 


PRISON   FACTS 


prayers  were  intermingled  with  other 
things.  I  have  seen  services  where  there 
was  some  eloquence  and  a  manly 
voice;  but  this  picture  is  typical  of 
the  spiritual  stagnation  in  prison.  It 
is  typical  of  the  order  and  the  discipline 
in  prison  —  of  the  system,  regularity, 
formalism,  and,  too  frequently,  of  the 
silence.  There  is  no  spiritual  life  in  the 
average  American  prison.  There  is  no 
hope,  no  inspiration,  no  stimulus,  no 
compulsion  of  the  soul  to  better  things. 
It  is  hard,  cold,  frozen,  dead.  This  is  so 
true,  so  general,  so  all-pervading,  that 
one  might  describe  the  whole  prison 
system  in  these  few  words  —  and  I  say 
this  after  seeing  something  like  seventy 
penal  institutions  this  summer. 

II 

The  little  Ford  engine  labored  might- 
ily as  we  barely  climbed  the  steep  hill 

to  the  State  Reformatory  at  Y . 

As  the  car  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  I 
could  see,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  a  massive  building  with  many 
towers,  surrounded  by  most  beautiful 
grounds.  An  uninitiated  person  would 
have  taken  this  for  some  strange  medi- 
aeval castle  magically  transplanted  to 
this  most  favored  spot,  set  off  against 
many  hills,  with  a  clear  blue  sky  above 
and  mile  upon  mile  of  smiling  rich  fertile 
farm-lands  below.  This,  however,  was 
no  castle  of  an  ancient  knight  —  it  was 
the  stony  home  of  many  a  poor  lad  who 
had  been  placed  there  for  the  good  of 
his  soul  and  the  safety  of  the  commu- 
nity. This,  at  least,  is  what  the  kindly 
people  would  have  said.  This  was  a 
reformatory  to  make  bad  boys  good. 

As  I  rang  the  bell  and  presented  my 
credentials  to  the  keeper,  he  looked  at 
me  doubtfully.  'Whom  do  you  want?' 
said  he,  with  the  sharpness  of  a  rasped 
temper. 

'The  warden,'  said  I. 

'The  warden  is  busy.' 


'Yes,  I  know  he  is  busy;  but  as  I 
shall  have  to  see  him  before  I  leave, 
you  had  better  take  these  in  to  him 
now.' 

After  a  while  I  was  presented  to  the 
warden  —  a  tall,  bony,  straight-backed 
old  man,  of  about  sixty-five  or  seventy; 
gray,  thin-lipped,  sullen,  and  obviously 
displeased.  As  I  came  in,  he  motioned 
me  to  a  chair  and  then  turned  suddenly 
on  me.  Pointing  a  long  sharp  finger  in 
my  face,  he  said : '  I  know  you.  You  are 
from  one  of  them  damned  reform  com- 
mittees who  believe  in  coddling  the 
prisoners.  Well,  I  don't.  I  have  been  in 
this  business  forty  years,  and  know 
what  I  am  talking  about.  You  can't 
coddle  these  fellows  —  you  can't  do  it. 
Let  me  tell  you.  I  don't  like  these 
sniffling  committees  that  come  around 
and  investigate  —  that  come  around 
and  tell  a  man  like  me,  who  has  been  in 
this  business  forty  years,  how  to  run  his 
prison.  It  is  just  like  telling  a  general 
how  to  run  his  army.  But  I  don't  care; 
I  will  show  you  everything.  [I  was 
shown  the  sum  total  of  nothing.  But 
in  his  blustering  way,  he  told  me  every- 
thing I  wanted  to  know.]  I  have  noth- 
ing to  hide.  I  treat  the  men  right; they 
can  learn  a  trade,  and  if  they  are  willing 
workers,  they  can  earn  some  money  — 
and  work  is  good  for  them.  This  is  not 
a  bad  prison.  Men  who  are  here  from 
other  prisons  always  tell  me  this  is 
better  than  most.  But  I  run  this  prison. 
No  rough-neck  can  come  here  and  think 
he  is  going  to  rough-house  it.  If  he  tries 
to,  I  fix  him.  I  fix  him.  This  is  my  job. 
A  little  while  ago  they  transferred  a 
fellow  in  here  who  said  that  this  place 
was  like  a  kindergarten,  and  that  he 
would  show  everybody  how  to  eat  out 
of  his  hand.  Well,  I  fixed  him.  He 
started  by  getting  into  a  fight  with  one 
of  my  officers.  I  took  him  out  into  the 
yard,  put  him  over  a  barrel,  stripped 
him  the  way  his  father  used  to  do,  and 
put  the  cane  to  him  —  I  have  a  good 


PRISON   FACTS 


581 


birch  cane.  I  fixed  him  good  and  fine. 
No  bones  broken,  no  rough  stuff,  no 
permanent  marks.  It  will  wear  off  in 
good  time.  And  when  I  had  given  him 
plenty,  I  riveted  a  seventy-pound  ball 
and  chain  round  his  ankle  and  put  him 
back  in  the  shop  from  which  he  came. 
It  did  n't  take  long,  only  a  little  longer 
than  it  does  to  tell.  But  I  fixed  him. 
He  has  been  a  good  dog  ever  since.' 

The  warden  stopped;  his  face  re- 
laxed a  little,  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he 
were  well  pleased,  wiped  his  thin  lips 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  reflected  a 
minute,  and  then  said, '  Would  you  be- 
lieve it  —  I  told  this  story  to  a  bunch 
of  women  the  other  day  when  they 
asked  me  to  speak,  and  they  hissed  me 
for  it.' 

He  was  sincerely  perplexed,  and 
naively  thought  that  the  women  must 
either  have  been  '  crazy,'  or  affected  by 
the  'new-fangled'  ideas. 

Ill 

This  story  brings  me  straight  to  the 
question  of  prison  discipline  in  the  Uni- 
ted States.  There  has  been  so  much 
agitation  about  this  particular  ques- 
tion, —  and  it  is  a  crucial  question,  — 
that  a  survey  of  how  things  stand  at 
present  is  bound  to  be  of  interest  as 
well  as  significant.  I  must  begin  by 
saying  that  the  agitation  has  mainly 
been  outside  of  prison  —  that  those  af- 
fected by  it  were  mostly  people  who 
have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the 
prison  situation.  There  are  a  few  excep- 
tions, a  few  indications  that  all  the 
agitation  has  not  been  entirely  in  vain: 
a  few  changes  in  method,  a  possible  re- 
duction in  the  number  of  men  punished, 
a  relaxing  of  the  rules  a  little  in  regard 
to  talking  and  the  lock-step,  the  aboli- 
tion of  such  things  as  the  strait-jacket 
(I  am  not  so  sure  about  this :  rumors  of 
its  existence  reached  me  in  more  than 
one  place,  but  I  did  not  actually  see  it), 


and  the  abolition  of  what  was  once  a 
common  practice,  of  hanging  men  up  by 
their  wrists  and  swinging  their  bodies  off 
the  floor. 

Let  me  introduce  into  this  discus- 
sion of  the  situation  the  following  quo- 
tation from  the  Detroit  News  of  Janu- 
ary 27,  1920:  - 

'Harry  L.  Hulburt,  warden  of  the 
prison,  explained  to  the  committee  how 
the  flogging  apparatus  is  worked.  The 
man  to  be  flogged  is  blindfolded,  hand- 
cuffed, and  shackled  at  the  ankles. 
Then  he  is  stretched  out  on  a  long  lad- 
der, which  is  made  to  fit  snugly  over  a 
barrel.  The  prisoner  is  blindfolded,  the 
warden  said,  so  that  he  will  not  see  who 
is  flogging  him.  [The  warden  told  me, 
when  I  visited  the  institution,  that  he 
did  it  himself,  as  he  thought  that  no  one 
else  should  be  allowed  to  do  it.]  His 
back  is  bared  and  a  piece  of  stout 
linen  cloth  is  placed  over  the  bare  spot. 
The  instrument  used  in  the  paddling  is 
a  heavy  strap  about  four  inches  in 
width,  punched  with  small  holes  about 
an  inch  apart  and  fastened  to  a  handle. 
The  strap  is  soaked  in  water,  according 
to  the  warden,  till  it  becomes  pliable; 
Dr.  Robert  McGregor  [one  of  the  best 
and  most  conscientious  prison  doctors 
that  I  met  on  the  trip],  prison  physician, 
holds  the  pulse  of  the  man  being  flogged 
and  gives  the  signal  for  the  flogger  to 
stop.' 

The  article  then  goes  on  to  detail 
three  different  cases  of  flogging.  We 
will  quote  only  the  first. 

'Thomas  Shultz,  boy  of  twenty-one 
years  old,  seven  months  after  being  sent 
from  the  insane  asylum,  was  given  181 
lashes  and  kept  in  the  dungeon  during 
the  period  of  the  flogging  for  nine  days 
and  fed  on  bread  and  water.  .  .  .  Nov. 
3,  assaulted  guard.  For  this  and  other 
minor  offenses,  none  of  them  serious, 
he  was  sentenced  to  receive  181  lashes. 
Nov.  4,  he  received  40  lashes.  .  .  , 
Nov.  5,  he  received  35  lashes.  Nov.  6, 


582 


PRISON   FACTS 


he  received  26  lashes.  Nov.  9,  he  re- 
ceived 40  lashes.  Nov.  13,  he  received 
40  lashes.  Total,  181  lashes.' 

Now  Jackson,  to  which  this  refers,  is 
a  comparatively  decent  prison  (I  had 
started  to  use  the  word  good;  but  there 
are  no  good  prisons,  any  more  than  there 
are  good  diseases).  If  I  were  asked  to 
pick  the  least  objectionable  prisons  in 
the  United  States,  after  seeing  some- 
thing like  seventy,  I  should  have  to  in- 
clude Jackson  among  the  first  ten,  or 
possibly  even  among  the  first  half- 
dozen.  The  warden  is  unusually  intel- 
ligent, interested  in  his  job,  an  advocate 
of  the  honor  system,  who  also  practises 
it  on  a  large  scale.  He  is  certainly 
among  the  most  humane  of  the  wardens 
in  the  country;  and,  by  and  large,  his 
prisoners  have  more  freedom  inside 
the  walls  than  is  common.  I  do  not  re- 
peat this  quotation  to  give  it  extra 
publicity.  I  repeat  it  to  show  what 
happens  even  in  those  prisons  which  are 
least  antiquarian  and  hide-bound.  This 
does  not  mean  that  all  prisons  have 
whipping.  A  large  number  still  do,  — 
more  than  I  expected,  —  but  old  meth- 
ods of  punishment  are  still  prevalent  in 
practically  all  prisons. 

There  is  hardly  a  prison  where  soli- 
tary confinement  is  not  practised.  In 
some  cases  solitary  confinement  is  for 
a  few  months,  in  some  cases  for  a  few 
years;  and  in  not  a  few  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  permanent  solitary.  Some  pris- 
ons have  a  few  men  put  away;  some 
have  as  many  as  twenty;  and  in  one 
case  there  are  about  fifty  men  placed  in 
solitary  for  shorter  or  longer  periods. 

Why  do  the  wardens  do  it?  Well, 
they  do  not  know  what  else  to  do. 
They  run  to  the  end  of  their  ingenuity, 
and  do  that  as  a  last  resort  —  that  is, 
the  best  of  them.  Some  do  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  common  policy.  I  recall  climbing 
a  flight  of  stairs  with  a  good-natured 
warden  in  a  Western  prison,  and  being 
shown  a  specially  built  courtyard  with 


some  dozen  solitary  cells.  There  were 
four  men  put  away  there  permanently 
—  one  had  been  there  for  three  years. 
They  were  not  even  allowed  to  exercise. 
They  were  not  allowed  to  talk,  they 
had  no  reading-matter,  they  could  not 
smoke.  There  had  at  one  time  been 
only  one  man  in  the  place,  and  the  war- 
den permitted  him  to  smoke;  but  when 
the  others  were  put  in,  he  told  him  not 
to  pass  any  tobacco  to  them.  This  is, 
of  course,  an  impossible  demand.  The 
insistence  for  a  share  of  that  mighty 
joy  in  solitary  —  a  smoke  —  is  irresist- 
ible. He  did  what  was  inevitable,  — 
passed  his  tobacco  and  a  'puff,'  to  the 
other  fellows,  —  and  the  warden  de- 
prived him  of  the  privilege.  'He  should 
have  obeyed  what  I  told  him  if  he 
wanted  to  hold  on  to  his  privilege,'  was 
the  reason  given. 

What  is  true  of  solitary  confinement 
is  true  also  of  the  dark  cell.  Practically 
all  prisons  have  and  use  dark  cells.  It 
is  common  to  find  from  one  to  a  dozen 
men  put  away  in  the  dark  cells,  kept 
on  bread  and  water  —  that  means  a 
little  bread  and  about  a  gill  of  water 
every  twenty-four  hours.  In  most 
prisons  —  about  ninety  per  cent  —  this 
punishment  is  added  to  by  handcuff- 
ing the  man  to  the  wall  or  the  bars  of 
the  door  during  the  day,  that  is,  for  a 
period  of  ten  to  twelve  hours  each  day 
that  he  is  in  punishment  —  the  time 
varying  from  a  few  days  to  more  than 
two  weeks.  In  some  institutions  the 
handcuffs  have  been  abolished  and  re- 
placed by  an  iron  cage  made  to  fit  the 
human  form,  which,  in  some  cases,  can 
be  extended  or  contracted  by  the  turn- 
ing of  a  handle.  A  man  put  in  the  dark 
cell  has  this  cage  placed  about  him  and 
made  to  fit  his  particular  form  —  and 
it  is  usually  made  so  '  snug '  that  he  has 
to  stand  straight  up  in  the  cage.  He 
cannot  bend  his  knees,  he  cannot  lean 
against  the  bars,  he  cannot  turn  round; 
his  hands  are  held  tight  against  the 


PRISON  FACTS 


583 


sides  of  his  body,  and  he  stands  straight, 
like  a  post,  for  a  full  day,  on  a  little 
bread  and  water  —  and  for  as  many 
days  as  the  warden  or  the  deputy  sees 
fit.  I  was  always  asked  to  observe  that 
they  did  not  use  handcuffs :  this  was  the 
reform.  Remember,  a  dark,  pitch-black 
cell,  with  your  hands  pinned  against 
your  sides,  your  feet  straight  all  day, 
unable  to  move  or  shift  your  ground, 
for  ten  and  twelve  hours  a  day,  on  bread 
and  water,  is  the  reform! 

In  one  or  two  institutions  where  the 
cage  is  used,  but  is  not  adjustable,  — 
the  man  having  to  squeeze  into  the  flat 
space  as  best  he  can,  —  they  added  the 
handcuffs.  In  one  institution,  —  a  com- 
mendable institution,  as  such  things 
go,  in  some  ways,  —  in  one  of  the  states 
that  has  always  prided  itself  on  being 
progressive,  I  found  that  they  added  to 
the  dark  cell  the  handcuffing  of  the 
man  while  he  slept.  In  the  particular 
institution  I  have  in  mind  the  arrange- 
ment was  as  follows.  A  bar  was  at- 
tached to  one  of  the  walls,  and  slanted 
down  until  it  reached  within  about 
three  inches  of  the  floor.  On  this  bar 
was  a  ring.  At  night,  the  board  on 
which  the  man  slept  was  placed  near 
this  slanting  bar;  one  pair  of  handcuffs 
was  put  on  the  prisoner's  wrists,  an- 
other pair  connected  with  his  hands 
was  attached  to  the  ring  on  the  slant- 
ing iron  bar.  This  means  that  he  had 
to  lie  on  one  side  all  night  long,  hand- 
cuffed and  pressing  on  this  board,  which 
served  him  as  a  bed. 

This  does  not  complete  the  list  of 
prison  punishments  as  they  are  now 
practised.  The  underground  cell  is  still 
in  existence  —  probably  not  in  many 
prisons,  but  I  saw  it  in  at  least  two 
different  institutions.  In  one  state  pris- 
on, —  an  old  prison,  dark  and  damp  in- 
side, —  I  found  a  punishment  cell  in 
the  cell-block.  It  was  built  under- 
ground. In  the  centre  of  the  hall  there 
is  an  iron  door,  flat  on  the  ground,  which 


one  lifts  sideways  —  like  an  old-type 
country  cellar-door.  It  creaks  on  its 
rusty  iron  hinges.  I  climbed  down  a 
narrow  flight  of  rickety  stairs.  When  I 
got  to  the  bottom,  I  had  to  bend  double 
to  creep  into  a  long  narrow  passage.  It 
was  walled  about  with  stone,  covered 
with  a  rusty  tin  covering.  It  was  not 
high  enough  to  stand  up  in,  hardly  high 
enough  for  a  good-sized  man  to  sit  up 
in.  The  warden  above  closed  the  door 
on  me.  I  was  in  an  absolutely  pitch- 
black  hole  —  long,  narrow,  damp,  un- 
ventilated,  dirty  (there  must  be  rats  and 
vermin  in  it);  and  one  has  to  keep  a 
bucket  for  toilet  purposes  in  that  little 
black  hole.  As  I  came  out,  the  warden 
said  naively,  *  When  I  put  a  man  in  here, 
I  keep  him  thirty  days.'  Let  the  reader 
imagine  what  that  means  to  human  flesh 
and  blood. 

I  do  not  want  to  make  this  a  paper  of 
horrors.  Just  one  more  case.  On  my 
way  back  I  stopped  off  at  a  certain  very 
well-known  prison  that  I  had  heard 
about  since  childhood.  For  the  last  ten 
years  it  has  been  famous  as  one  of  the 
great  reform  prisons  of  the  country.  I 
remember  seeing  pictures  of  the  warden 
with  prisoners  out  on  a  road-gang.  The 
article  in  which  these  pictures  appeared 
gave  a  glowing  account  of  the  freedom 
these  men  had  —  they  guarded  them- 
selves away  from  the  prison  proper,  out 
in  the  hills,  building  roads.  The  state 
in  which  this  prison  is  situated  has 
constructed  many  miles  of  prison-built 
road  —  and  in  fact  it  was  one  of  the 
first  in  the  country  to  undertake  to 
build  roads  with  convict  labor,  without 
guards.  When  I  knocked  on  its  gates, 
I  thrilled  with  expectancy.  Here,  at 
least,  would  I  find  a  model  prison, 
unique,  exceptional,  a  pride  to  the  state 
and  an  honor  to  the  man  who  was  re- 
sponsible for  it.  In  fact,  I  had  heard 
that  the  warden  was  being  considered 
for  political  advancement  to  the  office 
of  governor  because  of  his  remarkable 


584 


PRISON  FACTS 


prison  record.  I  found  a  remarkable 
institution  —  remarkable  for  its  back- 
wardness and  brutality. 

The  first  thing  that  I  saw  as  I  en- 
tered the  prison  yard  was  a  strange  and 
unbelievable  thing.  Nine  men  kept  go- 
ing round  in  a  circle,  wheeling  wheel- 
barrows, while  a  heavy  chain  dangled 
from  each  man's  ankle.  As  I  came 
nearer,  I  noticed  in  each  wheelbarrow  a 
heavy  iron  ball  attached  to  the  chain. 
In  the  centre  stood  a  guard;  and  the 
men  kept  circling  about  him  all  day 
long,  wheeling  the  iron  ball  in  their 
barrows,  their  bodies  bent  over,  their 
faces  sullen,  their  feet  dragging.  They 
did  that  for  ninety  days  each,  I  was 
told  by  my  guide.  At  night  they  carried 
the  ball  to  their  cells,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing they  carried  it  to  the  dining-room. 
For  three  months  this  iron  ball  and 
chain  stayed  riveted  about  their  ankles 
—  a  constant  companion  and,  I  sup- 
pose, from  the  warden's  point  of  view, 
a  stimulus  to  better  things  —  one  of 
the  ways  of  making  'bad'  men  'good.' 

There,  too,  I  found  all  the  'other 
characteristics  of  the  average  prison  — 
dark  cells,  bread  and  water,  solitary, 
handcuffs,  and,  in  addition,  a  hired 
colored  man  to  do  whipping  when  that 
was  called  for  —  as  no  one  else  could  be 
got  to  do  it.  This  negro  was  never  per- 
mitted in  the  prison  yard  for  fear  that 
the  men  might  kill  him.  The  report 
that  I  sent  to  the  National  Committee 
on  Prisons  and  Prison  Labor,  for  which 
I  was  traveling,  reads  as  follows :  — 

I  have  just  visited  the  famous  reform 
prison  at  C and  this  is  what  I  found :  — 

Nine  men  going  around  a  circle,  wheeling 
ball  and  chain. 

Whipping-post,  with  special  colored  man 
to  do  the  task. 

Dark  cells. 

Solitary. 

Men  handcuffed  to  the  doors. 

Bread  and  water. 

No  work  for  the  men. 


In  addition  to  loss  of  privileges  and  good 
time,  which  is  usual  as  a  means  of  discipline. 

A  traveling  prison  chaplain  had  vis- 
ited the  institution  the  Sunday  before 
I  came,  and  made  a  speech  to  the  men. 
In  beginning  his  speech,  he  remarked 
upon  the  fame  of  the  warden  with  the 
world  abroad,  and  upon  the  fortune  of 
the  men  for  being  under  such  humane 
treatment.  Some  of  the  men  hissed. 
For  that  the  moving-picture  machine 
had  been  torn  out  from  its  place  in  the 
chapel,  and  the  men  were  to  be  de- 
prived of  their  weekly  prison  'movie.' 
I  was  told  also  that  Sunday  yard-privi- 
leges had  been  rescinded.  In  telling  me 
about  it,  one  of  the  guards  remarked: 
'  We  will  show  them  [the  prisoners]  that 
this  can  be  a  real  prison.'  I  wonder 
what  they  think  it  is  now  —  and  what 
else  they  can  add  to  make  it  one.  Let 
this  conclude  the  description  of  current 
disciplinary  methods. 

IV 

The  use  of  man  by  man  is  the  basic 
test  in  the  evaluation  of  any  institution, 
especially  one  designed  to  make  the 
'bad'  'good,'  the  'hard'  'soft,'  and  the 
'unsocial'  'social.'  The  test  of  a  penal 
institution  is  its  disciplinary  methods. 

The  picture  I  have  drawn  is  one- 
sided and  not  sufficiently  comprehen- 
sive. If  one  desires  to  secure  a  general 
view  of  the  technique  of  penal  adminis- 
tration as  it  is  at  present  practised,  he 
must  look  at  other  elements  of  the  pic- 
ture. There  is  the  problem  of  labor. 
The  opportunity  to  keep  busy  during 
the  day,  —  to  do  something  that  will 
hasten  the  passing  hours,  that  will  give 
a  sense  of  contact  with  the  world  of 
reality,  that  will  exercise  one's  ringers 
and  use  one's  body,  —  this  simple  crav- 
ing of  the  human  organism  is  denied  on 
a  much  larger  scale  than  one  can  imag- 
ine unless  he  is  actually  brought  in  con- 


PRISON   FACTS 


585 


tact  with  the  fact.  I  should  say  that 
at  least  one  third  of  the  prisoners  in  the 
American  state  prisons  are  unemployed. 
That  means  that  in  some  prisons  all 
men  are  working,  in  some  practically 
none,  and  in  others  only  a  part. 

The  warden  was  an  aggressive,  opin- 
ionated, ignorant,  and  coarse  individ- 
ual. He  had  grown  stout,  his  lower  lip 
had  hardened,  his  jaw  jammed  against 
his  upper  teeth  as  he  talked,  and  at 
every  second  sentence  he  banged  the 
table  for  emphasis,  stopped,  looked  at 
you  to  see  if  you  agreed  with  him,  and 
if  there  was  any  doubt  in  his  mind  about 
this,  he  repeated  what  he  had  said, 
adding, '  I  am  talking  straight  fact.' 

I  first  saw  him  in  the  evening,  swing- 
ing in  a  soft  hanging  rocker  on  the 
porch,  supported  by  small  couch  cush- 
ions, dressed  in  an  immaculate  white 
suit,  with  a  silk  handkerchief  in  his 
coat-pocket,  and  smoking  a  big  cigar 
tilted  at  the  proper  'politician's'  angle. 
He  was  round-headed,  his  face  shiny 
and  smooth-shaven.  I  felt  uncomfort- 
able sitting  there  in  front  of  him  and 
talking  about  the  men  inside.  A  feeling 
of  disgust  crept  over  me,  as  if  he  were 
some  fat  over-dressed  pig  —  and  self- 
assertive. 

'I  run  this  prison  by  psychology;  if 
you  want  a  lecture  on  psychology  I  will 
give  it  to  you;  it  is  all  hi  psychology,' 
he  told  me. 

I  begged  to  be  excused  that  night.  I 
was  tired.  I  had  driven  all  day;  and 
perhaps  I  would  enjoy  it  better  after  I 
saw  how  he  managed  the  prison. 

'All  right;  but  remember  the  whole 
trick  is  psychology  —  it  is  as  simple  as 
that.' 

It  was  a  typical  prison  —  only  it  had 
an  'idle-house.'  The  'idle-house'  is  so 
called  because  it  houses  the  idle  men  — 
men  who  do  nothing  all  day  long  but 
sit  on  benches,  crowded  together,  all 
day,  every  day  of  the  week,  every  week 


of  the  year,  and  every  year  of  their  pris- 
on term  —  a  term  that  may  range  from 
one  year  to  a  lifetime.  It  is  a  large  bare 
loft.  There  I  found  four  hundred  men, 
dressed  in  their  prison  suits,  sitting,  all 
facing  one  way.  Around  the  room  there 
were  keepers,  seated  on  high  stools, 
watching  these  idle  men.  In  the  morn- 
ing after  breakfast  the  men  were 
marched  to  this  idle-house.  At  noon 
they  were  taken  to  the  dining-room; 
after  lunch  they  were  marched  back  to 
the  idle-house.  They  were  being  made 
good  by  sitting.  This  is  better  than  in 
some  prisons,  where  the  men  who  have 
nothing  to  do  are  kept  in  their  cells. 
And  yet  —  how  little  ingenuity  it 
would  have  taken  to  put  most  of  these 
men  to  work  at  something  useful,  if  not 
remunerative.  It  would  not  have  been 
difficult  to  find  enough  public-spirited 
citizens  who  would  have  provided  a 
dozen  old  and  broken-down  automo- 
biles and  typewriters,  and  thus  put  a 
number  of  them  to  work  taking  them 
apart  and  putting  them  together  — 
learning  something  and  keeping  busy, 
doing  something.  It  would  not  have 
been  difficult  to  put  a  number  of  these 
to  studying  Spanish,  French,  Italian  — 
every  large  prison  has  men  who  would 
like  to  teach  these  languages  and  others 
who  would  like  to  learn  them.  There 
are  a  hundred  ways  hi  which  these  men 
could  —  at  least,  most  of  them  could  — 
have  been  occupied  in  doing  something : 
learning  how  to  draw,  to  box,  to  play  an 
instrument,  to  typewrite  —  anything 
that  would  have  taken  the  burden  of 
eternal  idleness  off  their  hands.  All  it 
needed  was  a  couple  of  days'  use  of  the 
imagination.  But  the  warden  lacked 
the  imagination.  He  was  not  really 
vividly  conscious  of  the  problem.  When 
I  had  seen  the  prison  and  was  ready  to 
go,  I  asked  him  if  he  would  give  me  that 
lecture  on  psychology,  and  he  said  with 
an  emphatic  bang  on  the  table,  'My 
boy,  psychology  is  common  sense.' 


586 


PRISON  FACTS 


What  is  true  of  work  is  true  of  other 
things.  There  is  no  imagination  in  the 
American  prison  field  —  or  so  little  that 
one  has  to  look  far  and  wide  to  find  it. 
Take  the  question  of  housing.  Prac- 
tically all  American  prisons  are  built  on 
the  same  plan.  That  is  the  Auburn 
type.  The  best  way  to  describe  it  is  to 
begin  from  the  outside.  The  first  thing 
is  the  high  stone  wall.  After  you  get  in- 
to the  prison  yard  made  by  this  wall  you 
come  face  to  face  with  a  large  square 
building  about  five  stories  high.  It  has 
narrow  windows,  heavily  barred  —  in 
some  cases  these  windows  are  so  narrow 
that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  a  man 
to  get  through  them.  When  you  enter 
the  stone  building,  you  find  another 
building  inside.  This  inside  building  is 
the  cell-block,  a  square  stone  structure 
standing  four  stories  high.  Each  tier, 
or  floor,  is  divided  into  a  large  number 
of  little  cells  —  each  cell  looks  like 
every  other.  Each  floor  is  like  the  one 
below  it.  The  cells  vary  in  size,  but 
not  much.  In  the  older  prisons  —  and 
most  of  the  prisons  are  old  —  the  cells 
are  about  three  and  a  half  feet  wide, 
seven  feet  long,  and  seven  feet  high. 
Some,  as  in  Sing  Sing  prison,  are  even 
smaller.  In  the  newer  prisons  they  are 
larger  —  in  some  cases  more  than  twice 
this  size.  The  cells  are  set  back  to  back. 

The  space  of  a  cell  is  so  small  that  it 
is  inconceivable  for  one  who  has  not 
been  in  it.  You  cannot  spread  your 
hands,  you  cannot  lift  your  hand  above 
your  head,  you  cannot  take  more  than 
three  steps  without  hitting  your  toe 
against  the  wall.  A  cell  is  not  larger 
than  a  good-sized  grave  stood  on  end. 
It  is  dark,  half-dark,  all  the  time.  There 
is  no  window  in  the  cell.  The  windows 
are  in  the  outer  wall  and  the  cell  is  set 
about  thirty  feet  away  from  the  outer 
wall.  The  windows  in  this  wall  are  gen- 
erally narrow,  and  are  always  heavily 
barred.  The  sun  must  first  get  into 
the  prison  before  it  can  get  into  the  cell. 


But  the  cell  is  not  made  to  receive 
the  sun.  In  the  older  prisons  one  half 
of  the  front  facing  the  window  is 
walled  up.  The  other  half  has  a  door. 
In  the  very  worst  prisons,  this  door  is 
completely  closed  at  the  bottom  — 
that  is,  the  lower  half  is  made  of  solid 
steel.  To  get  around  this,  as  in  Sing 
Sing,  they  have  drilled  holes  in  that 
part.  The  upper  half  is  closely  netted 
with  heavy  bars,  in  some  cases  leaving 
only  little  square  holes  for  the  sun  and 
air  to  get  through  after  it  finds  its  way 
into  the  prison.  In  the  older  cell-blocks 
these  cells  have  no  internal  ventilation 
at  all !  All  the  air  must  come  in  and  out 
through  the  limited  space  of  the  front 
door.  In  others,  more  modern,  there  is 
a  ventilator  in  the  cell  —  a  hole  going 
up  through  the  wall,  about  six  inches 
square.  In  all  the  old  prisons  the  cells 
have  no  toilet  system;  buckets  are  used 
for  toilet  purposes.  These  buckets  are 
generally  numbered,  so  that  each  man 
can  get  his  own  back;  but  not  always. 
As  the  men  are  put  into  their  cells  at 
about  five  in  the  afternoon,  and  taken 
out  again  at  about  six  in  the  next  morn- 
ing they  are  in  this  cell-block  for  at 
least  thirteen  hours.  Think  of  what  it 
means  to  have  eighteen  hundred  men 
in  a  prison  under  such  conditions. 
Think  of  a  hot  July  night,  and  pic- 
ture the  air  on  the  top  tier.  No  words 
can  describe  the  pollution  of  the  air 
under  these  conditions.  Add  to  this 
the  fact  that,  in  most  prisons,  the  men 
are  kept  in  practically  all  day  Sunday, 
half  a  day  Saturday,  and,  tf  Monday 
happens  to  be  a  holiday,  all  day  Mon- 
day, and  you  will  have  a  sense  of  the 
torture  that  life  under  these  conditions 
imposes  upon  the  sensitive,  and  of  the 
callousness  it  implies  in  those  who  have 
ceased  to  be  sensitive. 

This,  however,  is  not  all.  The  prisons 
cannot  be  kept  clean,  —  certainly  not 
the  old  prisons,  —  even  if  there  were 
consciousness  that  this  ought  to  be  done. 


PRISON  FACTS 


587 


These  old  stone  structures,  standing 
in  half-darkness  for  a  hundred  years, 
never  having  proper  ventilation,  never 
proper  airing,  are  infected  with  bugs 
and  vermin.  In  my  own  case  —  and 
this  is  typical  of  the  old  prison  —  the 
old  cell-block  in  Blackwell's  Island 
was  bug-ridden.  In  my  day  there  were 
thousands  of  bugs  in  my  cell.  I  strug- 
gled valiantly,  constantly,  and  indus- 
triously. But  it  was  a  hopeless  fight. 
I  had  some  books,  and  the  bugs  made 
nests  in  them.  They  crept  over  me 
when  I  slept  —  they  made  life  mis- 
erable. I  am  not  blaming  the  warden 
for  this.  I  am  describing  a  fact  that 
we  might  as  well  face.  But  the  sense  of 
sanitation  is  not  very  keen  among  pris- 
on officials  taken  as  a  whole.  There 
are  a  few  exceptions,  mostly  in  the  new 
prisons. 

The  meaning  of  cell-life  under  these 
conditions  cannot  be  conceived.  I  re- 
call the  day  when  I  was  first  put  in  a 
cell.  I  stepped  into  a  little  yellow  space 
—  the  walls  seemed  drawn  together, 
and  I  halted  at  the  door.  A  little  yel- 
low half-burned  bulb  was  stuck  up  in 
the  corner;  there  was  a  narrow  iron  cot 
against  the  wall.  I  heard  the  door  be- 
hind me  slam,  and  I  felt  myself  cramped 
for  space,  for  air,  for  movement.  I 
turned  quickly  after  the  retreating  offi- 
cer, and  called  him  back. 

'What  do  you  want?' 

'Will  —  will  I  have  to  stay  in  this 
place  all  night?' 

He  laughed.  'You  will  get  used  to  it 
soon  enough.' 

I  turned  back  to  my  cell.  The  walls 
slowly  retreated  and  made  more  room 
for  me,  so  that  I  crept  in  and  away  from 
the  door.  The  yellow  glimmering  light 
hurt  my  eyes.  It  was  fully  half  an  hour 
before  I  adjusted  myself  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  there  for  the  night.  On  my 
little  narrow  iron  cot,  I  found  two  dirty 
blankets.  I  rolled  them  up,  shoved 
them  against  the  wall  beneath  the  light, 


and  took  out  a  little  book  that  I  had 
with  me. 

When  I  came  into  the  prison  that 
morning,  I  had  some  books,  but  they 
were  taken  away.  I  protested  that  I 
had  to  have  something  to  read  —  I  sim- 
ply had  to  have  something.  The  keeper 
objected  that  it  was  against  the  rules. 
He  looked  at  my  books  carefully,  and 
then  picked  out  a  little  paper-covered 
volume,  which  he  gave  me  with  the  re- 
mark, 'You  can  have  this.  We  permit 
men  to  bring  in  anything  that  is  reli- 
gious.' It  was  William  Morris's  News 
from  Nowhere.  The  little  glimmering 
light  on  the  yellow  page,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  I  was  off  in  dreamland  —  I 
followed  Morris's  idyllic  picture  and 
perfect  beings  into  a  world  where  there 
were  no  prisons  and  no  unemployed. 

This  happy  setting  was  interrupted 
by  the  sobs  of  a  boy  next  to  my  cell  — 
he  too  was  a  newcomer.  He  sobbed 
hysterically,  'My  God,  what  shall  I  do? 
What  shall  I  do  ? '  I  climbed  down  from 
my  cot,  knocked  on  the  wall  of  his  cell, 
and  tried  to  talk  to  him.  But  he  paid 
no  attention  to  me.  He  just  sobbed  and 
cried  like  a  child  torn  from  its  mother, 
as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

Finding  no  response,  I  clambered 
back  to  my  place,  and  was  soon  off  in 
dreamland  again.  I  did  not  wake  until 
the  lights  were  turned  out  at  nine 
o'clock.  I  looked  out  of  my  cell  and 
saw,  through  the  far-off  window  in  the 
outer  wall,  a  star  glimmering;  then, 
without  undressing,  straightening  my 
blankets,  I  fell  asleep  and,  in  my  sleep, 
dreamed  of  the  free  fields  of  early  child- 
hood. 

I  mentioned  the  dirty  blankets  on 
the  cot.  I  used  that  word  deliberately. 
It  is  not  uncommon  for  the  blankets 
which  a  man  gets  hi  prison  to  be 
dirty.  They  are  rarely  cleaned  or  fumi- 
gated. One  man  goes  out  and  another 
goes  in  —  receiving  the  blankets  the 
other  used,  without  any  attempt  to 


588 


PRISON   FACTS 


clean  or  wash  them;  and  of  course 
there  are  no  sheets.  I  have  seen  blan- 
kets so  dirty  that  the  dust  actually  fell 
out  of  them  when  you  moved  them. 
This  is  not  true  of  all  prisons,  but  is  of 
many. 

It  is  not  uncommon  to  find  a  prison 
where  the  men  have  not  their  own  in- 
dividual underwear.  The  underwear  is 
sent  to  the  laundry,  and  a  man  gets 
what  luck  will  bring  him:  some  is  too 
long,  some  too  short;  some  has  been 
used  by  healthy  men,  some  by  men  who 
were  sick  with  contagious  diseases.  In 
some  prisons  the  small  cells  have  two 
men  to  a  cell.  There  are  two  cots,  one 
above  the  other;  and  these  men  live  in 
this  narrow  cramped  place  —  and  at 
times  the  health  of  the  men  so  crowded 
is  not  examined.  They  use  the  same 
bucket  and  drink  out  of  the  same  cup. 

Practically  none  of  the  prisons  pay 
the  men  for  their  work.  A  few  places 
make  it  possible  for  a  few  men  to  earn 
what  might  be  considered  a  fair  wage, 
but  the  mass  of  the  prisoners  earn  little, 
in  many  cases  nothing.  Just  at  random : 
New  York  pays  its  prisoners  one  cent 
and  a  half  a  day;  California  and  Massa- 
chusetts pay  them  nothing.  And  yet, 
it  is  asked  why  the  men  are  not  inter- 
ested and  ambitious! 

Practically  none  of  the  prisons  make 
a  serious  attempt  to  educate  their  pris- 
oners. The  eight  grades  for  illiterates 
are  in  use  in  places  —  but  as  a  rule 
they  amount  to  little,  both  the  system 
and  the  method  being  antiquated  and 
the  spirit  poor.  In  only  one  or  two 
places  is  there  a  real  attempt  to  use 
for  educational  purposes  the  extraordi- 
nary advantages  of  time  and  control 
which  prisons  imply.  San  Quentin  is 
conspicuous  by  the  fact  that  it  is  mak- 
ing a  real  attempt  in  that  direction. 
What  I  have  said  about  education  is 
true  of  health.  Health  is  neglected. 
Here  and  there  the  fact  that  crime  and 


health,  both  physical  and  mental,  have 
a  relation  to  each  other,  is  gradually 
being  recognized,  but  not  as  much  or  as 
fully  as  one  would  expect. 

This  rather  sketchy  description  of 
American  penal  conditions  is  unfair  to 
the  exceptions  —  but  the  exceptions 
are  few  and  far  between.  There  is  not 
a  prison  in  the  country,  in  so  far  as  I 
have  seen  them,  that  does  not  fall  into 
this  general  picture  in  one  or  more  of 
its  phases.  Of  the  worst  prisons,  all 
that  I  have  said  is  true.  Of  the  better 
ones,  some  of  the  things  I  have  said  are 
true.  For  the  casual  visitor,  who  is 
taken  around  by  a  guard  or  by  the 
warden,  who  is  told  all  the  good  things 
and  not  permitted  to  see  the  bad  ones, 
whom  lack  of  experience  and  know- 
ledge makes  gullible,  this  may  seem  a 
startling  story.  If  it  is  startling,  it  is 
not  more  so  than  the  facts  are. 

There  are  other  things  about  the 
prison  —  developments  of  parole,  edu- 
cation, self-government,  farm-labor  — 
which  are  more  hopeful  than  the  pic- 
ture painted  here.  These,  however, 
must  be  left  over  for  another  time.  I 
have  separated  the  hopeful  things  in  the 
prison  situation  from  the  outstanding 
shortcomings,  deliberately.  To  com- 
bine them  is  to  give  the  optimist  — 
and  we  are  all  ready  to  hang  our  opti- 
mism to  the  most  fleeting  excuse  —  an 
opportunity  to  rationalize  and  escape 
the  burden  of  present  evil.  The  present 
prison  system  is  bad.  I  have  hardly  de- 
scribed all  its  evils.  Some  cannot  be 
written  about  without  greater  finesse 
and  literary  subtlety  than  I  possess. 
Others  were  hidden  from  me.  There 
are  indications  of  a  possible  way  out, 
of  better  things,  of  more  hopeful  use  of 
human  intelligence;  but  to  date,  all  of 
these  are  negligible  and  limited,  even 
if  a  significant  contribution  to  penal 
methods. 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


BY  GEORGE  HERBERT  PALMER 


THIS  year  we  are  celebrating  the 
third  centennial  of  the  landing  of  the 
Pilgrims,  and  our  people  are  making  an 
effort  gratefully  to  recall  the  tremen- 
dous event.  To  do  so  requires  consider- 
able effort;  for  to  any  but  themselves 
Puritans  have  generally  been  a  distaste- 
ful folk.  Especially  was  the  last  century 
for  them  a  time  of  bitter  and  almost 
continuous  attack,  caricature,  and  de- 
nunciation. Now,  however,  when  the 
gaunt  figures  no  longer  walk  our  streets, 
feeling  has  grown  kinder  and  aversions 
less  clamorous.  Not  unwelcome  now 
will  be  a  dispassionate  estimate  of  what 
the  Puritan  actually  was. 

To  understand  him,  we  must  study 
him  in  his  breeding-place,  the  Puritan 
home;  for  that  was  the  most  funda- 
mental of  Puritan  institutions.  Its  ef- 
fects were  prodigious.  It  formed  New 
England.  Out  of  it  came  much  of  the 
mind  and  character  of  the  entire  coun- 
try. Many  of  the  older  among  us  have 
felt  its  invigorating  influence.  Yet  it  is 
now  in  decay,  where  it  has  not  alto- 
gether disappeared.  Its  usages  are  large- 
ly unknown,  its  strength  and  weaknesses 
have  seldom  been  coolly  studied.  Often 
has  it  served  as  picturesque  material 
for  our  novelists;  but  only  to  be  held  up 
to  scorn  as  an  oppressor  of  youth  and  a 
fosterer  of  gloom  and  hypocrisy. 

I  was  brought  up  in  it,  am  profoundly 
grateful  for  its  discipline,  and  feel  that 
I  owe  to  it  more  than  half  of  all  that  has 
made  my  life  beautiful  and  rewarding. 
To-day  I  would  come  forward  as  its 


eulogist.  And  while  not  blind  to  its  de- 
fects, —  aware  indeed  that  its  sudden 
passing  has  been  inevitable,  —  I  would 
insist  that  American  civilization  will 
have  a  hard  task  to  find  a  source  from 
which  to  draw  an  inspiration  so  boun- 
teous and  so  constructive. 

To  fix  the  worth  of  the  Puritan  home 
I  shall  endeavor  first  to  give  a  clear  ac- 
count of  the  facts  usually  found  in  such 
homes,  and  then  proceed  to  trace  the 
setting  and  influence  of  those  facts. 

What  was  the  daily  current  of  life  in 
a  Puritan  home?  All  recognize  that  its 
distinctive  feature  was  its  elaborate 
religious  training.  But  how  did  that 
training  secure  its  hold  on  the  young? 
To  be  of  any  worth,  this  depictive  side 
of  my  subject  should  be  minute  and 
well  authenticated.  I  will  base  it  on  a 
description  of  my  own  childhood,  and 
thus  will  show  hi  some  detail  what  were 
the  assumptions,  the  practices,  and  the 
ideals  of  a  typical  Puritan  home. 

n 

My  father  was  a  Boston  merchant, 
who  had  come  from  the  country  and  by 
diligence  had  climbed  to  a  competence. 
In  our  home  all  was  plain  and  solid. 
There  was  no  luxury.  Expenditure  was 
carefully  studied,  and  waste  incessantly 
fought.  But  we  had  all  that  was  needed 
for  comfort  and  dignity,  and  on  all  that 
we  possessed  and  did  religion  set  its 
mark.  To  exhibit  that  ever-present  influ- 
ence, I  trace  the  course  of  a  single  day. 


590 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


On  rising  I  read  a  chapter  of  the  Bi- 
ble and  had  a  prayer  by  myself.  Then 
to  breakfast,  where  each  of  the  family 
repeated  a  verse  of  scripture,  my  father 
afterward  asking  a  blessing  on  the 
meal.  No  meal  was  taken  without  this 
benediction.  When  breakfast  was  end- 
ed, the  servants  were  summoned  to 
family  prayers,  which  ended  with  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  repeated  together. 

Then  we  children  were  off  to  school, 
which  was  opened  with  Bible-reading 
and  prayer.  Of  school  there  were  two 
sessions,  one  in  the  morning  and  one  in 
the  afternoon;  so  that  our  principal 
play-time  was  between  four-thirty  and 
six  o'clock,  with  study  around  the  fam- 
ily table  after  supper.  Later  in  the 
evening,  when  the  servants'  work  was 
done,  they  joined  us  once  more  at  fam- 
ily prayers;  after  which  we  children 
kissed  each  member  of  the  family  and 
departed  to  bed,  always  however,  be- 
fore undressing,  reading  a  chapter  of 
the  Bible  by  ourselves  and  offering 
an  accompanying  prayer.  Each  day, 
therefore,  I  had  six  seasons  of  Bible- 
reading  and  prayer  —  two  in  the  fam- 
ily, two  by  myself,  and  two  at  school; 
and  this  in  addition  to  the  threefold 
blessing  of  the  food.  No  part  of  the 
day  was  without  consecration.  The 
secular  and  the  sacred  were  completely 
intertwined. 

Permeated  thus  as  was  every  day 
with  divine  suggestion,  it  may  be  said 
that  on  Sunday  our  very  conversation 
was  in  the  heavens.  On  that  day  the 
labor  of  the  servants  was  lightened,  so 
that  they  too  might  rest  and  attend 
church.  Many  household  cares  were 
then  thrown  upon  us  children,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  there  should  be  lit- 
tle cooking.  But  while  play  and  labor 
ceased  and  solemnity  reigned,  it  was 
an  approved  and  exalting  solemnity; 
for  then  occurred  two  preaching  serv- 
ices and  a  session  of  Sunday  School. 

To  me  the  day  was  one  of  special 


happiness,  because  my  father  was  then 
at  home,  and  during  almost  every  hour 
of  the  day  was  his  children's  companion. 
We  gathered  about  him  for  cheerful 
talk  after  breakfast,  and  after  the  noon 
dinner  he  usually  read  to  us  from  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  or  some  other  be- 
nign and  attractive  book.  After  supper 
the  whole  family  assembled  in  the  par- 
lor, and  when  each  one  present  had  re- 
peated a  hymn  or  poem,  we  had  an  hour 
of  music  —  solos  on  the  piano  by  the 
girls,  and  familiar  hymns  sung  without 
book  by  the  entire  company. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  evening  my 
father  was  apt  to  put  his  arm  around 
one  of  the  children  and  draw  him  into 
the  library  for  a  half-hour's  private  talk. 
Blessed  and  influential  sessions  these, 
serving  the  purpose  of  the  Roman  con- 
fessional! As  frank  as  that  and  as 
peace-bringing,  but  freed  from  its 
formality,  with  no  other  authority  rec- 
ognized than  a  common  allegiance  to  a 
Heavenly  Father,  the  independence  of 
us  little  ones  guarded  by  the  abounding 
wisdom,  tenderness,  trust,  and  even 
playfulness  of  our  adored  companion. 

Ill 

Such  unceasing  presence  in  the  Puri- 
tan home  of  the  religious  motive  might 
easily  have  become  unwholesome  and 
enfeebling,  had  it  not  been  attended  by 
several  other  powerful  influences,  which 
diversified  it  and  enriched  the  nature  to 
which  religion  gave  stability.  As  these 
supporting  interests  are  generally  over- 
looked by  those  who  censure  the  Puri- 
tan home,  I  name  a  few  of  them. 

To  the  family  tie  the  Puritans  gave 
great  prominence.  Marriage  was  a  sac- 
rament, and  the  family  a  divine  insti- 
tution, where  each  member  was  charged 
with  the  well-being  of  all.  In  my  own 
family  there  was  little  authoritative  re- 
striction. With  father  and  mother  we 
children  were  on  terms  of  tender  and 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


591 


reverential  intimacy.  They  joined  us  in 
our  games,  were  sharers  in  our  studies, 
friendships,  and  aspirations.  To  them 
we  expressed  freely  our  half-formed 
thoughts.  If  one  of  them  took  a  jour- 
ney, one  of  us  was  pretty  sure  to  be  a 
companion. 

In  a  family  where  there  were  few 
servants,  each  of  us  took  part  in  house- 
hold duties.  There  were  rooms  to  be 
set  hi  order,  wood  to  be  split,  errands  to 
be  run.  The  older  children  must  wait 
on  the  younger.  In  this  way  all  were 
drawn  together  by  common  careyS. 
Brothers  and  sisters  became  close 
friends.  Affection  was  deep  and  openly 
expressed.  With  no  fear  of  sentimen- 
tality, we  kissed  one  another  often, 
always  on  going  to  bed,  on  rising,  and 
usually  when  leaving  the  house  for  even 
a  few  hours.  We  were  generous  with 
our  small  pocket-moneys,  and  wept 
when  the  ending  vacation  carried  away 
to  boarding-school  a  member  of  our 
group.  The  Puritan  home  cannot  be 
rightly  estimated  without  noting  the 
tenacity  of  family  affection,  which  its 
devout  atmosphere  directly  contributed 
to  induce. 

rv 

Furthermore,  there  was  the  insistence 
on  learning,  fostered  by  the  presence  of 
abundant  books,  by  the  studies  around 
the  centre  table  in  the  evening,  by  the 
reading  aloud  that  went  on  wherever 
three  or  four  could  be  gathered  to- 
gether. My  father  was  not  a  college 
graduate,  eagerly  as  he  had  desired  to 
be.  He  sent  his  brother  to  Yale  and  ac- 
cepted a  business  life  for  himself.  But 
he  more  than  made  up  the  regretted 
loss  by  diligent  reading,  and  to  all  his 
children  he  gave  the  utmost  education 
they  would  accept. 

I  think  this  insistence  on  education 
was  usual  in  Puritan  families.  Lavish 
expense  was  incurred  for  it  when  strin- 
gent economy  was  practised  elsewhere. 


The  foundation  of  Harvard  College  in 
the  early  and  poverty-stricken  years  of 
the  Puritan  colony  was  characteristic 
of  Puritanism  everywhere.  It  set  great 
store  on  intellectual  vigor  and  filled  its 
homes  with  books.  Our  public  libraries 
have  done  us  one  disservice.  They  have 
checked  the  habit  of  buying  books. 
The  libraries  of  my  father  and  grand- 
father were  considerable,  containing 
most  of  the  important  books  in  history, 
biography,  divinity,  and  poetry.  Phys- 
ical science  was  then  just  starting.  Of 
fiction  there  was  little;  until  the  begin- 
ning of  the  nineteenth  century,  novel- 
ists were  few. 


There  is  a  widespread  impression 
that  Puritanism  was  hostile  to  the  Fine 
Arts.  I  believe  it  to  be  untrue,  or,  at 
most,  true  only  with  reference  to  the 
lighter,  more  ornamental  and  vivacious 
of  the  arts.  In  the  view  of  the  Puritan 
life  was  not  meant  for  amusement. 
Whatever  fostered  self-indulgence  or 
heedless  gayety  was  certainly  frowned 
on.  But  in  my  childhood  several  of  the 
Fine  Arts,  notably  poetry  and  music, 
were  cultivated  with  an  ardor  and  gen- 
eral approval  infrequent  to-day.  From 
our  family  library  none  of  the  great 
English  poets  was  absent.  My  grand- 
father loved  Pope,  my  father  Shake- 
speare and  Byron,  my  mother  Cowper. 
All  three  wrote  respectable  verse,  as 
did  several  of  the  children.  Most  per- 
sons did.  No  one  of  us  ever  doubted 
that  to  be  a  poet  or  a  composer  of  mu- 
sic was  the  highest  attainment  of  hu- 
man faculty,  unless  indeed  that  pre- 
eminence might  be  challenged  by  the 
minister,  to  whom  these  artistic  seers 
were  thought  to  be  near  of  kin.  We 
studied  our  poets,  therefore,  as  those 
who  brought  us  messages  of  impor- 
tance. We  committed  their  verses  to 
memory  enormously. 

A  clerical  uncle  begged  that  I  might 


592 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


be  named  for  his  favorite  poet,  George 
Herbert  —  a  rich  endowment!  By  the 
time  I  was  twelve,  I  knew  by  heart 
about  half  of  all  Herbert  wrote,  and 
that  not  to  the  prejudice  of  Chaucer, 
Pope,  Wordsworth,  and  Tennyson.  It 
should  be  remembered  that  among  the 
English  poets  Puritanism  had  rather 
more  than  its  fair  share,  —  Milton, 
Marvell,  the  Wesleys,  Watts,  Cowper, 
Montgomery,  the  two  Brownings, — 
sufficient  to  make  poetry  a  natural  in- 
mate of  most  Puritan  homes.  Burns's 
poems  were  printed  in  America  two 
years  after  they  appeared  in  Scotland, 
and  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  Wordsworth 
but  four  years  after  they  had  been 
laughed  at  by  Englishmen. 

So  far  from  any  natural  antagonism 
between  the  greatest  of  the  arts  and 
Puritanism,  it  may  well  be  urged  that 
the  constant  sense  of  the  infinite  in 
which  the  Puritan  was  nurtured  was 
the  very  soil  most  favorable  for  devel- 
oping the  poetic  spirit.  Certainly, 
among  the  friends  of  my  youth  I  came 
upon  enjoyers  of  poetry  twice  as  fre- 
quently as  I  do  to-day.  The  number  of 
great  writers  was  smaller,  but  the  study 
of  those  few  was  more  serious  and 
general. 

And  something  similar  may  be  said 
of  music.  Few  indeed  were  the  Puritan 
homes  where  music  of  a  high  order  was 
not  cultivated.  As  a  rule,  girls  were  ex- 
pected to  master  the  piano.  Three  of 
my  four  sisters  played,  and  played  well, 
Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Mendelssohn  — 
the  last  especially  in  his  sacred  settings 
—  being  accounted  sovereign.  Mozart, 
Schubert,  and  others  of  a  lyrical  vein 
were,  I  suspect,  counted  somewhat  too 
sportive  and  spontaneous. 

In  almost  every  family  there  were 
seasons  of  song  in  which  all  were  ex- 
pected to  join.  The  meagre  conditions 
of  that  primitive  day  could  not  afford 
the  many  concerts  that  we  now  enjoy. 
Populations  were  not  large  enough  for 


that.  But  it  is  worth  noting  that,  in 
Puritan  New  England,  the  first  schol- 
arly Journal  of  Music,  and  the  first 
carefully  trained  orchestras  —  the  Mu- 
sical Fund  and  the  Germania  —  found 
strong  support.  My  father  was  by  no 
means  rich,  but  he  supplied  us  children 
with  season  tickets  each  whiter  to  the 
symphony  rehearsals  of  the  Germania 
Society. 

It  is  true  that  to  several  of  the  arts  — 
painting,  sculpture,  and  the  drama  — 
Puritanism  was  unfriendly.    But  the 
grounds  of  this  aversion  were  historical 
and  not  to  be  explained  by  any  sup- 
posed   sourness   of   disposition.     The 
first  and  the  last  pieces  written  by  Mil- 
ton were  dramatic,  and  the  eulogies  of 
Shakespeare  by  him  and  by  Marvell 
are  among  the  warmest  in  our  language. 

But  there  came  a  change.  By  the 
time  of  the  great  migration,  1640  to 
1650,  the  English  stage  had  reached 
such  a  pitch  of  degradation  that  it  be- 
came necessary  to  close  the  theatres; 
and  when  they  were  again  opened,  on 
the  coming  of  Charles  II,  they  exhibit- 
ed an  indecency  unparalleled  before  or 
since.  No  wonder  that  the  horror  of 
that  foulness  became  fixedly  associated 
in  Puritan  minds  with  the  theatre  it- 
self, and  that,  even  as  late  as  my  child- 
hood, self-respecting  people  pretty  gen- 
erally kept  away  from  stage-plays.  No 
doubt  that  absence  encouraged  the 
very  vices  against  which  it  protested, 
and  the  Puritans  lost  an  ingredient  of 
character  of  utmost  worth  in  training 
the  imagination.  But  when  an  art  has 
been  so  captured  by  the  forces  of  evil, 
abstention  from  it  becomes  a  neces- 
sity, and  confidence  in  it  is  only  slowly 
established. 

In  less  degree  a  similar  defense  may 
be  offered  for  the  Puritan  attitude  to- 
ward painting  and  sculpture.  Repre- 
sentations of  the  saints  in  stone  and 
glass  did  not  then  merely  stir  aesthetic 
emotions  of  beauty,  such  as  we  expe- 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


593 


rience  to-day.  They  excited,  and  were 
intended  to  excite,  feelings  closely 
akin  to  idolatry.  Mourn,  as  we  must, 
over  the  image-breaking  which,  during 
the  Civil  War,  damaged  the  loveliness 
of  many  cathedrals,  it  is  only  fair  to 
recognize  it  as  a  stage,  perhaps  a  neces- 
sary stage,  in  the  emancipation  of  the 
English  mind.  Since  sculpture  was  em- 
ployed at  that  time  almost  exclusively 
to  further  superstitious  ends,  it  natu- 
rally bred  repulsion  in  men  of  clearer 
faith.  They  felt  the  dangers  against 
which  the  Second  Commandment  warns. 
Personal  busts  were  not  counted  ob- 
jectionable, nor  painted  portraiture. 
Something  like  a  dozen  contemporary 
portraits  of  Milton  are  known,  and 
ancestral  portraits  were  fairly  common 
in  Puritan  homes.  Except  for  these, 
Puritan  walls  were  generally  bare. 
Pictures  were  rare  and  expensive,  and 
distasteful  associations  connected  with 
their  superstitious  use  did  not  readily 
pass  away. 

On  the  other  hand,  Puritans  were 
strong  in  the  arts  of  design.  Their  fur- 
niture, silver,  china,  and  the  many 
articles  of  comfort  and  beauty  for  the 
home,  were  admirable.  They  are 
sought  to-day  as  superior  in  taste  to 
those  of  later  years.  There  is  solidity  in 
them,  durability,  freedom  from  caprice, 
and  an  expression  of  that  sober  ration- 
ality everywhere  characteristic  of  the 
Puritan  genius.  On  entering  an  old 
Puritan  home,  I  have  often  wondered 
how  a  family  of  modest  means  could 
acquire  furniture  of  such  excellence. 
They  apparently  bought  slowly,  either 
went  without  or  got  the  best,  and  pro- 
vided for  their  children  no  less  than  for 
themselves.  For  temporary  conven- 
ience to  accept  an  article  of  inferior 
workmanship  or  design  was-  reckoned 
a  kind  of  moral  obliquity.  Standards 
of  quality  had  been  established  in  most 
things,  from  which  individual  fancy  did 
not  readily  depart.  Such  standards 

VOL.  1S8  —  NO.  5 


give  quiet  dignity  to  Puritan  architec- 
ture, making  the  three  or  four  types  of 
Colonial  house  worth  preserving.  For 
adaptation  to  climate,  wise  use  of  ac- 
cessible materials,  inner  convenience 
obtained  at  low  cost,  for  modest  state- 
liness  and  freedom  from  discordant 
lines,  Puritan  domestic  architecture  de- 
serves high  praise. 

It  has  seemed  worth  while  to  exam- 
ine thus  minutely  the  artistic  attitude 
of  the  Puritans  because  it  has  generally 
been  so  grossly  misrepresented.  Since 
these  lovers  of  purity  and  righteousness 
held  themselves  aloof  from  the  de- 
bauched representative  arts  of  paint- 
ing, sculpture,  and  the  drama,  they  are 
charged  with  an  indiscriminate  hostil- 
ity to  all  beauty,  their  exceptional 
devotion  to  the  nobler  arts  of  poetry, 
music,  and  the  home  being  quite  over- 
looked. 

It  is  true  that,  even  in  these  regions, 
Puritan  taste  was  severe.  Whatever  a 
Puritan  loved  must  be  rational,  thor- 
ough, and  marked  with  deliberate  pur- 
pose. These  are  fundamental  qualities 
in  all  the  arts.  But  they  are  best  at- 
tended by  a  light  touch,  spontaneous 
gayety,  and  superficial  grace.  Hence 
arise  two  types  of  beauty:  the  one  intel- 
lectual, where  the  beautiful  object  is  an 
embodiment  of  law  and  is  stripped  of 
all  that  is  not  called  for  by  its  purpose; 
the  other,  exuberant,  expressing  free- 
dom, play,  ornament.  In  the  former 
Puritan  art  is  strong.  On  the  latter  it 
looks  askance.  Because  the  latter,  the 
easier  and  prettier,  is  at  present  in  fa- 
vor, Puritans  are  apt  to  be  denied  all 
sense  of  beauty. 

VI 

Such,  then,  was  the  constitution  of 
the  Puritan  home,  such  its  central  re- 
ligious ideal,  and  such  its  three  support- 
ing influences  —  education,  family  af- 
fection, and  the  nobler  Fine  Arts.  In 


594 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


dealing  with  so  controversial  a  subject, 
I  have  thought  it  safest  to  record  the 
actual  facts  of  a  personal  experience. 
The  subject  is  one  which  readily  lends 
itself  to  picturesque  treatment,  whether 
of  eulogy  or  scorn.  Both  of  these  I 
would  avoid.  On  the  basis  of  sifted  fact 
I  would  ask  a  dispassionate  estimate  of 
the  training  which  fashioned  New  Eng- 
land's character  during  three  centuries. 
My  experience,  I  think,  is  fairly  repre- 
sentative, though  late.  My  life  began 
in  1842,  when  the  Puritan  regime  was 
drawing  to  its  close.  But  on  both 
sides  my  ancestry  was  purely  Puritan 
and  American  for  nine  generations,  my 
father  a  deacon  of  an  Orthodox  church, 
four  of  my  uncles  Orthodox  ministers. 
Living,  too,  as  I  did  throughout  my 
boyhood,  as  much  in  the  country  as  the 
city,  I  caught  the  Puritan  traditions  of 
creed  and  practice  where  they  lingered 
longest.  The  habits  of  the  many  other 
Puritan  homes  familiar  to  my  boyhood 
did  not  differ  materially  from  mine, 
except  in  the  matter  of  temperament. 
Wherever  the  head  of  the  house  was 
sombre,  disappointed,  or  unapproach- 
able, I  have  found  an  atmosphere  far 
removed  from  that  of  my  cheerful  sur- 
roundings. A  bad  temper  will  spread 
gloom  anywhere,  and  spread  it  the 
more  readily  when  life  is  regarded  as  a 
serious  business.  I  would  not  assert 
that  Puritanism  is  an  antidote  for  every 
infelicity  of  temper.  I  merely  maintain 
that  it  provides  ample  room  for  men  of 
good-will,  and  I  think  it  unjust  to  hold 
a  special  faith  responsible  for  evils  in- 
cident to  all  mankind.  Out  of  a  happy 
experience  I  am  certain  that  Puritanism 
was  no  check  on  well-made  parents,  but 
that  it  helped  them  to  lead  an  honor- 
able, richly  fed,  and  lovable  life,  with 
great  contentment  and  blessing  to  all* 
around  them.  Yet  while  acknowledging 
myself  fortunate  in  the  well-governed 
temper  of  my  companions,  I  cannot  fail 
to  see  how  that  companionship  was  fos- 


tered by  the  desire  on  their  part  to  imi- 
tate the  patient  bounty  of  the  Father  of 
us  all. 

VII 

In  turning  from  this  description  of 
the  Puritan  home  to  emphasize  its 
worth,  I  would  put  forward  promi- 
nently the  literary  power  its  training 
gave.  Puritan  children,  we  have  seen, 
were  likely  to  read  or  hear  six  passages 
of  the  English  Bible  every  day.  That 
book,  without  regard  to  its  religious 
value,  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  con- 
summate masterpiece  of  our  language. 
Here  are  primitive  folk-lore,  national 
history,  personal  anecdote,  racy  por- 
traiture, incisive  reflection,  rapturous 
poetry,  weighty  argument,  individual 
appeal,  the  whole  presenting  a  wider 
range  of  interests  than  any  other  book 
affords.  Throughout  our  version,  too, 
runs  a  style  of  matchless  simplicity,  pre- 
cision, animation,  and  dignity  —  a  style 
exquisitely  changing  color  to  match  its 
diverse  subject-matter.  What  school- 
training  in  English  can  compare  with 
the  year-long  reading  of  this  volume? 

Literary  taste  cannot  well  be  directly 
taught.  It  comes  best  unconsciously, 
while  the  attention  is  given  to  some- 
thing else.  The  Puritan  child  went 
through  his  many  Bible-readings  with  a 
religious  aim,  the  extraordinary  beauty 
of  the  literature  affecting  him  inciden- 
tally as  something  which  could  not  well 
be  otherwise.  In  that  holy  hush  it  was 
most  naturally  incorporated  into  his 
structure. 

I  understate  the  case,  however,  in 
saying  that  the  matchless  English  was 
daily  read.  Almost  every  week  consid- 
erable portions  were  committed  to 
memory.  Before  I  was  fifteen  I  had 
learned  half  the  Psalms,  the  whole 
Gospel  of  John,  three  of  Paul's  Epistles, 
and  large  sections  of  Job  and  Isaiah. 
And  this  personal  study  was  under- 
taken, not  in  obedience  to  commands, 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


595 


but  because  frequent  contact  with  no- 
ble thought  begets  of  itself  a  desire  for 
more  intimate  acquaintance.  Any  man 
with  half  an  ear,  living  in  the  company 
of  musicians,  is  sure  to  think  music 
beautiful  and  important.  Just  so  the 
Puritan  youth  was  drawn,  not  driven, 
to  the  study  of  the  Bible  through  asso- 
ciation with  the  biblically  minded.  Be- 
fore he  was  aware  what  processes  were 
going  on,  he  found  himself  in  possession 
of  something  priceless.  'He  understood 
good  English,  and  pretty  generally 
spoke  it. 

VIII 

Of  the  doctrines  which  the  Puritans 
derived  from  their  sacred  volume,  or 
read  into  it,  I  have  no  need  to  write  at 
any  length.  Their  general  tenor  is  well 
known,  and  this  paper  is  not  a  treatise 
on  theology,  but  an  exhibit  of  Puritan 
methods  of  domestic  training.  Still, 
since  that  training  was  based  on  certain 
religious  conceptions,  I  must  briefly 
summarize  these.  But  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind  that  there  was  much  di- 
versity among  the  Puritans,  and  never 
any  such  thing  as  a  Puritan  Church 
or  creed.  Each  little  group  of  be- 
lievers had  an  independent  existence, 
and  formulated  for  itself  its  under- 
standing or  creed  about  things  divine 
and  human,  changing  this  whenever  it 
could  be  brought  into  closer  conformity 
to  the  mind  of  the  majority.  During 
my  life  my  country  church  has  rewrit- 
ten its  entire  creed  three  times. 

The  distinctive  feature  of  Puritan  re- 
ligion is  the  stress  that  it  lays  on  per- 
sonality, the  duty  of  preserving  it  and 
keeping  it  clean.  A  person  is  the  one 
sacred  being  in  the  universe  to  whom 
all  else  is  subservient.  God  Himself  is  a 
person,  having  intelligence,  will,  love 
and  aversion,  communicability  and, 
above  all,  righteousness,  or  respect  for 
other  persons.  He  is  no  mere  abstract 
mind,  force,  love,  or  law.  Behind  all 


these  there  is  a  He,  their  possessor  and 
director.  We  too  are  persons,  made  in 
God's  likeness  and  therefore  able  to 
have  thoughts  about  Him  which  are 
true,  however  inadequate.  Human  re- 
lationships are  our  best  clue  to  an 
understanding  of  Him  and  his  govern- 
ment. Indeed,  so  near  is  God  to  man, 
that  a  finite  person,  perfect  within  his 
human  limits,  would  be  the  fullest  pos- 
sible revelation  of  God  and  a  fit  object 
of  worship.  Loyalty  to  such  a  being 
saves  us  from  sin  and  vicariously  re- 
deems the  sinner.  Vicariousness  is  a 
principle  throughout  the  personal  uni- 
verse. The  modern  Socialist  finds  that 
my  wrongdoing  afflicts  my  group  and 
by  it  must  be  healed.  Individualistic 
Puritanism  puts  perfect  manhood,  the 
suffering  Christ,  in  the  place  of  the  re- 
deeming group. 

Puritan  religion  is  thus  essentially 
personal  religion.  The  Spaniard  is  high- 
ly religious.  So  is  the  Russian,  the  Hin- 
du, the  very  English  people  from  whom 
the  Puritans  came  out.  But  the  reli- 
gion of  all  these  is  preeminently  social, 
embodying  a  group-consciousness  and 
largely  concerned  with  the  performance 
of  sacred  ceremonies.  Puritan  religion 
is  experienced,  not  performed.  It  needs 
no  church,  no  ritual,  no  priest.  Each 
believer  stands  face  to  face  before  God, 
responsible  to  Him  alone,  and  through 
his  witnesses  —  conscience,  right  rea- 
son, the  Bible  'as  spiritually  discerned' 
—  is  directly  instructed  what  to  do. 
Obligation  is  minute  and  perpetual. 
All  things  are  full  of  duty.  Each  sit- 
uation in  life  presents  a  best  way  of 
acting,  expressive  of  God's  will,  and  a 
worse  way,  expressive  of  our  childish 
and  temporary  will.  We  are  incessantly 
tempted  to  some  partial  good  through 
stupor,  slackness,  caprice,  or  bodily 
allurement. 

Human  life  is  a  daily  strife  with  sin, 
and  drill  in  duty,  bringing  home  to  ui 
the  futility  —  the  suicide,  even  —  of 


596 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


following  any  other  will  than  that  of 
our  exacting  Father.  The  restrictions, 
the  disappointments,  the  sufferings  of 
our  existence  here  become  comprehensi- 
ble when  viewed  as  preliminary  educa- 
tion for  a  perfected  existence  hereafter. 
A  wise  father  sets  his  child  tasks  some- 
what beyond  his  powers.  Our  athletic 
trainers  fill  our  sports  with  difficulties 
and  dangers,  and  forbid  us  to  shrink 
from  bodily  harm.  Just  so  God  plans 
his  world.  He  makes  it  a  preparatory 
school  for  those  destined  ever  to  remain 
individual  persons,  unmerged  in  any- 
thing so  meaningless  as  universal  being. 
The  consequences  of  such  discipline, 
either  in  enlargement  or  shrinkage,  go 
on  forever. 

I  hope  the  brevity  of  this  statement 
still  does  sufficient  justice  to  the  Puri- 
tan faith.  Possibly  I  have  over-ration- 
alized it  through  the  attempt  to  give 
unity  to  a  complex  body  of  doctrine. 
Wise  beliefs  are  seldom  free  from  incon- 
gruities. At  almost  every  point,  too, 
the  utterance  of  some  eminent  divine 
can  be  quoted,  giving  to  this  or  that 
doctrine  a  coloring  different  from  that 
given  here.  I  have  said  that  Puritan- 
ism held  no  authoritative  creed.  Its 
fellowship  was  based  on  general  con- 
sent, with  room  left  for  individual  di- 
vergence. A  faith  that  included  Prince- 
ton and  Andover,  Jonathan  Edwards 
and  Samuel  Hopkins,  permits  no  exact 
formulation.  But  I  believe  my  sketch 
will  be  sufficient  to  show  where  lay  the 
strength  of  Puritanism  and  to  make 
plain  its  hold  on  the  realities  of  life.  It 
fitted  its  followers  to  fight  Indians,  en- 
dure the  hardships  of  New  England, 
found  a  democracy,  and  send  forth 
throughout  the  land  a  sturdier  folk 
than  any  other  single  stock  can  boast. 

IX 

But,  if  Puritan  religion  was  able  to 
give  weight  to  character,  dignity  to 


speech  and  bearing,  promptitude  to 
duty,  and  such  excellence  to  educational 
and  political  institutions  that  the  world 
has  taken  pattern  from  them  ever  since, 
why  did  it  decay,  and  why,  even  in 
the  days  of  its  power,  did  it  awaken  an- 
imosity? Because  each  human  excel- 
lence involves  some  special  limitation, 
danger  at  least,  and  the  unavoidable 
limitations  of  Puritanism  are  pecu- 
liarly obnoxious  to  the  common  man. 
They  stifle  him  and  make  him  after  a 
time  clamor  for  ampler  air.  One  needs 
to  be  already  strong  before  he  can  draw 
strength  from  Puritanism.  For  it  looks 
on  all  things  sub  specie  oeternitatis,  and 
takes  altogether  seriously  the  saying 
that  in  God  we  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being.  In  the  disorderly  and  chan- 
ging world,  the  Puritan  is  ill  at.  ease. 
Things  of  earth  are  of  slender  conse- 
quence compared  with  those  of  Heaven, 
and  are  to  be  dealt  with  only  as  they 
prepare  us  for  the  divine  life.  In  this 
extreme  idealism  there  is  danger  for 
weak  natures.  They  are  apt  to  grow 
morbid  about  themselves,  about  others, 
and  even  about  God. 

The  miseries  attending  too  great  self- 
consciousness  are  widely  felt  and  are 
peculiarly  difficult  to  cure.  To  be  con- 
stantly analyzing  our  motives,  in  order 
to  be  sure  that  they  are  not  the  prompt- 
ings of  a  temporary  impulse  but  the 
veritable  voice  of  God,  is  safe  for  not 
many  men,  for  still  fewer  women.  Of 
course,  we  should  know  what  we  are 
doing.  Blind  action  is  as  disastrous  as 
excessive  introspection;  but  not  being 
painful,  it  escapes  with  less  censure. 
The  wise  man  keeps  control  of  himself 
while  still  looking  without  more  than 
within.  So  long  as  we  inhabit  this  com- 
plicated planet,  we  must  give  it  a  large 
share  of  our  attention  and  enjoyment. 
How  large  that  share  shall  be  and  what 
proportion  it  should  bear  to  spiritual 
interests  can,  fortunately,  never  be  de- 
termined. The  difficult  task  of  keeping 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


597 


the  two  on  terms  of  mutual  aid  is  for 
each  one  of  us  an  important  part  of 
life's  discipline. 

It  is  often  charged  that  Puritanism 
was  lop-sided,  other-worldly,  over-em- 
phatic in  the  care  of  one's  own  soul; 
and  that  through  this  tendency  it  ex- 
posed its  followers  to  self-deception  and 
hypocrisy.  That  there  was  danger  in 
this  direction  is  obvious.  But  danger 
that  leads  to  such  high  results  is  worth 
while.  I  believe  the  danger  grossly  ex- 
aggerated ;  and  it  is  only  fair  to  remem- 
ber that  the  Puritan  world  was  a  far 
less  interesting,  a  less  spiritual  place 
than  it  has  become  since  the  rise  of 
modern  science  and  the  study  of  the 
conditions  under  which  mind  and 
morals  are  planned  to  cooperate. 

On  account,  too,  of  its  slender  com- 
prehension of  the  relation  between  per- 
sons, Puritanism  has  been  badly  shaken 
and  now  looks  a  good  deal  out  of  date. 
Its  insistence  on  personality  and  the 
eternal  worth  of  the  individual,  we 
have  already  seen.  Self-respect  might 
be  called  the  central  Puritan  virtue. 
Certainly  the  omnipresent  sense  of  sin 
that  brooded  over  Puritanism  con- 
cerned itself  far  more  with  personal 
stain  than  with  social  damage.  Society, 
with  its  obligations,  is  something  al- 
most accidental.  God  has  seen  fit  to 
create  a  multitude,  each  a  person,  and 
has  called  on  us,  as  we  respect  ourselves, 
to  respect  others.  Equality  is  the  high- 
est point  reached  by  Puritan  sociology, 
with  democracy  as  its  natural  expres- 
sion. But  the  thought  of  our  time  has 
taken  a  lurch  in  a  different  direction. 
Individualism,  the  liberal  creed  for  at 
least  four  centuries,  is  now  disparaged, 
Socialism  is  exalted.  Instead  of  viewing 
society  as  formed  by  the  addition  of  in- 
dividuals, we  now  incline  to  look  upon 
society  as  primordial  and  an  individual 
as  its  derivative.  Socialism,  though  by 
itself  no  less  false  than  its  opposite,  has 
at  least  shown  that  a  single  detached 


person,  complete  in  isolation,  is  incon- 
ceivable. We  exist  hi  relations  and  are 
essentially  conjunct.  But  while  society 
and  the  individual  are  mutual  factors, 
meaningless  apart,  I  think  Puritanism 
drew  attention  to  that  side  of  the  dual 
fact  which  is  the  more  important  for 
human  welfare.  The  initiation  of  ac- 
tion is  an  individual  function.  Too 
often  it  is  forgotten  that  society  has  no 
central  consciousness.  That  is  lodged 
in  individuals,  who  alone,  therefore, 
have  the  power  to  criticize,  on  which 
power  all  progress  is  dependent.  With- 
out personal  goading,  society  remains 
blind  and  inert.  It  cannot  reform  it- 
self. A  Garrison,  a  Phillips,  a  Mrs. 
Stowe,  a  Whittier,  a  Lincoln  must  first 
appear,  before  American  slavery  is 
overthrown.  While  then  the  meagre 
Puritan  conception  of  personality  was 
destined  to  perish  and  to  carry  with  it  a 
pretty  large  superstructure,  it  trained 
strong  men  as  the  equally  one-sided 
philosophy  of  to-day  cannot.  Socialism 
begets  enthusiastic  followers.  Leaders 
are  fashioned  where  honor  is  paid  to 
personality. 

If  the  Puritan  notion  of  personality, 
however,  was  too  small  for  man,  it  was 
doubly  belittling  when  applied  to  God. 
Yet  He,  too,  was  imagined  as  an  individ- 
ual, contrasted,  on  the  one  hand,  with 
physical  objects,  and  on  the  other,  with 
human  beings.  He  easily  became  pic- 
tured as  an  old  man  in  the  clouds,  try- 
ing, not  very  successfully,  to  manage 
his  obstreperous  world.  It  is  true,  such 
concrete  representation  has  its  uses 
and  is  unhesitatingly  employed  by  the 
Psalmist  and  most  religious  teachers. 
Stated  baldly,  it  seems  irreverent  to 
speak  of  God  as  a  hen.  But  when  we 
read  that '  He  covers  us  with  his  feathers 
and  under  his  wings  we  may  trust,' 
how  true  and  comforting  is  the  com- 


parison 


Just  so  with  the  Puritan  humaniza- 
tion  of  God.  If  we  are  to  speak  to  Him 


598 


THE  PURITAN  HOME 


in  prayer,  hear  his  voice  in  duty,  find 
Him  our  supporting  companion  in  pri- 
vation and  sorrow,  the  object  of  our 
gratitude  in  happiness;  if,  indeed,  we 
are  sincere  in  our  hopes  of  individual 
immortality,  we  must  detect  in  our  own 
personality  something  too  precious  to 
be  lacking  in  Him  whom  we  worship. 
Only  to  a  person  will  love  go  forth. 
The  danger  is  that  personality  may  be- 
come an  empty  form,  excluding  all  con- 
tents. As  in  ourselves,  it  should  be  an 
organizing  principle,  rich  in  relations 
and  powers,  and  capable  of  the  utmost 
self-diversification.  But  for  the  Puri- 
tans the  world  was  somewhat  aloof 
from  God.  They  knew  Him  as  its  orig- 
inal and  arbitrary  creator,  but  not  as 
its  present  indwelling  life,  as 

Something  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air 
And  the  blue  sky  and  in  the  heart  of  man. 

In  like  manner  the  human  body,  with 
its  multifarious  joys,  instincts,  invigora- 
tions  and  seductions,  was  looked  on, 
not  as  a  temple  of  God,  but  as  a  prison- 
house  of  the  Spirit.  No  monotheism, 
however,  can  be  permanent  which  ig- 
nores the  massive  truths  of  polytheism. 
Puritanism  tried  to  and  failed. 

No  doubt  I  magnify  these  faults  by 
abstract  statement.  Practical  life  usu- 
ally finds  its  way  to  facts,  even  through 
restrictive  theories.  And  it  would  be 
unfair  not  to  recognize  the  enlarged 
scope  offered  to  Puritan  thought  about 
God  by  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity. 
According  to  this,  God  presents  Himself 
to  us  in  three  contrasted  ways,  —  as 
the  ground  of  all  existence,  as  perfected 


humanity,  and  as  the  general  power, 
not  ourselves,  which  makes  for  right- 
eousness,—  all  these  being  manifesta- 
tions of  the  same  person.  This  pro- 
found doctrine  should,  especially  in  its 
third  phase,  have  checked  the  attempt 
to  think  of  God  as  an  empty  individual 
unit.  The  Trinity  makes  Him,  not  a 
unit,  but  a  unity.  Like  all  other  per- 
sons, his  nature  involves  differentiation 
and  forthgoing.  But  popular  associa- 
tions with  the  word  person  were  hard 
to  overcome,  and  the  puzzling  doc- 
trine easily  slipped  down  into  tritheism. 
When  so  held,  it  offered  as  troublesome 
perplexities  in  the  reconcilement  of  its 
members  as  the  Greeks  and  Romans 
felt  in  harmonizing  their  polytheistic 
pantheon. 

While,  then,  I  believe  that  American 
civilization  owes  more  to  Puritanism 
than  to  any  other  single  agency,  I  have 
no  desire  to  see  it  reestablished.  That 
is  plainly  impossible.  We  must  rethink 
its  problems  in  our  own  terms  and  even 
remould  its  beautiful  home-training, 
if  we  would  not  be  blind  to  what  the 
world  has  learned  since  the  Pilgrims 
landed. 

Each  age  has  what  may  be  called 
its  holy  passions.  Those  of  Puritan 
times  were  rationality,  order,  duty  re- 
garded as  personal  loyalty;  those  of 
to-day,  humanitarianism,  social  service, 
scientific  pursuit  of  ever-developing 
truth.  These  later  ideals,  though  slen- 
derly regarded  by  the  Puritans,  are  quite 
as  needful  as  their  own  in  the  fulfill- 
ment of  Christ's  moral  law.  Through 
them  the  spirit  of  Puritanism  acquires 
a  richer  significance. 


SUNSET 


BY  VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ 


THE  Duchess  of  Pontecorvo  left  her 
automobile  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  on 
which  the  village  of  Roquebrune  is  sit- 
uated, and,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
lackey,  began  the  ascent  of  the  steep, 
narrow,  winding  roads  leading  through 
that  fortress-town  of  the  Maritime 
Alps.  A  visit  to  Roquebrune  had  be- 
come something  habitual  with  the  old 
lady  on  afternoons  when  the  sky  was 
bright  and  cloudless.  She  had  found 
this  picturesque  nook  —  where  the 
streets,  paved  with  blue  cobblestones, 
are  often  tunnels  —  some  weeks  before, 
and  had  advertised  its  beauties  enthusi- 
astically among  all  her  friends.  Every 
day  she  herself  would  go  up  from  her 
villa  to  the  esplanade  in  front  of  the 
village  church,  to  enjoy  a  magnificent 
view  of  the  sunset. 

There  was  an  element  of  vanity  in 
this  daily  climb.  The  duchess  had  dis- 
covered something  unknown  to  the 
ordinary  resident  of  the  Mediterranean 
shore;  and  pride  in  her  achievement 
made  her  quite  forget  the  fatigue  im- 
posed upon  her  eighty  years  by  the 
walk  up  those  perpendicular  streets  of 
the  mediaeval  town,  too  narrow  for  a 
cart,  and  familiar  with  no  other  means 
of  locomotion  than  the  donkey  or  the 
mule  used  by  visitors  to  the  church. 

The  duchess  was  a  decidedly  flaccid, 
obese  person.  She  could  get  along  only 
with  the  help  of  a  gold-headed  bamboo 
cane  bequeathed  by  her  deceased  hus- 
band, the  Duke  of  Pontecorvo.  On 
this  walk,  however,  despite  the  chronic 


swelling  of  her  feet,  the  Duchess 
moved  with  a  certain  sprightly  youth- 
fulness  that  had  been  passed  on  to  her 
old  age  by  the  impatient,  nervous 
energy  of  her  mind. 

A  majestic,  a  Junoesque  beauty,  she 
must  have  been  in  her  younger  days. 
4  A  Marie  Antoinette  all  over  again,'  her 
flatterers  were  still  saying,  even  now, 
when  she  was  old.  Nevertheless,  two 
deep  lines  fell  from  her  sharp,  aquiline 
nose  upon  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and 
her  blue  eyes  were  faded  and  watery. 
She  habitually  dressed  in  black,  with 
an  impressive,  aristocratic  sobriety. 
Curls  of  white  hair,  far  too  thick  and 
lustrous  to  be  genuine,  strayed  from 
under  her  bonnet.  What  at  once  struck 
the  eye,  however,  the  thing  that  had 
made  her  famous  along  the  whole  coast, 
was  a  necklace,  the  'Necklace  of  the 
Duchess/  as  it  was  familiarly  called  — 
five  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
pearls,  according  to  the  estimates  of 
people  who  were  supposed  to  know! 
This  necklace  —  a  'dog-collar,'  in  the 
jargon  of  the  fashionable  world  —  was 
a  veritable  corset  for  her  neck  and 
throat,  flaming  like  one  great  jewel,  and 
hiding  in  a  blaze  of  glory  any  defects 
there  may  have  been  in  the  complexion 
of  her  wrinkly  skin. 

The  duchess  entered  the  church, 
which  was  quite  deserted  at  that  hour. 
The  lackey  left  her  side  and  stood  at 
respectful  attention  near  a  little  door, 
swung  out  from  one  side  of  the  building, 
and  casting  over  the  tiles  a  rectangle  of 

590 


600- 


SUNSET 


blue  shadow  broken  by  flickering  spots 
of  sunlight  as  round  and  glossy  as  coins 
of  gold.  The  footman  never  went  be- 
yond that  point.  The  duchess  preferred 
to  be  alone,  sole  sovereign  of  a  domain 
that  was  hers  by  right  of  discovery. 

The  lady  made  her  way  through  the 
church  and  stepped  out  through  another 
door  into  a  garden  lined  with  palm  trees. 
As  she  progressed,  her  cane  tapped  nois- 
ily on  the  red  flagstones  that  rose  and 
fell  unevenly  from  years  and  years  of 
exposure  to  sun  and  rain.  The  de- 
light the  duchess  knew  in  this  cler- 
ical retreat  came  from  the  charm  of 
contrast.  Everything  here  was  differ- 
ent from  the  sleek,  ornate,  majestic  ele- 
gance of  her  villa  down  below,  on  the 
edge  of  the  great  blue  Mediterranean 
plain.  On  this  mountain  terrace,  flow- 
ers were  growing  in  wild  freedom  and 
profusion.  Rose  bushes,  un trimmed,  un- 
cared-for, wove  their  branches  and 
thorns  and  blossoms  into  one  entranc- 
ing thicket  of  color  and  perfume.  The 
trees,  unpruned,  crowded  close  upon  one 
another,  even  intertwining  their  trunks 
to  make  strange,  fantastic,  almost 
human  forms.  Wild  flowers,  borne 
hither  on  the  winds,  were  disputing  the 
soil  with  garden  plants.  All  around  was 
one  confused  hum  of  insect  life  —  ants, 
wasps,  multi-colored  beetles,  crawling 
over  the  ground,  climbing  up  and  down 
the  tree-trunks,  or  flitting  musically 
through  the  air. 

What  the  duchess  was  really  looking 
for,  and  enjoying  in  advance,  was  the 
wonderful  view  that  opened  just  be- 
yond the  growth  of  trees,  where,  from  a 
sort  of  natural  balcony,  she  could  look 
out  from  a  great  height  upon  the  sea, 
and  then  down  along  the  curving  shore 
where  the  promontories  of  the  Alps  jut 
out,  making  gulfs  and  bays  and  penin- 
sulas in  the  azure  mirror.  In  the  dis- 
tance towered  the  mountains  of  Nice, 
peaks  that  stood  out  like  blocks  of 
ebony  against  the  crimson  afterglow. 


Nearer,  on  the  seashore,  rose  the  crag 
of  Monaco,  with  the  old  city  on  its 
back.  Then  came  the  plateau  of  Monte 
Carlo,  bristling  with  palaces  and  gar- 
dens. At  her  feet  lay  Cap  Martin, 
where  her  own  house  was  —  a  villa 
erected  among  the  pine  groves  by  the 
late  Duke  of  Pontecorvo.  Near  by  was 
the  summer  house  of  her  friend  and 
former  patroness,  the  Empress  Eugenie, 
with  the  residences  of  other  princes  and 
dethroned  monarchs.  There,  also,  was 
the  huge  palace  of  John  Baldwin,  an 
American  iron  king,  who  was  regarded 
in  those  parts  as  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  the  world. 

The  old  lady  pushed  her  way  through 
the  shrubbery  along  the  brink  of  the 
precipitous  slope,  in  search  of  one  par- 
ticular spot  from  which  the  whole 
panorama  of  the  Blue  Coast  spread  out 
before  her  delighted  eyes.  There  she 
could  sit  for  an  hour  or  more,  watching 
the  slow,  placid  death  of  the  afternoon. 
No  one  surely  would  disturb  her  in  that 
tranquil  garden.  There  she  could  rest 
for  a  time,  far  away  from  all  common 
cares  of  the  world,  take  one  delicious 
plunge,  as  it  were,  into  the  glory  of  the 
sunset,  at  an  hour  when  the  tenderest 
memories  of  the  past  return,  —  thoughts 
of  all  that  has  been  and  will  never  be 
again,  —  like  a  sweet  and  melancholy 
music  coming  to  the  ear  from  far  away, 
or  a  lingering  perfume  of  dead  flowers 
that  will  bloom  no  more! 

There  was  something  selfish  in  this 
daily  recreation  of  the  duchess.  She 
was  like  some  despot  of  music,  who  has 
an  opera  sung  to  an  empty  theatre 
while  he  sits  alone  there,  lying  back  at 
his  ease  in  the  depths  of  an  upholstered 
chair.  The  wondrous  beauty  of  that 
dying  sun,  the  purple  mourning  colors 
that  draped  the  sky  and  the  sea  of  that 
Mediterranean  paradise  were  things 
she  wanted  all  for  herself.  And  in  that 
garden  she  could  have  them. 

On  this  occasion,  when  the  duchess 


SUNSET 


601 


reached  her  favorite  retreat,  she  noticed, 
with  some  traces  of  annoyance,  that 
she  was  not,  as  usual,  entirely  alone.  A 
smell  of  tobacco  smoke  mingled  per- 
ceptibly with  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers.  She  heard  a  cough  behind  the 
intertwining  branches  of  the  trees.  A 
man  had  invaded  her  dominions  and 
was  enjoying  the  view  which  she  had 
chosen  to  call  her  own. 

The  old  lady  was  tempted  to  protest, 
as  if  a  trespasser  had  ventured  on 
property  of  hers.  And  yet,  when  the 
intruder  appeared  and  stepped  toward 
her,  the  expression  of  displeasure  on  her 
face  changed  to  one  of  cordial  greeting. 

'Oh,  it 's  you,  Mr.  Baldwin.  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you  here.' 

II 

Whenever,  from  time  to  time,  John 
Baldwin,  the  American  multimillionaire, 
came  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the  palace 
on  Cap  Martin,  which  he  had  bought 
through  a  newspaper  advertisement, 
he  attracted  the  attention  of  the  whole 
Blue  Coast.  Though  any  number  of 
forgotten  celebrities  — •  ex-premiers,  de- 
throned monarchs,  retired  magnates  — 
could  be  found  in  the  small  strip  of  ter- 
ritory that  stretches  between  Cannes 
and  Mentone,  there  was  not  a  single 
'winterer'  on  the  Riviera  comparable 
to  him.  The  authorities  were  always 
soliciting  his  aid  for  public  charities. 
Philanthropic  organizations  were  for- 
ever sending  the  most  important  men 
of  the  native  population  to  knock  at  his 
door  in  the  interest  of  this  or  that  good 
work.  Every  theatrical  or  musical  func- 
tion showed  his  name  among  its  patrons. 
The  omnipotent  millionaire  was  some- 
thing like  a  god,  who  never  reveals  him- 
self to  profane  eyes,  but  makes  his 
presence  felt  everywhere  through  his 
miracles. 

Visitors  to  his  beautiful  palace  were 
rarely  received  by  him  in  person, 


though  just  as  rarely,  if  they  came  for 
any  defensible  purpose,  did  they  go 
away  without  some  donation.  The  few 
who  had  met  him  personally  would 
point  him  out  as  a  real  curiosity  when 
he  appeared  on  the  boulevard  in  Nice, 
or  in  one  of  the  gambling-rooms  at 
Monte  Carlo.  'Do  you  know?  That  is 
Baldwin  over  there  —  Baldwin,  the 
American  millionaire!'  Such  informa- 
tion would  usually  be  received  with  an 
exclamation  of  surprise.  'What!  Bald- 
win? That,  Baldwin?  Why,  he  looks 
as  poor  as  a  rat!' 

Baldwin,  in  fact,  always  dressed  very 
plainly;  and  his  habits  were  as  simple 
as  his  clothes.  Though  his  garages  on 
Cap  Martin  held  numerous  automobiles 
of  the  most  fashionable  makes,  he  went 
almost  everywhere  on  foot.  He  chose 
his  secretaries  for  their  refinement  and 
good  taste  in  dress.  He  seemed  to  en- 
joy being  taken  for  the  servant  of  the 
elegant  secretaries  who  sometimes  went 
with  him  on  his  walks. 

People  described  him  ordinarily  as 
'the  richest  man  on  earth.'  Those  who 
pretended  greater  intimacy  with  his 
affairs  asserted  that  he  had  a  million 
dollars  on  his  checking  account  at  the 
bank.  When  asked  why  he  allowed 
such  an  enormous  capital  to  lie  idle,  he 
would  answer  with  a  sigh  of  weariness. 
Money  bored  him  so!  What  could  he 
do  with  money?  It  was  impossible  to 
invest  it  in  anything  better  than  his  own 
business;  and  since  his  various  enter- 
prises in  mining  and  manufacturing  had 
already  reached  their  maximum  devel- 
opment and  were  in  need  of  no  further 
capital,  why  should  he  worry? 

The  Duchess  of  Pontecorvo  had 
known  Baldwin  ever  since  he  became 
her  neighbor  on  Cap  Martin  —  the 
friendship  of  an  old  lady,  famous  in  her 
time,  but  now  forgotten,  with  a  rich 
man  whose  name  was  a  catchword 
throughout  the  world.  The  duchess 
had  found  times  much  changed  since 


602 


SUNSET 


the  days  of  her  youth.  Countries  where 
she  had  been  intimate  with  royalty  had 
become  republics.  In  the  present  dem- 
ocratic age,  millionaires  like  Baldwin 
were  the  real  lords  of  the  earth.  She 
herself  had  spent  the  larger  part  of  her 
former  fortune  on  the  careers  of  her 
children,  and  for  years  had  been  living 
a  life  of  gilded  poverty,  which  allowed 
only  infrequent  excursions  from  her 
villa  on  Cap  Martin. 

That  is  why  the  aged  aristocrat  felt 
the  greatest  respect  for  this  potentate 
of  a  younger  age;  and  that  is  why  she 
smiled  so  cordially  when  she  discovered 
that  the  intruder  on  her  solitude  was 
the  American  millionaire.  Hitherto  she 
had  seen  him  at  social  gatherings,  of 
an  afternoon,  in  sombre  palace  halls, 
where  the  lighting  was  controlled  by 
older  hostesses,  careful  to  avoid  the 
glaring,  indiscreet  rays  of  unobstructed 
sunlight.  Now,  here  he  was  before  her 
in  the  open  air,  and  in  that  garden  where 
trees  and  stones  seemed  to  have  halos 
of  green  around  them,  so  intense  was 
the  golden  radiance  dripping  from  the 
sky. 

She  was  eighty,  and  he  was  quite  as 
old,  if  not,  as  the  duchess  suspected,  a 
few  years  older.  But  he  was  still  a 
strong  man,  one  of  those  hard,  wiry, 
elastic  persons  on  whom  the  storms  of 
the  years  beat  as  on  a  marble  temple, 
roughening  the  surface,  perhaps,  but 
powerless  to  break  them  down.  Old 
age  seemed  to  have  toughened  John 
Baldwin,  throwing  a  wrapper  of  parch- 
ment, as  it  were,  around  him,  an  armor 
proof  against  disease  and  impenetrable 
to  the  shafts  of  death.  His  dark-blue 
suit  had  been  cut  to  fit  him;  yet  he 
seemed  to  move  about  in  it  as  if  it  had 
been  made  for  another  person.  The 
slenderness  of  his  neck  emphasized  the 
massive  structure  of  his  head  —  a  prom- 
inent, bulging  forehead,  a  strong,  pro- 
truding lower  jaw,  evidences  of  intelli- 
gence and  will,  remnants  of  a  vigorous 


youth,  which  the  deep  lines  of  his  aged 
face  had  not  been  able  to  obscure. 

And  his  eyes,  also !  His  eyes  were  as 
bright  as  they  had  ever  been.  It  was 
easy  to  guess  how  they  must  have 
flashed  in  his  angry  moments  as  a 
youth.  They  looked  out  upon  you  with 
the  piercing,  disconcerting  glare  that 
belongs  to  men  who  are  masters  of  men. 
In  them  one  could  see  the  secret  of  his 
great  worldly  success.  And  yet  their 
outlines  were  somewhat  softened  now 
by  a  trace  of  gentleness  and  kindliness. 
They  suggested  willingness  on  a  fighter's 
part  to  forget  the  struggles  of  the  past. 

At  sight  of  the  duchess,  Baldwin 
threw  away  the  smashed  and  much- 
chewed  cigar-butt  he  had  been  smoking. 

'How  do  you  happen  to  be  here? '  the 
duchess  asked,  offering  her  hand  in  cor- 
dial greeting. 

'  Oh,  one  of  my  friends  told  me  about 
the  view  from  here.  He  heard  you  de- 
scribe it  so  enthusiastically  the  other 
day!  I  thought  I  would  come  and  have 
a  look  at  it  myself.  You  are  right, 
madame!  It  is  wonderful!' 

They  sat  down  on  a  rustic  bench  of 
tree-trunks,  looking  out  over  the  sea  at 
their  feet,  the  villages  along  the  shore, 
and  the  distant  foothills  of  the  Alps. 
Automobiles,  like  so  many  insects,  were 
running  along  the  thread-like  roadways 
visible  far  down  at  the  foot  of  the  hills. 
A  train  was  in  sight  on  the  Franco- 
Italian  railroad,  though  at  that  distance 
the  locomotive  seemed  to  be  puffing  in 
silence  and  there  was  no  rumbling  of  the 
wheels.  In  fact,  the  stillness  of  the  gar- 
den was  broken  only  by  the  tinkling  of 
little  bells  that  came  from  a  herd  of 
goats  grazing  along  the  slopes  below  the 
garden  —  a  soft,  mellow  tinkling,  like 
the  ring  from  a  Venetian  glass.  The 
sea  had  turned  to  a  more  subdued 
azure,  less  harsh  on  the  eyes  than  pre- 
viously in  the  blinding  deluge  of  light 
rained  upon  it  from  the  sun. 

'Yes,  it  is  beautiful! '  said  the  duchess 


SUNSET 


603 


after  a  long  pause.    'It  is  wonderful!' 

As  they  sat  there  in  silence,  the  full 
solemnity  of  the  dying  day  came  over 
them.  'What  a  pity  it  is,'  Baldwin 
observed,  '  that  we  have  to  wait  till  we 
are  old  before  we  can  enjoy  the  deepest 
and  sweetest  pleasures  of  life!  When 
we  are  young,  we  are  always  worried 
about  things.  We  are  looking  forward 
all  the  time.  Our  hopes  and  ambitions 
blind  our  eyes  to  the  things  actually 
present  before  us.  I  imagine  that  many 
of  the  men  I  used  to  know,  if  they 
could  rise  from  their  graves  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ocean  and  come  here  now, 
would  be  surprised  to  see  old  man  Bald- 
win stopping  to  look  at  a  landscape  and 
actually  enjoying  it,  without  a  thought 
for  the  ups  and  downs  of  exchange!' 

The  duchess  nodded  without  clearly 
foreseeing  what  her  companion  was 
about  to  say. 

'I  imagine  that  you,  too,'  he  con- 
tinued, '  have  had  to  wait  for  the  years 
to  go  by  before  you  could  take  a  really 
true  delight  in  the  beauties  of  Nature; 
though  women,  as  a  rule,  are  born  more 
poetic,  more  sentimental,  than  men, 
and  when  they  are  young,  furthermore, 
have  more  time  to  devote  to  what  are 
called  "higher"  things.  I  am  sure  you 
are  enjoying  what  you  see  before  you 
quite  as  much  as  you  used  to  enjoy  a 
soiree  at  the  Tuileries.' 

Again  the  duchess  nodded,  quite  flat- 
tered that  the  powerful  personage  at 
her  side  should  take  an  interest  in  her 
humble  self.  Something  of  her  vanished 
coquetry  came  to  life  again.  Baldwin, 
the  richest  man  in  the  world,  had  come 
to  visit  that  remote  garden  just  because 
she  had  praised  it  to  one  of  his  friends! 
These  new  bourgeois  upstarts  of  the 
day  were  not  so  hard,  so  lacking  in  all 
feeling,  as  she  had  been  told.  She  began 
to  talk  of  her  past  as  if  the  aged  Amer- 
ican were  an  old  friend  of  hers. 

'You  are  right,' she  said.  'The  life  I 
am  leading  now  is  not  so  brilliant  as  the 


life  of  gayety  I  led  when  I  was  young. 
But  it  has  its  consolations.  You  see,  I 
have  suffered  a  great  deal  in  my  time, 
Mr.  Baldwin.  People's  lives  are  some- 
thing like  houses,  are  n't  they?  You 
have  to  live  in  them  before  you  know 
what  they  really  are.' 

The  American  millionaire  had  heard 
many  stories  about  the  career  of  the 
duchess  in  the  old  days.  She  had  been  a 
very  interesting  person;  and  he  began 
to  listen  to  her  story  attentively. 

The  Duchess  of  Pontecorvo  was  a 
Spanish  woman,  by  birth  distantly  re- 
lated to  the  Empress  Eugenie.  She  had 
come  to  Paris  to  join  the  galaxy  of 
beauties  that  revolved  around  the  mag- 
nificent sovereign  in  the  Tuileries.  Her 
family,  of  the  ancient  Spanish  nobility, 
had  long  since  been  ruined;  so  the 
Empress  tried  to  arrange  a  suitable 
marriage  for  her  protegee  with  some 
important  personage  in  France.  The 
man  in  whom  the  young  lady  showed 
greatest  interest  was  a  general  in  Napo- 
leon's army,  who  had  just  received  a 
title  of  duke  —  Duke  of  Pontecorvo  — 
for  a  victory  his  division  had  won  in  the 
wars  in  Italy. 

The  duchess  made  no  mystery  of  the 
incompatibility  of  taste  and  tempera- 
ment between  herself  and  the  rough 
soldier  she  finally  married.  But  life  at 
court  was  so  gay  that  domestic  troubles 
were  not  terribly  oppressive.  She  had 
found  life  quite  tolerable.  When  the 
Empire  fell,  and  all  the  brilliant  life 
that  centred  around  the  Court  in  Paris 
came  to  an  end,  the  marshal  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  He  could  not  survive  the 
overthrow  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
shock  of  the  great  disaster  of  1870.  Two 
children,  boys,  had  been  born  to  the 
duchess.  They  in  turn  had  set  up  new 
families  and  carried  off  the  greater  part 
of  their  father's  fortune. 

To  escape  unpleasant  contrasts  be- 
tween her  former  splendor  and  the 
modest  way  in  which  she  now  had  to 


604 


SUNSET 


live,  the  widowed  duchess  went  to  Cap 
Martin,  intending  to  spend  the  rest  of 
her  life  in  the  palace  that  had  been  her 
vacation  home  in  the  days  of  her  splen- 
dor. There  she  could  live  in  company 
with  old  friends  from  earlier  times, 
without  obtruding  the  decline  in  her 
resources. 

The  Empress  was  a  not  infrequent 
visitor  to  the  Riviera.  When  Eugenie 
came  to  Cap  Martin,  she  would  pay  a 
visit  to  the  duchess;  and  the  two  old 
ladies,  dressed  in  their  widow's  weeds, 
would  talk  of  the  happy  days  gone  by. 
But  now  the  Empress  was  dead ;  and  the 
passing  of  that  lifelong  friend  brought 
home  to  the  duchess  the  short  time  that 
must  be  left  before  she  too  passed  on. 

Only  one  memento  was  still  left  from 
her  really  brilliant  youth  —  her  neck- 
lace, the  'Necklace  of  the  Duchess,'  a 
jewel  so  closely  identified  with  her 
fame  that  to  dispose  of  it  would  be  a 
public  declaration  of  poverty. 

'You  are  right,  Mr.  Baldwin,'  she 
continued.  'Old  age  does  have  its 
pleasures.  I  am  now  well  acquainted 
with  something  that  I  never  knew  be- 
fore —  peace,  quiet,  tranquillity.  I  have 
no  ambitions  left,  of  course.  I  have  so 
restricted  my  daily  needs  that  there  is 
hardly  a  thing  in  the  world  I  really 
want.  Life  does  not  call  to  me  with  the 
vibrant  voice  that  it  used  to  have  before. 
At  the  same  time  it  is  without  the  old 
sorrows  and  the  old  worries.  At  our 
age,  for  instance,  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  love;  but  yet,  there  is  friendship! 
And  how  much  more  wonderful  and 
lasting  than  love  that  sometimes  is! 
You  can't  imagine  what  a  beautiful 
woman,  a  woman  whom  many,  many 
men  desire,  has  to  go  through  in  life. 
You  live  in  a  state  of  perpetual  alarm. 
You  are  afraid  to  venture  on  the  slight- 
est intimacy  with  a  man.  The  moment 
one  appears,  you  come  to  regard  him  as 
a  possible  enemy.  The  life  of  a  great 
beauty  is  like  that  of  the  commander  of 


a  fortress  under  siege:  she  never  has  a 
moment's  rest! 

'For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am 
free  to  enjoy  friendship,  comradeship, 
with  men.  That  is  something  I  never 
knew  when  I  was  young.  It  was  a  great 
surprise  to  me  to  find  that  a  man  need 
not  necessarily  be  a  torment!  But  at 
our  age,  you  see,  people  are  not  men 
and  women.  They  are  friends,  com- 
panions, comrades.  When  passion  is 
once  out  of  the  way,  all  the  other  beau- 
ties of  the  human  soul  come  more  into 
evidence  and  seem  more  attractive  in 
our  eyes. 

'  Of  course,  sometimes,  when  I  see  a 
pretty,  charming,  popular  young  girl, 
I  remember  my  own  days  of  triumph, 
and  feel  a  flash  of  envy;  but  I  soon  get 
over  that.  Why  envy  them?  Some  day 
they  will  be  old,  too.  They  will  reach 
the  point  that  I  have  reached.  The  fact 
is,  I  suppose,  one  can  be  really  selfish 
when  one  is  old.  One  can  just  live,  and 
feel  all  the  delights  of  just  living  — 
something  that  a  young  person  never 
dreams  of.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Baldwin,  I 
am  not  at  all  sorry  that  I  am  eighty 
years  old;  and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you, 
after  your  long  and  active  life,  feel  as  I 
do  about  it.' 

'Well,  yes,'  the  old  man  replied,  mus- 
ing sadly;  'yes  —  if  only  we  could 
always  be  old!  But  there's  death, 
is  n't  there?' 

The  animation  with  which  the  duch- 
ess had  been  speaking  vanished  from 
her  face,  and  there  was  a  tremor  of  sad- 
ness in  her  voice  as  she  replied :  — 

'Yes,  that  is  true.  There's  death! 
We  old  people  have  not  very  long  to 
live!' 

ni 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  the 
old  man  expressed  aloud  all  that  he  had 
been  thinking  while  the  duchess  was 
telling  the  story  of  her  life.  He,  too, 
found  a  strong  contrast  between  the 


SUNSET 


605 


present  and  the  past;  but  he  did  not 
regret  his  retirement,  after  a  life  so  full 
of  energy  that  the  greatest  business  men 
in  the  world  had  considered  him  the 
type  of  the  man  of  action.  After  all, 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
go  on  working  forever.  What  could 
he  do  that  he  had  not  already  done? 
There  was  really  no  role  left  for  John 
Baldwin  to  play  in  the  comedy  —  the 
tragedy  —  of  life.  And  yet  he  went  on 
living,  because  there  is  something  in  us 
that  makes  us  want  to  live,  quite  aside 
from  all  the  calculations  and  conven- 
iences of  men ! 

'You  have  no  idea,  duchess,  of  the 
real  extent  of  my  business  enterprises. 
People  call  me  rich ;  but  that  word  gives 
no  adequate  idea  of  the  wealth  I  actu- 
ally have.  Half  the  world  would  have 
to  go  bankrupt  before  I  could  be  entire- 
ly ruined.  I  have  to  think  up  devices 
for  restricting  the  growth  of  my  income. 
I  leave  enormous  sums  of  money  lying 
idle  in  the  banks  just  because  I  have 
more  money  than  I  can  possibly  use.  I 
find  it  annoying  to  have  so  much  around. 

'I  say  I  have  seen  everything,  and 
where  I  have  not  been  I  could  easily  be 
to-morrow,  if  I  thought  it  worth  while. 
But  none  of  the  things  that  attract  men 
ordinarily  have  any  charm  for  me  now. 
I  am  so  old  that  I  see  the  futility  of  all 
the  varieties  of  human  vanity.  I  have 
no  children,  and  my  one  concern  is  to 
find  ways  to  invest  my  money  where  it 
will  do  some  good  after  I  am  gone. 

'Well,  I  have  founded  libraries,  mu- 
seums, and  universities.  I  have  endow- 
ed charitable  organizations  —  though 
my  reason  tells  me  that  charity  is 
of  no  particular  use  in  this  world.  I 
spend  my  money  often  without  exam- 
ining the  bases  of  the  requests  that  are 
made  of  me.  I  am  tired  of  buying  pic- 
tures and  subsidizing  books  that  do  not 
pay.  I  am  also  tired  of  giving  money  for 
the  progress  of  science  and  invention. 
Good  enough,  in  their  way,  such  things 


—  when  you  are  young  and  enthus- 
iastic, and  believe  in  the  future!  Now  I 
have  no  enthusiasm  about  anything; 
and  as  for  the  future  —  ' 

The  old  man  fell  silent  for  a  time. 
Then  he  resumed,  in  a  voice  not  un- 
touched with  rancor:  — 

'As  for  the  future,  the  future  does 
interest  me,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  way 
exciting  business  propositions  interested 
me  when  I  was  young.  Sometimes,  when 
I  meet  ragged  newsboys  on  the  street, 
or  little  cowherds  on  the  mountainsides, 
I  feel  a  sort  of  jealous  anger  at  them. 
They  are  so  young,  those  little  shavers! 
They  are  sure  to  live  so  much  longer 
than  I  can  ever  live!  "Ah,  you  little 
rogues,"  I  say  to  myself,  "you  will  be 
here  to  see  things  that  I  shall  have  no 
chance  to  see."  The  thought  makes  me 
feel  how  useless  money  is,  how  absurd 
the  respect  it  inspires  in  everyone! 
The  famous  John  Baldwin,  for  all  his 
two  billions,  is  worth,  in  terms  of  future 
experience,  less  than  a  little  beggar 
who  crawls  along  on  all  fours  to  pick  up 
the  cigar-butt  you  are  throwing  away! 

'We  are  living  in  1920.  Sometimes  I 
amuse  myself  by  wondering  what  things 
will  be  like  when  you  double  the  twenty 
part  of  it  — 1940!  What  are  twenty 
years  for  any  of  the  young  people  who 
are  now  around  us?  They  are  so  sure  of 
living  that  long,  that  they  are  ready  to 
risk  their  chance  on  it  for  a  passing 
moment's  pleasure.  And  I,  John  Bald- 
win, who  have  stood  before  the  kings  of 
the  earth,  and  am  a  king  myself  so  far 
as  money  and  power  are  concerned, 
could  not  for  all  my  wealth  buy  those 
twenty  years,  if  I  took  into  my  service 
all  the  intelligence  and  science  in  the 
world.' 

The  two  old  people  lapsed  into  silence 
again. 

'I  have  seen  everything,'  Baldwin 
finally  resumed,  'and  I  have  had  every- 
thing. For  that  very  reason  life  has  no 
more  attractions  for  me.  And  yet  I  still 


606 


SUNSET 


want  to  live!  The  certainty  that  I  am 
soon  to  die  angers  me,  depresses  me, 
beyond  endurance.  I  suppose  it  is  the 
idleness  of  my  retirement  that  makes 
me  think  of  such  things  now,  and  em- 
phasizes reality  as  it  is.  The  old  days 
were  days  of  struggle.  There  were 
obstacles  to  overcome,  problems  to 
solve.  There  is  a  kind  of  poetry  in 
youth,  and  poetry  disguises  things, 
throws  a  veil  of  illusion  over  them,  so 
that  the  dreamer  never  sees  them  as 
they  really  are.  In  my  case  it  was  the 
thirst  for  power;  and  the  pursuit  of 
power  was  an  absorbing,  an  inspiring 
preoccupation.  Now  that  everything 
has  come  to  me,  the  enchantment  is 
gone.  I  see  the  framework  of  fatuity 
that  underlies  human  existence;  and  on 
that  my  eyes,  by  a  strange  perversity  of 
old  age,  are  fixed.  It  is  as  if  a  man  saw 
only  the  skeleton  under  the  beauty  of 
an  attractive  woman. 

*  I  remember  how  anxiously  I  used  to 
wait  for  the  outcome  of  enterprises  that 
meant  success  or  total  ruin  for  me.  I 
have  lost  four  fortunes  in  my  time. 
More  often  it  was  a  great  triumph. 
Now,  the  arrival  of  a  cablegram  fails  to 
give  me  the  slightest  thrill.  Whatever 
the  message  it  contains,  I  know  it  will 
make  very  little  difference  in  the  mass 
of  my  possessions  or  achievements. 
Most  people,  when  they  have  fought  a 
long  battle  to  make  a  fortune,  have  to 
make  a  second  and  sometimes  harder 
fight  to  keep  what  they  have  earned.  I 
am  beyond  all  such  worries.  My  vic- 
tory has  been  so  overwhelming,  so  com- 
plete, that  my  wealth  stands  there  on 
its  own  feet,  and  a  generation  of  the 
world's  activities  could  hardly  over- 
throw it.  Well,  there  you  are!  What 
have  I  to  live  for?' 

The  duchess,  in  her  humble  way,  had 
many  pet  charities  in  which  she  was 
always  trying  to  interest  her  more  for- 
tunate society  friends.  She  was  going 
to  mention  one  of  them  when  she 


remembered  what  the  great  American 
had  said  some  moments  before.  Bald- 
win did  not  believe  in  charity,  though 
he  practised  it  in  a  more  or  less  casual 
way,  giving  money  to  those  who  asked 
for  it  just  because  they  asked  for  it. 
Besides,  she  was  loath  to  break  in  with 
any  commonplace  advice  on  what  was 
obviously  a  despairing  confession  on  the 
part  of  the  old  man,  prompted  by  the 
melancholy  beauty  of  the  afternoon. 

'I  have  no  hopes  unrealized,  no 
desires  unsatisfied,'  he  continued.  '  Yet 
I  don't  want  to  die.  Death  seems  to 
me  something  insulting,  something  un- 
worthy of  me,  something  beneath  my 
dignity  as  a  man.  Strange,  is  n't  it? 
Everything  in  life  is  so  complicated, 
so  mysterious,  so  hard  to  understand. 
Nothing  is  ever  simple.  The  moment 
we  go  beyond  the  obvious  occupations 
of  everyday  life,  things  become  involved 
beyond  our  comprehension.  Death,  for 
instance —  Well,  people  have  been 
talking  about  death  for  thousands  and 
thousands  of  years,  everybody  saying 
the  same  things,  so  that  we  have  hun- 
dreds of  trite  expressions  and  aphor- 
isms, which  we  repeat  mechanically 
without  thinking  even  of  what  they 
mean.  It  is  only  when  we  get  old  and 
find  death  right  before  us  that  we  see 
fate  in  its  actual  outlines,  and  come  to 
understand  the  full  measure  of  human 
misery. 

'Some  people  find  consolation  in  the 
fact  that  death  is  the  great  leveler,  that 
death  represents  democracy,  equality. 
Well,  that  reflection  may  be  of  some  use 
to  the  millions  of  unfortunates  who  have 
got  nothing  out  of  life.  For  such,  death 
may  represent  the  revenge  of  those  who 
have  failed,  the  satisfaction  of  those 
who  are  envious  of  others.  But  that  is 
not  my  case.  I  am  one  of  the  successful 
men.  What  have  I  to  gain  by  death? 

'The  thought  of  death  as  a  long,  re- 
freshing sleep,  the  slumber  that  restores 
our  wearied  strength,  is  just  as  meaning- 


SUNSET 


607 


less.  The  man  who  lies  down  to  sleep 
knows  that  he  will  wake  up  again  in  the 
morning.  Death  as  sleep  is  a  fancy  of 
religion,  the  great  consoler  of  human 
ignorance.  At  best,  the  notion  is  but  a 
hope,  a  prophecy,  that  may  or  may  not 
be  fulfilled.  We  are  not  sure  that  the 
night  of  death  will  ever  break  into  a  new 
dawn! 

'The  poets  have  compared  death  to 
winter-time,  a  period  of  cold  and  silence, 
preceding  and  preparing  the  rebirth  of 
springtime,  the  splendor  and  exuber- 
ance of  summer.  That,  also,  is  a  guess, 
a  speculation,  an  attempt  to  snatch  a 
grain  of  consolation  from  the  infinite 
unknown.' 

The  sun  was  just  touching  the  higher 
peaks  of  the  western  mountains,  casting 
a  dust  of  golden  rose  along  the  horizon, 
and  unwinding  a  sash  of  violet  and  blue 
along  the  sea-line  to  the  south.  Some  of 
the  peaks  seemed  to  be  catching  fire 
from  a  gigantic  furnace  flaming  beyond 
and  within  them.  The  old  man  pointed 
his  cane  at  the  sinking  sun. 

'  The  death  of  the  sun  is  not  death  at 
all.  That  sun  knows  that  he  will  rise 
to-morrow  morning  in  the  east,  and 
retra verse  the  path  of  glory  he  has  fol- 
lowed for  thousands  and  thousands  of 
centuries.  I  imagine  that  is  why,  each 
evening,  he  bids  us  farewell  so  gloriously. 
He  reminds  one  of  a  great  actor  who  does 
a  great  death-scene  on  the  stage,  with 
his  mind  on  the  midnight  supper  he  is  to 
have  in  the  cafe  an  hour  later.  No,  we 
do  not  die  like  that.  With  us  it  is  once 
and  for  always;  and  what  makes  mat- 
ters worse,  almost,  is  that,  when  we  get 
ready  to  depart,  we  see  others  in  the  full 
flush  of  youth  coming  on  to  take  our 
places. 

'Sometimes  I  envy  the  great  trees  in 
the  forest.  They  die  so  slowly  and  so 
resignedly.  They  keep  the  ground  un- 
derneath them  dark.  There  are  no  im- 
pudent saplings  rising  in  the  shade,  to 
taunt  the  agony  of  the  giant  with  his 


helplessness.  Human  beings  are  not  so 
fortunate.  Decrepitude  comes  over  us, 
while  the  young  people  about  us  are 
beaming  with  the  radiant  prospects  of 
their  long  futures.' 

The  duchess  was  listening  atten- 
tively, because  she  judged  that  every- 
thing that  such  a  celebrity  thought  and 
said  must  be  important.  Nevertheless, 
all  that  brooding  over  death  disquieted 
her.  Could  n't  he  talk  on  some  more 
pleasant  subject?  Had  n't  he  heard  any 
new  gossip  about  the  people  living  along 
the  coast  ?  There  was  that  young  woman 
in  the  house  on  the  Cape.  Did  n't  he 
know  what  people  were  saying  about 
her?  Why  should  old  people  worry 
about  death,  anyhow?  Death  comes 
to  them  soon  enough  without  their 
troubling  to  send  a  special  invitation! 

When  the  duchess  timidly  ventured 
this  last  reflection,  Mr.  Baldwin  showed 
himself  the  man  of  authority,  the 
man  accustomed  to  holding  the  floor 
at  directors'  meetings.  He  did  not 
choose  to  be  distracted  from  his  line  of 
thought.  He  went  on  talking,  but  in  a 
lower  voice,  and  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  as  if  he  were  embarrassed  in 
advance  by  the  complaint  he  was  to 
make  against  destiny. 

'Human  life  reminds  me  of  a  badly 
managed  piece  of  business,  where  the 
superintendent  is  either  a  lunatic  or  a 
malicious  fool.  Life  never  succeeds  in 
doing  what  it  undertakes  to  do.  When 
we  are  young,  we  work  to  make  our 
way  in  the  world.  We  set.  out  after 
glory  and  wealth.  In  attaining  them, 
we  waste  the  years  when  the  possession 
of  them  would  do  us  any  good.  We  find 
success  when  we  are  old,  at  a  time 
when  success  and  failure  are  much  the 
same  thing.  The  years  when  we  might 
enjoy  them  are  years  usually  of  sacrifice 
and  renunciation. 

'Just  imagine,  duchess!  For  years 
and  years  I  worked  like  a  dog,  shut  up 
in  dark  offices  or  in  smoky  factories, 


608 


SUNSET 


when,  outside,  the  sun  was  shining  and 
the  gardens  were  in  flower.  Now,  when 
I  have  everything,  I  can  even  improve 
on  Nature,  if  she  does  n't  satisfy  me.  I 
can  make  a  paradise  out  of  a  desert. 
Do  you  know  that  many  women  who 
found  me  impossible  when  I  was  young, 
I  could  now  persuade  to  love  me,  old 
and  decrepit  as  I  am?  Money  is  a  won- 
derful thing,  duchess  —  when  you  don't 
have  it! 

'People  all  consider  themselves  im- 
mortal. A  man  knows  all  along  that 
some  day  he  is  going  to  die;  but  death 
is  always  a  concern  for  some  future  day. 
It  is  never  real  to  the  moment !  We  find 
it  natural  that  other  people  should 
die.  As  for  ourselves,  death  is  some- 
thing incredible,  almost  impossible.  The 
young  people  of  the  present  would  not 
understand  us  if  they  heard  us  talking 
now.  They  will  have  to  wait  till  they 
get  older,  to  know  the  full  misery  of 
human  life.  But  when  their  turn  comes, 
they  will  moralize  as  we  are  doing,  and 
prove  just  as  unintelligible  to  the  genera- 
tion after  them. 

'People  like  to  delude  themselves. 
They  refuse  to  think  of  death  in  the 
midst  of  their  happiness.' 

At  this  point  the  duchess  broke  in, 
to  emphasize  the  necessity  of  illusion, 
without  which  life  would  be  impossible. 
The  old  man  agreed. 

'Yes,'  he  said,  'we  must  deceive  our- 
selves in  order  to  go  on  living.  We  all 
pass  through  life  on  the  wings  of  some 
dream  or  other  —  all  of  us,  even  those 
who  seem  furthest  removed  from  any 
kind  of  sentiment.  You  think  me  a  hard 
man,  don't  you,  duchess?  Well,  all  my 
life  long  I  have  been  chasing  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  living  on  an  illusion  that  in 
every  moment  of  trial  has  given  me 
strength  and  courage  to  push  on.' 

Baldwin  reviewed  the  story  of  his  life 
from<the  days  of  the  Civil  War,  when  he 
had  thrown  up  a  promising  business 
position  to  become  a  soldier.  When, 


after  the  war,  he  had  saved  his  first 
thousand  dollars,  he  went  to  Europe, 
and  was  in  Paris  once  during  the  later 
years  of  Napoleon's  reign,  at  the  time 
of  the  famous  Exposition. 

'That  was  where  I  saw  you  first, 
duchess,  when  all  Paris  was  talking 
about  your  beauty,  your  splendor,  the 
magnificence  of  your  entourage.' 

'O  Mr.  Baldwin!'  the  duchess  inter- 
rupted, very  much  flattered.  'What  a 
pity  you  were  never  introduced!  It 
would  have  been  so  delightful  to  know 
you  when  you  were  young.' 

'I  should  never  have  been  received,' 
Baldwin  replied.  'I  was  a  young  fellow, 
vigorous,  and  not  bad-looking,  perhaps; 
but  something  far  less  presentable  than 
the  old  man  you  see  before  you.  I  was 
very  poor  then,  and  struggling  for  an 
education.  I  had  nothing  of  what  is 
called  breeding.  My  hands  were  rough 
and  calloused  from  manual  toil.  No,  it 
did  n't  even  occur  to  the  John  Baldwin 
of  those  days  that  he  could  have  a  place 
at  one  of  your  receptions.  I  was  con- 
tent with  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  lost 
in  the  Exposition  crowds,  on  the  chance 
that  the  Emperor  would  pass  that  way 
in  an  open  carriage,  with  the  Empress 
at  his  side,  and,  in  attendance  on  her, 
the  Duchess  of  Pontecorvo,  then  in  the 
full  effulgence  of  her  youth  and  beauty.' 

'O  Mr.  Baldwin!'  the  Duchess  said 
again,  looking  at  the  ground,  while  a 
faint  blush  overspread  her  pale  wrinkled 
cheeks. 

'Well,'  the  American  continued, 
'that  is  when  I  saw  you  first;  and,  do 
you  know,  I  have  never  forgotten  you 
all  my  life  long !  You  see,  boys  have  to 
fix  their  eyes  on  some  great  goal,  on 
something  far  above  them.  The  more 
unattainable  the  goal,  the  better;  for,  if 
it  is  quite  out  of  reach,  the  illusion  they 
hang  on  it  will  never  be  disturbed  by 
contact  with  cold  realities.  You  were 
that  inaccessible  pinnacle  to  me.  You 
will  excuse  me,  duchess!  We  are  both 


SUNSET 


609 


of  us  now  of  an  age  when  we  can  say 
things  without  any  of  the  restraints 
proper  to  the  young.  Yes,  you!  In  my 
time  of  danger  and  struggle,  three 
ambitions  were  always  in  my  mind, 
three  goals  that  were  to  be  the  reward 
of  victory.  I  wanted,  first,  an  enormous, 
palatial  residence  surrounded  by  a  tre- 
mendous park.  I  wanted  a  yacht  big 
enough  to  sail  any  sea  on  earth.  And 
my  third  ambition  —  of  course,  it  was 
really  my  first,  the  one  most  persistently 
before  my  mind  —  was  to  have  for  a 
wife  either  a  woman  like  the  Duchess  of 
Pontecorvo,  or  the  Duchess  of  Ponte- 
corvo  herself! 

'And,  you  see,  life  often  affords  un- 
expected bounties  that  it  seemed  quite 
mad  to  dream  of  in  advance.  As  for 
that  palace,  I  have  a  dozen  of  them 
scattered  here  and  there  about  the 
world.  As  for  the  yacht,  I  could  build 
a  fleet  of  them,  if  I  weren't  bored  to 
death  with  the  three  I  already  have  in 
one  port  or  another  of  the  United  States 
and  Europe.  It  is  the  third  ambition 
that  I  never  realized.  The  one  thing 
that  John  Baldwin  failed  to  attain 
'in  his  triumphant  existence  was  the 
Duchess  of  Pontecorvo!' 

'O  Mr.  Baldwin!'  the  duchess  re- 
peated in  a  great  flutter  of  effusiveness. 
'O  Mr.  Baldwin,  how  funny!' 

'And  I  suppose  the  reason  why  that 
illusion  has  always  been  with  me  is 
because  I  failed  in  winning  her.  I 
can  honestly  say,  duchess,  that  I  have 
thought  of  you  every  moment  of  my 
life.  A  man  like  me  has  work  to  do, 
work  that  often  leaves  little  leisure  for 
sentimental  breedings.  But  I  am  able 
to  affirm  that  in  the  few  moments  of 
repose  I  have  had,  every  time  I  was  able 
to  let  my  fancy  wander  as  it  listed,  the 
first  picture  inevitably  to  come  into  my 
mind  was  the  memory  of  you. 

'  I  married,  of  course,  and  I  loved  my 
wife,  I  am  sure.  She  was  a  good  woman, 
an  excellent  housewife,  a  charming, 


delightful  comrade;  but  the  flare,  the 
glory  of  my  dream  of  love  always  lin- 
gered about  your  image;  and  I  believe 
it  was  in  that  that  I  found  the  stimulus 
to  go  on  with  my  work.  I  understood 
in  a  certain  way  that  the  beauty  of  my 
dream  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  would 
never  come  true.  That  is  why  I  never 
tried  to  find  you  when  I  had  become  a 
really  successful  man.  I  was  old,  you 
see,  and  you  could  not  have  been  very 
young.  Your  children  had  grown  up 
and  established  families  of  their  own. 
You  were  long  since  a  grandmother. 
What  would  have  been  the  use?  Why 
destroy  the  last  illusion  left  me?' 

He  stopped  for  a  second,  while  the 
duchess  studied  his  face  with  interest, 
struggling  apparently  to  reconstruct 
before  her  mind's  eye  the  image  of  the 
American  millionaire  as  he  must  have 
been  in  those  youthful  days. 

'O  Mr.  Baldwin!'  she  said  again, 
'why  did  n't  you  declare  yourself?' 

The  old  man,  absorbed  hi  the  thread 
of  his  own  thoughts,  seemed  not  to  be 
listening. 

'I  did  n't  try  to  find  you  because  I 
was  afraid  you  might  have  changed 
in  the  meantime.  Now  —  it  does  n't 
matter!  You  have  changed,  if  I  may 
say  so;  and  I  have  changed,  changed 
immensely.  There  is  little  left  of  the 
John  Baldwin  who  used  to  stand  on  the 
sidewalk  in  Paris  and  watch  you  go  by. 
We  are  two  old  people  who  have  out- 
lived their  real  lives.  The  woman  I  am 
speaking  of  is  the  woman  I  can  still  see 
in  my  imagination.  In  my  mind  no 
time  has  passed,  and  fashions  have  not 
changed.  The  only  Duchess  of  Ponte- 
corvo that  I  shall  ever  really  know  is  a 
woman  in  a  hooped  crinoline  skirt,  in 
the  style  of  the  Empress  Eugenie  and 
the  other  ladies  of  the  Imperial  Court. 
—  And  that  is  the  only  duchess  I  care 
to  know.  For  that  is  the  woman  who 
was  loved  as  few  women  are  ever  loved, 
loved  by  a  poor  young  American,  who 


VOL.  1S8  —  NO.  6 
B 


610 


SUNSET 


likewise  has  passed  away  —  a  love 
whose  principal  charm  was  its  unself- 
ishness; a  love  never  to  be  requited 
because  it  was  never  to  be  revealed ! ' 

'O  Mr.  Baldwin!'  the  old  lady  re- 
peated in  a  trembling  voice,  as  if  she 
were  about  to  weep;  'why  did  n't  you 
speak?  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  then 
what  you  are  telling  me  now?' 

Baldwin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
had  a  clearer,  a  more  accurate  sense  of 
reality  than  she.  He  understood  that 
what  now  seemed  to  this  old  woman  an 
unpardonable  oversight,  she  would  have 
regarded  in  those  days  as  an  unpardon- 
able presumption. 

The  sun  had  set,  leaving  a  patch  of 
pale  rose  upon  the  mountain-tops,  the 
last  trace  of  its  departed  glory.  The 
evening  star  was  twinkling  in  the  lumi- 
nous trail  that  still  brightened  the 
western  sky.  The  eastern  horizon  above 
the  Italian  mountains  was  deepening 
to  an  intenser  blue,  through  which, 
fainter  still,  a  few  stars  were  struggling 
to  appear.  A  breeze  had  begun  to  blow 
down  from  the  mountains,  setting  the 
leaves  of  the  garden  astir  on  its  way 
out  to  wrinkle  the  placid  mirror  of  the 
sea.  The  old  duchess  seemed  not  to 
notice.  Her  mind  was  on  other  things. 

'Why  didn't  you  speak  then?'  she 
insisted.  *  It  would  have  been  so  inter- 
esting! Why  didn't  you  declare  your- 
self?' 

Baldwin  again  shrugged  his  shoulders; 
for  now  the  illusion  was  quite  dead,  and 
it  had  been  dead  for  a  long  time.  He 
had  spoken  only  under  the  impulsive 
need  for  confession  that  we  all  seem  to 
feel  at  certain  moments.  Ever  since  he 
had  found  the  duchess  living  near  him 


on  Cap  Martin  he  had  been  intending 
to  make  this  revelation  to  her.  That, 
perhaps,  was  what  had  impelled  him  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  garden  of  the  church. 
But,  once  confessed,  the  weight  had  been 
lifted  from  his  soul  and  —  life  never  goes 
backward;  peace  be  with  the  dead! 

But  the  woman,  more  responsive  to 
sentimental  things,  was  unwilling  to 
forget.  She  clung  to  the  illusion  as  if  it 
were  a  life-raft  come  to  her  hand  in  the 
torrent  of  time  that  was  sweeping  her 
so  rapidly  toward  eternity.  Besides, 
her  feminine  vanity  had  been  aroused 
from  its  sleep  of  half  a  century.  A 
declaration  of  love  at  eighty!  And  from 
the  most  powerful  man  in  the  world! 

Baldwin  coughed.  The  evening  wind 
was  chilling  him. 

'Let 's  go,'  he  said.  'At  our  age  it  is 
not  quite  safe  to  catch  cold.' 

He  gave  one  last  look  at  the  crimson 
afterglow.  'The  sun  has  gone,'  he  said. 
'To-morrow  he  will  return,  and  the 
next  day,  and  the  next.  But  when  we 
sink  below  the  horizon  of  life  —  ' 

The  duchess  took  his  arm,  and  began 
to  walk  back  along  the  path  to  the 
church,  her  bamboo  cane  beating  rhyth- 
mically on  the  flagstones.  Quite  un- 
conscious of  everything  around  her,  she 
seemed  not  to  hear  what  her  compan- 
ion was  saying.  She  had  gone  far  back 
into  the  past  —  and  how  delightful 
those  memories  were! 

They  pushed  their  way  through  the 
bushes  of  the  garden,  lowering  their 
heads  to  avoid  the  hanging  branches. 

'Why  did  you  not  declare  yourself?' 
she  kept  repeating.  'Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  then  what  you  have  just  told  me 
now?' 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS 


BY  ARTHUR  POUND 


IN  America  we  invent,  manufacture, 
and  use  in  the  production  of  goods,  an 
infinite  number  of  machines;  but  we 
pay  scant  heed  to  the  effect  of  these 
machines  upon  the  evolution  of  society. 
Out  here,  in  our  great  Middle  West 
machine-shops,  where  the  automatic 
principle  of  machine  production  has 
reached  its  highest  development  and 
broadest  application,  we  possess  tools 
superior  to  those  of  Paris.  Yet  it  would 
never  have  occured  to  any  of  us  to  say 
in  1914,  as  did  M.  Bergson,  addressing 
the  French  Academy:  — 

*  Many  years  hence,  when  the  reaction 
of  the  past  shall  have  left  only  the  grand 
outlines  in  view,  this,  perhaps,  is  how  a 
philosopher  will  speak  of  our  age.  He 
will  say  that  the  idea,  peculiar  to  the  nine- 
teenth century,  of  employing  science 
in  the  satisfaction  of  our  material  wants 
had  given  a  wholly  unforeseen  exten- 
sion to  the  mechanical  arts,  and  equip- 
ped man,  in  less  than  fifty  years,  with 
more  tools  than  he  had  made  during  the 
thousands  of  years  he  had  lived  upon 
earth.  Each  new  machine  being  for 
man  a  new  organ,  —  an  artificial  organ, 
—  his  body  became  suddenly  and  pro- 
digiously increased  in  size,  without  his 
soul  being  at  the  same  time  able  to  dilate 
to  the  dimensions  of  his  new  body.' 

Bergson  pictures  the  'machinate  mam- 
mal' of  Butler's  striking  phrase  as  a 
dread,  autogenetic  being,  adding  limbs 
and  organs  ad  infinitum,  without  cor- 
responding growth  of  soul  —  a  modern 
monster  set  going  by  our  busy  Frank- 


ensteins,  the  inventors.  Let  us  consider, 
rather,  man  in  society,  organized  into 
states,  and  observe  some  of  the  polit- 
ical and  social  results  which  have  fol- 
lowed, and  are  likely  to  follow,  multi- 
plication of  man-power  by  machinery. 

Multiplying  man-power  bymachinery 
sets  going  certain  forces  and  tendencies 
in  key  with  —  but  not  at  all  points  par- 
allel to  —  those  set  going  in  other  times 
by  brisk  breeding.  However  generated, 
new  peaks  of  human  energy  strain  social 
and  political  systems  evolved  to  carry 
currents  less  high.  Unless  the  current 
is  cut  down,  or  the  system  of  distribu- 
tion readjusted  to  carry  the  new  peak- 
load,  something  breaks.  War  is  simply 
one  method  of  restoring  equilibrium  be- 
tween the  kinetics  of  human  energy  and 
the  statics  of  social  order. 

Machine  use,  on  the  expanding  scale 
of  recent  years,  multiplies  goods-pro- 
duction over  and  above  any  point  at- 
tainable by  natural  increase  without 
machine  assistance.  Power  over  ma- 
chines enabled  the  coal-and-iron  mem- 
bers of  the  great-nations  group  to  es- 
tablish world-leadership  in  the  years 
between  the  industrial  revolution  and 
the  World  War.  Not  only  did  popula- 
tion in  the  industrial  state  increase 
absolutely,  but  the  effectiveness  of  those 
increased  populations  in  wealth-produc- 
tion multiplied  over  and  over.  States 
with  more  machines  assumed  prepon- 
derant political  influence  over  those 
with  less. 

Because  the  nations  of  leading  power 


612 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS 


at  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century 
were  all  white  and  all  Christian,  a  false 
idea  arose  that  this  overlordship  rested 
upon  race  or  religion;  but  Japan's  en- 
trance, following  victory  over  Russia, 
proved  the  acid  test  of  world-power  to 
be  industrial  prowess.  Enough  pro- 
ductivity to  furnish,  year  after  year,  a 
considerable  excess  of  goods  for  export, 
and  to  support  naval  and  military  forces 
proportionate  to  the  resulting  extensive 
overseas  interests  —  these  were  the 
prime  desiderata  of  power;  and  the  na- 
tion possessing  them  could  be  sure  of  its 
place  in  the  sun,  regardless  of  color  or 
the  constitution  of  its  Godhead. 

Machine-power  not  only  strengthen- 
ed nationalism  by  slowing  down  dis- 
persion through  emigration,  but  also 
intensified  it  through  generating  real 
need  for  group-action  to  ensure  subsist- 
ence from  foreign  sources.  To  .make 
the  industrial  centre  secure,  its  econom- 
ic hinterland  must  be  likewise  secure; 
states  were  constantly  urged  by  groups 
oppressed  by  the  conviction  of  insecu- 
rity to  move  outward  toward  the  control 
of  that  ever-widening  hinterland,  with- 
out whose  produce  and  consumption  the 
industrial  complex  at  home  must  lan- 
guish in  unprofitable  depression. 

In  earlier  times  natural  increase  set 
going  centrifugal  forces,  which  machine 
increase  shifted  into  centripetal  forces. 
Nations  in  effective  possession  of  coal 
and  iron  held  their  nationals,  because 
machines  permitted  the  use  at  home  of 
more  labor  and  more  capital  per  .acre. 
Instead  of  sending  forth  surplus  popula- 
tion at  the  former  rate,  the  industrial 
states  sent  forth,  in  ever-increasing 
volume,  surplus  goods  to  compete  with 
those  of  their  rival  nationals  in  world 
markets.  The  descendants  of  men  who 
had  won  sustenance  at  the  spear-point 
in  forced  migrations  now  fought  one 
another  with  goods,  and  recorded  their 
victories  in  ledgers  instead  of  sagas. 
Upon  the  profitable  and  certain  sale  of 


these  goods  depended  national  solven- 
cy and  domestic  content,  the  hunger 
or  plenty  of  millions  of  wage-earners, 
the  revenues  which  supported  govern- 
ments, military  establishments,  edu- 
cational institutions  —  in  short,  modern 
Western  civilization.  Realizing  the  vul- 
nerability of  their  economic  supports, 
the  industrial  societies  of  the  Old  World 
grew  more  and  more  state-conscious, 
and  drifted  into  more  and  more  bristling 
attitudes  toward  one  another.  Thus 
modern  nationalism  developed  a  sinister 
accent. 

Given  the  determining  mechanisms, 
this  development  was  sure  as  fate. 
Arteries  of  national  existence,  inextric- 
ably interwoven,  came  to  thread  the 
Seven  Seas.  Though  the  bulk  of  im- 
ported nourishment  grew  in  stabilized 
quarters,  certain  essentials  of  industrial 
life  were  gathered  from  lightly  settled 
districts  of  uncertain  political  complex- 
ion, where  the  white  man's  code  did  not 
run.  Concessions  and  capitulations,  ex- 
tra-territoriality  and  economic  penetra- 
tion —  these  satisfied  neither  natives 
nor  invaders.  Willy-nilly,  the  situation 
made  for  imperialism.  Wherever  moneys 
were  owing  and  courts  were  not;  wher- 
ever raw  materials  needed  in  the  mills 
back  home  could  be  produced;  wher- 
ever goods  could  be  sold  to  the  heathen 
if  the  latter  could  be  educated  suffi- 
ciently hi  wants;  wherever  capital 
could  be  multiplied  by  exploiting  cheap 
labor  —  there  industrial  societies,  al- 
though located  on  the  other  side  of  the 
earth,  had  stakes,  vital  stakes  of  exist- 
ence. The  temptation  was  powerful, 
indeed,  to  change  these  stakes  of  exist- 
ence into  stakes  of  empire.  Africa  was 
partitioned;  western  Asia  became  a 
bickering  ground;  China  was  partition- 
ed into  spheres  of  influence,  and  must 
soon  have  been  parceled  out,  if  the 
United  States,  not  yet  hard  pressed 
economically,  had  not  initiated  the 
saving  reprieve  of  the  Open  Door. 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS 


613 


So  far  toward  the  war  had  the  nations 
traveled  by  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury. Thereafter  came  intrigue  after 
intrigue  for  adjustment  and  review. 
Only  by  stating  and  restating  the  Mon- 
roe Doctrine,  in  terms  which  would 
have  amazed  Monroe,  were  we  able  to 
fend  off  itching  hands  from  South 
America,  perchance  to  keep  for  our- 
selves freedom  of  action  in  that  quarter 
at  some  later  date.  Elsewhere  the  game 
went  on  with  ever-increasing  openness 
as  the  economic  needs  of  Europe  be- 
came more  acute.  The  nations  looked 
sharply  to  navies,  coaling-stations,  mer- 
chant marines,  as  so  much  national  in- 
surance under  the  conditions  imposed 
by  the  Iron  Man.  Popular  hate  must  be 
roused  to  wring  funds  for  naval  expan- 
sion from  parliaments  and  tax-payers. 
Enter  propaganda,  the  press  doing  its 
share  and  navy  leagues  the  rest.  Diplo- 
matic incident  followed  incident,  well 
named  because  so  obviously  incidental 
eruptions  of  the  primary  force  that 
made  peace  ever  more  difficult  to  keep. 
Algeciras,  London,  The  Hague  —  all 
vain  while  factory  wheels  continued  to 
move  at  an  ever-accelerated  pace,  and 
statesmen  continued  thinking  in  terms 
of  politics  instead  of  economics.  Back 
of  all  this  diplomatic  jockeying  and 
military  picketing,  commercial  zeal  and 
naval  expansion,  —  the  motor-force  be- 
hind all  these  expressions  of  national 
will,  —  operated  unceasingly  the  over- 
load of  human  energy  released  by  ma- 
chine multiplication  of  man-power. 

Responsibility  for  this  dangerous 
evolution  rests  upon  political  rigidity 
rather  than  upon  industrial  progress. 
Internally  each  of  the  industrial  states 
maintained  such  a  division  of  the  re- 
turns of  industry  that  its  full  produc- 
tion could  not  be  consumed  at  home; 
internationally  trade  and  finance  reach- 
ed planetary  proportions  without  cor- 
respondingly broad  political  and  legal 
controls.  Failing  such  controls,  the  situ- 


ation marched  swiftly  to  its  conclusion. 
Almost  to  the  last,  either  of  two  de- 
nouements was  possible  —  either  the 
boundaries  of  industrial  states  must 
burst  under  inequalities  of  pressure 
generated  by  increased  populations  and 
increased  machines,  or  the  machines 
themselves  must  be  slowed  down  by 
eliminating  profits  from  their  operation. 
The  first  meant  war  —  the  World  War; 
the  second  meant  war  also,  but  of  a 
different  sort — the  war  between  classes, 
the  social  revolution. 

In  midsummer  of  1914,  it  was  hard 
to  say  which  method  of  bleeding  the 
too-vital  patient  would  be  adopted. 
Had  Juares  lived,  who  knows  how 
changed  the  face  of  history  might  be? 
The  state-war  method  won  the  des- 
perate race  against  time.  At  the  mo- 
ment decision  rested  with  certain  Ger- 
mans, who  may  have  been  influenced, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  by  the 
hovering  spectre  of  social  and  political 
revolution.  If  deferred  then,  the  deci- 
sion a  little  later  might  have  rested 
upon  other  persons  elsewhere;  and  if  so, 
the  answer  must  have  been  the  same  — 
war.  Useless  to  apply  ethical  rules  at 
such  a  pass;  indicting  forces  is  even 
more  absurd  than  indicting  nations. 
The  important  thing  to  understand,  here 
and  now,  is  that,  given  nationalism  as 
the  dominant  social  fact  of  the  planet, 
sea-striding  industrialism  as  its  domi- 
nant economic  fact,  and  the  control  of 
weak  peoples  by  strong  as  its  dominant 
political  fact,  peace  in  or  near  the  year 
1914  could  not  be  maintained  without 
qualifying  one  or  all  of  the  three.  It 
was  not  done.  There  were  none  big 
enough  to  do  it.  To  that  extent  the  war 
may  be  considered  inevitable. 

n 

Has  Europe's  blood-letting,  plus  its 
post-war  Socialism  and  Communism, 
rid  the  world  of  wars  bred  in  the  market- 


614 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS 


place?  The  situation  does  not  make  for 
confidence.  State  competition,  intensi- 
fied by  hunger,  hate,  and  debt,  is  not 
yet  restrainable  by  international  bonds. 
Russia's  experiment  does  not  recom- 
mend the  class-war  as  a  means  to  peace. 
Just  as  industry  and  nationalism  con- 
ceived and  brought  forth  the  World 
War,  without  quite  knowing  either 
when  or  how  conception  occurred,  so 
they  may  add  to  the  Martian  family  in 
the  future.  Indeed,  certain  tendencies 
of  modern  industrialism,  in  its  new 
automatic  phase  as  yet  but  dimly  under- 
stood, seem  destined  to  put  even  more 
strain  upon  the  political  framework  of 
the  planet  than  that  under  which  the 
same  framework  cracked  in  1914. 

One  such  aspect  of  industrialism  is  its 
tendency  to  spread.  Born  in  England, 
the  factory  system  has  migrated  to 
northwestern  Europe,  northern  Italy, 
the  United  States,  and  Japan.  It  has 
healthy  roots  in  Canada,  less  healthy 
ones  in  Mexico.  It  appeared  in  Russia, 
and  contributed  to  that  debacle.  China 
is  getting  under  industrial  way,  slowly, 
but  with  a  steady  ponderosity  which 
Ross,  Stoddard,  and  Weale  agree  means 
nothing  less  than  an  economic  upheaval 
certain  to  affect  every  nation  and  in- 
dividual on  earth  as  time  runs  on. 
India,  too,  is  on  the  way,  quickening 
step  during  the  war;  Australia,  by  erect- 
ing a  tariff  wall,  encourages  domestic 
industries.  Thus  industry  travels;  how 
far  can  it  go? 

The  spread  of  industry  among  colored 
and  Slavic  populations  has  been  retard- 
ed appreciably  by  the  fact  that,  in  the 
past,  industrial  production  required  the 
application  of  certain  traits,  natural  or 
acquired,  which,  for  historic  reasons  be- 
yond the  scope  of  this  paper,  are  more 
apparent  in  white  peoples  than  in  oth- 
ers. The  skill  element  was  paramount. 
Now  industry  has  machines  so  highly 
perfected  that  highly  specialized  skill  is 
not  required.  Ordinary  intelligence  and 


average  manual  dexterity  are  the  top 
requirements,  from  the  standpoint 
of  production  only,  for  the  operative 
or  attendant  of  automatic  machines 
He  who  brings  maximum  endurance  tc 
the  shop  at  minimum  cost  will  profit 
his  employer  most.  On  this  basis  th( 
Chinese  coolie,  at  first  glance,  appears 
unbeatable.  If  not  the  best  individual 
his  cheapness  still  may  give  his  produce 
an  advantage  in  the  market.  The  Jap 
anese  have  demonstrated  a  considerable 
degree  of  Oriental  adaptability  to  mod 
ern  machines.  The  Hindu  test  maj 
not  be  far  behind.  And  since  the  tend 
ency  in  machine-development  is  always 
toward  less  and  less  mental  demanc 
upon  the  operative,  there  is  the  possi 
bility  that  even  more  backward  peoples 
than  these  may  some  day  find  machines 
attuned  to  their  mental  and  manua 
capacities.  The  huge  profits  likely  t< 
follow  promptly  upon  the  putting  o: 
cheap,  low-standard  labor  to  work  upor 
automatic  and  semi-automatic  machines 
should  be  enough  to  ensure  that,  soon  01 
late,  all  peoples  will  be  brought  to  the 
ordeal  by  the  Iron  Man. 

But  whether  browns,  blacks,  and  yel- 
lows can  withstand  this  ordeal  is  an- 
other matter.  Theoretically,  expansior 
of  industry  should  proceed  until  expon 
trade  in  manufactured  goods  is  mudt 
curtailed.  But  there  are  offsets  to  con- 
sider —  capital,  coal,  iron,  oil,  water- 
power.  Dearth  of  these  bars  industry 
from  many  quarters.  Far  more  import- 
ant, however,  are  the  varying  abilities 
of  races  and  peoples  to  meet  the  socia 
and  political  problems  presented  bj 
machine  industry.  The  white  race  is 
progressive;  the  historic  concept  which 
has  motivated  western  history  gives 
it  a  superior  elasticity  of  adaptation 
to  changing  conditions.  Yet  the  wai 
proves  that  even  we  favored  whites 
could  not  escape  at  least  one  terrific  set- 
back resulting  from  industrial  impact, 
The  depth  and  breadth  of  present  social 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS  615 


unrest  further  emphasizes  the  difficul- 
ties of  adjustment  on  that  side  of  the 
equation.  Since  the  colored  races  have 
not  yet  been  tried  in  the  fiery  crucible 
of  industry,  no  one  can  prophesy  their 
reaction  to  the  impact  of  modern  in- 
dustry. 

Consider  from  this  angle  some  of 
the  vital  demands  that  industry  makes 
upon  government  and  upon  society. 
Industry  requires  a  government  at  once 
strong  and  flexible.  Government  must 
preserve  domestic  order  against  class 
jealousies  that  fatten  upon  the  dispar- 
ity of  wealth  inevitably  arising  from 
industrialism  under  private  ownership, 
as  King  demonstrates  in  his  comparison 
of  incomes  in  Prussia  and  Wisconsin. 
It  must  uphold  contracts  under  condi- 
tions hi  which  contractual  relations  be- 
come increasingly  complex.  It  must 
protect  the  people  from  their  employers 
and  from  themselves;  it  must  maintain 
such  hours  of  labor  and  working  con- 
ditions as  will  save  the  workers  from 
being  ground  down  in  ruthless  competi- 
tion, or  enfeebled  by  their  own  weak- 
nesses. It  must  encourage  the  public, 
and  find  ways  and  means  to  compensate 
it  for  the  social  sacrifices  involved  in 
industrial  production,  which  compen- 
sations must  be  provided  outside  of 
factory  walls  and  enjoyed  in  leisure. 
To  provide  these  sedatives  requires 
an  imaginative,  strongly  functioning 
public  spirit  outside  of  the  industrial 
group,  and  the  finding  of  funds  to 
make  expensive  dreams  of  social  prog- 
ress come  true,  at  least  sufficiently  to 
allay  discontent. 

The  dilemma  presented  by  heavy 
social  needs  and  the  very  real  danger  of 
overtaxing  industry  is  not  an  easy  one 
to  solve,  even  for  states  highly  organ- 
ized; it  may  well  prove  insoluble  for 
states  which,  like  China  and  Turkey, 
reveal  chronic  inability  to  establish 
sound  public  finance.  Finally,  history 
gives  no  ground  for  believing  that  in- 


dustry and  autocracy  are  compatible; 
in  the  long  run,  so  strong  are  the  social 
pressures  involved,  a  successful  govern- 
ment of  an  industrial  state  must  grow 
out  of  the  conscious  will  of  its  people, 
represent  their  ideals,  and  be  amenable 
to  those  ideals  as  they  change  from 
generation  to  generation.  Even  in 
Japan  the  advent  of  industry  brought 
constitutional  forms,  not  yet  nationally 
digested.  Those  states  in  which  repre- 
sentative democracy  had  reached  its 
highest  expression  emerged  from  the 
desperate  test  of  war  and  the  grind  of 
war-production  with  the  least  political 
and  social  damage. 

Industry  prospers  best  under  capi- 
talism and  under  representative  democ- 
racy; I  cannot  conceive  industry  func- 
tioning well  under  other  dispensations. 
German  autocrats  might  introduce 
state  socialism  as  they  pleased;  the  fact 
of  autocracy  remained  a  threat  to  Ger- 
man industry.  And  because  no  colored 
race  equals  the  white  in  its  power  to 
create  the  social  and  political  setting 
hi  which  machine  industry  thrives,  I 
am  unable  to  follow  Lothrop  Stoddard 
as  far  as  he  goes  in  forecasting  the 
shrinking  of  the  white  man 's  markets, 
in  his  book,  The  Rising  Tide  of  Color. 

Indeed,  the  impact  of  industry  upon 
colored  races  seems  as  likely  to  weaken 
them  as  the  reverse.  Modern  industrial- 
ism places  both  the  individual  and 
society  under  severe  and  continued 
strains,  physical,  mental,  moral.  The 
more  static  the  society,  the  more  cus- 
tom-tied the  individual,  the  more  severe 
the  strain.  English  people  have  been 
evolving  with  and  in  industry  under 
representative  government  for  six  cen- 
turies; for  two  centuries  they  have  been 
applying  power  to  machines  and  build- 
ing up  a  factory  system.  All  this  time 
they  have  been  building  up  definite 
immunities  against  industrial  ills  and 
definite  predispositions  to  bargain  them- 
selves out  of  industrial  ills.  Yet  they  are 


616 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS 


never  out  of  hot  water,  politically  and 
industrially.  I  do  not  see  how  peoples 
without  that  background,  or  something 
like  it,  lacking  alike  political  flexibility 
and  industrial  experience,  can  stand  the 
shock  of  modern  industrial  life.  Indus- 
trialism in  its  functioning  and  growth 
—  and  it  is  still  growing  —  requires 
never-ending  readjustments,  compro- 
mises, and  concessions,  which  are  born 
of  freedom  and  responsibility  —  the 
right  of  individuals  and  groups  to  bar- 
gain freely;  and  the  duty,  freely  accept- 
ed, of  living  up  to  the  bargain  after  it  is 
made.  Where  these  concepts  have  no 
place  in  the  popular  mind,  there  indus- 
try will  have  rough  sledding,  and  can 
become  efficient  only  through  a  system 
of  force  and  repression  which  eventually 
defeats  itself. 

It  is  easy,  under  the  automatic  r6- 
gime,  for  a  man  to  stand  beside  a  ma- 
chine and  produce  goods,  and  difficult 
for  him  to  stay  there  and  remain  a 
reasonably  satisfied,  contributing  mem- 
ber of  a  political  and  social  group, 
strong  enough  to  maintain  itself,  yet 
flexible  enough  to  give  him  reason  to 
believe  industrialism  worth  while.  Mex- 
ico's experience  is  a  case  in  point.  Diaz, 
proceeding  toward  the  industrializa- 
tion of  his  country  with  the  aid  of  for- 
eign capital,  enterprisers,  and  engineers, 
unmistakably  bettered  the  economic 
condition  of  Mexican  labor.  Neverthe- 
less, the  peons'  ideal  of  life  remained 
agricultural;  Madero  won  their  back- 
ing with  his  promise  of  forty  acres  and 
a  mule.  Carranza,  inheriting  from 
Madero,  frankly  declared  his  country's 
antipathy  to  industrialism;  whatever 
his  faults,  Carranza  sized  up  his  Indian 
correctly.  Though  the  Mexican  peon 
has  certain  innate  capacities  for  factory 
work,  notably  high  manual  dexterity 
and  stolid  patience,  he  prefers  to  half- 
starve  on  the  land  rather  than  work 
upon  modern  machines  indoors  at  wages 
that  would  enable  him  to  maintain  a 


higher  standard  of  living.  Necessity 
may  bring  him  to  the  factory,  if  we 
whites  insist;  but  he  will  remain  a  rebel, 
active  or  potential,  against  industrial 
organization  so  imposed. 

The  Mexican's  instinctive  reaction 
against  industrial  organization  differs 
in  degree,  but  not  in  kind,  from  that  of 
many  of  our  own  shop-workers.  There 
develops  among  the  workers  in  highly 
automatized  plants  a  chronic  dissatis- 
faction, which  cannot  be  explained  away 
without  reference  to  nerves.  It  seems 
to  be  proof  against  high  wages  and 
good  conditions.  Welfare- work,  bonuses, 
shop-councils,  even  profit-sharing,  do 
not  drive  it  out.  Clatter  and  haste  are 
contributing  factors;  so  also  are  indoor 
confinement,  monotony  of  task,  dis- 
tance from  the  real  boss,  repression  of 
personality,  strict  regimentation  of  ef- 
fort, and  the  scant  opportunity  afforded 
for  the  play  of  the  craftsman  instinct, 
the  joy  in  production. 

But  the  basic  cause  lies  deeper.  All 
of  us  are  descended  from  ancestors  who, 
a  comparatively  short  time  ago,  were 
farmers,  hunters,  and  fishermen,  with 
occasional  experience  as  fighting  men. 
Their  work  held  considerable  variety, 
called  for  great  outbursts  of  physical 
energy  interspersed  with  frequent  let- 
downs. They  had  their  labor-thrills 
along  with  their  labor-pains.  Even  the 
simple  annals  of  the  mediaeval  poor  must 
have  been  crowded  with  adventure,  as 
compared  with  the  systematic,  color- 
less, bare-of-drama  tasks  of  the  modern 
factory.  Your  worker  is  there  in  the 
factory,  not  because  he  wants  to  be, 
but  because  he  needs  the  money,  and 
can  discover  no  other  means  of  getting 
it.  Yet  there  is  that  stirring  within  him 
which  informs  him,  even  before  the 
voice  of  the  agitator  reinforces  the  con- 
viction, that  this  is  no  life  for  a  real  man. 
He  gets,  literally,  no  fun  out  of  his 
labors.  His  environment  irks  him,  and 
out  of  that  attrition  is  born  an  Arbeit- 


THE  IRON  MAN  IN  INTERNATIONAL  POLITICS  617 


schmerz  as  real  as  the  Weltschmerz  that 
Goethe  discovered.  Our  tenders  of  ma- 
chines are  being  starved  in  their  souls; 
and  while  there  may  be  sedatives  for 
that  malady,  there  is  no  specific. 

That  seems  to  me  the  root  of  social 
unrest  in  America,  and  it  is  probably 
equally  true  in  Europe.  Under  our  po- 
litical and  social  controls,  in  a  people 
naturally  robust  and  hopeful  in  spirit, 
the  sickness  may  not  run  its  course. 
Though  half  our  mechanics  talk  radi- 
calism, they  vote  with  the  others  for 
Harding,  play  baseball  in  our  parks, 
and  get  some  relief  and  encouragement 
out  of  being  literate  citizens  of  a  repub- 
lic whose  evolution  tends,  however  slow- 
ly, toward  the  interests  of  the  masses. 

But  what  will  this  chronic  work-pain 
drive  other  breeds  to  do  —  breeds  that 
get  no  relief  out  of  sport  and  voting? 
Well,  to  cite  the  shining  example,  it 
seems  to  have  poisoned  Russia's  indus- 
trial workers  against  the  only  system  of 
industry  under  which  industry  func- 
tions profitably  in  our  day;  the  Com- 
munists of  Russia  come  from  her  few 
industrial  towns.  Signs  of  similar  explo- 
sions are  not  lacking  in  Japan.  No  mat- 
ter how  shops  are  organized,  no  matter 
how  profits  are  divided,  this  fraying  of 
nerves  in  industry  continues.  Industry 
may  stir  temporarily  the  simple  folk 
of  Mandalay  and  Pesha>yur;  but  can 
they  stand  the  shock  any  better  than 
the  Amerind  withstood  the  white  man's 
methods  and  the  white  man's  whiskey? 
Modern  industry  is  strong  drink;  those 
who  have  lived  long  with  it,  despite 
partial  immunity  born  of  experience, 
are  none  too  happy;  and  those  less 
experienced  dally  with  it  at  the  risk  of 
their  health,  customs,  general  effective- 
ness, and  political  stability. 

m 

Viewing  from  these  angles  the  possi- 
bility of  spreading  industrialism,  a  tre- 


mendous dilemma  presents  itself.  On 
the  one  hand,  the  economic  forces  that 
spread  industrialism  outward  from  its 
English  inception  are  still  operative, 
and  more  vigorous  than  before.  To  the 
constant  of  self-interest  is  added  a 
heightened  state-interest  flowing  from 
huge  debts.  These  converging  interests 
now  have  tools  at  their  disposal  which 
admit  to  efficient  production  breeds  of 
cheap  men  not  hitherto  available  as 
industrial  workers.  These  dynamic 
forces  are  not  to  be  denied  their  trial  of 
strength.  On  the  other  hand,  peoples 
about  to  be  introduced  to  industrialism 
must  overcome  grave  social  and  politi- 
cal inhibitions  before  they  cut  down 
materially  the  demand  for  the  white 
man's  goods,  and  so  restrict  his  influence 
in  the  world.  These  contrary  forces  — 
one  set  positive,  the  other  negative;  one 
the  essence  of  progress,  the  other  the  es- 
sence of  conservatism  —  are  bound  to 
do  battle  with  one  another  on  the  world 
stage.  Upon  the  outcome  depends  the 
future  of  terrestrial  society. 

Alarm  as  to  the  outcome  has  been 
sounded  vociferously  enough;  and  while 
the  warnings  may  be  more  strident  than 
the  dangers  are  imminent,  still  the  out- 
look calls  for  the  highest  statesmanship. 
The  trial  period,  while  the  old  and  new 
do  battle  in  Asia,  is  sure  to  be  an  era  of 
extreme  nervousness  in  international 
relations.  During  this  period  the  white 
nations  must  strive  toward  a  genuine 
solidarity,  at  the  very  time  when  their 
traders  and  governments  are  forced  by 
powerful  economic  motives  to  cut  into 
each  other's  markets.  At  a  time,  too, 
when  rankling  hate  persists,  and  state- 
craft is  still  under  the  shadow  of  chau- 
vinism. Any  statesman  who  does  not 
make  an  effort  to  overcome  these  diffi- 
culties deserves  ill  of  posterity;  because 
the  situation  is  one  in  which  peace  must 
be  labored  for,  and  of  which  war  is  the 
logical  outcome. 

There  can  be  no  durable  peace,  and 


618 


no  effective  white  solidarity,  so  long  as 
the  coal-and-iron  states  continue  tread- 
ing the  path  of  economic  competition 
toward  another  Armageddon.  A  sword 
is  suspended  over  civilization,  and  that 
sword  can  be  sheathed  only  by  such  a 
reorientation  of  industrialism  as  will 
permit  the  aggressive  nationalism  it 
fosters  to  die  of  inanition.  Much  may 
be  done  by  international  agreement, 
with  force  back  of  the  agreement;  more 
may  be  done  by  the  forward  spirits  in 
each  industrial  society  forcing  into 
public  attention  these  internal  adjust- 
ments necessary  to  bring  social  and  polit- 
ical evolution  into  line  with  industrial 
evolution.  The  more  energy  goes  into 
internal  developments,  the  less  will  press 
outward  to  complicate  international  re- 
lations. There  is  plenty  of  work  for  all 
governments  to  do  at  home,  before  their 
populations  recover  their  pre-war  trust 
in  governments. 


Every  alert  man  or  woman  recog- 
nizes that  the  masses  are  critical  of 
governments  in  this  year  of  grace.  The 
conviction  is  growing  that  the  war  was 
of  economic  origin.  Men  are  no  longer 
willing  to  turn  out  war  as  a  by-product 
of  goods  —  on  machines.  Since  a  prime 
source  of  belligerency  is  goods-competi- 
tion, sovereignty  has  become  a  matter 
of  control  over  machines  as  well  as  over 
men.  That  is  the  direction  in  which 
competent  governments  must  move; 
and  those  which  fail  to  keep  step  will 
possess  no  valid  reason  for  existence  in 
the  automatic-machine  age.  The  peo- 
ples of  the  earth  look  to  governments 
to  set  up  a  moral  control  over  machine 
use;  and  this  instinctive  turning  to  the 
state  for  relief  is  sound  to  the  core,  since 
states  are  the  only  groupings  of  hu- 
manity strong  enough  to  harness  the 
Iron  Man  to  the  chariot  of  human  well- 
being. 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


BY  WILBUR  C.  ABBOTT 


OF  all  concerns  of  our  democracy, 
most  men  agree,  the  chief  is  education 
in  some  form.  From  little  red  school- 
house  to  Research  Council,  all  of  us  at 
some  time,  some  of  us  at  all  times,  are 
brought  in  touch  with  it;  and  all  of  us 
at  all  times  profess  an  interest  in  it. 
Our  boys  and  girls  go  —  or  are  sent  — 
to  college  or  university.  Thence  they 
emerge  like  a  recent  'graduate,'  who, 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  Commence- 
ment hall,  waved  his  beribboned  diplo- 


ma about  his  head  and  shouted  to 
the  appreciative  crowd,  'Educated,  by 
gosh!'  And  as  he  stood  there,  he  raised 
in  more  than  one  mind  a  question.  What 
was  this  'college  course'  and  this  'de- 
gree,' which  set  him  off  from  those  who 
lacked  his  '  advantages '  ?  what  was  this 
college,  which  had  'educated'  him? 

To  uninitiated  eyes  the  venerable  in- 
stitution, —  they  are  always  'old,'- 
its  buildings  and  its  grounds,  its  library 
and  laboratories,  its  lecture-rooms  and 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


619 


halls,  its  faculty  and  president,  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  But  he  and  his 
fellows  knew  that  being  a  'college  man' 
was  no  mere  membership  in  a  fraternity 
of  scholars.  They  knew  that  when,  in 
future  years,  he  foregathered  with  his 
kind  in  annual  hilarity,  he  would  not 
come  to  hear  the  latest  word  in  chemis- 
try or  history  from  peripatetic  '  faculty 
representatives,'  but  for  reasons  only  re- 
motely related  to  a  common  interest  in 
the  curriculum.  Neither  for  president 
nor  for  faculty,  nor  for  buildings,  nor 
for  courses,  does  our  youth,  of  which  he 
is  a  type,  flock  to  institutions  of  higher 
education.  Its  education  it  accepts, 
eagerly  or  reluctantly,  as  the  case  may 
be;  but  for  the  majority  it  is  the  'col- 
lege life'  which  they  —  and  their  par- 
ents —  crave.  It  is  not  easy  to  define  a 
university;  it  seems  to  lie  somewhere 
between  an  atmosphere  and  a  factory. 
But  for  most  of  us -it  is  a  state  of  exist- 
ence, peculiarly  attractive  to  a  certain 
class  and  age;  a  state  in  which  buildings 
and  faculty  and  mental  training  have  a 
place,  but  not  the  whole,  nor,  frankly, 
to  most  men,  the  most  important  place. 
Especially  in  the  United  States;  for 
here,  within  two  generations,  almost 
within  the  memory  of  men  now  living, 
there  has  been  evolved  beside,  or  rather 
within,  the  framework  of  formal  and 
official  college  and  university  another 
system  of  education,  largely  outside  the 
authority  of  faculties,  and  largely  inde- 
pendent of  their  intellectual  impulses 
and  disciplinary  ordinances.  While 
those  in  charge  of  the  institutions  of 
higher  learning  have  elaborated  curric- 
ula and  extended  the  scope  and  con- 
tent of  their  own  activities,  the  volun- 
teer authorities  of  the  undergraduate 
world,  aided  by  the  alumni,  have 
founded  another  institution,  created  in 
their  own  image,  to  meet  their  own 
desires.  They  have  framed  their  own 
courses,  employed  their  own  instructors, 
built  their  own  buildings,  provided 


their  own  income,  and  evolved  a  system 
that  challenges  comparison  with  that 
of  their  academic  superiors.  They  have, 
in  truth,  '  called  a  new  world  into  exist- 
ence, to  redress  the  balance  of  the  old ' ; 
they  have  created  a  real  imperium  in 
imperio,  a  student  university  —  what 
would  have  been  called,  in  older  tunes, 
a  guild  of  students. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  this  is  the  only 
too  familiar  phenomenon  of  outside, 
or  extra-curriculum,  activities,  long  one 
of  the  chief  concerns  of  deans  and  facul- 
ties and  even  presidents.  It  is  easier  still 
to  say  that  calling  this  a  student  guild, 
much  less  a  student  university,  is  but 
another  way  of  saying  what  everybody 
knows,  another  startling  discovery  of  the 
wholly  obvious.  For  this  is,  in  many  re- 
spects, the  best-known  feature  of  Amer- 
ican education,  even  in  the  non-aca- 
demic world.  It  has  been  the  subject 
of  long  and  dull  discussions  in  public, 
and  longer,  though  not  so  dull,  discus- 
sions in  private.  We  heard  long  ago 
from  a  distinguished  college  president 
—  as  he  then  was  —  the  danger  of  al- 
lowing the  side-shows  to  swallow  up  the 
circus.  Yet  the  very  fact  of  considering 
this  phenomenon  as  a  side-show  indi- 
cates how  little  the  problem  is  appreci- 
ated by  minds  which  still  consider  the 
advice  to  undergraduates,  'Don't  let 
your  studies  interfere  with  your  educa- 
tion,' as  humorous.  And  no  one  famil- 
iar with  common  conversation  among 
undergraduates  and  alumni  in  their 
natural  state  will  make  that  mistake. 
Let  us  consider  the  matter  from  another 
point  of  view  than  that  involved  in  call- 
ing this  an  outside  interest. 

The  problem  of  student  activities 
outside  of  the  curriculum  is  not  new.  At 
all  times  since  universities  began,  stu- 
dents have  lived  a  great  part  of  their 
lives  beyond  the  view  of  faculties.  There 
have  always  been  student  organizations, 
for  pleasure,  for  profit,  and  for  protec- 
tion; there  are  such  organizations  now 


620 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


in  other  lands.  The  first  university  of 
which  we  have  any  adequate  account, 
the  University  of  Bologna,  was,  in  fact, 
a  guild  of  students,  which  employed 
its  own  professors,  hired  its  own  build- 
ings, and  managed  its  own  affairs.  Our 
modern  guild  of  students  has  not,  indeed, 
reached  the  point  where,  as  in  Bologna, 
it  has  succeeded  in  'reducing  the  Mas- 
ters to  an  incredible  degree  of  servitude.' 
Not  only  does  there  yet  remain  to  our 
faculties  that  sole  prerogative  of  the 
Bolognese  professors, '  the  one  function 
and  only  one  over  which  the  Doctors  to 
the  last  retained  an  exclusive  control,' — 
that  of  examining  and  conferring  de- 
grees, —  but  they  still  maintain  those 
disciplinary  powers  denied  to  their  un- 
fortunate Bolognese  predecessors,  into 
whose  lecture-rooms  'the  idea  of  disci- 
pline never  entered  at  all.'  It  is  still 
measurably  true  now  as  then,  that '  op- 
position to  the  Professors  formed  no 
part  of  the  original  raison  d'etre  of  the 
[student]  universities.'  The  modern 
student  guild,  like  its  forerunner,  as  yet 
claims  'no  authority  over  the  Doctors 
or  the  control  of  strictly  Academical 
matters'  —  with  some  modifications, 
perhaps,  as  to  attendance  and  the 
exigencies  of  its  own  public  exercises! 
And  like  the  Bolognese  guild,  it  still 
has  'little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the 
Studium.' 

Moreover,  it  is  perhaps  not  so  true 
now  as  it  was  then  that  the  'jealousy  of 
the  Professors  arose  simply  (so  far  as 
appears)  from  the  fact  that  the  students 
were  attempting  to  do  for  themselves 
what  the  Professors  claimed  to  do  for 
them. '  They  cannot,  perhaps,  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  new  student  guild's  ambi- 
tions and  desires;  for  the  mediaeval  stu- 
dent guild  was  chiefly  concerned  with 
the  cultivation  of  the  mind,  and  the 
modern  guild  has  wider  scope  than  this. 
The  older  body  employed  its  instructors 
to  lecture  in  philosophy  and  rhetoric 
and  theology  and  law;  and  whatever 


charges  may  be  brought  against  its 
later  counterpart,  this  will  not  be  found 
among  them.  Nor  have  we  reached,  as 
yet,  the  point  where,  as  at  Bologna,  the 
students  'acquired  a  complete  control 
over  their  professors,  and  to  a  large 
extent  usurped  the  powers  elsewhere 
exercised  by  the  professional  body.' 

Yet,  like  its  ancient  analogue,  the 
twentieth-century  American  phenom- 
enon is  no  less  a  'wholly  new  depart- 
ure in  the  history  of  education  .  .  . 
distinct  from  anything  which  preceded 
it.'  To  us  it  seems  the  simplest,  most 
obvious,  even  inevitable,  of  develop- 
ments. Of  casual  visitors  from  other 
lands  it  fills  the  mind  with  wonder,  not 
unmixed  with  awe.  None  the  less, 
strange  or  familiar,  like  its  prototype 
of  Bologna, '  it  is  not  difficult  to  explain 
the  genesis  of  the  new  creation  if  we 
bear  in  mind  the  character  of  the  envi- 
ronment wherein  it  grew  up.' 

That  environment  may  be  measured 
in  three  terms  —  the  initiative  and  or- 
ganizing capacity  of  American  youth, 
the  desires  of  American  parents,  and  the 
conditions  in  American  colleges  fifty 
years  ago.  Those  institutions,  excellent 
of  their  kind,  were,  in  the  main,  domi- 
nated by  ecclesiastical  influence.  They 
provided  a  classical  education  of  the 
old  school,  admirable  in  its  way,  if  to 
our  eyes  somewhat  limited  in  its  range 
and  appeal.  They  paid  small  attention 
to  the  graces  and  amenities  of  life,  and 
less  to  the  social  and  physical  develop- 
ment of  the  undergraduate.  There  was 
a  plentiful  lack  of  those  facilities  for 
comfort  and  amusement  which  we  now 
regard  as  essential  to  our  welfare.  A 
boy  was  sent  to  college  to  improve  his 
mind,  and  incidentally  to  gain  contact 
with  his  fellows.  The  literary  and 
debating  societies,  the  casual  outdoor 
sports,  the  occasional  social  event,  were 
the  sum  of  his  extra-curriculum  activi- 
ties, together  with  such  loosely  organ- 
ized clubs  as  he  contrived  to  form.  In 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


621 


some  measure  this  was  the  expression 
of  the  more  restrained,  if  not  more 
sober,  character  of  American  life.  It  is 
peculiarly  typified  in  the  high  hats,  long 
coats,  and  hirsute  adornment  still  re- 
flected in  those  photographs  of  earlier 
classes  which  entertain  the  present  un- 
dergraduate. 

n 

But  America  changed,  and  her  col- 
leges with  her.  There  arose  a  class  of 
newly  rich  who  regarded  the  college 
rather  as  a  place  to  acquire  social  polish 
and  position,  a  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  of  society,  than  as  essentially  a 
means  of  mental  discipline.  And  many 
who  were  neither  new  nor  rich  altered 
their  conceptions  of  life  and  preparation 
for  it.  Take  a  handful  of  paternal  ex- 
pressions of  what  the  college  is  sup- 
posed to  do.  '  I  want  my  son,'  writes  one 
father,  'to  learn  how  to  dress  and  be- 
have, and  make  friends  of  the  right 
sort.'  —  'I  should  like,'  writes  another, 
'to  have  my  son  learn  how  to  meet 
people  and  form  acquaintances  which 
will  be  of  advantage  to  him  hi  after 
life.'  Another,  still  more  frankly,  voices 
what  is  doubtless  in  many  minds,  con- 
fessing that  he  wants  his  boy  to  'join 
a  good  society,  make  the  football  team, 
and  live  like  a  gentleman.'  —  'Educa- 
tion by  contact,'  to  'know  men,'  to  'get 
the  most  out  of  his  college  life,'  'social 
training'  —  these  are  the  commonest  of 
expressions  nowadays. 

They  are  the  natural  desires  of  man- 
kind. Two  centuries  ago,  some  vision- 
ary in  a  New  Haven  town-meeting  sug- 
gested that  more  attention  be  given  to 
arithmetic  in  the  school;  but  'he  was 
speedily  suffocated  by  a  substitute 
measure  proposed,  that  the  youth  be 
instructed  in  points  of  manners,  there 
being  a  great  fault  in  that  respect,  as 
some  exprest.'  Times  change,  and  man- 
ners, but  the  desire  to  have  youth 
trained  in  the  graces,  to  be  'socialized' 


in  all  senses,  survives  both  time  and 
change.  And  the  college,  through  the 
student  guild,  has  thus  conformed  to 
that  desire.  'To  ride  a  horse,  shoot  with 
the  bow,  keep  clean,  and  tell  the  truth ' 
—  these,  the  oldest  educational  require- 
ments, are  not  out  of  date,  save  as  the 
instruments  have  somewhat  changed. 
The  'friendships  formed  at  Yale,'  or 
Harvard,  or  Michigan,  or  Emory  and 
Henry  —  are  these  not  as  enduring  as 
the  mental  discipline,  and  of  more  ulti- 
mate value?  And  how  shall  these  be 
attained?  How  train  men  in  laboratory 
or  by  lectures  to  meet  their  fellows  — 
and  their  fellows'  sisters? 

These  are  some  of  the  reasons  why 
the  undergraduates  have  formed  their 
guilds.  They  began  their  social  educa- 
tion with  those  willing  instructors  com- 
mon to  us  all,  the  tailor,  the  haberdash- 
er, the  dancing-master,  the  theatre,  the 
teacher  of  musical  instruments,  and 
their  fellow  men.  They  played  some 
kind  of  ball,  and  less  innocuous  games 
of  chance  and  skill;  they  formed  debat- 
ing clubs  and  boarding  clubs  and  liter- 
ary societies,  and  mingled  as  they  could 
in  social  events.  All  these  are  as  old 
as  universities.  And  in  America,  some 
time  before  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  they  turned  to  secret  socie- 
ties. There  they  parted  company  with 
most  other  nations,  unless  we  may  re- 
gard the  German  corps  and  Burschen- 
schaf  ten  as  a  parallel.  How  greatly  these 
'fraternities'  have  grown,  we  know. 
They  are  numbered  now  by  scores;  their 
members  by  tens  of  thousands.  A 
generation  since,  a  distinguished  Bos- 
tonian  boasted  that  he  could  go  from 
coast  to  coast  and  sleep  each  night  in  a 
different  house  owned  by  his  college 
society.  There  is  at  least  one  organiza- 
tion now  where  he  might  sleep  each 
night  for  at  least  two  months  in  a  dif- 
ferent house;  and  no  one  familiar  with 
the  college  world  need  have  attention 
called  to  the  increasingly  luxurious 


622 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


habitations  which  adorn  so  many  col- 
lege towns  —  houses  so  splendid  that 
many  have  come  to  doubt  the  wisdom 
of  such  elements  in  student  life. 

This  is  but  one  manifestation  of  the 
student  guild.  For  undergraduates  have 
not  been  content  with  building  dormi- 
tories where  the  colleges  had  none,  or 
none  sufficient  to  their  needs  and  de- 
sires. Far  more  important  than  this 
matter  of  housing,  they  have  developed 
a  curriculum.  Football  and  baseball, 
rowing,  track  and  field  sports,  games  of 
all  kinds,  indoor  and  outdoor,  boxing 
and  wrestling,  manly  exercises,  they 
have  brought  in,  with  or  without  the 
aid  of  the  faculty,  and  these  they '  elect ' 
and  follow  with  a  zeal  worthy  of  a  bet- 
ter cause  —  if  such  there  be. 

Nor  is  their  educational  system  pure- 
ly physical  or  social.  The  guild  of  schol- 
ars shows  how  things  are,  or  should 
be,  or  have  been,  done;  in  his  system 
the  student  does  them  for  himself.  He 
is  nothing  if  not  concrete.  The  lecturer 
on  journalism  expounds  his  principles 
—  and  the  student  produces  a  paper. 
The  professor  of  business  management 
explains  how  business  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
conducted  —  and  the  'managers'  of 
'student  enterprises'  devote  most  of 
their  waking,  and  not  a  few  of  what 
should  be  their  sleeping  hours  to  the 
conduct  of  their  respective  interests. 
The  professor  of  literature  directs  their 
attention  to  the  masterpieces  of  prose 
and  verse  and  drama;  but  the  student 
writes  and  acts  his  plays,  and  contrib- 
utes to  his  own  periodicals,  too  often 
far  from  the  softening  influence  of  the 
English  Department.  The  music  school 
may  cultivate  his  taste  and  sensibilities 
as  best  it  can;  but  he  makes  more  or 
less  sweet  sounds  for  himself  with  his 
own  voice,  attuned  to  vaudeville  strains, 
or  on  the  latest  instrument,  ukulele  or 
saxophone,  as  the  fashions  change;  he 
frames  his  glee-club  programmes  and 
those  of  his  banjo  and  mandolin  clubs 


with  small  regard  to  the  canons  of  the 
academic  muse. 

His  methods,  like  his  means  of  expres- 
sion, differ  widely  from  those  of  the 
faculty.  He  chooses  for  himself,  accord- 
ing to  his  tastes,  or  real  or  fancied  gifts, 
or  his  ambitions,  the  course  or  courses 
which  he  will  pursue  —  'what  he  goes 
out  for,'  in  his  sharper  phrase.  There 
the  resemblance  to  his  intellectual  train- 
ing stops;  for  two  factors  enter,  which 
have  little  place  in  modern  college  edu- 
cation as  conceived  in  official  minds. 
The  first  is  competition,  which  has  been 
barred  from  purely  academic  shades, 
where  studies  are  no  longer  a  major 
sport.  In  the  student  university  com- 
petition is  the  rule  of  life.  Men  compete 
or  'try  out'  for  every  place  in  every 
activity — athletic,  literary,  executive, 
musical,  even  social.  From  Freshman 
to  Senior,  life  presents  one  long  conflict, 
one  endless  rivalry,  with  prizes  at  the 
end.  And  this  great  stimulus  of  youth, 
this  game  he  plays  throughout,  perhaps 
this  is  one  reason  why  these  outside 
activities  detract  from  interest  in  the 
formal  curriculum.  They  offer  him  what 
youth  continually  desires,  a  chance  to 
try  its  strength  and  skill  with  its  fellows. 
And  his  elders  might  perhaps  consider 
that  'curriculum '  once  related  to  a  race 
rather,  than  to  something  that  merely 
goes  round  and  round. 

And  more: among  the  wise  old  heads 
of  wise  old  'educators'  there  still  rages 
the  ancient  dispute  whether  it  is  better 
to  watch  over  men  from  day  to  day,  or 
point  the  way  to  youth  and  let  it  take 
its  course,  examining  from  time  to  time 
to  see  how  closely  youth  has  followed 
it,  with  or  without  extraneous  aid,  and 
to  what  result.  But  in  the  student  guild 
there  is  no  such  argument.  Men  are 
tested  and  passed  or  flunked  continu- 
ally. In  athletics,  indeed,  there  has  been 
some  attempt  to  introduce  the  ma- 
chinery of  higher  education,  to  reinforce 
the  lessons  of  the  football  coach.  Some 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


have  adopted  the  lecture  system  —  so- 
called  '  blackboard  talks '  —  to  illus- 
trate their  theory  and  their  practices. 
But  which  of  them  has  trained  a  team 
by  lectures?  Who  has  said,  'Do  thus 
and  thus.  The  game  comes  Saturday. 
Go  now  and  see  how  much  you  can 
improve  by  then.' 

Or  who  has  taught  them  in  a  mass, 
by  hundreds  at  a  time?  Whatever  may 
be  said  of  mental  discipline,  the  training 
of  the  body  has  not  lacked  for  individ- 
ual instruction,  for  intimate  relation  of 
the  teacher  and  the  taught.  The  stu- 
dent guild  has  not  tried  to  carry  on  a 
retail  business  by  wholesale  methods, 
or  abandoned  quality  for  quantity  pro- 
duction, handwork  for  machines.  Nor 
has  it  judged  the  laborer  unworthy  of 
his  hire.  Knowing  something  of  rela- 
tive values  in  the  world,  it  has  not 
hesitated  to  secure  the  best.  Its  mem- 
bers long  since  realized  that  it  is  only 
men  that  count.  What  money  they  have 
had,  they  have  paid  out  for  men.  Only 
just  now  have  they  begun  to  reach  the 
'stone  age'  hi  the  development  of  their 
institution;  and  beside  the  great  struc- 
tures for  their  outdoor  contests  we  begin 
to  see  here  and  there  buildings  erected 
to  house  their  various  interests  —  with 
which  they  enter  on  another  stage  of 
this  progress. 

HI 

Such  is  the  faculty  and  the  curricu- 
lum, the  physical  equipment  and  the 
informing  spirit  of  the  student  univer- 
sity. It  has  long  issued  catalogues.  If 
you  care  to  know  the  realities  of  a  col- 
lege, spend  little  time  on  its  dull,  formal, 
unillumined  list  of  courses  and  names. 
Take  up  instead  the  college  'annual,' 
under  whatever  title  it  appears.  There 
you  will  find  no  mere  announcement  of 
intellectual  interests,  but  a  fascinating 
tale  of  college  life.  There  you  may  see 
the  pictures  of  student  habitations;  the 
brawny  forms  of  athletes  unadorned, 


or  in  their  panoply;  the  'boards'  and 
'fraternities';  the  teams  of  every  sort; 
the  orchestra,  the  vocal  and  instru- 
mental clubs;  the  endless  organizations 
hi  which  men  find  their  interests  ex- 
pressed. There  is  the  heart  and  mind 
of  the  undergraduate  laid  bare.  This  is 
his  university,  which  he  has  built  for 
himself;  the  educational  system  which 
he  has  devised. 

Two  things  it  seems  to  lack:  the  one 
degrees,  the  other  unity.  Yet  it  has  its 
degrees  —  not  sheepskin  documents,  ob- 
scure and  for  most  recipients  untrans- 
latable, but  genuine  insignia.  There 
are  true  'bachelors  of  letters,'  as  their 
raiment  testifies;  honor  men  of  the 
teams,  pass  men  of  the  squads,  aspirants 
of  the.  numerals.  There  are  the  success- 
ful seekers  after  social  degrees,  with 
their  strange  symbols  of  gold  and  pre- 
cious stones.  There  are  the  winners  hi 
this  great  competitive  scheme,  adorned 
with  tangible  symbols  of  their  prowess 
in  a  chosen  field.  It  is  no  fable,  that 
story  of  the  man  who  was  too  busy  to 
graduate  —  for  he  had  won  five  '  let- 
ters'  in  five  different  sports.  This  is  no 
idler's  club,  this  guild  of  students. 
Viewing  its  manifold  activities,  we  may 
well  revise  Arnold's  line, '  There  are  our 
young  barbarians  all  at  ivorlc' 

And  for  the  general  organization  of 
this  great  complex?  By  its  peculiar 
nature  it  cannot  be  so  centralized  and 
directed  as  that  of  the  scholar  guild.  In 
the  mediaeval  university  there  were 
'Reforma tores  Studii,'  with  a  formal 
code  of  laws,  a  student  legislature,  stu- 
dent courts,  and  a  rector  above  all. 
But  have  we  not  'student  councils' 
pushing  their  young  stalks  through  the 
academic  mould?  Is  there  not,  in  every 
institution,  a  code,  written  or  unwritten, 
— a'Freshman  Bible,' — of  traditionary 
or  customary  law,  hardening  year  by 
year  into  a  Codex  Studentium?  What  of 
'  disciplinary  committees '  of  undergrad- 
uates, and  'inter-fraternity  councils/ 


624 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


and  'honor  systems,'  and  'student  self- 
government'?  There  are  already  in- 
dividuals who  stand  at  the  head  of  all; 
and  in  more  than  one  institution  there 
is  a  group,  in  some  places  formally  or- 
ganized and  recognized,  which  acts  as 
an  executive  council.  And  the  system  is 
young! 

Finally,  there  is  another  element  in 
this  young  vigorous  organism,  which 
the  formal  institution,  and  perhaps  even 
the  mediaeval  student  guild,  lacks.  It  is 
the  oldest  of  all  appeals  to  youth  — 
romance.  Who  has  not  felt  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  secret  societies,  whether  from 
within  or  from  without,  whether  as 
friend  or  foe?  Who  has  not  felt  the 
thrill  of  'coming  back  in  the  fall,'  to 
meet  the  old  associates,  to  live  again 
that  ever-changing,  ever-delightful  life? 
Who  has  ever  gone  away  with  the  team, 
whether  as  player  or  spectator,  who 
has  not  felt  the  charm?  The  inva- 
sion of  the  land  of  the  friendly  enemy, 
the  journey,  the  cheers  and  crowds,  the 
tournament  between  'their'  men  and 
'ours,'  the  sense  of  unity  in  the  face  of 
the  struggle  and  the  supporters  of  the 
other  side  —  how  shall  the  concerns  of 
intellect  compete  with  this?  Can  lec- 
ture and  laboratory  ever  provide  such 
contacts  with  each  other  and  with  con- 
crete realities  as  this?  And  is  it  any 
wonder  that  youth  loves  it? 

To  this  college  life  the  price  of  admis- 
sion and  continuance  is  the  performance 
of  those  intellectual  exercises  for  which 
colleges  and  universities  exist.  Its  ex- 
penses—  greater  by  far  in  many  in- 
stances than  the  modest  demands  of 
the  guild  of  scholars  —  its  members  pay 
in  part  from  their  own  pockets.  As  in 
Bologna,  its  '  receipts  are  derived  from 
entrance  payments  .  .  .  from  fines  .  .  . 
and  from  the  occasional  presents  of  an 
alumnus';  and  though  they  are  not  now 
'chiefly  devoted  to  convivial  and  relig- 
ious purposes,'  as  they  were  then,  there 
is  ample  use  for  them,  indeed  for  more 


than  undergraduates  would  be  likely  to 
supply  from  their  own  resources.  But 
the  student  guild  has  hit  upon  a  source 
of  revenue,  —  the  public,  —  and  from 
the  outside  world  is  drawn  much  of  the 
revenue  essential  to  the  continuance  of 
a  great  part  of  this  system. 
.  And  to  what  end,  the  cynic  inquires? 
To  see  men  play  games  like,  and  not  as 
well  as,  the  professionals  on  whom  they 
model  themselves;  to  yawn  through 
dreary  imitations  of  the  vaudeville  stage, 
and  crude,  expensive  parodies  of  poor 
Broadway  shows;  to  groan  through  ill- 
composed  and  vapid  glee-club  concerts? 
We  see  the  teams  recruited  by  '  scouts ' 
and  too-enthusiastic  alumni,  to  beat  a 
rival,  with  no  regard  to  the  ethics  or 
spirit  of  amateur  sport,  and  less  to  the 
training  of  the  mass  of  men.  We  stand 
aghast  at  revelations  of  the  incompe- 
tence, or  worse,  of  student  managers, 
from  whose  hands  we  are  compelled  to 
take  control  of  revenue  and  expenditure. 

And  why  should  we  put  up  with  it? 
Why  permit  men  to  waste  their  time 
and  money  —  and  ours  —  in  such  fol- 
lies? Is  it  the  business  of  the  colleges  to 
provide  great  public  spectacles?  Is  this 
why  we  support  the  'higher  education'? 
The  thing  is  a  sham.  The  colleges  are 
nothing  more  than  clubs,  —  city  or 
country,  as  the  case  may  be,  —  where 
idle  youths  fritter  away  four  years  to 
unfit  them  for  the  real  business  of  life. 
Let  us  mend  it  or  end  it. 

Moreover,  adds  the  critic,  this  com- 
parison with  the  mediaeval  student  guild 
is  misleading  and  absurd.  There  is  no 
argument  so  fallacious  as  the  argument 
from  analogy  —  especially  a  false  anal- 
ogy such  as  this.  It  is  preposterous 
fantasy.  The  mediaeval  students  were 
serious  men,  bent  on  improving  their 
minds.  These  things  are  youthful  folly 
organized.  It  is  ridiculous  to  call 
them  a  '  system  of  education ' ;  and  it  is 
worse  than  ridiculous  to  dignify  these 
'social  and  athletic  merry-go-rounds' 


THE  GUILD  OF  STUDENTS 


625 


by  recognition  as  part  of  college  work. 

To  some  minds  such  answers  are  ef- 
fective; but  there  are  two  reasons  why 
they  are  not  wholly  conclusive.  They 
do  not  prevent  our  halls  of  learning  from 
being  crowded  as  never  before,  nor 
do  they  affect  the  development  of  the 
student  guild.  Neither  denial  nor  de- 
struction is  a  policy.  We  lack  the  word 
to  charm  the  genie  again  into  the  bottle. 
And  no  amount  of  repression,  not  even 
raising  entrance  requirements  and  stif- 
fening courses,  —  though  these  would 
help  some  institutions  which  pride 
themselves  on  numbers,  —  will  solve 
the  problem,  which,  call  it  what  you 
will,  remains  one  of  the  great  issues  in 
our  higher  education.  The  demand  of 
parents  and  undergraduates  for  train- 
ing beyond  that  afforded  by  the  faculty 
is  not  only  natural:  it  is  legitimate. 
There  is  an  education  not  set  down  in 
books,  or  embodied  in  lectures;  and 
purely  intellectual  acquirement  by  it- 
self is  poor  preparation  for  this  wicked 
world.  As  it  stands  now,  this  part  of  our 
collegiate  system  is  perhaps  ill  done. 
But  it  is  now  beyond  us  to  end  it;  it 
remains  to  mend. 

Much  has  been  accomplished  by  some 
faculties.  Deans  and  sub-deans  and 
'student'  deans,  advisers  and  super- 
visors of  all  kinds,  have  done  and  are 
doing  good  work.  Still  more,  the  earnest 
and  unrecognized  labors  of  many  indi- 
viduals in  the  guild  of  scholars  among 
undergraduates  has  borne  fruit.  Some- 
thing has  been  accomplished  by  the 
students  themselves.  Year  by  year  the 
number  of  societies  that  take  an  active 
interest  in  the  more  serious  activities  of 
their  members  has  increased.  Some 
have  established  scholarships;  many 
have  begun  to  supervise  the  studies  of 
at  least  the  younger  men;  many  more 
have  cooperated  with  the  faculty  in  a 
variety  of  ways.  And  slowly,  toilsome- 
ly, this  fusion  proceeds,  to  the  advantage 
of  both  groups.  The  colleges  themselves 

VOL.  128— NO.  6  


are  embarking  on  a  score  of  activities 
unknown  to  older  generations,  bringing 
themselves  in  closer  touch,  not  only 
with  the  undergraduates,  but  with  the 
alumni  and  with  the  world  outside. 

For  it  is  obvious  that  there  are  two 
things  which  must  be  done.  The  one  is 
to  infuse  into  this  mass  of  youthful 
energy  something  of  judgment  and  di- 
rection more  than  is  natural  to  youth; 
to  connect  this  vigorous,  undisciplined, 
loosely  organized  development  with  the 
saner  standards  and  the  worthier  ends 
of  maturer  minds,  on  the  principle  of 
'old  men  for  counsel  and  young  men 
for  war.'  What  can  be  done  by  closer 
cooperation  is  revealed  in  one  institu- 
tion by  the  development  of  a  glee  club 
which  has  achieved  distinction  in  the 
whole  world  of  music;  in  another  by 
a  school  of  poetry,  and  in  another  of 
drama,  which  need  not  hide  their  heads 
even  before  professionals.  The  second 
is  the  recognition  by  the  undergraduates 
themselves  of  the  duties  and  the  respon- 
sibilities which  their  system  has  brought 
with  it.  They  must  direct  this  move- 
ment to  better  ends  than  material 
comfort,  or  mere  pleasure,  or  mutual 
admiration,  or  social  distinction,  or  or- 
ganization for  organization's  sake,  un- 
less it  is  to  destroy  itself.  The  idea  of 
'  doing  something '  for  this  institution  or 
that,  though  often  expressed  in  futile 
forms  or  running  to  absurdities,  points 
the  way  to  better  things  than  living  for 
one's  self  or  for  one's  club  alone. 

In  these  two  things  —  closer  coopera- 
tion between  the  guild  of  scholars  and 
the  guild  of  students,  and  acceptance 
of  the  obligations  of  their  system  by 
the  undergraduates  and  the  alumni  — 
seems  to  lie  the  only  perceptible  basis 
for  the  proper  development  of  the  future 
college  and  university.  But  there  is  a 
third  —  the  recognition  of  this  problem 
for  what  it  is :  an  integral  part,  not  only 
of  the  situation  as  it  exists,  but  of  the 
education  of  our  youth  in  its  entirety. 


A  YOKE  OF  STEERS 

BY  DUBOSE  HEYWARD 

A  HEAVE  of  mighty  shoulders  to  the  yoke, 
Square,  patient  heads,  and  flaring  sweep  of  horn; 
The  darkness  swirling  down  beneath  their  feet 
Where  sleeping  valleys  stir,  and  feel  the  dawn; 
Uncouth  and  primal,  on  and  up  they  sway, 
Taking  the  summit  in  a  drench  of  day. 
The  night-winds  volley  upward  bitter-sweet 
And  the  dew  shatters  to  a  rainbow  spray 
Under  the  slow-moving,  cloven  feet. 

There  is  a  power  here  that  grips  the  mind; 
A  force  repressed  and  inarticulate, 
Slow  as  the  swing  of  centuries,  as  blind 
As  Destiny,  and  as  deliberate. 

TV, 

They  will  arrive  in  their  appointed  hour 
Unhurried  by  the  goad  of  lesser  wills, 
Bearing  vast  burdens  on. 

They  are  the  great, 
Unconquerable  spirit  of  these  hills. 

i .  -  -3 

hi 

. 
H 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


BY  WILLIAM  BEEBE 


CLAMBERING  through  white,  pasty 
mud,  which  stuck  to  our  boots  by  the 
pound;  peering  through  bitter,  cold 
mist,  which  seemed  but  a  thinner  skim 
of  mud;  drenched  by  flurries  of  icy 
drops  shaken  from  the  atmosphere  by 
a  passing  moan  and  a  crash;  breathing 
air  heavy  with  a  sweet,  horrible,  pene- 
trating odor  —  such  was  the  world  as 
it  existed  for  an  hour  one  night,  while 
the  Commandant  of  Douaumont  and  I 
wandered  about,  completely  lost,  on  the 
top  of  his  own  fort.  We  finally  stum- 
bled on  the  little  grated  opening  through 
which  the  lookout  peered  unceasingly 
over  the  landscape  of  mud.  The  mist 
lifted  and  we  rediscovered  the  cave-like 
entrance,  watched  for  a  moment  the 
ominous  golden  dumb-bells  rising  from 
the  premiere  ligne,  scraped  our  boots  on 
a  German  helmet,  and  went  down  again 
into  the  strangest  sanctuary  on  earth. 

This  was  the  vision  that  flashed 
through  my  mind  as  J  began  vigil  at  an 
enormous  nest  of  Attas  —  the  leaf-cut- 
ting ants  of  the  British  Guiana  jungle. 
In  front  of  me  was  a  glade,  about  thirty 
feet  across,  devoid  of  green  growth  and 
filled  with  a  great  irregular  expanse  of 
earth  and  mud.  Relative  to  the  height 
of  the  Attas,  my  six  feet  must  seem  a 
good  half-mile,  and  from  this  height  I 
looked  down  and  saw  again  the  same 
inconceivably  sticky  clay  of  France. 
There  were  the  rain-washed  gullies,  the 
half-roofed  entrances  to  the  vast  under- 
ground fortresses,  clean-swept,  perfect 
roads,  as  efficient  as  the  arteries  of  Ver- 


dun; flapping  dead  leaves  like  the  om- 
nipresent, worn-out  scarecrows  of  cam- 
ouflage. And  over  in  one  corner,  to 
complete  the  simile,  were  a  dozen  shell- 
holes,  the  homes  of  voracious  ant-lions, 
which,  for  passing  insects,  were  unex- 
ploded  mines,  set  at  hair-trigger. 

My  Atta  city  was  only  two  hundred 
feet  away  from  the  laboratory,  in  fairly 
high  jungle,  within  sound  of  the  dinner 
triangle,  and  of  the  lapping  waves  on 
the  Mazaruni  shore.  To  sit  near  by  and 
concentrate  solely  upon  the  doings  of 
these  ant-people  was  as  easy  as  watch- 
ing a  single  circus  ring  of  performing 
elephants,  while  two  more  rings,  a  maze 
of  trapezes,  a  race-track,  and  side- 
shows were  in  full  swing.  The  jungle 
around  me  teemed  with  interesting 
happenings  and  distracting  sights  and 
sounds.  The  very  last  time  I  visited 
the  nest,  and  became  absorbed  in  a  line 
of  incoming  ants,  I  heard  the  shrill 
squeaking  of  an  angry  hummingbird 
overhead.  I  looked  up,  and  there,  ten 
feet  above,  was  a  furry  tamandua  ant- 
eater  slowly  climbing  a  straight  purple- 
heart  trunk,  while  round  and  round  his 
head  buzzed  and  swore  the  little  fury 
—  a  pinch  of  cinnamon  feathers,  ablaze 
with  rage.  The  curved  claws  of  the 
unheeding  ant-eater  fitted  around  the 
trunk,  and  the  strong  prehensile  tail 
flattened  against  the  bark,  so  that  the 
creature  seemed  to  put  forth  no  more 
exertion  than  if  walking  along  a  fallen 
log.  Now  and  then  it  stopped  and  dain- 
tily picked  at  a  bit  of  termite  nest. 

627 


628 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


With  such  side-shows  it  was  some- 
times difficult  to  concentrate  on  the 
Attas.  Yet  they  offer  problems  for 
years  of  study.  The  glade  was  a  little 
world  in  itself,  with  visitors  and  ten- 
ants, comedy  and  tragedy,  sounds  and 
silences.  It  was  an  ant-made  glade, 
with  all  new  growths  choked  either  by 
upflung,  earthen  hillocks,  or  by  leaves 
bitten  off  as  soon  as  they  appeared. 
The  casual  visitors  were  the  most  con- 
spicuous: an  occasional  trogon  swoop- 
ing across  —  a  flashing,  feathered  comet 
of  emerald,  azurite,  and  gold.  Or,  slow- 
ly drifting  in  and  out  among  the  vines, 
and  coming  to  rest  with  waving  wings, 
a  yellow-and-red-spotted  Ithomiid  —  or 
was  it  a  Heliconiid  or  a  Danaiid?  with 
such  bewildering  models  and  marvelous 
mimics  it  was  impossible  to  tell  without 
capture  and  close  examination.  Giant 
purple  tarantula-hawks  hummed  past, 
scanning  the  leaves  for  their  prey. 

Another  class  of  glade-haunters  were 
those  who  came  strictly  on  business  — 
plasterers  and  sculptors,  who  found  wet 
clay  ready  to  their  needs.  Great  golden 
and  rufous  bees  blundered  down  and 
tore  off  bucketsful  of  mud;  while  slen- 
der-bodied, dainty  wasps  of  ebony,  after 
much  fastidious  picking  of  place,  would 
detach  a  tiny  bit  of  the  whitest  clay, 
place  it  in  their  snuff-box  holder,  clean 
their  feet  and  antennse,  run  their  rapier 
in  and  out,  and  delicately  take  to  wing. 

Little  black  trigonid  bees  had  their 
special  quarry  —  a  small  deep  valley, 
in  the  midst  of  a  waste  of  interlacing 
Bad  Lands,  on  the  side  of  a  precipitous 
butte.  Here  they  cut  and  gouged  to 
their  hearts'  content,  plastering  the 
thighs  until  their  wings  would  hardly 
lift  them.  They  braced  their  feet, 
whirred,  lifted  unevenly,  and  sank  back 
with  a  jar;  then,  turning,  bit  off  a  piece 
of  ballast,  and  heaving  it  over  the  pre- 
cipice, swung  off  on  an  even  keel. 

Close  examination  of  some  of  the 
craters  and  volcano-like  cones  revealed 


many  species  of  ants,  beetles,  and 
roaches  searching  for  bits  of  food  —  the 
scavengers  of  this  small  world.  But  the 
most  interesting  were  the  actual  para- 
sites, flies  of  many  colors  and  sizes,  hum- 
ming past  like  little  planes  and  Zeppe- 
lins over  this  hidden  city,  ready  to  drop 
a  bomb  in  the  form  of  an  egg  deposited 
on  the  refuse-heaps  or  on  the  ants  them- 
selves. The  explosion  might  come  slow- 
ly, but  it  would  be  none  the  less  deadly. 
Once  I  detected  a  hint  of  the  complexity 
of  glade  life  —  beautiful  metallic  green 
flies  walking  swiftly  about  on  long  legs, 
searching  nervously,  whose  eggs  would 
be  deposited  near  those  of  other  flies, 
their  larvae  to  feed  upon  the  others  — 
parasites  upon  parasites. 

As  I  had  resolutely  put  the  doings  of 
the  tree-tops  away  from  my  conscious- 
ness, so  now  I  forgot  visitors  and  para- 
sites, and  armed  myself  for  the  excava- 
tion of  this  buried  metropolis.  I  rubbed 
vaseline  on  my  high  boots,  and  about 
the  tops  bound  a  band  of  teased-out 
absorbent  cotton.  My  pick  and  shovel 
I  treated  likewise,  and  thus  I  was  com- 
paratively insulated;  for  without  pre- 
cautions no  living  being  could  with- 
stand the  slow,  implacable  attack  of 
disturbed  Attas.  At  present  I  walked 
unmolested  across  the  glade.  The  mil- 
lions beneath  my  feet  were  as  uncon- 
scious of  my  presence  as  they  were  of 
the  breeze  in  the  galm-fronds  overhead. 

At  the  first  deep  shovel-thrust,  a 
slow-moving  flood  of  reddish-brown 
began  to  pour  forth  from  the  crumbled 
earth  —  the  outposts  of  the  Atta  Max- 
ims moving  upward  to  the  attack.  For 
a  few  seconds  only  workers  of  various 
sizes  appeared;  then  an  enormous  head 
heaved  upward,  and  there  came  into 
the  light  of  day  the  first  Atta  soldier. 
He  was  twice  the  size  of  a  large  worker 
and  heavy  in  proportion.  Instead  of 
being  drawn  up  into  two  spines,  the  top 
of  his  head  was  rounded,  bald,  and 
shiny,  and  only  at  the  back  were  the 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


629 


two  spines  visible,  shifted  downward. 
The  front  of  the  head  was  thickly 
clothed  with  golden  hair,  which  hung 
down  bang-like  over  a  round,  glistening 
single  median  eye.  One  by  one,  and 
then  shoulder  to  shoulder,  these  Cyclo- 
pean Maxims  lumbered  forth  to  battle, 
and  soon  my  boots  were  covered  in 
spite  of  the  grease,  all  sinking  their 
mandibles  deep  into  the  leather. 

When  I  unpacked  these  boots  this 
year,  I  found  the  heads  and  jaws  of  two 
Attas  still  firmly  attached,  relics  of 
some  forgotten  foray  of  the  preceding 
year.  This  mechanical,  vise-like  grip, 
wholly  independent  of  life  or  death,  is 
utilized  by  the  Guiana  Indians.  In 
place  of  stitching  up  extensive  wounds, 
a  number  of  these  giant  Atta  Maxims 
are  collected,  and  their  jaws  applied  to 
the  edges  of  the  skin,  which  are  drawn 
together.  The  ants  take  hold,  their 
bodies  are  snipped  off,  and  the  row  of 
heads  remains  until  the  wound  is 
healed. 

Over  and  around  the  outpouring  sol- 
diers, the  tiny  workers  ran  and  bit  and 
chewed  away  at  whatever  they  could 
reach.  Dozens  of  ants  made  their  way 
up  to  the  cotton,  but  found  the  utmost 
difficulty  in  clambering  over  the  loose 
fluff.  Now  and  then,  however,  a  needle- 
like  nip  at  the  back  of  my  neck  showed 
that  some  pioneer  of  these  shock  troops 
had  broken  through,  when  I  was  thank- 
ful that  Attas  could  only  bite,  and  not 
sting  as  well.  At  such  a  time  as  this, 
the  greatest  difference  is  apparent  be- 
tween these  and  the  Eciton  army  ants. 
The  Eciton  soldier,  with  his  long  curved 
scimitars  and  his  swift,  nervous  move- 
ments, was,  to  one  of  these  great  in- 
sects, as  a  fighting  d'Artagnan  would  be 
to  an  armored  tank.  The  result  was 
much  the  same,  however  —  perfect 
efficiency. 

I  now  dug  swiftly  and  crashed  with 
pick  down  through  three  feet  of  soil. 
The  great  entrance  arteries  of  the  nest 


branched  and  bifurcated,  separated  and 
anastomosed,  while  here  and  there  were 
chambers  varying  in  size  from  a  cocoa- 
nut  to  a  football.  These  were  filled 
with  what  looked  like  soft  grayish 
sponge  covered  with  whitish  mould, 
and  these  sombre  affairs  were  the  raison 
d'etre  of  all  the  leaf-cutting,  the  trails, 
the  struggles  through  jungles,  the  con- 
stant battling  against  wind  and  rain 
and  sun. 

But  the  labors  of  the  Attas  are  re- 
newed only  when  a  worker  disappears 
down  a  hole  with  his  hard-earned  bit  of 
leaf.  He  drops  it  and  goes  on  his  way. 
We  do  not  know  what  this  way  is,  but 
my  guess  is  that  he  turns  around  and 
goes  after  another  leaf.  Whatever  the 
nests  of  Attas  possess,  they  are  with- 
out recreation-rooms.  These  sluggard- 
instructors  do  not  know  enough  to 
take  a  vacation;  their  faces  are  made 
for  biting,  not  for  laughing  or  yawning. 
I  once  dabbed  fifteen  Mediums  with  a 
touch  of  white  paint  as  they  approached 
the  nest,  and  within  five  minutes  thir- 
teen of  them  had  emerged  and  started 
on  the  back  track  again. 

The  leaf  is  taken  in  charge  by  another 
Medium,  hosts  of  whom  are  every- 
where. Once,  after  a  spadeful,  I  placed 
my  eye  as  close  as  possible  to  a  small 
heap  of  green  leaves,  and  around  one 
oblong  bit  were  five  Mediums,  each 
with  a  considerable  amount  of  chewed 
and  mumbled  tissue  in  front  of  him. 
This  is  the  only  time  I  have  ever  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  these  ants  actually  at 
this  work.  The  leaves  are  chewed  thor- 
oughly, and  built  up  into  the  sponge 
gardens,  being  used  neither  for  thatch, 
nor  for  food,  but  as  fertilizer.  And  not 
for  any  strange  subterranean  berry  or 
kernel  or  fruit,  but  for  a  fungus  or  mush- 
room. The  spores  sprout  and  prolifer- 
ate rapidly,  the  gray  mycelia  covering 
the  garden ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  thread 
is  a  little  knobbed  body  filled  with 
liquid.  This  forms  the  sole  food  of  the 


630 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


ants  in  the  nest;  but  a  drop  of  honey 
placed  by  a  busy  trail  will  draw  a  circle 
of  workers  at  any  time  —  both  Mediums 
and  Minims,  who  surround  it  and  drink 
their  fill. 

When  the  fungus  garden  is  in  full 
growth,  the  nest-labors  of  the  Minims 
begin;  and  until  the  knobbed  bodies  are 
actually  ripe,  they  never  cease  to  weed 
and,  to  prune,  killing  off  the  multitude 
of  other  fungi  and  foreign  organisms, 
and,  by  pruning,  to  keep  their  particu- 
lar fungus  growing,  and  prevent  it  from 
fructifying.  The  fungus  of  the  Attas  is 
a  particular  species,  with  the  resonant, 
Dunsanesque  name  of  Rozites  gongy- 
lophora.  It  is  quite  unknown  outside  of 
the  nests  of  these  ants,  and  is  as  arti- 
ficial as  a  banana. 

n 

Only  in  Calcutta  bazaars  at  night, 
and  in  underground  streets  of  Peking 
have  I  seen  stranger  beings  than  I  un- 
earthed in  my  Atta  nest.  Now  and 
then  there  rolled  out  of  a  shovelful  of 
earth  an  unbelievably  big  and  rotund 
cicada  larva  —  which,  in  the  course  of 
time,  whether  in  one  or  in  seventeen 
years,  would  emerge  as  the  great  mar- 
bled, winged  Cicada  gigas,  spreading 
five  inches  from  tip  to  tip.  Small  ta- 
rantulas, with  beautiful  wine-colored 
cephalothorax,  made  their  home  deep 
in  the  nest,  guarded,  perhaps,  by  their 
dense  covering  of  hair.  Slender  scor- 
pions sidled  out  from  the  ruins;  they 
were  bare,  with  vulnerable  joints,  but 
they  had  the  advantage  of  long,  mobile 
arms,  and  a  pair  of  hands  which  could 
quickly  and  skillfully  pluck  an  attack- 
ing ant  from  any  part  of  their  anatomy. 

The  strangest  of  all  the  tenants  were 
the  tiny,  amber-colored  roaches,  which 
clung  frantically  to  the  heads  of  the 
great  soldier  ants,  or  scurried  over  the 
tumultuous  mounds,  searching  for  a 
crevice  sanctuary.  They  were  funny, 


fat  little  beings,  wholly  blind,  yet  su- 
premely conscious  of  the  danger  that 
threatened,  and  with  only  the  single 
thought  of  getting  below  the  surface  as 
quickly  as  possible.  The  Attas  have 
very  few  insect  guests,  but  this  cock- 
roach is  one  who  has  made  himself 
perfectly  at  home.  Through  century 
upon  century  he  has  become  more  and 
more  specialized  and  adapted  to  Atta 
life,  eyes  slipping  until  they  are  no  more 
than  faint  specks,  legs  and  antennae 
changing,  gait  becoming  altered  to 
whatever  speed  and  carriage  best  suits 
little  guests  in  big  underground  halls 
and  galleries. 

He  and  his  race  have  evolved  unseen 
and  unnoticed  even  by  the  Maxim  po- 
licemen. But  when  nineteen  hundred 
humanly  historical  years  have  passed,  a 
man  with  a  keen  sense  of  fitness  named 
him  Little  Friend  of  the  Attas;  and  so 
for  a  few  years  more,  until  we  scientists 
give  place  to  the  next  caste,  Attaphila 
will,  all  unconsciously,  bear  a  name. 

Attaphilas  have  staked  their  whole 
gamble  of  existence  on  the  continued 
possibility  of  guestship  with  the  Attas. 
Although  they  live  near  the  fungus 
gardens,  they  do  not  feed  upon  them, 
but  gather  secretions  from  the  armored 
skin  of  the  giant  soldiers,  who  appar- 
ently do  not  object,  and  show  no  hos- 
tility to  their  diminutive  masseurs.  A 
summer-boarder  may  be  quite  at  home 
on  a  farm,  and  safe  from  all  ordinary 
dangers;  but  he  must  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  scythes  and  sickles,  if  he  chooses 
to  haunt  the  hayfields.  And  so  Atta- 
phila, snug  and  safe,  deep  in  the  heart 
of  the  nest,  has  to  keep  on  the  qui  vive 
when  the  ant-harvesters  come  to  glean 
in  the  fungus  gardens.  Snip,  snip,  snip, 
on  all  sides  in  the  musty  darkness,  the 
keen  mandibles  shear  the  edible  heads; 
and  though  the  little  Attaphilas  dodge 
and  run,  yet  most  of  them,  in  course  of 
time,  lose  part  of  an  antenna,  or  even  a 
whole  one. 


631 


Thus  the  Little  Friend  of  the  Leaf- 
cutters  lives  easily  through  his  term  of 
weeks  or  months,  or  perhaps  even  a 
year,  and  has  nothing  to  fear  for  food 
or  mates,  or  from  enemies.  But  Atta- 
philas  cannot  all  live  in  a  single  nest, 
and  there  must  come  a  crisis,  when  they 
pass  out  into  a  strange  world  of  terrible 
light  and  multitudes  of  foes.  For  these 
pampered,  degenerate  roaches  to  find 
another  Atta  nest  unaided,  would  be 
inconceivable.  In  the  big  nest  that  I  ex- 
cavated I  observed  them  on  the  backs 
and  heads,  not  only  of  the  large  soldiers, 
but  also  of  the  queens,  which  swarm- 
ed in  one  portion  of  the  galleries;  and, 
indeed,  of  twelve  queens,  seven  had 
roaches  clinging  to  them.  This  has 
been  noted  also  of  a  Brazilian  species, 
and  we  suddenly  realize  what  splendid 
sports  these  humble  insects  are.  They 
resolutely  prepare  for  their  gamble,  — 
Vaventure  magnifique,  —  the  slenderest 
fighting  chance,  and  we  are  almost  in- 
clined to  forget  the  irresponsible  im- 
placability of  instinct,  and  cheer  the 
little  fellows  for  lining  up  on  this  for- 
lorn hope.  When  the  time  comes,  the 
queens  leave,  and  are  off  up  into  the 
unheard-of  sky,  as  if  an  earthworm 
should  soar  with  eagle's  feathers;  past 
the  gauntlet  of  voracious  flycatchers 
and  hawklets,  to  the  millionth  chance 
of  meeting  an  acceptable  male  of  the 
same  species.  After  the  mating  comes 
the  solitary  search  for  a  suitable  site; 
and  only  when  the  pitifully  unfair  gam- 
ble has  been  won  by  a  single  fortunate 
queen  does  the  Attaphila  climb  trem- 
blingly down  and  accept  what  fate  has 
sent.  His  ninety-and-nine  fellows  have 
met  death  in  almost  as  many  ways. 

With  the  exception  of  these  strange 
inmates  there  are  very  few  tenants  or 
guests  in  the  nests  of  the  Attas.  Unlike 
the  termites  and  Eciton,  who  harbor  a 
host  of  weird  boarders,  the  leaf-cutters 
are  able  to  keep  their  nest  free  from 
undesirables. 


Once,  far  down  in  the  nest,  I  came 
upon  three  young  queens,  recently 
emerged,  dazed  and  stupid,  with  wings 
dull  and  glazed,  who  crawled  with  awk- 
ward haste  back  into  darkness.  And 
again  twelve  winged  females  were  group- 
ed in  one  small  chamber,  restless  and 
confused.  This  was  the  only  glimpse 
I  ever  had  of  Atta  royalty  at  home. 

Good  fortune  was  with  me,  however, 
on  a  memorable  fifth  of  May,  when 
returning  from  a  monkey-hunt  in  high 
jungle.  As  I  came  out  into  the  edge  of 
a  clearing,  a  low  humming  attracted 
my  attention.  It  was  ventriloquial, 
and  my  ear  refused  to  trace  it.  It 
sounded  exactly  like  a  great  aerodrome 
far  in  the  distance,  with  a  score  or  more 
of  planes  tuning  up.  I  chanced  to  see  a 
large  bee-like  insect  rising  through  the 
branches,  and  following  back  along  its 
path,  I  suddenly  perceived  the  rarest  of 
sights  —  an  Atta  nest-entrance  boiling 
with  the  excitement  of  a  flight  of  winged 
kings  and  queens.  So  engrossed  were 
the  ants  that  they  paid  no  attention  to 
me,  and  I  was  able  to  creep  up  close 
and  kneel  within  two  feet  of  the  hole. 
The  main  nest  was  twenty  feet  away, 
and  this  was  a  special  exit  made  for  the 
occasion  —  a  triumphal  gateway  erect- 
ed far  away  from  the  humdrum  leaf- 
traffic. 

The  two-inch  arched  hole  led  oblique- 
ly down  into  darkness,  while  brilliant 
sunshine  illumined  the  earthen  take- 
off and  the  surrounding  mass  of  pink 
Mazaruni  primroses.  Up  this  corridor 
Atta  nobility  was  coming,  slowly,  with 
dignity,  as  befitted  the  occasion.  The 
males  were  more  active,  as  they  were 
smaller  in  size  than  the  females,  but 
they  were  veritable  giants  in  compari- 
son with  the  workers.  The  queens 
seemed  like  beings  of  another  race, 
with  their  great  bowed  thorax  support- 
ing the  folded  wings,  heads  correspond- 
ingly large,  with  less  jaw-development, 
but  greatly  increased  keenness  of  vision. 


632 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


In  comparison  with  the  Minims,  these 
queens  were  as  a  human  being  one  hun- 
dred feet  in  height. 

I  selected  one  large  queen  as  she  ap- 
peared, and  watched  her  closely.  Slow- 
ly and  with  great  effort  she  climbed  the 
steep  ascent  into  the  blazing  sunlight. 
Five  tinj'  Minims  were  clinging  to  her 
body  and  wings,  all  scrubbing  and 
cleaning  as  hard  as  they  could.  She 
chose  a  clear  space,  spread  her  wings 
wide  and  flat,  stood  high  upon  her  six 
legs,  and  waited.  I  fairly  shouted  at 
this  change,  for  slight  though  it  was,  it 
worked  magic,  and  the  queen  Atta  was 
a  queen  no  more,  but  a  miniature,  strad- 
dle-legged aeroplane,  pushed  into  posi- 
tion, and  overrun  by  a  crowd  of  me- 
chanics, putting  the  finishing  touches, 
tightening  the  wires,  oiling  every  pli- 
able crevice.  A  Medium  came  along, 
tugged  at  a  leg,  and  the  obliging  little 
plane  lifted  it  for  inspection.  For  three 
minutes  this  kept  up,  and  then  the 
plane  became  a  queen  and  moved  rest- 
lessly. Without  warning,  as  if  some 
irresponsible  mechanic  had  turned  the 
primed  propellers,  the  four  mighty 
wings  whirred  —  and  four  Minims  were 
hurled  head  over  heels  a  foot  away, 
snapped  from  their  positions.  The 
sound  of  the  wings  was  almost  too  exact 
an  imitation  of  the  snarl  of  a  starting 
plane  —  the  comparison  was  absurd  in 
its  exactness  of  timbre  and  resonance. 

It  was  only  a  test,  however,  and  the 
moment  the  queen  became  quiet,  the 
upset  mechanics  clambered  back.  They 
crawled  beneath  her,  scraped  her  feet 
and  antennae,  licked  her  eyes  and  jaws, 
and  went  over  every  shred  of  wing- 
tissue.  Then  again  she  buzzed,  this 
time  sending  only  a  single  Minim  sprawl- 
ing. Again  she  stopped,  after  lifting 
herself  an  inch,  but  immediately  started 
up,  and  now  rose  rather  unsteadily,  but 
without  pause,  and  slowly  ascended 
above  the  nest  and  the  primroses.  Cir- 
cling once,  she  passed  through  green 


leaves  and  glowing  balls  of  fruit  into 
the  blue  sky. 

Thus  I  followed  the  passing  of  one 
queen  Atta  into  the  jungle  world,  as  far 
as  human  eyes  would  permit,  and  my 
mind  returned  to  the  mote  which  I  had 
detected  at  an  equally  great  height  — 
the  queen  descending  after  her  mar- 
riage, as  isolated  as  she  had  started.1 

We  have  seen  how  the  little  blind 
roaches  occasionally  cling  to  an  emerg- 
ing queen  and  so  are  transplanted  to  a 
new  nest.  But  the  queen  bears  some- 
thing far  more  valuable.  More  faith- 
fully than  ever  virgin  tended  temple 
fires,  each  departing  queen  fills  a  little 
pouch  in  her  mouth  with  a  pellet  of 
the  precious  fungus,  and  here  it  is  care- 
fully guarded. until  the  time  comes  for 
its  propagation  in  the  new  nest. 

When  she  has  descended  to  earth  and 
excavated  a  little  chamber,  she  closes 
the  entrance,  and  for  forty  days  and 
nights  labors  at  the  founding  of  a  new 
colony.  She  plants  the  little  fungus 
cutting,  and  tends  it  with  the  utmost 
solicitude.  The  care  and  feeding  in  her 
past  life  have  stored  within  her  the  sub- 
stance for  vast  numbers  of  eggs.  Nine 
out  of  ten  that  she  lays  she  eats,  to  give 
her  the  strength  to  go  on  with  her  labors; 
and  when  the  first  larvse  emerge,  they 
too  are  fed  with  surplus  eggs.  In  time 
they  pupate,  and  at  the  end  of  six  weeks 
the  first  workers  —  all  tiny  Minims  — 
hatch.  Small  as  they  are,  born  in  dark- 
ness, yet  no  education  is  needed.  The 
Spirit  of  the  Attas  infuses  them.  Play 
and  rest  are  the  only  things  incompre- 
hensible to  them,  and  they  take  charge 
at  once  of  fungus,  of  excavation,  of  the 
care  of  the  queen  and  eggs,  the  feeding 
of  the  larvse.  As  soon  as  the  huskier 
Mediums  appear,  they  break  through 
into  the  upper  world,  and  one  day  the 
first  bit  of  green  leaf  is  carried  down 
into  the  nest. 

The  queen  rests.   Henceforth,  as  far 
1  See  Atlantic  for  July,  1921,  p.  52. 


THE  ATTAS  AT  HOME 


633 


as  we  know,  she  becomes  a  mere  egg- 
producing  machine,  fed  mechanically  by 
mechanical  workers,  the  food  trans- 
formed by  physiological  mechanics  into 
yolk,  and  then  deposited.  The  aeroplane 
has  become  transformed  into  an  incu- 
bator. 

m 

As  we  have  seen,  an  Atta  worker  is  a 
member  of  the  most  implacable  labor- 
union  in  the  world;  he  believes  in  a 
twenty-four  hour  day,  no  pay,  no  play, 
no  rest  —  he  is  a  cog  in  a  machine- 
driven  good-for-the-greatest-number. 
After  studying  these  beings  for  a  week, 
one  longs  to  go  out  and  shout  for  kaisers 
and  tsars,  for  selfishness  and  crime  — 
anything  as  a  relief  from  such  terrible 
unthinking  altruism.  All  Atta  workers 
are  born  free  and  equal  —  which  is 
well;  and  they  remain  so  —  which  is 
what  a  Buddhist  priest  once  called 
gashang  (or  so  it  sounded),  and  which 
he  explained  as  a  state  where  plants  and 
animals  and  men  were  crystal-like  in 
growth  and  existence.  What  a  welcome 
sight  it  would  be  to  see  a  Medium 
mount  a  bit  of  twig,  antennae  a  crowd  of 
Minims  about  him,  and  start  off  on  a 
foray  of  his  own ! 

We  may  jeer  at  or  condemn  the  Attas 
for  their  hard-shell  existence,  but  there 
comes  to  mind,  again  and  again,  the 
wonder  of  it  all.  Are  the  hosts  of  little 
beings  really  responsible;  have  they  not 
evolved  into  a  pocket,  a  mental  cul-de- 
sac,  a  swamping  of  individuality,  pool- 
ing their  personalities? 

And  what  is  it  they  have  gained  — 
what  pledge  of  success  in  food,  in  safety, 
in  propagation?  They  are  not  separate 
entities;  they  have  none  of  the  freedom 
of  action,  of  choice,  of  individuality,  of 
the  solitary  wasps.  They  are  the  somat- 
ic cells  of  the  body  politic,  while  deep 
within  the  nest  are  the  guarded  sexual 
cells  —  the  winged  kings  and  queens, 
which,  from  time  to  time,  exactly,  as  in 


isolated  organisms,  are  thrown  off  to 
found  new  nests.  They,  no  less  than 
the  workers,  are  parts  of  something 
more  subtle  than  visible  Attas  and 
their  material  nest.  Whether  I  go  to 
the  ant  as  sluggard,  or  myrmecologist, 
or  accidentally  via  Pterodactyl  Pups,  a 
day  spent  with  them  invariably  leaves 
me  with  my  whole  being  concentrated 
on  this  mysterious  Atta  Ego.  Call  it 
Vibration,  Aura,  Spirit  of  the  Nest,  — 
clothe  ignorance  in  whatever  term 
seems  appropriate, — we  cannot  deny  its 
existence  and  power. 

As  with  the  army  ants,  the  flowing 
lines  of  leaf-cutters  always  brought  to 
mind  great  arteries,  filled  with  pulsat- 
ing, tumbling  corpuscles.  When  an  ob- 
struction appeared,  as  a  fallen  leaf, 
across  the  great  sandy  track,  a  dozen 
or  twenty,  or  a  hundred  workers 
gathered  —  like  leucocytes  —  and  re- 
moved the  interfering  object.  If  I  in- 
jured a  worker  who  was  about  to  enter 
the  nest,  I  inoculated  the  Atta  organ- 
ism with  a  pernicious  foreign  body. 
Even  the  victim  himself  was  dimly 
aware  of  the  law  of  fitness.  Again  and 
again  he  yielded  to  the  call  of  the  nest, 
only  to  turn  aside  at  the  last  moment. 
From  a  normal  link  in  the  endless  Atta 
chain,  he  had  become  an  outcast  ! — 
snapped  at  by  every  passing  ant,  self- 
banished,  wandering  off  at  nightfall,  to 
die  somewhere  in  the  wilderness  of 
grass.  When  well,  an  Atta  has  relations, 
but  no  friends;  when  ill,  every  jaw  is 
against  him. 

As  I  write  this  seated  at  my  labora- 
tory table,  by  turning  down  my  lamp 
and  looking  out,  I  can  see  the  star-dust 
of  Orion's  nebula,  and  without  moving 
from  my  chair,  Rigel,  Sirius,  Capella, 
and  Betelgeuze  —  the  blue,  white,  yel- 
low, and  red  evolution  of  so-called  life- 
less cosmic  matter.  A  few  slides  from 
the  aquarium  at  my  side  reveal  an  evo- 
lutionary sequence  to  the  heavenly 
host  —  the  simplest  of  earthly  organ- 


634 


YELLOW  ROSES 


isms  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the 
borderland,  not  only  of  plants  and  ani- 
mals, but  of  the-one  and  of  the  many- 
celled.  First,  a  swimming  lily,  Stentor, 
a  solitary  animal  bloom,  twenty-five  to 
the  inch;  Cothurnia,  a  double  lily;  and 
Gonium,  with  a  quartette  of  cells  cling- 
ing tremulously  together  —  progressing 
unsteadily,  materially,  toward  the  rim 
of  my  field  of  vision,  and,  in  the  evo- 
lution of  earthly  life,  toward  sponges, 
peripatus,  men,  and  ants. 

I  was  interrupted  in  my  microcosmus 
just  as  it  occurred  to  me  that  Chester- 
ton would  heartily  approve  of  my  ap- 
proximation of  Sirius  and  Stentor,  of 
Capella  and  Cothurnia  —  the  universe 
balanced.  My  attention  was  drawn 
from  the  atom  Gonium,  whose  brave 
little  spirit  was  striving  to  keep  his  four- 
some one  —  a  primordial  struggle  to- 
ward unity  of  self  and  division  of  labor; 
my  consciousness  climbed  the  micro- 
scope tube  and  came  to  rest  upon  a  slim 
glass  of  amber  liquid  on  my  laboratory 


table.  A  servant  had  brought  a  cock- 
tail, for  it  was  New  Year's  Eve  (now 
the  thought  came  that  there  were  a 
number  of  worthy  people  who  would 
also  approve  of  this  approximation!). 
I  looked  at  the  small  spirituous  luxury, 
and  I  thought  of  my  friends  in  New 
York,  and  then  of  the  Attas  in  front  of 
the  laboratory.  With  my  electric  flash 
I  went  out  into  the  starlight,  and  found 
the  usual  hosts  struggling  nestward 
with  their  chlorophyll  burdens,  and 
rushing  frantically  out  into  the  black 
jungle  for  more  and  yet  more  leaves. 
My  mind  swept  back  over  evolution 
from  star-dust  to  Kartabo  compound, 
from  Gonium  to  man,  and  to  these  leaf- 
cutting  ants.  And  I  wondered  whether 
the  Attas  were  any  better  for  being 
denied  the  stimulus  of  temptation,  or 
whether  I  was  any  the  worse  for  the 
opportunity  of  refusing  a  second  glass. 
I  went  into  the  house,  voiced  a  toast 
to  tolerance,  to  temperance,  and  —  to 
pterodactyls,  and  drank  my  cocktail. 


YELLOW  ROSES 


BY  EMMA  LAWRENCE 


THEY  were  talking  about  an  embez- 
zlement, the  old  story  of  a  trusted  em- 
ployee, who  had  taken  funds  so  cleverly 
and  systematically  for  so  long  that  he 
had  come  to  look  upon  his  peculations  as 
a  part  of  his  salary.  At  last  he  had  been 
found  out.  Tina  Metcalfe  remarked 
bromidically  that  people  always  were 
found  out. 

'Do  you  suppose,'  she  asked,  'that 
anyone  ever  really  lived  a  lie  and  got 
away  with  it  —  forever,  I  mean?' 


Reggie  Forsyth  said  he  knew  a  wom- 
an who  did  once  —  he  would  tell  them 
about  it  if  they  liked.  The  little  group 
around  the  fire,  who  had  just  dined  and 
would  eventually  make  up  a  table  of 
bridge,  assured  him  they  did  like;  so  he 
told  them  this  story. 

'It  happened  a  few  years  ago,' 
Forsyth  said,  'and  it  happened  a  long 
way  from  here.  The  woman  was  the 
wife  of  a  mill  agent  in  a  little  manufac- 
turing town.  Where  she  came  from,  I 


YELLOW  ROSES 


635 


don't  know;  she  was  certainly  not  bred 
in  those  parts;  no  one  there  had  ever 
seen  her  like.  Had  she  been  in  society 
or  on  the  stage,  her  beauty  would  have 
made  her  famous;  but  her  fellow  towns- 
people merely  thought  her  odd,  she  was 
so  amazingly  unconventional  and  so 
astonishingly  unprovincial.  She  did  as 
she  chose,  as  a  duchess  might  have  done. 

'One  wonders  where  the  little  chap 
she  married  ever  found  her,  or  why  she 
appealed  to  him.  He  was  a  good  little 
chap  enough,  absorbed  in  his  work  and 
in  the  life  of  the  town,  delighted  with 
his  house,  and  heartbroken  because  no 
children  had  ever  come  to  it.  Ugly  little 
man  he  was,  too,  and  quite  typical  of 
his  class;  repeated  your  name  when  he 
met  you;  said,  "Pleased  to  meet  you," 
and  "Excuse  my  glove,"  just  where, 
according  to  his  lights,  he  should  have. 

'And  she  —  she  was  like  a  wild  bird 
caged,  a  woods-flower  set  in  a  border  of 
zinnias  and  asters,  a  well-kept  border 
where  one  would  not  expect  to  find  a 
weed,  however  rare.  She  was  slender, 
and  long-limbed,  shapeless  as  a  young 
boy;  her  neck  was  slim  and  white,  and 
her  head  small  and  wonderfully  set. 
She  had  a  great  mass  of  reddish  hair,  — 
short,  thick,  curly  hair, — but  her  lashes 
were  long  and  black. 

'No  wonder  the  townspeople  dis- 
approved of  her;  they  bored  her,  and 
when  her  husband  insisted  that  they 
should  continue  to  bore  her  by  forcing 
her  into  their  society,  she  became 
extremely  ill.  Then  he  became  almost 
frantic,  for  he  adored  her  and  would 
trust  her  to  none  but  the  greatest  doc- 
tor he  could  discover;  and  the  doctor 
proved  himself  great  by  his  diagnosis, 
for  he  told  the  man  that  nothing  ailed 
his  wife  but  that  her  life  did  n't  suit 
her,  and  that  she  must  be  left  freer,  to 
choose  one  more  congenial.  So  after 
that  she  was  let  alone,  free  to  find  the 
country  that  surrounded  the  town,  to 
walk,  to  run,  to  read.  The  townspeople 


thought  she  was  "touched,"  and  were 
kinder  to  her  than  she  knew.  They 
ceased  to  criticize  her  and  made  it  easy 
for  her  to  be  alone.  In  the  summer-time 
she  would  take  her  book  and  her  lunch- 
basket  and  tramp  the  fields  and  woods 
till  she  found  some  spot  she  could  love, 
and  spend  the  days  with  her  dreams 
and  her  long,  long  thoughts.  But  the 
evenings  belonged  to  her  man;  though 
what  they  found  in  common  I  cannot 
guess. 

'But  one  day  on  her  walk  she  had  an 
adventure.  She  found  a  field  she  liked 
—  liked  because  it  was  flushed  with 
hardback  and  white  with  meadow-sweet, 
and  inhabited  by  a  man  whose  type  was 
unknown  to  her.  Any  of  you  would 
have  placed  him  quickly  en9ugh;  his 
riding  togs  and  English  boots  would 
have  marked  him  for  you  —  a  young 
blood  who  had  come  a  cropper  among 
the  hardhack  and  meadow-sweet.  But 
to  her  he  was  new;  his  looks  and  his 
clothes  and  his  opening  remark  to  her 
were  all  quite  different. 

'"I've  lost  my  horse,"  he  said  gen- 
ially. She  looked  curious,  which  appar- 
ently encouraged  him.  "  I  don't  mind," 
he  said.  "He  was  a  horrid  horse."  She 
looked  about  her.  "  You  won't  see  him," 
said  the  man;  "he  could  run  most  aw- 
fully fast." 

'  It  occurred  to  her  that  he  had  fallen 
off.  "Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked. 

'"Thanks,  not  a  bit.  This  is  a  jolly 
field,  is  n't  it?" 

'"I  like  it,"  she  said. 

'"Blueberry-picking?"  he  suggested, 
looking  at  her  basket. 

'She  shook  her  head.  "No,  just 
lunch." 

'"Picnicking!  By  Jove>  what  luck. 
Falling  makes  one  so  frightfully  hungry, 
you  know." 

'She  did  n't  know,  but  she  believed 
him  and  invited  him  to  share  her  meal. 
They  found  a  shady  place,  and  in  the 
course  of  time  discovered  many  things 


YELLOW  ROSES 


about  each  other.  He  was  staying  at  a 
country  house  with  people  she  knew  by 
sight  —  knew  their  traps  and  their 
grooms  when  she  saw  them  outside 
shops  in  the  town;  knew  what  the  town 
people  had  chosen  to  tell  of  them  and  of 
their  ways.  He  discovered  more  about 
her.  And  he  found  her  book. 

' "  Masefield,  Daffodil  Fields, "  he  said ; 
"do  they  read  that  —  in  the  town?" 

'"No,"  she  said,  "I  read  it  —  in  the 
woods." 

'"Oh,  no,  you  don't;  I  read  it  to 
you." 

'So  he  began  and  read  for  a  while; 
and  he  read  delightfully,  for  he  had  a 
pleasant  voice  and  he  loved  what  he 
read.  But  by  and  by  he  put  down  the 
book  and  they  talked  for  a  while,  of 
books  and  of  themselves  again.  It  was 
a  wonderful  day  for  her  —  a  surprise  to 
find  the  things  she  cared  for  were  loved 
by  others,  and  that  she  was  not  really 
"odd"  at  all.  By  and  by  it  was  time  to 
go  home,  before  her  man  should  come 
from  his  work.  But  they  made  plans  for 
the  morrow,  or,  should  the  morrow  not 
be  fine,  for  the  day  after. 

'  It  happened  they  were  in  for  a  spell 
of  fair  weather,  and  they  spent  long 
hours  together  in  the  fields  and  in  the 
woods.  They  read  books  together,  and 
he  told  her  of  cities  and  of  life  in  the 
cities,  and  of  people  he  knew,  people 
who  would  not  have  bored  her  and 
made  her  ill.  He  told  her  of  music,  and 
art  and  architecture,  and  stories  of 
hunting  and  balls  and  dinner-parties, 
and  about  the  women  who  hunted  and 


danced  and  dined.  But  oftener  he  told 
her  about  herself  —  how  lovely  she  was, 
and  how  lovable.  They  were  very  much 
in  love  before  long,  and  she  showed 
a  curious  courage  in  her  determination 
that,  having  missed  so  much,  this  should 
not  pass  her  by. 

'  So  they  lived  to  the  utmost  —  while 
the  fair  weather  lasted.  The  third  day 
he  met  her,  he  brought  her  a  yellow  rose 
from  the  garden  of  his  hostess. 

'"I  searched  the  garden,"  he  told 
her,  "to  find  what  flower  you  are  like. 
This  is  it." 

'So  every  day  she  wore  a  yellow  rose 
tucked  in  her  gown. 

'At  last  the  weather  broke,  and  he 
went  back  to  the  city,  and  she  no 
longer  could  roam  the  fields  and  woods. 
She  drooped  like  a  flower  in  the  long 
wet  autumn,  confined  to  the  house;  and 
though  nothing  ever  ailed  her  very 
much,  she  died  before  the  winter  was 
half  through! 

'Her  husband  was  beside  himself 
with  grief,  and  the  neighbors  who  had 
bored  her  came  and  looked  on  her  when 
she  was  dead.  Her  husband  had  filled 
her  hands  with  yellow  roses. 

'"She  loved  them  so,"  he  told  his 
friends;  "all  summer  long  she  wore 
them  in  her  dress."' 

'So  that,'  said  Reggie  Forsyth,  'is 
the  story  of  a  woman  who  lived  a  lie, 
yet  no  one  ever  knew.' 

'Yet  you  knew,'  said  Tina  Metcalfe 
quickly  —  and  wished  she  had  bitten 
out  her  tongue  before  she  spoke. 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE   OF  GOD 


BY  RUFUS  M.  JONES 


THE  revival  of  mysticism,  which  has 
been  one  of  the  noteworthy  features  in 
the  Christianity  of  our  time,  has  pre- 
sented us  with  a  number  of  interesting 
and  important  questions.  We  want  to 
know,  first  of  all,  what  mysticism  really 
is.  Secondly,  we  want  to  know  whether 
it  is  a  normal  or  an  abnormal  expe- 
rience. And  omitting  many  other  ques- 
tions, which  must  wait  their  turn,  we 
want  to  know  whether  mystical  expe- 
riences actually  enlarge  our  sphere  of 
knowledge,  that  is,  whether  they  are 
trustworthy  sources  of  authentic  in- 
formation and  authoritative  truth  con- 
cerning realities  which  lie  beyond  the 
range  of  human  senses. 

The  answer  to  the  first  question  ap- 
pears to  be  as  difficult  to  accomplish  as 
the  return  of  Ulysses  was.  The  secret  is 
kept  in  book  after  book.  One  can  mar- 
shal a  formidable  array  of  definitions, 
but  they  oppose  and  challenge  one  an- 
other, like  the  men  sprung  from  the 
dragon's  teeth.  For  the  purposes  of  the 
present  consideration,  we  can  eliminate 
what  is  usually  included  under  psychical 
phenomena,  that  is,  the  phenomena  of 
dreams,  visions,  and  trances,  hysteria 
and  dissociation  and  esoteric  and  occult 
phenomena.  Thirty  years  ago  Professor 
Royce  said:  'In  the  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions,  and  their  furniture  is 
extremely  manifold.  Astral  bodies  and 
palmistry,  trances  and  mental  heal- 
ing, communications  from  the  dead  and 
"phantasms  of  the  living"  —  such 
things  are  for  some  people  to-day  the 


sole  quite  unmistakable  evidence  of 
the  supremacy  of  the  spiritual  world.' 
These  phenomena  are  worthy  of  care- 
ful, painstaking  study  and  attention, 
for  they  will  eventually  throw  much 
light  upon  the  deep  and  complex  nature 
of  human  personality  —  are,  in  fact, 
already  throwing  much  light  upon  it. 
But  they  furnish  us  slender  data  for 
understanding  what  is  properly  meant 
by  mystical  experience  and  its  religious 
and  spiritual  bearing. 

We  can,  too,  leave  on  one  side  the 
metaphysical  doctrines  that  fill  a  large 
amount  of  space  in  the  books  of  the 
great  mystics.  These  doctrines  had  a 
long  historical  development,  and  they 
would  have  taken  essentially  the  same 
form  if  the  exponents  of  them  had  not 
been  mystics.  Mystical  experience  is 
confined  to  no  one  form  of  philosophy, 
though  some  ways  of  thinking  no  doubt 
favor  and  other  ways  retard  the  expe- 
rience, as  they  also  often  do  in  the  case 
of  religious  faith  in  general.  Mystical 
experience,  furthermore,  must  not  be 
confused  with  what  technical  expert 
writers  call '  the  mystic  way.'  There  are 
as  many  mystical  'ways'  as  there  are 
gates  to  the  New  Jerusalem.  'On  the 
east  three  gates,  on  the  north  three 
gates,  on  the  south  three  gates,  and  on 
the  west  three  gates.'  One  might  as 
well  try  to  describe  the  way  of  making 
love,  or  the  way  of  appreciating  the 
Grand  Canon,  as  to  describe  the  way  to 
the  discovery  of  God,  as  if  there  were 
only  one  way. 

637 


638 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


I  am  not  interested  in  mysticism  as 
an  ism.  It  turns  out,  in  most  accounts, 
to  be  a  dry  and  abstract  thing,  hardly 
more  like  the  warm  and  intimate  expe- 
rience than  the  color  of  the  map  is  like 
the  country  for  which  it  stands.  'Can- 
ada is  very  pink/  seems  quite  an  inade- 
quate description  of  the  noble  country 
north  of  our  border.  It  is  mystical  ex- 
perience, and  not  mysticism,  that  is 
worthy  of  our  study.  We  are  concerned 
with  the  experience  itself,  not  with 
second-hand  formulations  of  it.  'The 
mystic,'  says  Professor  Royce,  'is  a 
thoroughgoing  empiricist.'  'God  ceases 
to  be  an  object  and  becomes  an  expe- 
rience,' says  Professor  Pringle-Pattison. 
If  it  is  an  experience,  we  want  to  find 
out  what  happens  to  the  mystic  him- 
self inside  where  he  lives. 

According  to  those  who  have  been 
there,  the  experience  that  we  call  mysti- 
cal is  charged  with  the  conviction  of 
real,  direct  contact  and  commerce  with 
God.  It  is  the  almost  universal  testi- 
mony of  those  who  are  mystics  that 
they  find  God  through  their  experience. 
John  Tauler  says  that,  in  his  best  mo- 
ments of '  devout  prayer  and  the  uplift- 
ing of  the  mind  to  God,'  he  experiences 
'the  pure  presence  of  God'  in  his  own 
soul;  but  he  adds  that  all  he  can  tell 
others  about  the  experience  is  'as  poor 
and  unlike  it  as  the  point  of  a  needle  is 
to  the  heavens  above  us.'  'I  have  met 
with  my  God;  I  have  met  with  my  Sav- 
iour. I  have  felt  the  healings  drop  upon 
my  soul  from  under  his  wings,'  says 
Isaac  Penington,  in  the  joy  of  his  first 
mystical  experience. 

Without  needlessly  multiplying  such 
testimonies  for  data,  we  can  say  with 
considerable  assurance  that  mystical 
experience  is  consciousness  of  direct  and 
immediate  relationship  with  some  tran- 
scendent reality  which,  in  the  moment 
of  experience,  is  believed  to  be  God. 
'This  is  He,  this  is  He,'  exclaims  Isaac 
Penington;  'there  is  no  other.  This  is 


He  whom  I  have  waited  for  and  soughi 
after  from  my  childhood.'  Angela  ol 
Foligno  says  that  she  experienced  God 
and  saw  that  the  whole  world  was  full  o 
God. 

II 

There  are  many  different  degrees  o 
intensity,  concentration,  and  convio 
tion  in  the  experiences  of  different  indi 
vidual  mystics,  and  also  in  the  varioui 
experiences  of  the  same  individual  fron 
time  to  time.  There  has  been  a  ten 
dency  in  most  studies  of  mysticism  tx 
regard  the  state  of  ecstasy  as  par  excel 
lence  mystical  experience.  That  is,  how 
ever,  a  grave  mistake.  The  calmer,  mon 
meditative,  less  emotional,  less  ecstatii 
experiences  of  God  are  not  less  con  vine 
ing  and  possess  greater  constructivi 
value  for  life  and  character  than  d< 
ecstatic  experiences  which  presuppose  j 
peculiar  psychical  frame  and  disposi 
tion.  The  seasoned  Quaker,  in  th< 
corporate  hush  and  stillness  of  a  silen 
meeting,  is  far  removed  from  ecstasy 
but  he  is  not  the  less  convinced  that  h< 
is  meeting  with  God.  For  the  essentit 
of  mysticism  we  do  not  need  to  insis 
upon  a  certain  'sacred'  mystic  way,  o 
upon  ecstasy,  or  upon  any  peculiar  typ 
of  rare  psychic  upheavals.  We  do  nee< 
to  insist,  however,  upon  a  consciousnes 
of  commerce  with  God  amounting  t< 
conviction  of  his  Presence. 

Where  one  heard  noise 

And  one  saw  flame, 

I  only  knew  He  named  my  name. 

Jacob  Boehme  calls  the  experieno 
that  came  to  him,  'breaking  througl 
the  gate'  into  'a  new  birth  or  resurrec 
tion  from  the  dead';  so  that,  he  says, '. 
knew  God.'  'I  am  certain,'  says  Eck 
hart,  'as  certain  as  that  I  live,  tha 
nothing  is  so  near  to  me  as  God.  God  i 
nearer  to  me  than  I  am  to  myself.'  Om 
of  these  experiences  —  the  first  one  — 
was  an  ecstasy,  and  the  other,  so  far  a: 
we  can  tell,  was  not.  It  was  the  flood 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


639 


ing  in  of  a  moment  of  God-conscious- 
ness in  the  act  of  preaching  a  sermon  to 
the  common  people  of  Cologne.  The 
experience  of  Penington,  again,  was  not 
an  ecstasy;  it  was  the  vital  surge  of 
fresh  life  on  the  first  occasion  of  hearing 
George  Fox  preach  after  a  long  period 
of  waiting  silence.  A  simple  normal  case 
of  a  mild  type  is  given  in  a  little  book  of 
recent  date,  reprinted  from  the  Atlantic 
Monthly:  'After  a  long  time  of  jangling 
conflict  and  inner  misery,  I  one  day, 
quite  quietly  and  with  no  conscious  effort, 
stopped  doing  the  disingenuous  thing  [I 
had  been  doing].  Then  the  marvel  hap- 
pened. It  was  as  if  a  great  rubber  band, 
which  had  been  stretched  almost  to  the 
breaking-point,  were  suddenly  released 
and  snapped  back  to  its  normal  condi- 
tion. Heaven  and  earth  were  changed 
for  me.  Everything  was  glorious  be- 
cause of  its  relation  to  some  great  cen- 
tral life  —  nothing  seemed  to  matter 
but  that  life.' 

Brother  Lawrence,  a  barefooted  lay 
brother  of  the  seventeenth  century,  ac- 
cording to  the  testimony  of  the  brother- 
hood, attained  'an  unbroken  and  undis- 
turbed sense  of  the  Presence  of  God.' 
He  was  not  an  ecstatic;  he  was  a  quiet, 
faithful  man,  who  did  his  ordinary  daily 
tasks  with  what  seemed  to  his  friends 
'an  unclouded  vision,  an  illuminated 
love,  and  an  uninterrupted  joy.'  Simple 
and  humble  though  he  was,  he  never- 
theless acquired,  through  his  experience 
of  God,  'an  extraordinary  spaciousness 
of  mind.' 

The  more  normal,  expansive  mystical 
experiences  come  apparently  when  the 
personal  self  is  at  its  best.  Its  powers 
and  capacities  are  raised  to  an  unusual 
unity  and  fused  together.  The  whole 
being,  with  its  accumulated  submerged 
life,  finds  itself.  The  process  of  prepar- 
ing for  any  high  achievement  is  a  severe 
and  laborious  one;  but  nothing  seems 
easier  in  the  moment  of  success  than  is 


the  accomplishment  for  which  the  life 
has  been  prepared.  There  comes  to  be 
formed  within  the  person  what  Aris- 
totle called  'a  dexterity  of  soul,'  so  that 
the  person  does  with  ease  what  he  has 
become  skilled  to  do.  Clement  of  Alex- 
andria called  a  fully  organized  and  spir- 
itualized person  'a  harmonized  man' 
—  that  is,  adjusted,  organized,  and 
ready  to  be  a  transmissive  organ  for  the 
revelation  of  God.  Brother  Lawrence, 
who  was  thus  'harmonized,'  finely  says: 
'The  most  excellent  method  which  I 
found  of  going  to  God  was  that  of  doing 
my  common  business  purely  for  the  love 
of  God.'  An  earlier  mystic  of  the  four- 
teenth century  stated  the  same  princi- 
ple in  these  words :  '  It  is  my  aim  to  be 
to  the  Eternal  God  what  a  man's  hand 
is  to  a  man.' 

There  are  many  human  experiences 
which  carry  a  man  up  to  levels  where 
he  has  not  usually  been  before,  and 
where  he  finds  himself  possessed  of  in- 
sight and  energies  that  he  had  hardly 
suspected  were  his  until  that  moment. 
One  leaps  to  his  full  height  when  the 
right  inner  spring  is  reached.  We  are 
quite  familiar  with  the  way  in  which 
instinctive  tendencies  in  us,  and  emo- 
tions both  egoistic  and  social,  become 
organized  under  a  group  of  ideas  and 
ideals  into  a  single  system,  which  we 
call  a  sentiment,  such  as  love,  or  patriot- 
ism, or  devotion  to  truth.  It  forms 
slowly,  and  one  hardly  realizes  that  it 
has  formed  until  some  occasion  unex- 
pectedly brings  it  into'  full  operation, 
and  we  find  ourselves  able  with  perfect 
ease  to  overcome  the  most  powerful 
inhibitory  and  opposing  instincts  and 
habits,  which,  until  then,  had  usually 
controlled  us.  We  are  familiar,  too, 
with  the  way  in  which  a  well-trained 
and  disciplined  mind,  confronted  by  a 
concrete  situation,  will  sometimes,  — 
alas,  not  always,  —  in  a  sudden  flash  of 
imaginative  insight,  discover  a  uni- 
versal law  revealed  there  and  then  in 


640 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


the  single  phenomenon,  as  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  did,  and  as,  in  a  no  less  striking 
way,  Sir  William  Rowan  Hamilton  did 
in  his  discovery  of  Quaternions.  Liter- 
ary and  artistic  geniuses  supply  us  with 
many  instances  in  which,  in  a  sudden 
flash,  the  crude  material  at  hand  is  shot 
through  with  vision,  and  the  compli- 
cated plot  of  a  drama,  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  a  character,  or  the  complete 
glory  of  a  statue  stands  revealed,  as  if, 
to  use  R.  L.  Stephenson's  illustration,  a 
geni  had  brought  it  on  a  golden  tray  as 
a  gift  from  another  world.  Abraham 
Lincoln,  striking  off  in  a  few  intense 
minutes  his  Gettysburg  address,  as 
beautiful  in  style  and  perfect  in  form  as 
anything  in  human  literature,  is  as 
good  an  illustration  as  we  need  of  the 
way  in  which  a  highly  organized  person, 
by  a  kindling  flash,  has  at  his  hand 
all  the  moral  and  spiritual  gains  of  a 
lifetime. 

There  is  a  famous  account  of  the 
flash  of  inspiration,  given  by  Philo, 
which  can  hardly  be  improved.  It  is  as 
follows:  — 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  recount  my  own  ex- 
perience. At  times,  when  I  have  proposed 
to  enter  upon  my  wonted  task  of  writing  on 
philosophical  doctrines,  with  an  exact  know- 
ledge of  the  materials  which  were  to  be  put 
together,  I  have  had  to  leave  off  without  any 
work  accomplished,  finding  my  mind  barren 
and  fruitless,  and  upbraiding  it  for  its  self- 
complacency,  while  startled  at  the  might  of 
the  Existent  One,  in  whose  power  it  lies  to 
open  and  close  the  wombs  of  the  soul.  But 
at  other  times,  when  I  had  come  empty,  all 
of  a  sudden  I  have  been  filled  with  thoughts, 
showered  down  and  sown  upon  me  unseen 
from  above,  so  that  by  Divine  possession  I 
have  fallen  into  a  rapture  and  become  igno- 
rant of  everything,  the  place,  those  present, 
myself,  what  was  spoken  or  written.  For  I 
have  received  a  stream  of  interpretation,  a 
fruition  of  light,  the  most  clear-cut  sharp- 
ness of  vision,  the  most  vividly  distinct  view 
of  the  matter  before  me,  such  as  might  be 
received  through  the  eyes  from  the  most 
luminous  presentation. 


The  most  important  mystical  exp 
riences  are  something  like  that.  Th< 
occur  usually,  not  at  the  beginning 
the  religious  life,  but  rather  in  the  ri] 
and  developed  stage  of  it.  They  are  tl 
fruit  of  long-maturing  processes.  Cler 
ent's  '  harmonized  man '  is  always  a  pe 
son  who  has  brought  his  soul  in 
parallelism  with  divine  currents,  hi 
habitually  practised  his  religious  L 
sights,  and  has  finally  formed  a  unifie 
central  self,  subtly  sensitive,  acute! 
responsive  to  the  Beyond  within  hir 
In  such  experiences,  which  may  con 
suddenly  or  may  come  as  a  more  grai 
ual  process,  the  whole  self  operates  ar 
masses  all  the  cumulations  of  a  lifetim 
They  are  no  more  emotional  than  the 
are  rational  and  volitional.  We  have 
total  personality,  awake,  active,  an 
'  aware  of  his  life's  flow.'  Instead  of  se 
ing  in  a  flash  a  law  of  gravitation,  ( 
the  plot  and  character  of  Hamlet,  or  tl 
uncarven  form  of  Moses  the  Law-giv< 
in  a  block  of  marble,  one  sees  at  sue 
times  the  moral  demonstrations  of 
lifetime  and  vividly  feels  the  implia 
tions  that  are  essentially  involved  in 
spiritual  life.  In  the  high  moment  Go 
is  seen  to  be  as  sure  as  the  soul  is. 

I  stood  at  Naples  once,  a  night  so  dark 

I  could  have  scarce  conjectured  there  was  eari 

Anywhere,  sky  or  sea  or  world  at  all : 

But  the  night's  black  was  burst  through  by 

blaze  — 
Thunder  struck  blow  on  blow,  earth  groaned  an 

bore. 

Through  her  whole  length  of  mountain  visible. 
There  lay  the  city  thick  and  plain  with  spires, 
And,  like  a  ghost  disshrouded,  white  the  sea. 
So  may  a  truth  be  flashed  out  by  one  blow. 

To  some  the  truth  of  God  never  come 
closer  than  a  logical  conclusion.  He  i 
held  to  be  as  a  living  item  in  a  creec 
To  the  mystic  He  becomes  real  in  th 
same  sense  that  experienced  beauty  i 
real,  or  the  feel  of  spring  is  real,  or  sum 
mer  sunlight  is  real :  He  has  been  found 
He  has  been  met,  He  is  present. 

Before  discussing  the  crucial  ques 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


641 


tion  whether  these  experiences  are  evi- 
dential and  are  worthy  of  consideration 
as  an  addition  to  the  world's  stock  of 
truth  and  knowledge,  I  must  say  a  few 
words  about  the  normality  or  abnormal- 
ity of  them.  Nothing  of  any  value  can 
be  said  on  this  point  of  mystical  expe- 
rience in  the  abstract.  One  must  first 
catch  his  concrete  case.  Some  instan- 
ces are  normal,  and  some  are  undoubt- 
edly abnormal.  Trance,  ecstasy,  and 
rapture  are  unusual  experiences,  and, 
in  that  sense,  not  normal  occurrences. 
They  usually  indicate,  furthermore,  a 
pathological  condition  of  personality, 
and  are  thus  abnormal  in  the  more  tech- 
nical sense.  There  is,  however,  some- 
thing more  to  be  said  on  this  point.  It 
seems  pretty  well  established  that  some 
persons  —  and  they  have  often  been 
creative  leaders  and  religious  geniuses 
—  have  succeeded  in  organizing  their 
lives,  in  finding  their  trail,  in  charging 
their  whole  personality  with  power,  in 
attaining  a  moral  dynamic,  and  in  tap- 
ping vast  reservoirs  of  energy  by  means 
of  states  which,  if  occurring  in  other 
persons,  would  no  doubt  be  called  path- 
ological. The  real  test  here  is  a  prag- 
matic one.  It  seems  hardly  sound  to 
call  a  state  abnormal  if  it  has  raised 
the  'experient,'  as  a  mystic  experience 
often  does,  into  a  hundred-horsepower 
man,  and  by  his  influence  has  turned 
multitudes  of  other  men  and  women 
into  more  joyous,  hopeful,  and  efficient 
persons.  This  question  of  abnormality 
and  reality  is  thus  not  one  to  be  settled 
off-hand  by  a  superficial  diagnosis. 

An  experience  which  brings  spacious- 
ness of  mind,  new  interior  dimensions, 
ability  to  stand  the  universe, —  and 
the  people  in  it, —  and  capacity  to 
work  at  human  tasks  with  patience,  en- 
durance, and  wisdom  may  quite  intelli- 
gently be  called  normal,  though  to  an 
external  beholder  it  may  look  like  what 
he  usually  calls  a  trance  of  hysteria,  a 
state  of  dissociation,  or  hypnosis  by 

VOL.  1X8  —  NO.  6 

c 


auto-suggestion.  It  should  be  added, 
however,  as  I  have  already  said,  that 
mystical  experience  is  not  confined  to 
these  extremer  types.  They  may  or  may 
not  be  pathological.  The  calmer  and 
more  restrained  stages  of  mysticism 
are  more  important  and  significant,  and 
are  no  more  marked  with  the  stigma  of 
hysteria  than  is  love-making,  enjoy- 
ment of  music,  devotion  to  altruistic 
causes,  risking  one's  life  for  one's  coun- 
try, or  any  lofty  experience  of  value. 

m 

We  come  at  length  to  the  central 
question  of  our  consideration :  Do  mys- 
tical experiences  settle  anything?  Are 
they  purely  subjective  and  one-sided, 
or  do  they  prove  to  have  objective  ref- 
erence and  so  to  be  two-sided?  Do  they 
take  the  experient  across  the  chasm  that 
separates  'self  from  'other'?  Mystical 
experience  undoubtedly  feels  as  if  it  had 
objective  reference.  It  comes  to  the  indi- 
vidual with  indubitable  authority.  He 
is  certain  that  he  has  found  something 
other  than  himself.  He  has  an  unescapa- 
ble  conviction  that  he  is  in  contact  and 
commerce  with  reality  beyond  the  mar- 
gins of  his  personal  self.  'A  tremendous 
muchness  is  suddenly  revealed,'  as 
William  James  once  put  it. 

We  do  not  get  very  far  when  we  un- 
dertake to  reduce  knowledge  to  an 
affair  of  sense-experience.  '  They  reckon 
ill  who  leave  me  out,'  can  be  said  by  the 
organized,  personal,  creative  mind  as 
truly  as  by  Brahma.  There  are  many 
forms  of  human  experience  in  which  the 
data  of  the  senses  are  so  vastly  trans- 
cended that  they  fail  to  furnish  any 
real  explanation  of  what  occurs  in  con- 
sciousness. This  is  true  of  all  our  expe- 
riences of 'value,  which  apparently  spring 
out  of  synthetic  or  synoptic  activities  of 
the  mind,  that  is,  activities  in  which  the 
mind  is  unified  and  creative.  The  vibra. 
tions  of  ether  that  bombard  the  rods 


642 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


and  cones  of  the  retina  may  be  the  occa- 
sion for  the  appreciation  of  beauty  in 
sky  or  sea  or  flower,  but  they  are  surely 
not  the  cause  of  it.  The  concrete  event 
which  confronts  me  is,  very  likely,  the 
occasion  for  the  august  pronouncement 
of  moral  issues  which  my  conscience 
makes;  but  it  cannot  be  said  that  the 
concrete  event  in  any  proper  sense 
causes  this  consciousness  of  moral  obli- 
gation. The  famous  answer  of  Leibnitz 
to  the  crude  sense-philosophy  of  his 
time  is  still  cogent.  To  the  phrase, 
'There  is  nothing  in  the  mind  that  has 
not  come  through  the  senses,'  Leibnitz 
added,  'Except  the  mind  itself.'  That 
means  that  the  creative  activity  of  the 
mind  is  always  an  important  factor  in 
experience,  and  a  factor  that  cannot 
be  ignored  in  any  of  the  processes  of 
knowledge. 

Unfortunately,  we  have  done  very 
little  yet  in  the  direction  of  comprehend- 
ing the  interior  depth  of  the  personal 
mind,  or  of  estimating  adequately  the 
part  which  mind  itself,  in  its  creative 
capacity,  plays  in  all  knowledge-func- 
tions. It  will  be  only  when  we  have  suc- 
ceeded hi  getting  beyond  what  Plato 
called  the  'bird-cage'  theory  of  knowl- 
edge, to  a  sound  theory  of  knowledge 
and  to  a  solid  basis  for  spiritual  values, 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  discuss  intelli- 
gently the  'findings'  of  the  mystic. 

The  world  at  the  present  moment  is 
pitiably  'short'  in  its  stock  of  sound 
theories  of  knowledge.  The  prevailing 
psychologies  do  not  explain  knowledge 
at  all.  The  behaviorists  do  not  try  to 
explain  it,  any  more  than  the  astrono- 
mer or  the  physicist  does.  The  psychol- 
ogist who  reduces  mind  to  an  aggre- 
gation of  describable  '  mind-states '  has 
started  out  on  a  course  that  makes  an 
explanation  forever  impossible,  since 
knowledge  can  be  explained  only 
through  unity  and  integral  wholeness, 
never  through  an  aggregation  of  parts, 
as  if  it  were  a  mental  'shower  of  shot.' 


If  we  expect  to  talk  about  knowledge, 
and  seriously  propose  to  use  that  great 
word  truth,  we  must  at  least  begin  with 
the  assumption  of  an  intelligent,  crea- 
tive, organizing  centre  of  self-conscious- 
ness, which  can  transcend  itself  and  can 
know  what  is  beyond,  and  other  than, 
itself.  In  short,  the  talk  about  a '  chasm  * 
between  subject  and  object  —  knower 
and  thing  known  —  is  as  absurd  as  it 
would  be  to  talk  of  a  chasm  between 
the  convex  and  the  concave  sides  of  a 
curve.  Knowledge  is  always  knowledge 
of  an  object,  and  mystical  experience 
has  all  the  essential  marks  of  objective 
reference,  as  certainly  as  other  forms  of 
experience  have. 

Professor  J.  M.  Baldwin  very  well 
says  that  there  is  a  form  of  contempla- 
tion in  which,  as  in  aesthetic  experience, 
the  strands  of  the  mind's  diverging  dual- 
isms are  'merged  and  fused.'  He  adds: 
'  In  this  experience  of  a  fusion  which  is 
not  a  mixture,  but  which  issues  in  a 
meaning  of  its  own  sort  and  kind,  an 
experience  whose  essential  character  is 
just  this  ilnity  of  comprehension,  con- 
sciousness attains  its  completest,  its 
most  direct,  and  its  final  apprehension 
of  what  Reality  is  and  means.'  It  really 
comes  round  to  the  question  whether 
the  mind  of  a  self-conscious  person  has 
any  way  of  approach,  except  by  way 
of  the  senses,  to  any  kind  of  reality. 
There  is  no  a  priori  answer  to  that 
question.  It  can  be  settled  only  by  ex- 
perience.  It  is,  therefore,  pure  dogma- 
tism to  say,  as  Professor  Dunlap  in  his 
recent  attack  on  mysticism  does,  that 
all  conscious  processes  are  based  on 
sense-stimulation,  and  all  thought  as 
well  as  perception  depends  on  reaction 
to  sense-stimulus.   It  is  no  doubt  true 
that  behavior  psychology  must  resort 
to  some  such  formula;  but  that  only 
means  that  such  psychology  is  always 
dealing  with  greatly  transformed  and 
reduced  beings,  when  it  attempts  to 
deal  with  persons  like  us,  who,  in  the 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


643 


richness  of  our  concrete  lives,  are  never 
reduced  to  'behavior-beings.'  We  have 
interior  dimensions,  and  '  that  is  the  end 
on  't ' !  Some  persons  —  and  they  are  by 
no  means  feeble-minded  individuals  — 
are  as  certain  that  they  have  contact 
with  a  world  within,  as  they  are  that 
they  have  experiences  of  a  world  out- 
side in  space.  Thomas  Aquinas,  who 
neither  in  method  nor  in  doctrine  leaned 
toward  mysticism,  though  he  was  most 
certainly  'a  harmonized  man,'  and  who 
in  theory  postponed  the  vision  of  God 
to  a  realm  beyond  death,  nevertheless 
had  an  experience  two  years  before  he 
died  which  made  him  put  his  pen  and 
inkhorn  on  the  shelf  and  never  write 
another  word  of  his  Summa  Theologies. 
When  he  was  reminded  of  the  incom- 
plete state  of  his  great  work,  and  was 
urged  to  go  on  with  it,  he  replied,  'I 
have  seen  that  which  makes  all  that  I 
have  written  look  small  to  me.' 

It  may  be  just  possible  that  tftere  is  a 
universe  of  spiritual  reality  upon  which 
our  finite  spirits  open  inward  as  inlets 
open  into  the  sea. 

Like  tides  on  the  crescent  sea-beach 
When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 
Come  welling  and  surging  in  — 
Come  from  that  mystic  ocean 
Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod  — 
Some  call  it  Longing, 
But  others  call  it  God. 

Such  a  view  is  perfectly  sane  and  ten- 
able; it  conflicts  with  no  proved  and 
demonstrated  facts  in  the  nature  either 
of  the  universe  or  of  mind.  It  seems, 
in  any  event,  to  the  mystic  that  there 
is  such  a  world,  that  he  has  found  it  as 
surely  as  Columbus  found  San  Salvador, 
and  that  his  experience  is  a  truth-telling 
experience. 

But,  granting  that  it  is  truth-telling 
and  has  objective  reference,  is  the  mys- 
tic justified  in  claiming  that  he  has 
found  and  knows  God?  One  does  not 
need  to  be  a  very  wide  and  extensive 


student  of  mystical  experience  to  dis- 
cover what  a  meagre  stock  of  knowledge 
the  genuine  mystic  reports.  William 
James's  remarkable  experience  in  the 
Adirondack  woods  very  well  illustrates 
the  type.  It  had,  he  says,  'an  intense 
significance  of  some  sort,  if  one  could 
only  tell  the  significance.  ...  In  point 
of  fact,  I  can't  find  a  single  word  for  all 
that  significance  and  don't  know  what 
it  was  significant  of,  so  that  it  remains  a 
mere  boulder  of  impression.'  At  a  later 
date  James  refers  to  that  'extraor- 
dinary vivacity  of  man's  psychological 
commerce  with  something  ideal  that 
feels  as  if  it  were  also  actual.'  The 
greatest  of  all  the  fourteenth-century 
mystics,  Meister  Eckhart,  could  not 
put  his  impression  into  words  or  ideas. 
What  he  found  was  a  'wilderness  of  the 
Godhead  where  no  one  is  at  home'  — 
that  is,  an  Object  with  no  particular, 
differentiated,  concrete  characteristics. 
It  was  not  an  accident  that  so  many  of 
the  mystics  hit  upon  the  via  negativa, 
the  way  of  negation,  or  that  they  called 
their  discovery  '  the  divine  Dark.' 

Whatever  your  mind  comes  at, 
I  tell  you  flat, 
God  is  not  that. 

Mystical  experience  does  not  supply 
concrete  information.  It  does  not  bring 
new  finite  facts,  new  items  that  can  be 
used  in  a  description  of  'the  scenery 
and  circumstance '  of  the  realm  beyond 
our  sense-horizons.  It  is  the  awareness 
of  a  Presence,  the  consciousness  of  a 
Beyond,  the  discovery,  as  James  put  it, 
that '  we  are  continuous  with  a  More  of 
the  same  quality,  which  is  operative  in 
us  and  in  touch  with  us.' 

The  most  striking  effect  of  such  ex- 
perience is  not  new  fact-knowledge,  not 
new  items  of  empirical  information,  but 
new  moral  energy,  heightened  convic- 
tion, increased  caloric  quality,  enlarged 
spiritual  vision,  an  unusual  radiant 
power  of  life.  In  short,  the  whole  per- 
sonality, in  the  case  of  the  constructive 


644 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE  OF  GOD 


mystics,  appears  to  be  raised  to  a  new 
level  of  life,  and  to  have  gained  from 
somewhere  many  calories  of  life-feed- 
ing, spiritual  substance.  We  are  quite 
familiar  with  the  way  in  which  adrena- 
lin suddenly  flushes  into  the  physical 
system  and  adds  a  new  and  incalculable 
power  to  brain  and  muscle.  Under  its 
stimulus  a  man  can  carry  out  a  piano 
when  the  house  is  on  fire.  May  not, 
perhaps,  some  energy,  from  some  Source 
with  which  our  spirits  are  allied,  flush 
our  inner  being  with  forces  and  powers 
by  which  we  can  be  fortified  to  stand 
the  universe  and  more  than  stand  it! 
*  We  are  more  than  conquerors  through 
Him  that  loved  us,'  is  the  way  one  of 
the  world's  greatest  mystics  felt. 

Mystical  experience  —  and  we  must 
remember,  as  Santayana  has  said,  that 
'experience  is  like  a  shrapnel  shell  and 
bursts  into  a  thousand  meanings '  — 
does  at  least  one  thing.  It  makes  God 
sure  to  the  person  who  has  had  the  ex- 
perience. It  raises  faith  and  conviction 
to  the  nth  power.  '  The  God  who  said, 
"Let  light  shine  out  of  darkness,"  has 
shined  into  my  heart  to  give  the  light 
of  the  knowledge  of  the  glory  of  God,' 
is  St.  Paul's  testimony.  'I  knew  God 
by  revelation,'  declares  George  Fox; 
'  I  was  as  one  who  hath  the  key  and  doth 
open.'  'The  man  who  has  attained  this 
felicity,'  Plotinus  says,  'meets  some 
turn  of  fortune  that  he  would  not  have 
chosen,  but  there  is  not  the  slightest 
lessening  of  his  happiness  for  that.' 
But  this  experience,  with  its  overwhelm- 
ing conviction  and  its  dynamic  effect, 
cannot  be  put  into  the  common  coin  of 
speech.  Frederic  Myers  has  well  ex- 
pressed the  difficulty:  — 

Oh  could  I  tell,  ye  surely  would  believe  it! 

Oh  could  I  only  say  what  I  have  seen! 
How  should  I  tell  or  how  can  ye  receive  it, 

How,  till  He  bringeth  you  where  I  have  been? 

When  Columbus  found  San  Salvador, 
he  was  able  to  describe  it  to  those  who  did 
not  sail  with  him  in  the  Santa  Maria; 


but  when  the  mystic  finds  God,  he  cannot 
give  us  any  'knowledge'  in  plain  words 
of  everyday  speech.  He  can  only  refer 
to  his  boulder,  or  his  Gibraltar,  of  im- 
pression. That  situation  is  what  we 
should  expect.  We  cannot,  either,  de- 
scribe any  of  our  great  emotions.  We 
cannot  impart  what  flushes  into  our 
consciousness  in  moments  of  lofty  intui- 
tion. We  have  a  submerged  life  within 
us,  which  is  certainly  no  less  real  than 
our  hand  or  foot.  It  influences  all  that 
we  do  or  say,  but  we  do  not  find  it  easy 
to  utter  it.  In  the  presence  of  the  sub- 
lime we  have  nothing  to  say  —  or,  if  we 
do  say  anything,  it  is  a  great  mistake! 
Language  is  forged  to  deal  with  experi- 
ences that  are  common  to  many  per- 
sons, that  is,  with  experiences  that  refer 
to  objects  in  space.  We  have  no  vocab- 
ulary for  the  subtle,  elusive  flashes  of 
vision,  which  are  unique,  individual, 
and  unsharable,  as,  for  instance,  is  our 
personal  sense  of  'the  tender  grace  of 
a  day  that  is  dead.'  We  are  forced  in 
all  these  matters  to  resort  to  symbolic 
suggestion  and  to  artistic  devices. 
Coventry  Patmore  said  with  much  in- 
sight:— 

In  divinity  and  love 

What 's  worth  the  saying  can't  be  said. 

I  believe  that  mystical  experiences 
do,  in  the  long  run,  expand  our  knowl- 
edge of  God,  and  do  succeed  in  verify- 
ing themselves.  Mysticism  is  a  sort  of 
spiritual  protoplasm,  which  underlies, 
as  a  basic  substance,  much  that  is  best 
in  religion,  in  ethics,  and  in  life  itself. 
It  has  generally  been  the  mystic,  the 
prophet,  the  seer,  who  has  spotted  out 
new  ways  forward  in  the  jungle  of  our 
world,  or  lifted  our  race  to  new  spiritual 
levels.  Their  experiences  have  in  some 
way  equipped  them  for  unusual  tasks, 
have  given  supplies  of  energy  to  them 
which  their  neighbors  did  not  have,  and 
have  apparently  brought  them  into 
vital  correspondence  with  dimensions 
and  regions  of  reality  that  others  miss. 


THE  MYSTIC'S  EXPERIENCE   OF  GOD 


645 


The  proof  that  they  have  found  God, 
or  at  least  a  domain  of  spiritual  reality, 
does  not  lie  in  some  new  stock  of  knowl- 
edge, not  in  some  gnostic  secret,  which 
they  bring  back;  it  is  to  be  seen  rather 
in  the  moral  and  spiritual  fruits  which 
test  out  and  verify  the  experience. 

Consciousness  of  beauty  or  of  truth 
or  of  goodness  baffles  analysis  as  much 
as  consciousness  of  God  does.  These 
values  have  no  objective  standing- 
ground  in  current  psychology.  They 
are  not  things  in  the  world  of  space. 
They  submit  to  no  adequate  causal  ex- 
planation. They  have  their  ground  of 
being  in  some  other  kind  of  world  than 
that  of  the  mechanical  order,  a  world 
composed  of  quantitative  masses  of 
matter  in  motion.  These  experiences  of 
value,  which  are  as  real  for  experience 
as  stone-walls  are,  make  very  clear  the 
fact  that  there  are  depths  and  capaci- 
ties in  the  nature  of  the  normal  human 
mind  which  we  do  not  usually  recognize, 
and  of  which  we  have  scant  and  imper- 
fect accounts  in  our  textbooks.  Our 
minds,  taken  in  their  full  range,  in  other 
words,  have  some  sort  of  contact  and 
relationship  with  an  eternal  nature  of 
things  far  deeper  than  atoms  and  mole- 
cules. Only  very  slowly  and  gradually 
has  the  race  learned,  through  finite 
symbols  and  temporal  forms,  to  inter- 
pret beauty  and  truth  and  goodness, 
which,  in  their  essence,  are  as  ineffable 
and  indescribable  as  is  the  mystic's 
experience  of  God.  Plato  often  speaks 
as  if  he  had  high  moments  of  experience 
when  he  rose  to  the  naked  vision  of 
beauty  —  beauty  'alone,  separate  and 
eternal,'  as  he  says;  and  his  myths  are 
very  probably  told,  as  J.  A.  Stewart 
believes,  to  assist  others  to  experience 
this  same  vision  —  a  beauty  that  *  does 


not  grow  nor  perish,  is  without  increase 
or  diminution  and  endures  for  everlast- 
ing.' But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  however 
exalted  heavenly  and  enduring  beauty 
may  be  in  its  essence,  we  know  what 
it  is  only  as  it  appears  in  fair  forms  of 
objects,  of  body,  of  soul,  of  actions; 
in  harmonious  blending  of  sounds  or 
colors;  in  well-ordered  or  happily  com- 
bined groupings  of  many  aspects  in  one 
unity,  which  is  as  it  ought  to  be.  Truth 
and  moral  goodness  always  transcend 
our  attainments,  and  we  sometimes  feel 
that  the  very  end  and  goal  of  life  is  the 
pursuit  of  that  truth  or  that  goodness 
which  eye  hath  not  seen  nor  ear  heard. 
But  whatever  truth  we  do  attain,  or 
whatever  goodness  we  do  achieve,  is  al- 
ways concrete.  Truth  is  just  this  one 
more  added  fact  that  resists  all  attempt 
to  doubt  it.  Goodness  is  just  this  sim- 
ple everyday  deed  that  reveals  a  heroic 
spirit  and  a  brave  venture  of  faith  in  the 
midst  of  difficulties. 

So,  too,  the  mystic  knowledge  of  God 
is  not  some  esoteric  communication, 
supplied  through  trance  or  ecstasy;  it 
is  an  intuitive  personal  touch  with  God, 
felt  to  be  the  essentially  real,  the  burst- 
ing forth  of  an  intense  love  for  Him, 
which  heightens  all  the  capacities  and 
activities  of  life,  followed  by  the  slow 
laboratory  effects  which  verify  it.  'All 
I  could  never  be '  now  is.  It  seems  pos- 
sible to  stand  the  universe  —  even  to  do 
something  toward  the  transformation 
of  it.  The  bans  get  read  for  that  most 
difficult  of  all  marriages,  the  marriage 
of  the  possible  with  the  actual,  the  ideal 
with  the  real.  And  if  the  experience 
does  not  prove  that  the  soul  has  found 
God,  it  at  least  does  this:  it  makes  the 
soul  feel  that  proofs  of  God  are  wholly 
unnecessary. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  BACHELOR 


BY  EDWAKD  CARRINGTON  ^ENABLE 


IT  is  printed  on  some  page  of  a  now 
forgotten  volume:  — 

'The  cry  of  "The  Christian  to  the 
Lions!"  resounded  everywhere  through 
the  dark  streets.' 

The  page  was  probably  describing 
the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  and  was 
possibly  written  by  Sienkiewicz,  though 
that  is  no  matter  here. 

The  little  boy  who  read  it,  and  went 
to  bed  immediately  afterward,  lay  alone 
for  a  long  time — or  at  least  what  seem- 
ed a  long  time  —  in  a  perfectly  dark 
bedroom,  hearing  that  terrible  cry. 
It  came  to  him  in  a  dozen  forms,  but 
each  distinctly  articulate.  There  was 
a  large  clock  below,  at  the  stairs'  foot, 
which  ticked  it;  somewhere  in  the  fields 
outside  a  cow  bellowed  it  defiantly  into 
the  dark  universe;  a  lonely  whip-poor- 
will  down  by  the  river  somewhere 
lamented  it  with  equal  intervals. 

It  was  the  very  worst  night  of  that 
little  boy's  life.  Never  afterward  was 
he  quite  so  frightened.  He  believed,  a 
trifle  arrogantly,  may  be,  that  he  was 
a  Christian,  and,  of  course,  he  was  sure 
of  lions.  To  these  facts,  add  that  un- 
namable  quality  which  the  dark  pos- 
sesses, even  for  an  animal,  and  you  have 
by  the  simplest  reasoning  a  truly  ter- 
rifying situation.  For  it  is  a  terrifying 
situation  to  be  alone  in  the  dark,  a  very 
small  Christian,  and  hear  a  horde  of 
barbarians  shrieking  for  your  life.  It 
is  terrifying,  and  it  is  childish,  and  it  is 
as  impeccably  reasonable  as  arithmetic. 

Of  course,  to  the  adult  mind  that  last 
quality,  the  rationality,  is  not  self-evi- 
dent; but  that  is  because  the  adult  mind 

646 


cannot  recapture  firm  faith  in  its  own 
orthodoxy  or  shed  its  acquired  knowl- 
edge of  the  scarcity  of  lions.  But  tak- 
ing these  two  feats  as  accomplished, 
certainly  the  perfect  reasonableness  of 
that  terror  is  undeniable.  Anyone  is 
afraid  of  being  thrown  to  the  lions,  who 
knows  that  he  is  defenselessly  liable  to 
such  a  fate  and  that  there  is  a  plentiful 
and  immediate  supply  of  lions.  That 
small  boy  was  not,  as  his  elders  would 
have  assured  him,  groundlessly  alarm- 
ed. He  was  ignorant,  very,  and  of  many 
things  —  of  zoology,  of  the  improved 
customs  of  theological  dispute;  but  he 
was  not  in  the  least  irrational.  His 
fright  was  childish,  but  it  was  not  in 
any  correct  sense  unreasonable. 

That  so  simple  a  conclusion  requires 
any  demonstration  shows  the  extent  of 
the  evil  —  this  confounding  of  the  un- 
reasonable with  the  childish.  The  two 
terms  have  become  positively  almost 
synonymous.  The  two  adjectives  pop 
out  in  any  casual  talk  like  the  two  bar- 
rels of  a  shot-gun.  It  would  be  more 
accurate,  however,  to  say  that  they 
are  in  antithesis.  For  example,  the  fair 
question  is  rather  whether  there  are 
any  reasonable  fears,  except  childish 
fears.  It  is  this  that  gives  them  their 
unequaled  poignancy.  They  assail  not 
the  imagination,  but  the  very  seat  of 
reason  itself.  They  cannot  be  argued 
away,  because  they  have  all  the  argu- 
ments on  their  side.  Not  Socrates  him- 
self that  night  could  have  reasoned  that 
little  boy  into  serenity.  He  remained 
alarmed  at  the  horrible  possibilities  of 
his  merciless  logic,  until  experience 


MEDITATIONS   OF   A  BACHELOR 


647 


shifted  the  weight  of  probability  to  his 
side  of  the  balance  —  a  faultlessly  logi- 
cal method.  True,  the  result  was  ab- 
surd; but  then,  that  was  the  defect  of 
his  education.  He  was  helpless  in  that 
regard,  for  he  could  acquire  only  what 
was  permitted  to  him.  Beyond  that 
he  was  the  victim  of  his  method  —  a 
fate  that  overtakes  only  children  and 
philosophers. 

The  likeness  between  these  two  class- 
es of  human  beings,  between  children 
and  philosophers,  which  has  become  the 
most  obvious  of  observations,  is,  in- 
deed, never  a  matter  of  chance.  It  is  as 
sequential  as  it  is  obvious.  Each  con- 
fronted by  an  unintelligible  universe, 
which  he  is  compelled  to  explain,  at- 
tempts to  reduce  it  to  order  by  the 
method  of  his  reason.  The  central  ef- 
fort of  the  life  of  either  is  precisely  the 
same.  Each  fails.  The  child  becomes  a 
man  or  woman,  acquires  experience, 
prejudices,  sympathy,  superstitions, 
memories,  and  so  accomplishes  his  few 
purposes.  The  philosopher  commits 
suicide,  or  dies  of  old  age,  according  to 
the  intensity  of  his  convictions.  As 
surely  as  a  man  is  a  child  who  has 
grown  up,  a  philosopher  is  a  child  who 
has  not  grown  up.  The  Pauline  admoni- 
tion that  he  put  away  childish  things 
he  has  not  heeded  —  not,  at  least,  in 
regard  to  the  most  childish  of  all  things. 
All  of  which  is  the  most  obvious  of  ob- 
servations. The  type  of  philosopher 
who  forgets  his  hat  and  carries  about 
into  the  world  the  heart  of  a  child  has 
worn  out  its  welcome  in  the  most  popu- 
lar fiction.  It  is  strange  that  the  equal- 
ly broad  generalization,  the  philosophy 
of  infancy,  has  escaped  an  equally  gen- 
eral recognition.  Perhaps  the  explana- 
tion is  that  children  have  so  recently 
begun  to  write  books. 

Certainly  no  one  who  has  ever  en- 
countered the  merciless  rationalism  of 
i  the  human  young  has  failed  to  mark  it. 
The  matured  descendant  of  that  small 


boy  with  the  lions,  then  grown  to  thirty 
years  and  more,  had  such  an  expe- 
rience. It  was  terrifying;  but  how 
absurd,  how  beyond  all  reasonable  ex- 
planation appears  this  adult  terror  — 
occurring,  too,  not  in  the  darkness  of  a 
lonely  bedroom,  but  in  the  mild  after- 
noon light  of  a  nursery  —  by  compari- 
son with  that  earlier  one. 

It  was  exactly  mid-afternoon  in  May 
that  he,  a  grown-up  Christian  now, 
was  thrown  into  the  arena  of  his  grown- 
up fear,  a  nursery,  to  three  little  lions 
seated  about  a  sort  of  Gulliver's 
Travels  table  before  a  window.  The 
mother  of  these  lions  stood  in  the  door- 
way. The  poor  Christian  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  being  looked  at,  not 
at  all  angrily,  only  thoroughly.  The 
mother  of  the  lions  looked  anxiously 
at  the  group  about  the  table.  Then  she- 
turned  a  tranquil  glance  for  an  instant 
to  the  Christian.  So,  exactly,  might 
some  Imperial  Roman,  lolling  on  velvet- 
covered  marble,  have  glanced  down  at 
the  terrible  sands.  And  just  as  that 
one  might,  for  a  brief  instant  of  bored 
indecision,  have  looked  at  his  thumb 
before  deciding  'up'  or  'down,'  so 
she  glanced  at  her  wrist  with  its  tiny 
watch. 

'I  shall  be  back,'  she  said  evenly, 
'about  six.' 

It  was  then  about  five.  So  it  was  dis- 
tinctly, 'Thumbs  down.' 

Then  she  went  out,  closing  the  door 
behind  her  —  chaining  it  possibly. 
And  the  lions  sat  implacable. 

When,  at  a  little  before  six,  —  she 
was  not  so  heartless  as  she  appeared,  — 
the  door  was  unbarred,  it  was  a  truly 
exhausted  man  who  was  released.  He 
was  exhausted  because  no  adult  can 
live  in  the  rarefied  air  of  pure  truth, 
purged  of  every  uncertainty  that  in- 
terrogation can  detect,  for  that  length 
of  time  without  exhaustion.  He,  like  an 
air-pilot  at  altitude,  must  get  down  for 
a  few  lungfulls  of  earth-contaminated 


648 


MEDITATIONS   OF   A  BACHELOR 


atmosphere,  or  die.  Only  children  and 
philosophers  can  do  otherwise. 

Yet  this  man's  ordeal  had  been  a 
light  one.  He  had  been  set  three  tasks. 
First,  he  had  been  asked  to  sing.  He 
could  n't  sing;  but  then,  neither  could 
the  children.  He  had  been  taught  the 
fact  by  experience.  Innocent  of  experi- 
ence, their  ecstasy  during  ten  repeti- 
tions of '  My  Country,  't  is  of  Thee '  was 
exquisite.  His  mortification  was  un- 
necessary, unreasonable,  and  painful. 

Failing  completely  to  explain  his  lack 
of  voice,  he  was  asked  to  tell  a  story. 
Now  it  happened,  that  whatever  self- 
respect  he  had  he  had  won  for  himself 
by  the  belief  that  he  could  tell  stories 
and  by  the  stories  he  had  told.  In  fact, 
he  was  a  story-teller  by  trade.  It  might 
be  well  to  explain  that  the  situation  as 
it  stood  then  was  caused  by  the  mother 
of  the  lions,  who  was  his  hostess  for 
that  week-end  and  rather  at  a  loss  to 
dispose  of  him,  suggesting,  — 

'I  have  to  meet  Elizabeth  on  the 
5.35.  Why  don't  you  go  up  and  tell  the 
children  stories.  I  am  sure  you  would 
tell  such  wonderful  ones.' 

He  remembered  later  that  he  had 
thought  he  would  —  would,  that  is, 
tell  wonderful  ones.  He  even  had  a 
remnant  of  such  confidence  after  the 
failure  of  'My  Country,  't  is  of  Thee.' 

So  he  started  off  gallantly  at  the  com- 
mand, '  Tell  us  a  story,'  with '  Well,  once 
upon  a  time  — ' 

In  three  sentences  he  had  lost  his 
audience.  In  ten  he  had  disgusted 
them.  They  were,  on  the  whole,  polite 
about  it,  though  not  obscurely  cir- 
cuitous. They  merely  said,  — 

'We're  going  to  play  Alps.' 

Fortunately  they  let  him  be  the 
mountain.  He  possessed  superior  quali- 
fications for  that  role. 

So  he  lay  for  the  better  part  of  an 
hour  covered  by  a  white  table-cloth, 
and  was  an  Alp,  while  disregarding  feet 
trampled  on  his  diminished  head.  In 


that  way,  at  the  last,  he  achieved  a  suc- 
cess of  a  sort.  But  to  be  only  a  moun- 
tain in  a  nursery  is  not  a  gratifying 
experience. 

When  at  last  he  lifted  a  corner  of  the 
table-cloth  and  peered  out  at  his  re- 
turned hostess,  all  vanity  had  fled  from 
that  man.  There  was  an  annoying  sym- 
bolism about  his  attitude  on  the  carpet. 
He  had  been  brought  low  by  the  piti- 
less logic  that  seemed  to  stamp  '  Mene, 
mene '  upon  his  forehead.  He  had  been 
tested,  soul  and  body,  and  found  only 
body.  He  had  been  subjected  to  that 
dreadful  and  merciless  analysis,  —  so 
many  of  whose  celebrated  practitioners 
have  justly  suffered  death  at  the  hands 
of  outraged  humanity,  —  that  pitiless 
judgment  which,  taking  no  account  of 
the  nobler,  though  abortive  impulses  of 
mankind,  their  capacity  for  love,  their 
dauntless  aspiration,  their  tender  fancy 
and  sympathy,  the  mysteries  of  their 
imagination,  will  accept  only  the  hard 
cash  of  Reason. 

'Well,  how  did  you  like  it?'  asked  his 
hostess  as  they  went  downstairs. 

If  he  had  answered  frankly,  the  vio- 
lence of  his  feeling,  of  his  just  resent- 
ment, would  possibly  have  hurled  her 
the  length  of  the  flight  of  stairs.  That 
is  the  way  her  children  would  have  an- 
swered her. 

He  managed  to  preserve  some  degree 
of  truth,  however,  by  replying  that  it 
was  one  of  the  most  instructive  after- 
noons of  his  life. 

It  was  a  just  answer.  Later  reflec- 
tion has  confirmed  it.  After  all,  his 
assailants  were  unconscious  of  their 
acts.  Like  himself  thirty  years  earlier, 
they  were  the  victims  of  their  method. 
And  that  method  was  the  only  one  they 
knew.  Strip  any  human  soul  of  its  ex- 
perience, of  the  sympathy  that  comes 
by  suffering,  of  the  aspiration  that 
springs  only  from  watching  the  suffer- 
ings of  others,  of  the  humility  that  only 
failure  can  teach  —  what  is  left  to  it, 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


649 


except  Reason?  True,  the  infants  were 
terrible,  but  how  terribly  they  were 
armed,  with  minds  free  from  the  prej- 
udices of  experience,  unsoftened  by 
strain,  functioning  with  mechanical  ac- 
curacy. These  are  the  qualifications  of 
a  machine-gun,  not  of  a  human  soul. 
Alas,  it  cannot  be  denied  that,  the  more 
one  feels,  the  more  especially  one  has 
felt,  the  less  accurately  one  reasons. 
It  is  not  the  ineptitude  of  the  child's 
question  that  upsets  his  elders,  it  is  its 
directness.  The  enfant  terrible  is  ter- 
rible only  because  of  his  accuracy,  of 
his  simplicity,  of  his  perfect  unconcern 
with  anything  but  truth.  Surely,  to 
say  of  an  afternoon  spent  in  such  com- 
pany that  it  is  instructive,  is  not  to  ex- 
ceed the  bounds  of  even  their  rigid 
veracity. 

But  his  questioner  was  not  daunted. 
She  ventured  further. 


'Yes,'  she  agreed  as  her  feet  touched 
the  bottom  step.  'Are  n't  they  fas- 
cinating?' 

That  was  the  fatal  step  too  far,  the 
famous  little  bit  of  the  too-much. 
There  is  the  story  of  the  man  who  de- 
veloped feliphobia  fainting  at  the  sound 
of  a  purr,  or  the  touch  of  fur,  and  ex- 
plained his  aversion  on  the  grounds 
that  'cats  can  only  reason.'  There  is  a 
difference  between  an  association  that 
is  instructive  and  one  that  fascinates. 

'I  love  to  watch  their  little  minds 
grow,'  she  finished  happily. 

The  remark,  somehow,  instantly 
called  up  a  picture  of  this  most  delight- 
ful gentle  human  being,  spending  her 
life  gloating  over  the  gradual  and  in- 
evitable deterioration  of  her  offspring 
—  like  some  distraught  marksman  en- 
thusiastically calculating  the  increas- 
ing error  of  his  rifle. 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


NOT  long  ago  I  read  with  pious  mis- 
givings a  book  on  Anarchism,  by  Emma 
Goldman.  It  contained  —  as  I  expected 
—  much  that  was  objectionable,  wild, 
and  shocking.  But  it  also  contained 
some  very  stimulating  observations  and 
reflections.  I  was  deeply  impressed  by 
a  powerful  chapter  on  marriage,  in 
which  the  author  protested  against  the 
ugly  fact  that,  under  modern  social  and 
economic  conditions  in  the  United 
States,  particularly  in  New  England, 
very  many  women  are  denied  the  nat- 
ural right  of  motherhood.  A  painful 
picture  was  drawn  of  the  many  thou- 
sands of  over-strained,  atrophied  wom- 
en doomed  to  live  out  their  lives  un- 
mated  and  deprived  of  their  rightful 
inheritance. 


Statistics  show  that  one  out  of  every 
twelve  women  remains  unmarried  be- 
tween the  years  of  forty-five  and  sixty- 
four;  one  out  of  ten  between  thirty-five 
and  forty-four;  and  one  out  of  five 
between  twenty-five  and  thirty-four. 
Among  the  men,  one  out  of  ten  remains 
unmarried  between  the  ages  of  forty- 
five  .and  sixty-four;  one  out  of  six  be- 
tween thirty-five  and  forty-four;  and 
one  out  of  every  three  between  twenty- 
five  and  thirty-four.  Something  must 
be  decidedly  wrong  with  our  civiliza- 
tion, to  permit  such  a  state  of  affairs. 

It  is  evident  that  this  extraordinary 
problem  concerns  the  unmarried  man 
quite  as  much  as  the  unmarried  woman. 
The  man  who  has  never  known  the  dig- 
nity, the  responsibilities,  and  the  deep 


650 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


satisfaction  of  fatherhood  is  also  an 
atrophied,  abnormal  member  of  society. 
As  an  unreconciled  bachelor,  I  have 
wrestled  hard  with  the  problem  and 
have  reached  certain  conclusions,  which, 
I  fear,  are  regarded  by  some  of  my 
friends  as  most  heretical. 

I  recognize,  of  course,  that  economic 
conditions  are  partly  responsible  for 
this  abnormal  situation;  but  I  believe 
that  this  difficulty  could  be  surmounted 
without  much  trouble  if  it  were  not  for 
other  much  more  serious  influences. 
The  necessity  of  earning  a  living,  in 
order  to  care  for  dependents;  the  strug- 
gle to  acquire  an  education  in  law  and 
medicine,  as  well  as  in  other  professions 
—  all  this  often  compels  a  lamentable 
delay,  or  an  indefinite  postponement,  of 
marriage.  This  delay  is  itself  frequently 
tragic  in  the  strain  of  inhibitions  and 
the  consequent  ills  it  imposes  on  both 
sexes,  at  the  time  when  Nature  is  call- 
ing imperatively  for  her  unquestioned 
rights. 

But  I  am  thinking  primarily  of  those 
who  never  marry,  who  bravely  put  up 
a  cheerful  front,  but  whose  hearts  are 
never  free  from  a  sense  of  irremediable 
loss.  I  am  thinking  of  those  who  can- 
not stand  this  strain,  and  who  collapse, 
either  mentally  or  morally.  Economic 
reasons  may  in  some  cases  absolutely 
preclude  marriage;  but  I  believe  that 
other  causes  are  of  much  greater  weight. 

First  of  all,  I  accuse  the  spirit  of  Puri- 
tanism for  having  fostered  a  false  atti- 
tude toward  the  sex-instinct.  Many  a 
boy  and  girl  brought  up  in  a  Puritan 
environment  have  come  to  regard  the 
first  attractions  of  sex  as  something 
utterly  unholy.  They  have  resisted 
these  inclinations  and  brooded  morbidly 
over  them,  until  they  have  felt  damned 
beyond  redemption.  They  have  turned 
to  ascetic  discipline  and  severe  tor- 
ments of  the  soul,  until  their  outlook 
has  become  badly  distorted,  even  at 
times  to  the  extreme  of  insanity. 


These  unhappy  victims  of  Puritan- 
ism have  been  prevented  from  realiz- 
ing that  Nature  is  only  asking  her  own: 
that  she  rejoices  in  the  instinctive  reve- 
lations of  sex;  that  adolescence  is  as 
natural  as  breathing,  and  must  not  be 
too  long  ignored. 

Among  simple  primitive  folk,  who 
have  mercifully  been  spared  the  dark 
shadow  of  Puritanism  on  their  sex-rela- 
tions, the  process  of  mating  and  of 
reproduction  is  rightly  regarded  as  Na- 
ture's richest  gift.  They  do  not  affront 
Nature  by  pleading  for  a  delay,  or  feel 
guilty  when  obeying  the  imperious  de- 
mands of  mature  adolescence.  As  for 
that  matter,  even  our  Puritan  ancestors 
were  in  this  respect  more  normal  and 
more  moral  than  is  the  case  to-day,  in 
favoring  early  marriages  and  in  wel- 
coming the  rather  abundant  harvests 
of  such  unions. 

Puritanism,  in  its  peculiar  definition 
of  moral  purity  and  its  gloomy  approach 
to  marriage,  has  created  a  stuffy  at- 
mosphere in  which  it  is  excessively 
difficult  for  men  and  women  to  meet 
naturally.  There  is  a  restraint  and  a 
prudery  that  render  courtship  difficult 
or  illicit  love  easy.  Desperate  measures 
are  necessary  under  such  conditions. 
Severe  admonitions  or  cruel  jests  either 
kill  budding  affections  or  provoke  to 
acts  not  infrequently  unfortunate  in 
their  consequences. 

And  this  preposterous  attitude  lasts 
after  marriage,  when  many  a  young 
mother  finds  herself  condemned  to  a 
painful  reticence  and  evasion  at  a  time 
when  she  should  be  boldly  exultant  in 
her  supreme  realization  of  Nature's 
greatest  miracle.  Puritanism  has  seem- 
ed to  associate  with  this  great  joy 
something  abhorrent  and  shameful!  I 
remember  how  I  once  shocked  a  cousin 
by  remarking  that  one  of  our  relations 
was  expecting  a  baby;  and  how,  later 
on,  she  admitted  her  inability  to  under- 
stand why  she  should  have  felt  shocked. 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


651 


The  answer,  of  course,  was  this  strange 
thing  called  Puritanism,  which  has  cast 
a  dreadful  pall  on  the  most  joyous  and 
natural  instinct  of  mankind. 

Next  to  Puritanism  I  accuse  the 
spirit  of  Romanticism  —  an  odd  part- 
ner in  crime  —  for  rendering  marriage 
so  difficult  to  achieve.  Poetry  and  fic- 
tion have  done  their  worst  to  foster 
fantastic  notions  concerning  love  and 
matrimony.  Preachers,  moralists,  psy- 
chologists, and  writers  of  various  kinds 
have  all  united  to  represent  the  sex-in- 
stinct as  exotic  and  unreal.  The  native 
hue  of  passion  has  been  sicklied  o'er  by 
a  very  pale  cast  of  thought.  Youths 
and  maidens  have  attended  theoretical 
courses  in  correspondence  schools  on 
the  subject  of  matrimony.  They  have 
been  encouraged  to  subject  their  emo- 
tions to  a  compound  microscope,  to  try 
to  discover  by  analysis  whether  these 
feelings  are  as  described  in  the  books. 
They  have  been  led  to  be  hypercritical 
to  such  an  extent  that  they  become 
morbidly  introspective.  And  all  the 
time  two  sound  hearts  may  have  been 
calling  loudly  to  each  other  in  vain!  In 
their  search  for  a  great  romance,  for  the 
proper  stage-setting  for  courtship,  they 
become  utterly  confused  and  hysterical 
at  times.  They  play  on  each  other's 
nerves  until  something  is  bound  to  hap- 
pen; but  what  happens  is  too  often  a 
tragedy.  Nature  is  scornful  of  play- 
acting in  matters  of  the  heart,  and 
visits  fearful  penalties  on  the  actors. 
Nature  cannot  but  have  a  grudge 
against  this  Romanticism,  which  blinds 
people  to  realities  and  impels  them  to 
pursue  an  ignis  fatuus,  in  an  utterly  un- 
real world  of  intellectual  creation. 

I  accuse  also  the  Feminist  movement 
for  its  part  in  bewildering  society  re- 
garding the  relations  of  the  sexes. 
Many  excellent  women,  in  their  devo- 
tion and  martyrdom  to  the  cause  of 
equal  suffrage,  have  practically  taken 
vows  of  celibacy,  like  nuns.  At  least, 


the  effect  is  the  same,  by  reason  of  the 
emphasis  they  place  on  the  entering  of 
women  into  the  various  professions, 
their  right  to  economic  independence, 
and  their  obligation  to  demonstrate 
their  absolute  freedom.  The  making  of 
a  home,  the  rearing  of  children,  seem  to 
be  regarded  by  the  Feminists  as,  at 
best,  nothing  but  an  evil  necessity,  to 
be  borne  under  protest  and  to  be  avoid- 
ed if  possible.  This  attitude  in  some 
amounts  virtually  to  an  angry  revolt 
against  Nature  for  having  been  out- 
rageously unjust  in  placing  a  heavier 
burden  on  women  than  on  men.  The 
way  some  of  these  Feminists  talk  would 
lead  one  to  infer  that  they  desired  leg- 
islation from  on  high,  to  impose  on  men 
part  of  the  task  of  bearing  children! 

Another  and  more  sinister  effect  of 
Feminism  has  been  the  hideous  reac- 
tion of  the  argument  against  a  double 
standard  of  morality  for  men  and  wo- 
men. Instead  of  inducing  men  to  be 
more  moral,  the  tendency  would  seem 
decidedly  to  make  women  more  lax, 
and  even  cynical  on  the  subject.  I  have 
known  women  who,  ignoring  the  sen- 
tentious and  incontrovertible  argument 
of  Franklin  concerning  the  double 
standard,  have  frankly  asserted  the 
right  of  a  woman  to  have  her  'fling'  as 
well  as  a  man.  There  are  various  sets 
where  an  amused  tolerance  condones 
moral  delinquencies,  or  fosters  a  most 
dangerous  attitude  toward  marriage. 
As  in  the  case  of  certain  social  or  stage 
celebrities,  marriage  becomes  a  joke,  or 
a  meaningless  formality,  well  character- 
ized by  a  shrewd  Turkish  observer  as 
'consecutive  polygamy.' 

It  is  to  be  hoped,  and  in  fact  is  to  be 
expected,  that,  after  this  exaggerated 
movement  of  protest  by  the  Feminists 
has  spent  its  force,  we  shall  have  a  re- 
turn to  a  sane  and  natural  attitude  to- 
ward the  marriage  relation  and  all  that 
it  implies  in  obligations  and  ultimate 
contentment. 


652 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


And  out  of  Puritanism,  Romanti- 
cism, and  Feminism,  as  well  as  from  pre- 
vailing economic  conditions,  have  grown 
false  standards  of  happiness.  Nature 
says  to  a  man  and  woman:  'Unite, 
make  a  home,  have  children,  cherish 
them,  and  build  for  their  future,  if  you 
would  know  true  contentment.'  Mod- 
ern civilization  says:  'Do  not  think  of 
marriage  until  after  you  have  had  a 
chance  to  enjoy  yourselves  in  a  life  of 
independence;  until  you  have  sufficient 
means,  a  fine  house,  an  automobile  or 
two,  and  a  mate  with  whom  to  continue 
your  good  time.  Do  not  think  of  hav- 
ing children  if  they  interfere  in  the  least 
with  your  good  time;  certainly  do  not 
have  more  than  one  or  two.  And  do 
not  stay  married  for  a  moment  if  any- 
thing disagreeable  occurs  to  mar  your 
happiness.' 

Or  many  a  high-minded  young  man 
or  girl  is  thinking  of  perfect  bliss  in 
marriage,  of  an  ideal  union  of  kindred 
souls,  that  will  ensure  eternal  harmony 
and  contentment.  Their  conception  of 
domestic  happiness  is  too  exacting  and 
unreal;  it  cannot  allow  for  strain  and 
stress.  It  renders  marriage  either  more 
difficult  to  achieve  or  impossible  to 
maintain. 

I  recall  an  observation  by  a  statesman 
of  note,  when  addressing  a  group  of 
college  girls,  to  the  effect  that  it  was 
much  better  for  a  woman  never  to 
marry  than  to  marry  unhappily.  This 
sounds  rather  reasonable,  but  requires, 
first  of  all,  a  clear  definition  of  married 
happiness.  Such  a  definition,  under 
modern  conditions,  is  becoming  increas- 
ingly difficult.  Many  a  girl  would  be 
rendered  unhappy  by  being  deprived  of 
certain  comforts  and  privileges  she  has 
enjoyed  in  her  home.  At  least,  she  may 
think  so,  and  thus  avoid  matrimony 
and,  very  probably,  miss  true  happi- 
ness. Other  girls,  who  could  readily 
endure  such  privations,  may  be  made 
miserably  unhappy  to  discover  that  their 


glorious  ideal  of  marriage  cannot  be 
fully  realized. 

Here  is  the  difficulty:  what  consti- 
tutes true  happiness  and  absolute  con- 
tentment? Many  a  man  and  woman 
have  learned  the  answer  by  simple  liv- 
ing in  accordance  with  the  demands  oi 
Nature.  They  have  discovered  that  th< 
standards  of  happiness  set  by  moderri 
civilization  in  literature,  theatre,  col- 
lege, and  social  conventions  are  gro- 
tesquely false.  Yes,  many  a  woman  pos- 
sessing that  greatest  of  gifts  —  an 
understanding  heart  —  has  achieved  su- 
preme happiness  through  'the  simple 
round,  the  daily  task,'  through  the  home 
loyalties  and  loving  services.  I  have 
known  women  whose  love  and  devotior 
have  enabled  them,  not  only  to  endure 
fearful  humiliations  at  the  hands  ol 
unworthy  husbands,  but  actually  tc 
redeem  them  to  a  fine  manhood  in  i 
sanctified  and  reconsecrated  home.  ] 
have  known  men  whose  patience  anc 
tenderness  have  endured  the  nagging  ol 
thoughtless  wives,  their  extravagances 
their  follies,  yes,  their  faithlessness;  anc 
have  brought  them  back  to  a  beautifu 
and  sane  realization  of  true  content 
ment.  I  have  seen  such  men  and  womer 
learn,  through  the  strain  and  stress  o: 
married  life,  that  the  greatest  happiness 
after  all,  lies  in  sacrifice;  that  the  basi< 
principle  of  our  Western  civilization  ii 
the  obligation  to  build  for  others.  The 
home  is  the  cornerstone  of  that  civiliza- 
tion  and  of  true  contentment. 

In  the  light  of  this  standard  of  happi- 
ness I  venture  to  reply  to  the  superficia 
observation  on  marriage  by  the  states- 
man to  whom  I  have  alluded,  that  it  « 
better  by  far  to  have  known  the  joys 
with  the  ills  and  sacrifices  of  mother- 
hood than  to  live  in  a  fancied  single 
blessedness.  To  live  as  Nature  ordain- 
ed, though  with  many  a  concern  anc 
many  a  chagrin,  is  infinitely  preferable 
to  living  in  relative  ease  and  serenity,  ii 
opposition  to  Nature's  demands. 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


653 


There  is  good  reason  to  view  with  dis- 
gust and  alarm  certain  tendencies  of 
the  rising  generation.  The  mode  of  dress 
that  exposes  rather  than  discloses  fem- 
inine charms;  the  dance  that  exacts 
vulgar  postures  and  familiarities;  the 
'petting'  that  arouses  sexual  emotions 
—  all  this,  I  take  it,  lamentable  as  it  is, 
may  perhaps  be  regarded  in  part  as  a 
reaction  from  those  unnatural  condi- 
tions which  have  militated  against  the 
wholesome  relations  of  the  sexes.  It  is  a 
pity  that  the  pendulum  should  swing  so 
violently  to  a  dangerous  extreme;  but  I 
am  hopeful  that  we  may  yet  find  a  gold- 
en mean,  which  will  result  in  a  greater 
general  happiness 

Such  a  golden  mean  I  find  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  where  the 
sex-instinct  and  marriage  are  regarded 
more  sanely  and  naturally  than  on  this 
side.  Everything  there  —  nature,  par- 
ents, and  society  in  general  —  unites  to 
encourage  young  people  to  mate  and 
nest  early.  No  exaggerated  intellectual 
refinements,  no  romantic  fancies,  no 
social  conventions  stand  in  the  way  of 
a  free  response  to  the  'cosmic  urge.' 

In  the  case  also  of  Europeans  of 
means  and  education,  marriage  is  rela- 
tively easy,  even  when  delayed  for  one 
reason  or  another.  It  is  erroneous  to 
think  that  Continental  marriages  are 
simply  a  matter  of  negotiations,  irre- 
spective of  the  sentiments  and  prefer- 
ences of  those  directly  concerned.  If 
sentiment  and  desire  should  not  coin- 
cide with  interest,  either  side  may  freely 
use  the  right  of  veto.  I  recall  several 
German  friends  living  away  from  Ger- 
many, who  were  precluded  by  this  fact 
and  other  circumstances  from  an  early 
marriage.  When  the  time  arrived  that 
they  felt  free  to  marry,  it  was  a  simple 
matter  to  let  the  home  folks  know  of 
this  desire.  They  in  turn  found  it  easy 
to  pass  along  the  word  to  someone  in 
their  circle  of  friends,  who  likewise  had 
the  desire  to  do  her  part  in  the  making 


of  a  home.  When  the  prospective  lovers 
came  together,  there  was  no  constraint, 
either  of  Puritanism  or  of  Romanticism. 
On  their  finding  each  other  congenial, 
the  engagement  was  shortly  entered 
into,  and  marriage  followed  soon  after. 
In  the  cases  I  have  in  mind  there  was 
every  evidence  in  later  years  of  tender 
devotion  and  contentment. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  thought  that  I 
am  arguing  in  favor  of  marriages  de 
convenance  as  against  sentiment  and 
romance.  There  is  nothing  finer  than 
some  of  the  truly  romantic  and  idyllic 
courtships  it  has  been  my  privilege  to 
witness.  The  grande  passion  does  come 
to  some,  and  is  greatly  to  be  desired.  I 
am  merely  arguing  that  where  such  ex- 
traordinary experiences  seem  unlikely 
or  unattainable,  —  as  I  fear  they  are 
in  most  cases,  —  obedience  to  the  de- 
mands of  nature  should  compel  one  to 
admit  that  marriage  is  not  only  desira- 
ble but  imperative.  I  am  contending 
for  a  saner  attitude  on  the  part  of  so- 
ciety in  general  toward  the  whole  sub- 
ject. I  am  writing  as  frankly  as  I  can, 
out  of  the  depths  of  experience,  — 
sweet  as  well  as  bitter,  —  to  try  to  help 
others  to  think  more  clearly  on  this  vital 
problem. 

Society  should  do  all  in  its  power,  in 
my  opinion,  to  render  marriage  easier, 
in  order  to  restore  it  to  its  rightful  place 
as  the  basic  and  primordial  fact  of  life 
itself.  We  should  feel  much  greater 
concern  over  the  unpleasant  fact  of  the 
large  numbers  of  unmarried  members 
of  society.  And  early  marriages  should 
be  facilitated,  in  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  delay  can  hardly  be  good,  either 
for  the  individual  or  for  society  in  gen- 
eral. The  home  is  the  basis  of  our  civil- 
ization, and  the  more  homes,  the  better 
the  community.  Whether  early  or  late, 
marriage  should  be  the  immediate  and 
the  most  serious  concern  of  society  at 
large. 

All  that  has  been  said  thus  far  should 


654 


COURTSHIP  AFTER  MARRIAGE 


not  be  interpreted  as  minimizing  in  the 
least  the  sacramental  nature  of  mar- 
riage as  it  rightfully  is  regarded  by  the 
Church.  To  those  who  think  deeply, 
there  is  hardly  anything  in  life  that  may 
not  properly  be  deemed  sacred.  In  fact, 
it  is  this  sense  of  the  sanctity,  beauty, 
and  dignity  of  human  relationships 
that  brings  the  greatest  joy  in  life.  But 
it  does  not  follow,  because  marriage  is 
sacramental,  that  courtship  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  of  divine  origin,  more  than 
any  of  the  many  other  human  relation- 
ships. What  really  matters  is  the  spe- 
cific act  of  consecration.  The  mating  of 
man  and  wife  may  be  elemental,  a  most 
natural  response  to  an  imperative  and 
irresistible  command;  but  God  may  not 
have  joined  them  together  unless  they 
themselves  have  solemnly  laid  their 
plighted  troth  on  his  altar. 

This  to  me  is  the  true  significance  and 
beauty  of  the  marriage  service,  so  often 
missed,  alas,  amid  the  pomp  and  the- 
atricals of  elaborate  church  weddings. 
The  thoughtless  and  the  cynics,  occu- 
pied with  thoughts  of  how  the  bride 
looked  or  the  groom  behaved,  are  often 
too  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  here  are 
two  souls  who  have  dared  present  them- 
selves to  dedicate  their  union  before 
God  and  in  the  sight  of  man.  They 
have  solemnly  pledged  in  prayer  that, 
come  what  may,  they  are  determined 
to  show  each  other  patience,  reasonable- 
ness, charity,  forgiveness,  loyalty,  and 


the  love  that  pardoneth  all  things 
throughout  the  trials  and  vicissitudes 
of  their  wedded  life. 

Whether  in  a  religious  or  a  civil  cere 
mony,  this  is  what  all  reasonable  beings 
should  pledge.  It  is  a  solemn  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  fundamental  fact  thai 
falling  in  love  is  not  nearly  of  as  great 
importance  as  the  sacred  act  of  mar- 
riage itself.  The  emphasis  should  b( 
placed,  not  simply  by  the  Church,  bul 
by  all  society,  on  the  sacramental  na- 
ture of  married  life. 

Confucius  said:  'A  man  and  his  wife 
should  be  as  guests  to  each  other.1 
Could  anything  more  profound  or  more 
exquisite  be  said  of  the  marriage  rela- 
tion? Unfailing  courtesy  and  deferential 
consideration,  thoughtful  and  delicate 
attentions,  rare  patience  and  charity, 
all  that  the  hospitality  of  one  soul  to 
another  implies  —  is  not  this  the  final 
answer  to  the  whole  problem  of  marriage 
and  divorce? 

This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  attitude 
society  should  aim  to  foster:  a  more 
natural  approach  to  the  sex-relation, 
freedom  from  fantastic  notions  and  arti- 
ficial restraints,  a  shifting  of  emphasis 
from  the  search  for  romantic  courtships 
to  the  necessity  of  a  daily  courtship 
after  marriage;  in  sum,  insistence  on  a 
simpler  and  deeper  conception  of  happi- 
ness, based  on  home  loyalties,  sacrifices, 
and  joyous  revelations  of  life's  myster- 
ies, '  until  Death  us  do  part.' 


HIPPOLYTUS 

BY  ANNE  WINSLOW 

IN  these  untarnished  meadows,  where  the  bee 
Plies  undisturbed  his  summer  husbandry, 
Where  never  sound  of  men  who  sow  and  reap 

Vexes  the  earth's  soft  sleep, 
All  is  so  still  I  sometimes  hear  her  pass; 
Her  foot's  divinity  has  touched  the  grass 

And  left  its  bloom  more  fair, 

And  falls  upon  the  air 

A  brightness  from  her  hair. 

Here  in  her  timeless  garden,  where  the  hours   • 
Leave  off  their  ringed  dance,  I  wreathe  pale  flowers 
To  crown  her  brows.  So  would  I  gather  peace 

And  find  at  last  release 
From  the  dark  visions  the  immortals  send; 
They  give  men  death,  but  man's  blind  fate  no  end; 

Counting  the  wasted  sands, 

Knitting  the  broken  strands 

With  their  all-patient  hands. 

Like  a  dim  legend  written  on  the  brain, 
The  shadows  come;  deep  caverns  yawn  again 
In  the  steep  rocks,  and  monstrous  deeds  are  done 

Under  an  ancient  sun. 
Far  voices  call  me  and  I  hear  the  sound 
Of  endless  hoof-beats  on  the  echoing  ground. 

Why  must  you  fall  so  fleet, 

Dark  and  avenging  feet, 

While  life  and  youth  are  sweet? 


BY  CHARLES  A  COURT  REPINGTON 


All  Commonwealths  ought  to  desire  Peace,  yet  it 
is  necessary  ever  to  be  prepared  for  the  War;  because 
Peace  disarmed  is  weak,  and  without  Reputation: 
Therefore  the  Poets  feign,  that  Pallas  the  Goddess  of 
Wisdom  did  always  appear  armed.  —  SIR  WALTER 
RALEIGH:  The  Arts  of  Empire. 

THE  Washington  Conference  is  about 
to  open,  with  disarmament  for  its  lead- 
ing theme,  and  I  think  it  may  be  inter- 
esting to  American  readers  if  I  give 
them,  for  what  it  is  worth,  the  deduc- 
tions that  I  have  drawn  concerning  dis- 
armament and  kindred  subjects  during 
recent  travels  from  the  Baltic  to  the 
^Egean  and  from  the  Channel  to  the 
Black  Sea.  These  journeys  have  occu- 
pied me  during  the  greater  part  of  this 
year  and  have  brought  me  in  contact 
with  most  of  the  directing  minds  which 
exercise  authority  in  the  old  Continent, 
as  well  as  with  many  other  people  of  all 
classes,  professions,  and  nationalities.  I 
write  for  American  readers  with  the 
greater  pleasure  because,  wherever  I 
have  been,  I  have  found  English  and 
American  opinion  firmly  united,  with 
or  without  previous  discussion  or  agree- 
ment, on  almost  every  single  question 
that  distracts  Europe,  and  I  have  cer- 
tainly returned  home  with  this  fact  as 
the  most  satisfying,  if  not  the  only 
satisfying,  conclusion  of  my  tour. 

The  Question  of  Disarmament 

One  may  divide  Europe,  broadly 
speaking,  into  three  parts:  the  victors, 
the  vanquished,  and  the  neutrals  in  the 
late  war.  The  victors  are  suffering  from 
indigestion,  the  vanquished  from  ex- 

656 


haustion,  and  the  neutrals  from  the  dis- 
comforts inherent  in  propinquity  to 
sick  neighbors.  No  people  are  happy; 
no  nation  loves  another;  and  it  will  take 
years  for  the  hates  and  jealousies  aris- 
ing out  of  both  the  war  and  the  peace  to 
die  down.  Practically  speaking  the  vic- 
tors are  still  dominant  and  the  van- 
quished still  in  subjection.  The  victors 
are  dominant  because  they  are  com- 
pelled, in  greater  or  less  degree,  to  re- 
main armed  until  all  the  terms  of  the 
peace  treaties  are  carried  out;  and  this 
must  be  an  affair  of  long  years,  because 
the  reparations  exacted,  though  not  a 
tithe  of  the  real  cost  of  the  damage 
done,  have  been  spread  over  long  periods 
of  time,  in  order  to  make  the  payments 
possible.  The  presence  of  numerous  In- 
ter-Allied commissions  in  the  conquered 
countries  is  a  source  of  humiliation  to 
them,  but  cannot  be  helped,  as  they  are 
there  in  pursuance  of  treaties. 

It  is  no  satisfaction  to  the  victors  to 
remain  armed,  because  the  cost  is  great 
and  every  state  is  at  its  wits'  end  for 
money.  In  fact,  the  destitution  of 
treasuries  is  so  marked  that  even  the 
victors  have  to  impose  on  their  own 
people  almost  unendurable  burdens, 
and  in  many  cases  do  so  with  little  re- 
gard for  the  elementary  principles  of 
economics,  thus  helping  to  prolong  the 
crisis  of  which  even  America  is  sensible. 
But  they  dread  that,  if  they  do  not  re- 
main armed  and  impose  these  burdens 
on  their  taxpayers,  the  vanquished  may 
either  recover  and  renew  the  war,  or, 
at  all  events,  find  good  pretexts  for  dis- 
continuing their  payments,  owing  to 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


657 


their  recognition  of  the  fact  that  there 
is  no  power  sufficient  to  coerce  them. 
In  this  event,  certain  of  the  victors  will 
reckon  themselves  ruined. 

Therefore,  the  first  unpleasant  fact 
to  be  faced  is  that  the  victors  are  still 
armed  and  the  vanquished  almost  en- 
tirely disarmed;  and  that,  though  this 
is  an  intolerable  state  of  affairs,  offers 
no  permanence,  and  heals  no  wounds, 
an  alternative  is  not  within  sight  for 
many  years  without  risk  of  the  renewal 
of  the  war,  which  alternative  is,  of  all 
things,  the  one  that  nobody  can 
contemplate  with  equanimity.  'Peace 
disarmed'  would  be  not  only  'without 
reputation,'  but  a  signal  danger. 

A  conference  aiming  at  disarmament 
will  observe  that,  England  apart,  and 
America  having  side-tracked  herself  in 
this  business,  the  victors  retain  com- 
pulsory service,  while  the  vanquished,  or 
at  least  their  governments,  all  pine  for 
such  service  and  are  not  allowed  to 
have  it.  Similarly,  the  vast  war-mate- 
rial of  the  victors  remains  in  existence, 
rotting  or  rusting  in  part,  perhaps,  and 
gradually  growing  out  of  date,  but  still 
more  or  less  fit  for  use;  while  the  huge 
war-material  of  the  vanquished,  greater 
by  far  than  anyone  imagined  at  the 
Armistice  of  1918,  has  been  swept  into 
the  net  of  the  victors  and  has  either 
been  taken  or  destroyed.  Disarmament? 
Yes,  it  has  been  carried  out  by  force, 
but  only  in  the  case  of  the  conquered 
states. 

Another  cause  for  disquiet  is  the  fact 
that  practically  the  whole  of  the  able- 
bodied  population  of  Europe  were 
trained  soldiers  in  1918,  or  trained  or- 
ganizers or  providers  of  the  needs  of 
war,  in  one  form  or  another.  Therefore, 
if  some  strong  compelling  sentiment 
should  make  a  people  rise,  it  would  only 
need  arms  for  numerically  strong  forces 
to  reappear  as  by  magic,  and  all  the 
long  training  of  the  war  period  could  be 
dispensed  with.  This  situation  will  not 

VOL.  its  —  NO.  e 
D 


end  for  another  fifteen  or  twenty  years, 
when  all  the  veterans  of  the  war-time 
will  be  too  old,  or  too  stout,  or  too  much 
immersed  in  then*  new  occupations, 
whatever  these  may  be,  to  desire,  or  to 
be  able,  to  march  and  fight.  The  vic- 
tors have  seen  very  clearly  that  these 
veterans  cannot  be  destroyed,  but  that 
war-material  can  be;  and  the  various 
Inter-Allied  military  commissions  have 
therefore  concentrated  upon  mateiial, 
and  have  shown  relentless  severity  in 
insisting  upon  a  thorough  surrender  of 
arms — not  only  of  guns  and  rifles,  aero- 
planes and  machine-guns,  but  of  the 
whole  machinery  of  military  equip- 
ment, including  carts  and  limbers,  har- 
ness, and  all  the  thousands  of  articles 
that  go  to  make  up  a  properly  found 
army.  It  is  held  that  this  action  will 
make  the  vanquished  states  incapable 
of  creating  modern  armies,  except  after 
a  long  delay,  which  the  victors  will  nat- 
urally exploit. 

The  vanquished,  on  their  side,  have 
naturally  sought,  by  every  available 
means,  to  escape  the  control  of  the  mili- 
tary commissions,  and,  in  effectives  as 
in  armament,  to  conceal  what  they  are 
doing  by  more  or  less  clever  camouflage. 
It  has  not  succeeded,  on  the  whole,  but 
there  are  still  military  organizations  in 
excess  of  treaty  stipulations;  there  are 
all  sorts  of  pseudo-civilian  societies, 
associations  of  old  soldiers,  compulsory- 
labor  laws,  and  so  forth,  which  are  not 
indeed  very  formidable,  but  which  show 
that  the  disposition  endures  to  resus- 
citate military  power  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. Similarly,  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  war-material  still  concealed 
and  undelivered,  especially  rifles  and 
machine-guns;  but  to  me  the  wonder  is 
that  so  much  has  been  given  up,  and  I 
feel  confident  that  it  would  not  have 
been  had  the  vanquished  been  certain 
allied  and  associated  powers  that  one 
could  name. 

However,  there  it  is,  and  that  is  the 


658 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


present  situation.  But  not  quite  all  has 
been  said;  for  it  is  the  decided  and  well- 
weighed  opinion  of  the  best  men  in  con- 
trol of  the  military  commissions  that, 
after  they  withdraw  from  the  territories 
of  the  vanquished  states,  it  will  not  take 
more  than  two  years  for  the  war-mate- 
rial to  be  replaced,  at  all  events  in  the 
case  of  Germany;  and  that  in  five  years 
the  whole  of  the  vast  war-material  may 
be  renewed,  quite  apart  from  contracts 
that  may  be  made  with  neutrals,  per- 
haps through  foreigners.  Therefore, 
the  question  arises  whether  these  com- 
missions should  not  be  retained  until 
all  the  veterans  are  past  the  fighting 
age;  for  though,  by  the  Treaty  of  Ver- 
sailles, it  is  the  League  of  Nations  that 
has  the  duty  of  checking  future  designs 
of  an  aggressive  sort,  the  League  will 
have  difficulty  in  carrying  out  this  task; 
and,  in  fact,  no  one  believes  that  it  can 
do  it. 

Another  real  difficulty  is  that,  when 
we  disarm  a  state,  we  practically  be- 
come, in  a  moral  sense,  trustees  for  her 
internal  order  and  external  security.  A 
country  whose  forces  are  compulsorily 
reduced  to  the  vanishing-point  may 
not  be  able  to  suppress  Spartacists,  Bol- 
sheviki,  or  what  not;  may  not  be  able 
to  prevent  bandits  from  crossing  from 
their  territory  into  another,  or  to  keep 
out  other  peoples'  bandits;  while  there 
is  the  still  more  serious  danger  that  the 
government  itself  may  become  so  weak 
that  it  may  lack  authority,  and  be  at 
the  mercy  of  a  coup  d'etat.  This  lack  of 
authority  is  one  of  the  most  constant 
complaints  of  the  vanquished  states. 
It  is  certain  also  that  a  long-service,  vol- 
untarily enlisted  army,  gendarmerie,  or 
police,  offers  an  easier  prey  to  intriguers 
than  a  conscripted  army  based  on  short 
service;  for  the  latter  constantly  re- 
freshes itself  from  the  whole  people, 
whence  it  springs,  while  a  volunteer 
force  has  to  be  taken  from  less  choice 
elements,  and  in  unsettled  times  and 


territories  easily  becomes  a  sort  of  Prae- 
torian Guard,  or  corps  of  Janissaries 
at  the  call  of  the  highest  bidder.  In 
countries  of  peasant  proprietors,  it  is 
even  difficult  to  recruit  a  voluntary 
army  at  all. 

These  are  among  the  problems  that 
Washington  will  have  to  confront  on  the 
side  of  the  recently  vanquished  states; 
but  perhaps  they  will  be  surpassed  in 
complexity  when  the  armies  of  the  Al- 
lies are  passed  in  review. 

It  is  true  that  England  will  not  have 
much  difficulty  in  securing  a  clean  bill 
of  health,  because  we  have  scrapped 
compulsion  and  all  our  military  acts  of 
the  war  period.  Except  for  the  posses- 
sion of  better  material  and  equipment, 
and  for  the  acquired  precedent  of  creat- 
ing a  national  army  based,  at  need,  on 
compulsion,  we  are  in  a  worse  state  of 
military  destitution  than  we  were  in 
1914,  —  which  is  saying  a  good  deal,  — 
whereas  we  have  much  greater  commit- 
ments all  over  the  world,  and  a  whole 
series  of  new  difficulties  for  which,  in 
ultimate  analysis,  force  may  be  the 
only  remedy. 

But  when  I  think  of  our  allies,  they 
will,  I  imagine,  be  asked  to  explain 
their  position;  and  they  may  possibly 
be  asked  why,  if  the  disarmament  of 
their  late  enemies  has  been  in  such  large 
measure  accomplished,  they  do  not 
themselves  disarm.  The  retention,  prac- 
tically all  over  Europe  except  in  the 
vanquished  states,  of  compulsory  mili- 
tary service,  and  of  the  potentially  huge 
armies  which  derive  from  it,  will  not,  I 
imagine,  escape  comment.  The  case  of 
our  allies  I  will,  therefore,  briefly  state. 

If  we  take  France  first,  we  must  ad- 
mit that  she  has  the  greatest,  and,  per- 
haps, —  with  a  saving  clause  for  Japan, 
—  the  only  really  great  army  in  the 
world.  She  has  a  numerous,  well-or- 
ganized, and  splendidly  equipped  army, 
much  superior  to  her  army  of  1914,  led 
by  commanders  of  the  greatest  distinc- 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


659 


tion,  and  capable,  as  I  verily  believe,  of 
conquering  Continental  Europe.  If  a 
Bonaparte  came  into  view,  he  would 
have  a  perfect  instrument  ready  to  his 
hand,  with  this  reservation,  that  —  at 
first,  at  all  events  —  Frenchmen  would 
not  march  except  in  a  good  cause,  and 
with  the  object  and  scope  of  an  opera- 
tion clearly  pointed  out  to  them.  But 
such  eventualities  are,  I  hope,  far  from 
us.  French  generals  do  not  dabble  in 
politics,  and  the  whole  army  despises 
them.  No  political  generals  in  France 
survived  the  war-storm.  No  civilian 
could,  or  would  wish  to,  repeat  the  Napo- 
leonic epopee,  of  which  he  would  prob- 
ably be  the  first  victim.  But  even  more 
important  is  the  fact  that  France's  pop- 
ulation is  small,  and  that  her  strength 
to-day,  admittedly  great  though  it  be, 
is  merely  a  fortuitous  and  perhaps  tem- 
porary superiority  of  an  army,  and  not 
one  of  a  people  firmly  based  on  founda- 
tions of  numbers,  wealth,  and  science. 
France  might  march  on  Berlin,  even  on 
Moscow,  and  reach  both  with  ease;  but 
she  is  quite  incapable  of  confronting  the 
subsequent  hostility  of  the  world,  or 
even  of  Europe,  which  every  aggressor 
must  expect  who  attempts  to  emulate 
the  projects  of  Napoleon  or  Wilhelm 
II.  We  must  keep  our  heads  cool  when 
we  observe  the  brilliant  power  of  France. 
The  maintenance  of  the  French 
army  at  its  present  standard  of  num- 
bers and  efficiency  is  due  to  want  of 
confidence  in  the  future;  and  if  France 
pleads  this  want  of  confidence,  one 
must  be  just  to  her  and  lay  the  blame 
where  it  is  mainly  due,  namely,  upon 
the  lapse  of  the  Anglo-American  guar- 
anty. France  reluctantly  consented  to 
abandon  her  defensive  plans  on  the 
Rhine  because  America,  and  England 
if  America  ratified  the  agreement,  were 
to  give  France  a  guaranty  against  Ger- 
man aggression  in  the  future.  Two 
years  have  passed,  and  America  has  not 
ratified  that  undertaking.  Consequent- 


ly our  adhesion  falls  to  the  ground, 
although  our  Parliament  accepted  the 
liability  under  the  conditions  named. 
Very  likely  we  on  this  side  of  the  water 
were  very  great  fools,  and  curiously  ill- 
informed  of  the  real  state  of  public  opin- 
ion in  America,  when  we  signed  that 
conditional  guaranty.  That  remark 
applies  to  our  Government,  if  the  cap 
fits  them.  It  depends  upon  whether 
our  former  Ambassador  at  Washington 
warned  the  Government  that  the 
American  Senate  might  not  second  the 
guaranty  of  President  Wilson.  I  do  not 
know  whether  our  Ambassador  gave  a 
warning  or  not.  But  the  public  in  Eng- 
land and  France  certainly  never  had  the 
glimmer  of  a  suspicion  that  a  guaranty 
signed  by  a  President  of  the  United 
States  and  countersigned  by  a  Secre- 
tary of  State,  in  a  vital  matter  affecting 
the  safety  of  France  and  the  future 
peace  of  Europe,  would  not  be  honored 
hi  America. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  attribute  a 
very  large  share  of  France's  want  of 
confidence  in  the  future  to  the  above 
cause,  and  a  very  large  share  of  Eu- 
rope's unrest  to  France's  want  of  con- 
fidence. Over  and  over  again  I  have 
been  told  by  French  statesmen  and 
generals  that  France  would  never  have 
taken  the  unrelenting  course  that  she 
has  taken  toward  Germany  had  the 
Anglo-American  guaranty  stood.  Over 
and  over  again  I  have  been  assured  by 
representatives  of  all  the  allied  and 
associated  powers  that  Germany  would 
never  have  dared  to  confront  that  com- 
bination, and  that,  secured  by  the 
guaranty,  France  would,  and  could  safe- 
ly, have  disarmed.  The  fact  that  none 
of  these  things  happened  is  the  main 
cause  of  the  sanctions,  the  Upper  Sile- 
sian  trouble,  the  reparation  wrangles, 
and  most  of  the  resulting  unrest  that 
has  followed  throughout  Europe,  which 
seems  to  take  its  cue  from  the  barom- 
eter of  Franco-German  relations. 


660 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


I  am  not  blaming  America  in  the 
least.  Our  own  long-established  prac- 
tice, to  keep  out  of  continental  entangle- 
ments when  we  can,  is  as  deeply  rooted 
in  principle  as  that  of  the  United  States, 
to  steer  clear  of  European  commit- 
ments. The  difference  between  us  is 
merely  the  difference  between  the 
breadth  of  the  Channel  and  the  breadth 
of  the  Atlantic.  By  that  much  our  pol- 
icy differs  from  yours;  but  it  is  a  differ- 
ence of  degree,  and  not  of  kind.  But 
for  all  that,  when  one  observes,  as  every 
traveler  through  Europe  must  observe 
daily,  the  truly  appalling  results  that 
have  followed  from  this  failure,  miscon- 
ception, desertion,  or  whatever  one 
should  term  it,  one  stands  aghast  at  the 
consequences,  and  laments  the  little  wis- 
dom with  which  the  world  is  governed. 

France  has  no  definite  guaranty  now 
that  any  state  but  Belgium,  and  per- 
haps Poland,  will  support  her  when 
Germany  feels  strong  enough  to  act; 
and  in  the  sheer  desperation  of  self-de- 
fense, has  thought  it  necessary  to  in- 
flict upon  her  neighbor  one  humiliation 
after  another,  in  order  to  make  her,  and 
keep  her,  weak.  The  policy  of  broad 
and  genial  tolerance,  which  would  have 
so  well  become  a  country  with  France's 
generous  traditions,  she  could  not  fol- 
low, for  with  her  forty  millions  there 
were  over  against  her  seventy  million 
Germans,  with  a  far  higher  natality; 
and  France  saw  no  salvation  except  in 
the  rigid  exaction  of  all  her  treaty 
rights,  so  that  Germany,  for  a  great 
number  of  years  hence,  might  be  inhib- 
ited from  even  dreaming  of  revenge. 
But  when  one  thinks  of  the  dry-powder 
reTime  under  which  France  has  been 
living  for  so  long,  and  of  all  the  terrible 
injuries  inflicted  on  her  by  Germany 
in  the  past,  one  can  understand,  and 
tout  comprendre  c'est  tout  pardonner. 
If  France  declares  at  Washington  that 
nothing  tangible  except  her  army  stands 
between  the  world  and  the  renewal  of 


the  war  by  Germany,  I  do  not  know  how 
she  can  be  gainsaid.  In  the  circum- 
stances, it  is  the  truth.  I  even  think 
that  we  English  and  Americans,  having 
left  to  France  the  largest  share  of  the 
war,  must  feel  a  tinge  of  shame  at  leav- 
ing also  to  her  the  main  burden  of  en- 
forcing the  peace,  with  all  the  obloquy 
that  follows. 

Italy  will  plead  that  she  has  greatly 
reduced  her  army  and  diminished  the 
service  periods.  She  can  say  with  jus- 
tice that  her  policy  has  been  concilia- 
tory, and  that  she  has  shunned  adven- 
tures. But  she  can  also  show  that  the 
Anschluss  movement  in  Austria  has 
underlined  the  danger  of  Austria  join- 
ing Germany,  and  she  can  point  out 
that  such  an  act  would  bring  Germany 
down  to  her  borders.  Yugoslavia  can 
urge  that  both  Hungary  and  Bulgaria 
are  uneasy  neighbors;  Czechoslovakia, 
that  she  is  liable  to  be  stifled  by  the 
Germans  round  her,  and  has  Austria 
and  Hungary  to  fear.  Rumania  can 
point  to  dangers  from  three  neighbors, 
and,  above  all,  from  the  Soviet,  armies 
upon  the  Dniester,  and  from  the  bulk  of 
the  Bolshevist  reserves  not  far  away. 
Belgium  has  too  complete  a  case  to 
bring  up  from  1914,  for  anyone  to  find 
fault  with  her  for  abandoning  her  neu- 
trality and  reorganizing  her  army  on 
more  modern  lines;  while  Poland  can 
say  that  she  has  recently  saved  Europe 
from  the  Reds  by  her  military  exertions. 
Lastly,  there  is  Greece,  who  can  show 
that  she  went  to  Asia  Minor  at  the  re- 
quest of  the  Allies,  who  have  since  let 
her  down  and  given  her  no  assistance, 
because  she  chose,  in  the  full  plentitude 
of  popular  right,  to  recall  her  King. 

Two  states  of  unequal  importance 
and  discordant  character  will  stand  al- 
most wholly  beyond  the  influence  of  the 
Washington  Conference.  These  are 
Russia  and  Turkey.  The  picture  that 
we  make  of  both  is  not  a  pleasant  one; 
but  in  reference  to  armaments  they 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


661 


cannot  be  excluded,  because  the  exist- 
ence of  their  armed  forces  is  primarily 
the  cause  of  countervailing  armies  in 
the  countries  round  them.  If  Poland, 
Rumania,  and  Greece  are  more  immedi- 
ately affected  for  the  moment,  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  how  far  Russia  extends, 
or  how  insidiously  the  Turks  are  able 
to  work  upon  Mohammedan  sentiment 
in  Asia  and  Africa.  Nothing  final  in  the 
nature  of  reduction  in  armaments  can 
be  settled  until  these  two  contuma- 
cious peoples  rejoin  the  comity  of  na- 
tions. No  one  can  say  when  they  will. 
Neither  seems  to  possess  the  capacity, 
either  for  evolution  or  for  repentance. 

There  are  also  alliances,  supple- 
mented by  military  agreements,  be- 
tween certain  states  of  Europe,  which 
may  tell  against  the  conclusion  of  agree- 
ments to  disarm.  France  has  a  treaty 
and  a  military  agreement  with  Belgium, 
and,  perhaps,  understandings,  at  least, 
with  other  states.  In  the  east  of  Europe 
the  Little  Entente  unites  Rumania, 
Czechoslovakia,  Yugoslavia,  and  Po- 
land in  a  series  of  alliances  which 
Greece  may  possibly  join;  and  all  these 
states  may  plead,  not  only  these  under- 
standings, but  their  fear  of  warlike 
>  neighbors,  as  reasons  for  maintaining 
their  military  strength. 

For  all  these  reasons  we  cannot  be 
sure  that  disarmament,  or  reduction  of 
armaments,  so  far  as  they  relate  to 
land  forces,  will  have  more  than  a  suc- 
ces  d'estime  at  Washington.  It  is  not  a 
favorable  moment  to  discuss  this  ques- 
tion, and  it  is  even  open  to  argument 
whether  a  direct  attack  on  armaments 
is  the  best  way  of  securing  either  their 
diminution  or  their  abolition.  I  hap- 
pened to  take  an  unimportant  part  in 
the  first  Peace  Conference  at  The 
Hague  in  the  year  1899,  when  all  the 
states  of  the  world  were  not  separated 
by  the  terrible  antagonisms  aroused  by 
the  late  war.  We  were  very  well  inten- 
tioned,  very  friendly,  and  set  out  to 


discover  a  formula  for  the  reduction  of 
armaments,  in  response  to  the  late 
Tsar's  humanitarian  appeal.  We  could 
not  find  one,  though  we  sought  high 
and  low  for  it,  and  a  very  good  Amer- 
ican delegation  helped  us  in  our  search. 
Time  has  passed,  and  the  urgency  of 
the  question  may  lead  to  the  discovery 
of  the  formula  for  which  we  sought  in 
vain;  but  I  am  not  confident  that  it  will. 

Recently  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing again  that  very  competent  Belgian 
lawyer,  M.  Rolin  Jacquemyns,  who 
also  was  at  the  Peace  Conference  of 
1899,  and  is  now  the  Belgian  represent- 
ative on  the  Rhineland  High  Commis- 
sion. We  compared  notes  and  were 
both  convinced  that  the  creation  of  the 
Permanent  Court  of  Arbitration  at 
The  Hague,  which  was  the  chef-d'ceuvre 
of  our  Conference,  was  of  more  value 
than  the  League  of  Nations  is  ever 
likely  to  be.  The  Court  still  exists  and 
has  done  much  useful  work.  To  it 
should  have  been  submitted  the  Upper 
Silesia  case.  The  Hague  Court  repre- 
sents the  main  idea  that  seemed  to  me 
to  be  in  President  Harding's  mind  at 
the  time  of  the  late  presidential  election 
in  the  United  States;  and  I  hoped  that 
we  were  on  the  right  track  once  more 
and  were  getting  back  to  practical 
politics  after  our  Geneva  day-dreams. 
I  shall  retain  that  hope  till  the  end. 

An  International  Court  of  Arbitra- 
tion, rather  than  a  spurious  form  of 
world-government  like  the  League,  is 
the  real  remedy  for  most  of  the  present 
troubles  of  the  world.  But  I  would  like 
to  see  its  importance  magnified  a  hun- 
dred times  by  the  acceptance  of  the 
principle  of  obligatory  arbitration  by 
all  the  states  of  the  world.  That  condi- 
tion we  could  not  secure  in  1899,  be- 
cause several  states  insisted  on  with- 
drawing from  the  purview  of  the  Court 
all  questions  in  which  '  honor  and  vital 
interests'  were  involved.  That  reserva- 
tion practically  made  the  Court  useless 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


at  the  time  when  it  would  have  been 
most  needed.  If  the  United  States 
were  ever  great  enough  and  wise  enough 
to  accept  the  principle  of  compulsory 
arbitration,  I  cannot  name  the  state 
that  would  not  follow  her.  Can  any  ar- 
bitral decision,  even  against  the  claims 
of  any  one  of  us,  cause  one  millionth 
part  of  the  ruin  and  loss  of  life  and 
treasure  of  the  late  war?  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  compulsory  arbitration  is  a 
sure  means  of  sterilizing  armaments, 
since,  once  international  arbitration 
becomes  our  settled  rule  in  diplomacy, 
the  use  of  force  must  end;  for  no  state 
would  be  so  foolish  as  to  keep  up  ex- 
pensive forces  for  long  when  there  was 
no  use  for  them.  On  these  lines,  and  I 
believe  on  these  lines  only,  can  the  de- 
sign that  must  stand  behind  the  assem- 
bly of  the  Washington  Conference  be 
carried  out  to  its  logical  completion. 

I  suppose  that  we  shall  not  hear  very 
much  of  the  League  of  Nations  at  Wash- 
ington. It  was  mainly  American  handi- 
work, but  America's  refusal  to  recog- 
nize her  own  child  has  relegated  it  to 
the  political  workhouse.  No  world- 
authority  can  exist  when  the  United 
States,  Germany,  and  Russia  have  no 
share  in  it.  There  are  League  enthusi- 
asts here,  as  there  doubtless  are  in 
America,  and  we  must  admire  the  devo- 
tion with  which  the  League  works  and- 
accumulates  mountains  of  documents 
and  reports.  But  we  must  also  admit 
that  it  makes  little  progress  and  has 
scant  authority.  Some  say  that  the 
Council  of  the  League  is  a  mere  crea- 
ture of  the  French  and  British  Foreign 
Offices.  Others  declare  Geneva  to  be  a 
focus  of  international  intrigue.  In  any 
case,  it  is  common  ground  that  the 
League  has  no  authority,  and  no  force 
at  its  back  except  that  of  moral  per- 
suasion; and  that  it  can  do  nothing  but 
report,  warn,  or  recommend.  With  dif- 
ficulty it  has  at  last  agreed  that  the 
election  of  judges  to  an  International 


Court  of  Justice  shall  be  placed  on  its 
agenda  at  its  second  assembly,  which  is 
taking  place  as  I  write;  but  I  do  not 
know  why  this  Court  should  be  any  bet- 
ter than,  or  even  so  good  as,  our  Hague 
Court  of  the  first  Peace  Conference. 
To  take  two  years  to  begin  to  duplicate 
the  machinery  that  we  finished  twen- 
ty-two years  ago  does  not  strike  me  as 
an  achievement  of  great  merit.  The 
real  practical  international  diplomacy 
of  the  moment,  in  all  but  American 
affairs,  is  controlled  by  the  Supreme 
Council  and  by  the  Council  of  Ambassa- 
dors in  Paris,  both  of  which  are,  in  ef- 
fect, instruments  for  registering  the  de- 
cisions of  the  Allied  cabinets.  The 
League  is  left  to  its  pious  aspirations, 
and  the  main* stream  of  diplomacy 
passes  it  by.  Even  when  it  has  taken  up 
a  question  like  that  of  Armenia,  with 
passionate  earnestness,  the  only  result 
has  been  that  its  protege  has  become 
either  Kemalist  or  Red;  while  in  the 
matter  of  mandates,  the  United  States 
has  protested  against  decisions  made 
without  its  approval,  and  the  whole 
question  is  consequently  hung  up.  Well 
may  a  French  statesman  have  said  to 
himself  sarcastically  every  morning  in 
the  spring  of  1919,  as  he  rose  from  his 
bed:  'Georges  Clemenceau,  you  believe 
in  the  League  of  Nations.' 

The  Sorrows  of  Europe 

In  what  particular  manner  President 
Harding  and  Mr.  Hughes  will  change 
the  situation  for  the  better,  we  shall  all 
learn  presently;  but  that  the  old  Conti- 
nent of  Europe  is  beset  with  immense 
difficulties,  political,  social,  economic, 
and  commercial,  is  manifest  to  a  travel- 
er in  every  country  that  he  visits.  I 
place  the  question  of  exchange  first 
among  the  anxieties  of  Europe;  and  it 
is  needless  to  remark  how  gravely 
British  and  American  trade  have  been 
affected  by  it.  It  is  not  only  the  depre- 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


663 


ciation  that  has  hit  the  world  so  hard, 
but  the  constant  fluctuations,  which 
have  ruined  confidence,  caused  every 
trader  to  think  many  times  before  he 
closes  a  deal,  and  involved,  not  only 
foreign  merchants,  but  many  British 
and  American  ones  as  well,  in  very 
severe  losses.  The  foreigner,  except  in 
the  case  of  a  few  neutrals,  cannot  afford 
to  buy  from  us  at  the  present  rates,  and 
consequently  purchases  only  what  he 
cannot  produce  or  buy  elsewhere.  In 
many  cases,  foreigners  refuse  to  pay  for 
our  goods  on  arrival,  because  the  local 
exchange  has  fallen  since  the  order  was 
given.  In  some  cases,  notably  in  Ru- 
mania, the  inefficiency  and  inadequacy 
of  the  railway  service  preclude  the  for- 
warding of  our  goods  from  ports  when 
they  are  landed;  and  there  the  goods 
remain  for  months,  on  the  quays,  often 
perishing  from  exposure. 

Is  there  no  remedy  against  this  dead- 
ly injury  of  the  depreciated  European 
exchanges?  I  know  of  none  except 
work,  thrift,  retrenchment,  and  time. 
But  I  think  that  we  should  explore  the 
repudiation  of  old  currencies,  the  re- 
placement of  old  units  by  new,  and  cur- 
rency reform  based  on  the  international 
redistribution  of  gold.  Sound  currency 
stands  at  the  base  of  sound  trade;  but 
as  America  holds  most  of  the  gold  of 
the  world,  it  is  up  to  her  to  initiate 
reform. 

People  curse  Versailles  for  not  hav- 
ing stabilized  exchanges  at  the  time  of 
the  Peace  Conference;  but  when  one 
looks  into  the  procedure  recommended, 
it  is  usually  evident  that  the  remedy  is 
to  declare  that  one  crown,  mark,  franc, 
dinar,  or  lewa,  is  worth  five,  or  possibly 
ten.  Artificial  stabilization  is  financial 
quack  medicine.  International  finance 
may  be  very  clever,  but  apparently  it  is 
disarmed  in  presence  of  conditions  with 
which  it  had  no  previous  acquaintance. 
Some  people  think,  seeing  how  the 
hard-working  countries  like  Germany 


undersell  us  owing  to  their  depreciated 
exchanges,  that  their  governments  pro- 
mote this  depreciation.  I  have  seen  no 
evidence  of  it.  The  fall  makes  it  enor- 
mously more  difficult  for  countries  to 
pay  their  foreign  debts;  and  those 
countries  at  all  dependent  on  foreign 
imports  naturally  have  to  pay  through 
the  nose  for  them.  The  depreciation, 
or,  at  least,  the  fluctuations,  may  be  in 
part  accounted  for  by  speculation  and 
gambling,  which  proceed  on  a  vast 
scale;  but,  taking  the  situation  as  a 
whole,  the  fall  seems  generally  justified 
by  foreign  debts,  by  inflation,  by  inter- 
nal exhaustion,  by  reduced  output  per 
man  per  day,  by  consequent  failure  of 
productivity,  and  by  the  inability  of 
many  countries  to  complete  the  recon- 
struction of  their  state  machinery, 
without  which  their  wealth  cannot  be 
fully  exploited. 

The  countries  doing  best  are  those  in 
which  Labor  is  most  moderate  in  the 
standards  of  wages  and  living  it  accepts, 
and  in  which  governments  provide 
cheap  coal  and  relatively  cheap  food. 
This  is  Germany's  strength.  She  is 
resolutely  setting  to  work,  and  all 
classes  are  accepting  a  standard  of  liv- 
ing and  of  wages  far  below  ours  and 
even  farther  below  the  American  scale. 
Compare  the  seventeen  shillings  per 
ton  for  German  coal  at  the  Ruhr  pit- 
heads with  the  price  we  have  to  pay; 
and  compare  the  fifty  pounds  a  year  of 
the  German  bank-clerk  with  the  pay  of 
the  English  or  American  clerk!  This 
difference  runs  through  all  German 
social  and  industrial  life,  and  there  is, 
besides,  a  rigid  elimination  of  waste, 
which  is  unknown  with  us. 

The  combination  of  the  benefit  from 
a  depreciated  exchange  and  that  de- 
rived from  low  wages  and  poor  living  is 
enough  to  account  for  our  difficulty  in 
competing  with  German  trade.  In 
many  other  countries  the  scale  of  re- 
muneration of  the  highest  dignitaries 


664 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


is  preposterously  small.  In  Austria  the 
President  of  the  Republic  draws  only 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  heads  of  de- 
partments in  the  Foreign  Office  tell  me 
that  they  cannot  afford  a  new  suit  of 
clothes.  The  High  Court  Judge  in  Bu- 
charest draws  sixteen  pounds  a  month, 
and  the  lieutenant  four  pounds.  How 
they  manage  to  live  at  all,  with  prices 
at  their  present  height  in  these  coun- 
tries, is  one  of  those  mysteries  which  I 
have  not  been  able  to  penetrate,  though 
we  must,  of  course,  admit  that  the  pur- 
chasing power  of  the  local  currency  in 
the  country  itself  is  much  higher  than 
the  English  or  American  equivalent  of 
it  would  be  in  London  or  New  York.  A 
few  countries  have  checked  inflation 
and  are  bravely  facing  their  liabilities; 
but  in  many  —  and  Poland  and  Aus- 
tria are  the  worst  cases  —  inflation  goes 
on,  and  selfishness  often  prevents  the 
imposition  of  taxes  needed  for  recon- 
struction. 

Generally  speaking,  I  regard  this 
question  of  the  rates  of  exchange  as 
much  more  vital  to  England  and  Amer- 
ica than  to  Continental  Europe,  though 
in  one  way  or  another  all  suffer  from 
the  present  situation.  We  are  really  in 
presence  of  a  state  of  chaos  which  in- 
jures all  the  world,  and  only  the  union 
of  the  world  for  the  purpose  of  mending 
matters  can  improve  conditions.  In  this 
matter,  America  might  take  the  lead, 
and,  by  collecting  the  best  practical  ex- 
ports, endeavor  to  formulate  a  solution. 
The  Brussels  Economic  Conference 
gave  us  the  most  excellent  advice  upon 
the  questions  of  state  finance  and  eco- 
nomics; but  something  more  is  needed 
before  we  can  go  ahead.  Unless  some 
financial  genius  can  discover  a  remedy, 
one  must  regard  British  and  American 
trade  with  Continental  Europe  as  al- 
most dead  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

Second  only  to  the  exchanges,  there 
comes  the  urgent  need  of  freeing  inter- 
national trade  by  every  possible  means 


from  the  very  great  obstacles  which  are 
at  present  accumulated  in  its  path.  I 
refer  especially  to  passports,  custom- 
houses, tariffs,  permits,  and  all  the  vast 
machinery  for  selfish  national  isolation 
which  seems  especially  devised,  not  to 
assist  trade,  but  to  hamper  it.  The 
grand  tour  of  Europe  is  no  joke  in  these 
days.  One's  passport  becomes  a  formid- 
able document.  One  must  get  a  vise  in 
advance  for  every  country  through 
which  one  passes,  even  if  one  does  not 
propose  to  stop  there.  One  must  carry 
only  a  very  limited  amount  of  the  local 
money  out  of  each  country;  and  in 
traveling  across  a  number  of  states  one 
must  carry  the  coinage,  or  rather  the 
horrible  paper,  of  each.  The  trader  is 
greatly  handicapped  by  a  system  of 
permits,  and  export  and  import  duties, 
and  the  wonder  is  how  any  trader  gets  a 
ton  of  goods  into,  or  out  of,  any  coun- 
try. This  arises  from  state  control  of 
trade,  and  everything  shows  that,  what- 
ever else  the  state  may  be,  it  is  a  failure 
as  a  merchant. 

We  see  the  system  at  work  to  kill 
trade  in  full  perfection  in  the  Succes- 
sion States  of  Austria.  The  old  Austro- 
Hungarian  Empire  was  favorably  situ- 
ated economically,  because  different 
parts  of  it  supplied  things  that  other 
parts  lacked,  and  everything  passed 
freely  from  one  province  to  another. 
There  was  internal  free  trade,  and  the 
Empire  was  almost  self-supporting. 
Hungary  sent  her  wheat  and  her  tim- 
ber, Bohemia  sent  her  coal  and  sugar, 
Styria  and  the  other  parts  all  their  pro- 
ducts. It  was  less  the  Austrian  mar- 
riages that  made  Austria  happy  than  the 
very  shrewd  business  sense  which  real- 
ized that  certain  provinces  were  needed 
to  supply  Austria's  deficiencies. 

Now  all  this  economically  happy 
state  of  affairs  has  terminated.  The 
Succession  States  have  all  closed  their 
frontiers  against  Austria  and  against 
each  other.  Each  has  its  own  currency, 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


665 


and  has  set  to  work  to  build  up  customs 
barriers  on  every  side  against  the  terri- 
tories with  which  it  once  traded  freely. 
This  has  injured  the  present  Austria 
most,  and  has  indeed  reduced  her  state 
finance  almost  to  extremities  by  com- 
pelling her  to  pay  vast  sums  for  wheat 
and  coal.  But  before  long  the  selfish 
Succession  States  found  that,  in  in- 
juring Austria,  they  were  losing  their 
customers  and  injuring  themselves;  so, 
by  the  natural  force  of  circumstances, 
we  shall  in  due  course  see  a  change  of 
policy  for  which  Austria,  Hungary,  and 
even  Czechoslovakia  are  almost  ripe. 

But  the  big  idea  of  Dr.  Benes,  the 
Foreign  Minister  of  Czechoslovakia,  to 
create  the  United  States  of  Central  Eu- 
rope by  a  series  of  tariff  agreements  be- 
tween half  a  dozen  states  in  this  part  of 
the  world,  may  take  long  to  be  carried 
out;  for  in  some  quarters  the  tendency 
is  still  to  pile  on  duties,  chiefly  in  order 
to  collect  money,  but  also  to  protect 
home  industries. 

The  broad  fact  remains  that  interna- 
tional trade  is  grievously  hampered, 
and  that  it  should  be  our  object  to  free 
it  from  its  fetters,  both  for  our  own 
sakes  and  for  the  sake  of  these  small 
countries  which  are  busy  strangling 
each  other  to  no  possible  benefit  for 
themselves.  I  believe  that  the  quickest 
and  most  drastic  cure  for  the  evils  of  Eu- 
rope, and  failing  currency  and  exchange 
reform,  would  be  a  year  of  completely 
free  trade,  with  no  tariffs  at  all,  inward 
or  outward;  but  one  must  confess  that 
the  nations  concerned,  not  to  speak  of 
others,  have  not  yet  reached  such  a  state 
of  grace  as  to  accept  a  remedy  of  so 
novel  and  so  violent  a  kind.  The  ten- 
dencies, on  the  whole,  are  the  other 
way.  Even  on  the  international  rivers, 
;  the  smaller  riverain  states  are  most  ten- 
acious of  what  they  call  their  rights,  and 
claim  powers  which  the  regime  of  inter- 
national law  does  not  allow  them. 

All  governments  want  money,  wheth- 


er to  administer  the  state  or  to  re- 
ward political  friends.  Therefore  the 
rule  is  to  tax  everybody  and  every- 
thing, but  especially  the  foreigner.  The 
export  duty  on  Rumanian  oil  is  a  typi- 
cal case;  for,  if  it  hits  directly  the  for- 
eign capital  invested  in  this  industry, 
it  also  injures  a  source  of  local  wealth, 
and  gives  a  subsidy  to  other  states 
which  supply  oil.  The  idea  of  a  fixed 
export  tax,  laid  on  regardless  of  world- 
prices  and  falling-values,  is  one  which 
must  have  originated  in  a  lunatic  asy- 
lum. In  other  places  we  discover  a  con- 
sortium, or  government  trading-ma- 
chine, which  supplies  posts  for  political 
adherents,  usually  ignorant  of  trade 
needs  and  practices;  and  it  need  scarce- 
ly be  said  that  it  trades  badly,  and  im- 
poses on  the  produce  of  the  country 
quite  needless  losses,  often  failing  to 
find  markets  at  all.  In  short,  there  is 
every  grade  of  incompetence  to  be 
found  as  we  pursue  our  inquiry;  while, 
of  course,  the  immense  loss  and  damage 
of  the  war  has  thrown  numerous  states 
into  a  disorganized  condition  and  com- 
munications have  particularly  suffered. 
Another  change,  which  we  in  Eng- 
land, at  all  events,  watch  with  some 
anxiety,  is  the  agrarian  policy,  which 
has  taken  the  form,  in  several  states,  of 
distributing  the  land  among  the  peas- 
ants. It  may  have  been,  and  it  was  in 
some  cases,  a  political  necessity,  and 
may  have  prevented  an  agrarian  revo- 
lution; but  the  effect  which  it  will  have 
upon  the  export  of  cereals  is  of  consid- 
erable interest  to  the  world.  The  great 
estates  are  being  broken  up  and  re- 
placed by  small  holdings,  which  usually 
run  from  some  three  acres  in  Alpine 
regions  up  to  twenty  acres  in  average 
arable  land,  rising  again  to  six  hundred 
acres  at  most  for  the  old  proprietors. 
There  is  no  universal  scale,  nor  even  the 
same  scale  in  all  the  provinces  of  each 
separate  country;  but  the  general  effect 
is  to  replace  large  landed  properties  by 


666 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


small  ones,  with  various  scales  of  com- 
pensation —  all  very  low  —  to  the  for- 
mer landlords.  Most  of  these  laws  were 
passed  in  the  first  flush  of  revolutionary 
enthusiasm  after  the  war.  In  some 
cases  they  have  been  widely  applied,  in 
some  partially,  and  in  others  scarcely 
at  all.  But  all  the  laws  stand,  and  it  is 
the  general  belief  that  the  exportable 
surplus  of  cereals,  and  especially  of 
wheat,  will  diminish  with  a  generalized 
peasant-proprietorship.  The  tendency 
of  the  small  holder  is  to  grow  patchy 
crops,  primarily  for  his  own  food  and 
that  of  his  family;  and  there  will  not  be 
the  capital  necessary  for  rich  manuring, 
for  providing  modern  agricultural  ma- 
chinery, or  for  purchasing  high-class 
stock.  On  the  other  hand,  a  plurality  of 
landowners  means  more  stable  political 
conditions,  and  may  lead,  some  hope, 
to  increased  production,  owing  to  the 
personal  interest  of  each  small  farmer 
in  his  land. 

Some  attempts  have  been  made  by 
the  proletariat,  notably  in  North  Italy, 
to  seize  factories  and  to  exploit  them 
for  the  exclusive  benefit  of  the  workers. 
These  attempts  have  failed,  because 
the  new  men  in  possession  found  them- 
selves quite  incapable  of  managing  the 
administrative  part  of  the  work,  the 
contracts,  and  the  sales.  They,  there- 
fore, in  many  cases,  invited  the  old  pro- 
prietors and  managers  to  return,  while 
the  bourgeois  parties  created  the  fas- 
cisti  in  Italy,  and  took  other  measures 
to  defend  themselves. 

In  general,  the  tyranny,  the  excesses, 
and  the  fearful  results  of  the  Russian 
Revolution,  have  sunk  deeply  into  the 
minds  of  the  workers  in  Europe.  If  Bol- 
shevism had  been  specially  designed  to 
expose  the  futility  and  uneconomic  ab- 
surdity of  the  theories  of  Karl  Marx,  it 
could  not  have  more  appropriately  car- 
ried out  its  mission  than  it  has  done 
during  the  last  four  years.  The  error, 
and  the  tragedy  of  the  error,  have  been 


denounced  to  the  workers  of  Europe  by 
many  missions  to  Russia  composed  of 
men  of  extreme  views.  With  few  excep- 
tions these  men  have  confessed  them- 
selves horror-stricken  by  the  conditions 
they  have  found;  and  though  Commu- 
nism is  not  everywhere  dead  in  Europe, 
there  has  been  a  powerful  reaction 
against  the  disruptive  theories  of  a  few 
years  ago.  The  affair  really  came  to  a 
head  in  the  Bolshevist  invasion  of  Po- 
land; and  if  the  failure  of  that  attack 
did  not  convince  Lenin  and  his  dupes 
of  the  futility  of  their  theories,  it  con- 
veyed to  them,  at  all  events,  a  sense  of 
their  weakness  against  even  partially 
trained  troops;  and  since  then  Bolshe- 
vism has  been  steadily  losing  ground  in 
countries  other  than  Russia.  There  are 
some  communistic  centres  in  Europe 
where  outbreaks  of  this  disease  may 
recur,  but  I  do  not  know  the  country  in 
Europe  which  has  any  serious  fear  now 
that  its  people  can  be  stampeded  by  the 
fanatics  of  Moscow.  The  experiences  of 
Berlin  and  Munich,  Vienna  and  Buda- 
pest, have  sufficed.  The  country  has 
one  hold  over  the  towns :  it  can  always 
starve  them. 

The  disruption  of  four  great  historic 
empires,  and  the  substitution  for  them 
of  various  forms  of  democratic  rule, 
have  naturally  caused  immense  disturb- 
ance in  the  political  atmosphere,  and 
the  political  weather  is  most  uncertain. 
Bulgaria  keeps  her  dynasty,  and  Aus- 
tria thinks  more  of  joining  Germany 
than  of  recalling  the  Hapsburgs;  but 
Hungary  is  monarchical,  and  would 
have  a  king  to-morrow  if  she  dared; 
while  a  large  and  influential  part  of  the 
German  population  remains  in  princi- 
ple monarchical,  and  desires  to  revert 
to  that  form  of  government.  The  Ger- 
man Empire  acquired  its  former  great 
position  under  a  kaiser,  and  every  Ger- 
man is  regretful  of  the  past. 

The  present  government  of  Dr.  Wirth 
and  the  personality  of  this  honest 


DISARMAMENT  AND  THE  STATE  OF  EUROPE 


667 


Swabian,  are  very  highly  esteemed  by 
the  Allied  and  Associated  diplomatic 
bodies  in  Berlin.  Chancellor  Wirth  is 
endeavoring  to  do  his  duty  by  the 
Treaty  of  Versailles,  as  well  as  by  his 
own  people.  But  he  has  to  call  upon 
the  German  people  to  double  the  state 
revenue  in  order  to  pay  reparations; 
and  though  I  am  convinced  that  he  can 
do  it  if  he  meets  with  proper  support, 
politics  hi  Germany  are  very  bitter,  and 
the  parties  of  reaction  stick  at  nothing. 
All  the  old  reactionary  forces  are  still  in 
existence.  The  Army,  the  Church,  and 
the  Universities  combine  with  the  land- 
lords and  the  great  industrial  magnates 
to  make  things  difficult  for  a  govern- 
ment which  has  no  great  prestige  for 
want  of  past  successes,  and  has  the  in- 
vidious task  of  sending  the  hat  round 
for  the  Allies.  The  mass  of  the  Left,  and 
even  some  of  the  intermediate  parties, 
have  at  present  rallied  to  the  Chan- 
cellor's support;  and  if  street  demon- 
strations count  for  much,  the  majority 
of  the  voters  are  for  him.  The  Allies 
have  abolished  the  Rhine  customs  as  a 
tribute  to  him;  but,  owing  to  the  oppo- 
sition of  France,  have  not  withdrawn 
from  Diisseldorf,  Ruhrort,  and  Duis- 
burg,  as  Dr.  Wirth  has  very  earnestly 
pleaded  that  they  should. 

The  Right  parties  in  Germany  com- 
plain that  the  Government  lacks  au- 
thority, cannot  represent  the  country 
with  the  old  distinction,  and  is  subser- 
vient to  the  Allies.  Most  of  the  notable 
leaders  of  the  Imperialist  party  are  get- 
ting on  in  years,  and  they  probably  feel 
that  time  is  on  the  side  of  German  Re- 
publicanism. In  a  few  years  most  of 
the  old  officers  will  have  settled  down 
to  new  occupations  and  may  retain  lit- 
tle more  than  a  sentimental  attach- 
ment to  Kaiserism.  The  Right  probably 
feel  that  they  cannot  afford  to  wait,  and 
they  count,  with  some  reason,  upon  the 


national  pride,  which  revolts  against 
the  peace  and  the  surrender  to  the  Al- 
lied ultimatum  of  last  May.  But  it 
seems  to  be  the  prescriptive  right  of 
this  party  to  make  colossal  blunders, 
and  the  assassination  of  Erzberger, 
almost  condoned  as  it  was  by  many 
Opposition  newspapers,  is  the  last  on 
the  list. 

No  one  can  safely  predict  the  future 
of  German  politics,  which  depend 
on  events  that  cannot  be  foreseen;  but 
that  the  character  of  the  new  Chan- 
cellor and  the  policy  of  his  Government 
offer  the  best  ascertainable  chance  for 
the  gradual  pacification,  not  only  of 
Germany,  but  of  Europe,  will  not  be 
disputed  by  the  closest  observers  of 
European  politics. 

For  the  reasons  stated  in  the  earlier 
part  of  this  article,  I  do  not  think  that 
very  much  can  be  expected  from  the 
meeting  at  Washington  in  the  way  of 
reduction  of  land  forces.  With  respect 
to  navies  it  is  different,  because  there 
are  only  three  great  navies  that  count, 
and  none  of  these  is  specially  concerned 
in  the  enforcement  of  the  terms  of  peace 
upon  our  late  enemies,  who  have  no  na- 
vies at  all.  It  is,  therefore,  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  agreeing  to  a  mutual  stand-still 
in  naval  armaments;  and  this  question, 
it  would  seem,  should  present  no  insup- 
erable difficulties. 

But  I  cannot  think  that  such  an  im- 
portant conference  will  break  up  with- 
out suggesting  a  remedy  for  the  ills 
which  I  have  briefly  described.  Arma- 
ments are  symptoms  of  a  political  dis- 
ease, but  are  not  the  disease  itself.  The 
real  diseases  of  the  world  are  unstable 
exchanges,  unsound  currencies,  ham- 
pered trade,  and  the  false  nationalism 
•which  shuns  obligatory  arbitration. 
Cure  these  diseases  and  armaments 
cure  themselves. 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


BY  WALTER  B.  PITKIN 


EVERY  civilized  man  wants  peace. 
But  peace  has  its  price,  payable  in  two 
installments.  The  first  installment  is 
disarmament.  The  second  consists  of 
all  the  consequences,  political,  econo- 
mic, religious,  and  racial,  which  must 
flow  from  the  laying  down  of  arms. 
Nine  tax-payers  out  of  ten  sigh  for  the 
privilege  of  paying  the  first  installment 
at  once.  But  are  they  willing  to  pay  the 
balance  of  the  bill? 

This  is  the  world's  gravest  question 
to-day.  It  must  be  faced  and  answered 
before  the  close  of  the  Washington  Con- 
ference. Thus  far  it  has  been  evaded. 
Most  people,  who  are  always  looking 
for  a  panacea,  dream  that  disarmament 
alone  will  bring  the  Golden  Age.  Oth- 
ers, more  canny,  admit  that  the  move 
may  involve  some  unpleasant  changes, 
but  they  belittle  these.  Only  a  few 
thousand  bankers,  international  trad- 
ers, and  political  specialists  foresee 
some  of  the  startling  transformations 
that  must  ensue.  And  nobody  knows 
all  the  impending  upheavals. 

It  is  these  certainties  and  uncertain- 
ties that  cause  well-informed  men,  who 
have  no  interest  in  bolstering  up  mili- 
tarism, to  doubt  the  wisdom,  as  well  as 
the  possibility,  of  quick  disarmament. 
They  all  know  that  the  Conference 
will  make  no  effort  to  disarm  the  world, 

1  The  phraseology  of  this  paper  is  not  intend- 
ed as  a  reflection  upon  the  recent  statement  of 
Secretary  Hughes  that  the  subject  of  the  forth- 
coming Conference  is  to  be  limitation  of  arma- 
ments rather  than  disarmament.  —  THE  EDITOR. 

(568 


but  will  only  reduce  army  and  navy  ex- 
penses; which,  as  one  close  thinker  re- 
marked, 'will  bring  disarmament  about 
as  fast  as  a  cheapening  of  automobiles 
will  abolish  transportation.'  Many  for- 
eign observers  no  longer  believe  that 
even  such  a  reduction  of  costs  is  the 
primary  aim.  They  see  America  striv- 
ing to  force  Japan's  hand  by  compelling 
her  to  define  her  Asiatic  policies  under 
the  pretext  of  a  peace  move.  Lieuten- 
ant-General  Sato  advises  the  Japanese 
Government  to  send  no  men  of  the  first 
rank  to  the  Conference, '  but  only  those 
who  are  fluent  in  foreign  languages,  and 
sociable.'  For,  in  common  with  some 
French  critics,  he  thinks  the  whole  af- 
fair will  dwindle  to  a  string  of  brilliant 
dinners  and  press-agent  hurrahs.  Be- 
hind their  caustic  doubts  lie  many  hard 
facts  too  jauntily  overlooked  by  most 
peace-lovers.  The  longer  we  shut  our 
eyes  to  them,  the  longer  we  must  wait 
for  world  peace. 

The  Conference  faces  six  obstacles 
of  the  first  magnitude  —  and  heaven 
knows  how  many  lesser  hindrances.  By 
all  odds  the  greatest  is  the  chaos  in 
China.  Next  ranks  the  chaos  in  Russia, 
coupled  with  Russia's  absence  from  the 
arms  parley.  The  third  is  a  profound 
dilemma  in  Japan's  national  policy;  the 
fourth  a  similar  one  in  our  own,  and 
both  dilemmas  aggravated  by  the  les- 
sons of  the  World  War.  The  fifth  is  the 
still  unbroken  power  of  the  militarist 
party  in  Japan.  And  the  sixth  is  the 
sheer  physical  impossibility  of  devising 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


669 


a  disarmament  programme  that  will 
affect  equally  or  equitably  all  partici- 
pants. Probably  no  one  or  two  of  these 
obstacles  would  suffice  to  thwart  the 
Conference.  The  menace  lies  in  all  six 
working  in  conjunction  and  reinforced 
by  a  host  of  lesser  difficulties,  economic, 
political,  and  social,  the  whole  tangle 
involving  billions  of  human  beings,  bil- 
lions in  money,  a  hundred  theories,  and 
a  hundred  aspirations  and  prejudices  of 
race  and  creed. 

Is  not  the  task  too  great  for  the  mind 
of  man?  Is  it  not  one  which  only  a 
politician  would  rush  at  hopefully? 
Whether  we  think  so  or  not,  one  thing 
is  pretty  clear:  the  organization  and 
the  membership  of  the  Conference  be- 
tray an  amazing  neglect  of  the  inmost 
nature  of  the  Pacific  problems.  To  real- 
ize this,  one  need  only  recall  the  follow- 
ing facts. 

The  invitation  to  the  Conference 
made  clear  that,  until  the  nations  of  the 
Pacific  reached  some  understanding  as 
to  then*  rights  and  policies  in  that  area, 
it  would  be  vain  to  move  for  disarma- 
ment. The  stakes  are  too  huge,  the 
conflict  of  interests  too  acute,  the  dis- 
parity of  ethical  and  political  codes  too 
gross.  This  view  was  promptly  accepted 
by  almost  every  statesman  at  home  and 
abroad.  It  is  axiomatic,  in  spite  of  the 
sentimentalists  and  ignoramuses  who 
say  that  wars  are  caused  by  talking 
war,  that  the  way  to  disarm  is  to  dis- 
arm, and  that  America  must  lead  the 
world  in  idealism  —  whatever  that 
may  mean.  Let  us  see  how  President 
Harding  applied  this  statesman-like 
principle. 

All  major  problems  of  the  Pacific, 
save  that  of  Asiatic  emigration,  centre 
in  China  and  Siberia.  There  lie,  still 
barely  scratched,  the  world's  vastest 
treasuries  of  raw  materials,  the  greatest 
forests  on  earth,  the  hugest  coal-fields, 
stupendous  iron-deposits,  millions  of 
acres  that  some  day  must  yield  wheat 


and  cotton.  There  too  swarm  some 
four  hundred  million  unappeased  con- 
sumers of  manufactured  goods,  a  multi- 
tude greater  than  the  combined  popu- 
lations of  Western  Europe,  North 
America,  and  Australia,  with  Japan 
thrown  in  for  good  measure. 

China  and  Siberia  are  richer  in  eco- 
nomic resources  and  in  man-power  than 
all  these  lands.  Beside  them,  all  the 
rest  of  the  Pacific  area  is  rather  insig- 
nificant. They  are  the  two  problems 
of  the  Pacific.  But  neither  China  nor 
Siberia  can  be  reckoned  with  at  the 
Conference.  Neither  will  be  truly  pres- 
ent there.  Neither  will  be  able  to  pre- 
sent or  to  defend  its  rights  and  policies. 
And  there  is  not  the  remotest  chance 
that  either  will  like  the  decisions  of 
the  foreigners. 

Here,  then,  is  the  comedy,  and  here 
the  stuff  of  which  tragedies  are  woven. 
Briton,  Yankee,  and  Japanese  meet  to 
usher  in  world  peace.  They  dare  not 
discuss  laying  down  arms  until  each 
knows  what  the  other  two  are  planning 
to  do  with  the  Far  East.  What  each 
can  there  do  depends  in  the  long  run 
upon  the  wishes  of  the  Chinese  and  Si- 
berians, unless  these  peoples  are  to  be 
overawed  by  force.  If  thus  bullied, 
Asia  will  see  no  disarmament,  noV  can 
America.  If  bullying  ceases,  China  and 
Siberia  will  automatically  settle  their 
own  destinies;  for  they  will  then  have 
the  freedom  to  do  so,  as  well  as  the 
desire. 

Thus  the  Washington  Conference 
must  choose  either  to  disarm  and  leave 
Asia  to  the  Asiatics,  or  else  to  run  Asia 
and  maintain  immense  fleets.  The  first 
alternative  wrecks  the  policy  of  every 
non-Asiatic  power.  The  second  makes 
the  Conference  futile.  Lacking  the 
moral  courage  to  solve  this  dilemma, 
the  delegates  may  dodge  the  problem 
of  disarmament  and  confine  themselves 
to  the  task  of  trimming  budgets.  But 
even  this  develops  painful  difficulties. 


670 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


n 

Look  first  at  the  chaos  in  China, 
around  which  all  other  difficulties  re- 
volve. That  land  is  rotting,  politically 
and  socially.  It  is  an  indescribable  pan- 
demonium. Famine,  pestilence,  civil 
wars,  and  the  alien  enemy  at  the  gates 
have  undermined  its  frail  structure  of 
state.  Corrupt  politicians  and  foreign 
adventurers  prey  upon  the  weakened 
members.  And  the  masses  sink  deeper 
into  the  sleep  of  opium,  while  the  classes 
burn  with  a  new  hatred  of  the  foreigners 
who  contribute  to  the  ruin. 

Two  governments  wave  their  ban- 
ners, one  at  Peking,  the  other  in  Can- 
ton. And  a  third  is  struggling  to  be 
born  at  Hupeh.  The  Peking  affair  is  a 
scream.  Led  by  President  Hsu  Shih- 
chang,  a  gentle  philosopher  and  poet  of 
renown,  it  is  the  vilest  militarism  in  all 
the  world  to-day.  Honest,  noble,  and 
unworldly,  Hsu  was  cleverly  chosen  by 
a  bogus  legislature  made  up  of  the 
henchmen  of  China's  two  mighty  war 
lords,  Chang  Tso-lin  and  Tsao  Kun, 
who  are  busy  making  money  at  the 
country's  expense.  Hsu  is  not  a  party 
to  their  disgraceful  ventures  and  treach- 
eries. He  protests  much,  and  some- 
times manages  to  thwart  them  for  a 
time,  in  lesser  affairs.  But,  as  they  con- 
trol the  armies  and  collect  taxes  and 
play  practical  politics  with  veteran  skill, 
Hsu  disturbs  them  little. 

Only  three  or  four  of  China's  eight- 
een provinces  even  feign  to  obey  Pe- 
king. In  reality  these  do  not,  for  they 
are  the  domains  of  the  three  war  lords 
who  created  Hsu's  regime.  Hsu  gets 
taxes  and  obedience  from  them  only 
when  the  war  lords  feel  like  contribut- 
ing either,  which  is  not  often.  Last 
July,  Chang  Tso-lin,  being  short  of 
change,  pocketed  the  salt  revenues  of 
Manchuria,  where  he  rules.  The  tuchun 
(military  governor)  of  Shantung  re- 
cently appropriated  the  post-office  re- 


ceipts. In  three  other  provinces,  the 
retiring  officials  were  graciously  per- 
mitted to  take  with  them  considerable 
funds  from  the  treasury.  And  thus 
everywhere  and  always. 

The  result  is  chronic  bankruptcy  at 
Peking.  Troops  go  unpaid  for  months. 
Sometimes  they  mutiny,  as  at  Ichang 
and  Wuchang,  last  summer,  where  they 
pillaged  terribly.   To  check  such  out- 
breaks, Hsu  has  raised  money  by  'di- 
verting'   the    educational    appropria- 
tions.  For  nine  months  teachers  have 
gone  penniless,  and  the  schools  have 
been  closed  by  a  teachers'  and  students ' 
strike.   These  funds  being  lamentably 
inadequate,  the  Government  has  lately 
pressed  the  Chinese  Eastern  Railway  for 
a  twenty-five-year-old  debt,  and  has  al- 
lowed that  company  to  pay  up  with  a 
bond  issue,  put  out  on  such  terms  that 
only  the  Japanese  would  consider  buy- 
ing it,  and  they  not  for  profit  so  much 
as  for  political  reasons.    At  the  same 
time  Hsu  and  his  Cabinet  have  been 
making  desperate  economies  in  small 
matters.    Their  auditors  have  found 
1256  office-holders  in  Peking  drawing 
two  or  more  salaries;  the  ministers  are 
reorganizing  their  staffs  downward,  and 
some  high  officials  have  been  invited  to 
accept  half-pay.  All  of  which  does  not 
improve  Hsu's  credit  at  the  banks,  as 
we  mark  in  his  emergency  loan  of  a 
million  dollars  last  summer,  on  which 
he  was  obliged  to  pay  18  per  cent  inter- 
est. The  only  wonder  is  that  the  finan- 
ciers did  not  demand  50  per  cent. 

The  Cabinet  and  departments  are 
befuddled  and  disorganized  past  all  be- 
lief. They  appeared  at  their  worst  in 
the  recent  radio  dispute.  Seemingly, 
the  Government  had  granted  three 
wireless  concessions  to  as  many  parties, 
all  overlapping  and  incompatible.  The 
fact  was,  though,  that  no  Government 
granted  any  concession.  The  Ministry 
of  the  Navy  entered  into  an  agreement 
with  the  Mitsui  Company  in  1918. 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


671 


The  Ministry  of  War  did  likewise  with 
the  Marconi  Company  in  1919.  And 
last  January  the  Ministry  of  Communi- 
cations followed  suit  with  the  Federal 
Wireless  Company,  an  American  con- 
cern. The  first  two  agreements  carried 
plain  monopoly  rights,  and  it  was  this 
fact  that  caused  our  State  Department 
to  protest.  An  investigation  showed 
that  each  ministry  serenely  ignored,  or 
else  knew  nothing  about,  what  the 
other  two  were  doing;  and  neither  Pres- 
ident nor  Cabinet  checked  up  on  the 
ridiculous  performance.  Which  moves 
us  to  quote  the  old  China  trader's  re- 
mark on  Chinese  politics:  'When  you 
are  through  fighting  for  the  Open  Door 
in  China,  you'll  open  it  and  find  no- 
body at  home.' 

So  shaky  is  this  rag-doll  government 
of  Peking  that,  before  these  lines  are 
printed,  it  may  be  a  thing  of  the  past. 
What  follows  it  will  depend  chiefly 
upon  two  men,  Chang  Tso-lin  and  Sun 
Yat-sen. 

The  Canton  government  is  a  model 
of  neatness  and  strength  beside  Hsu's. 
And  its  founder  commands  respect  even 
among  his  opponents.  President  Sun  is 
pretty  generally  regarded  as  a  patriot  of 
high  intelligence,  and  the  vital  force  be- 
hind the  New  China.  For  a  decade  he 
has  championed  a  genuine  democracy, 
and  has  drawn  to  his  side  many  of  the 
best  minds.  Unhappily,  though,  the 
masses  have  not  seen  fit  to  follow  the 
best  minds  —  a  familiar  habit  of  masses 
everywhere.  The  ordinary  Chinese  has 
no  interest  in  politics,  which  he  looks 
upon  as  a  somewhat  shady  business, 
less  profitable  than  peddling  opium, 
and  less  agreeable  than  gambling.  The 
people  who  count  in  politics  are  the 
hordes  of  small  office-holders,  who  look 
to  it  for  a  livelihood,  the  thousands  of 
poppy  farmers,  who  need  political  pro- 
tection, and  the  corrupt  mandarins 
and  tuchuns,  who  subsist  on  likin, 
'squeeze,'  and  simple  'appropriation.' 


Now  all  these  worthies  fear  Sun,  and 
either  oppose  him,  use  his  movement 
for  their  own  ends,  or  else  hold  aloof, 
under  the  pretense  of  favoring  provin- 
cial autonomy  instead  of  a  strong  cen- 
tral government.  Many  Europeans  and 
Japanese  in  the  treaty  ports  dislike  Sun 
for  reasons  only  a  degree  nicer.  Some 
brand  him  as  a  Bolshevik  and  accuse 
him  of  playing  Lenin's  game. 

This  is  absurd.  Sun  stands  for  the 
simple  democracy  which  Americans  be- 
lieved in  half  a  century  ago.  He  thinks 
the  ideals  of  Lincoln ;  and  he  is  paying 
the  price  in  much  bloodshed  and  dubi- 
ous progress.  The  Canton  armies  have 
been  fighting  steadily  for  many  months, 
have  scored  brilliant  victories  in  Kwang- 
si  and  the  Yangtze  districts,  but  still 
control  little  more  of  China  than  the 
northern  Government  does.  To  be  sure, 
twice  as  many  provinces  have  declared 
for  Sun  as  have  sided  with  Hsu;  but 
with  their  favor  goes  no  true  control. 
Sun  does  not  truly  govern  even  his  own 
province  of  Kwangtung,  whose  tuchun, 
Chen  Chiung-ming,  is  the  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  Constitutionalist  army 
recruited  from  five  provinces.  Chen 
levies  taxes  and  hands  over  such  funds 
as  he  sees  fit  to  the  Canton  Republic. 
The  Republic,  as  matters  now  stand,  is 
nearly  as  poor  of  purse  as  Peking;  and 
were  Chen  to  reduce  his  bounty,  Sun 
would  have  nothing  to  fall  back  upon 
save  the  contributions  of  Chinese  na- 
tionalists abroad,  the  very  groups  who 
financed  the  revolution.  There  is  no 
reason  for  believing  that  Chen  will  with 
draw  support;  but  it  is  important  to 
keep  in  mind  that  the  Republic,  with 
all  its  virtues  and  fine  aspirations,  owes 
its  very  existence  to  an  enlightened 
tuchun,  who  may  break  with  Sun  al- 
most any  day  on  some  new  political  is- 
sue. Such  a  break  may  come  over  the 
issue  of  provincial  autonomy,  which 
finds  its  most  ardent  champions  in  the 
five  -provinces  that  support  Sun, 


672 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


Provincial  autonomy  is  a  fact,  and 
many  sincere  thinkers  wish  to  make  it 
the  basis  of  Chinese  policy.  Each 
tuchun  dominates  his  province  and  is  a 
law  unto  himself,  thanks  to  his  control 
of  troops  and  taxes.  As  most  provinces 
are  fully  as  large  and  as  rich  as  France, 
a  tuchun  is  comparable  to  a  pre-war 
European  potentate,  but  with  the  pow- 
ers of  an  Asiatic  despot.  Several  tu- 
chuns  have  made  millions  by  trafficking 
in  opium.  Others  sell  concessions.  Not 
a  few  have  levied  tribute  on  subject- 
towns  under  one  pretext  or  another. 
And  all  maintain  their  rule  by  force. 
Their  armies  now  number  about  1,700,- 
000,  or  an  average  of  nearly  100,000  ac- 
tive soldiers  under  each  tuchun.  Nat- 
urally the  tuchuns  tend  to  favor  the 
division  of  China  into  eighteen  nations, 
with  themselves  as  lords  and  emperors. 
Why  should  anybody  else  approve? 
Simply,  because  China  is  too  huge,  too 
immature  politically,  and  too  inchoate, 
to  think  and  act  as  a  unit. 

The  political  realist  has  often  noted 
that  this  land  should  be  thought  of,  not 
as  an  ordinary  single  country,  but  rather 
as  a  backward  continent  containing 
widely  differing  races  and  economic 
divisions,  more  or  less  like  Europe  of 
the  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  century, 
when  there  were  no  railroads,  posts, 
telegraphs,  or  sense  of  community. 
China  as  a  whole  is  surely  less  of  a  po- 
litical entity  than  Europe  was  when  the 
Treaty  of  Utrecht  was  signed.  Yunnan 
has  less  in  common  with  Manchuria 
than  Portugal  then  had  with  Sweden; 
and  the  wider  conflicts  of  interest  be- 
tween North  and  South  are  quite  as 
acute  and  as  stubborn  as  any  between 
the  popes  and  the  emperors  or  the  Haps- 
burgs  and  their  many  foes.  Most  im- 
portant of  all,  the  level  of  political  in- 
telligence in  modern  China  is  certainly 
lower  than  that  of  Western  Europe 
three  centuries  ago.  And  nobody  who 
understands  the  origins  and  nature  of 


political  intelligence  believes  that  the 
Chinese  can  rise  much  faster  than  Eu- 
ropeans have  risen.  You  do  not  make 
men  good  citizens  by  building  railways 
through  their  farms.  You  do  not  pro- 
duce statesmen  merely  by  installing 
telephones  in  the  offices  of  senators. 
Slow  experiment  by  trial  and  error,  still 
slower  education  of  millions,  slow 
crushing  of  superstitions,  slow  refine- 
ment of  tastes  and  desires  —  out  of 
such  stuff  is  citizenship  made.  And  this 
process  must  work  from  the  home  and 
the  village  outward  and  upward. 

The  people  who  dwelt  between  Dub- 
lin and  Constantinople  when  the  Treaty 
of  Utrecht  was  signed  could  not  have 
been  organized  into  one  successful 
State  by  the  greatest  of  political  ge- 
niuses. Even  to-day  their  descendants 
cannot  create  the  United  States  of 
Europe,  which  is  the  only  sure  salva- 
tion for  that  wretched  continent.  Geo- 
graphical differences,  many  languages, 
race-prejudices,  childish  nationalistic 
fancies,  and  grave  economic  conflicts 
still  keep  the  European  masses  igno- 
rant, provincial,  and  befuddled.  How 
hopeless,  then,  to  expect  that  the  eight- 
een provinces  of  China,  with  their 
350,000,000  mediaeval  folk,  mostly  des- 
titute of  all  the  tools  of  civilization,  can 
combine  under  one  government,  which 
will  work  even  as  smoothly  as  a  back- 
ward European  nation! 

While  this  powerful  argument  for 
provincial  autonomy  makes  headway, 
the  vast  rim  of  China  lapses  deeper 
and  deeper  into  simple  anarchy.  Civil 
wars  —  four  violent  —  in  the  past  six 
months;  famines  unparalleled,  pesti- 
lence, and  the  interminable  border 
warfare  lawlessly  carried  over  into 
Mongolia  by  the  Russian  reaction- 
aries under  Semenoff  and  Ungern,  have 
shattered  what  frail  web  of  law  and 
order  once  hung  over  the  western  and 
northern  fringes  of  the  chaotic  king- 
dom. The  river  pirates  are  looting 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


673 


junks  and  barges  again.  The  robbers 
have  come  down  from  the  mountains. 
And  in  great  hordes  the  hunghutze  (pro- 
fessional Manchu  robbers)  are  maraud- 
ing; across  Manchuria.  On  the  borders 
of  Tibet  bandits  have  baffled  and  beaten 
the  soldiers  of  the  tuchuns.  Out  of 
Mongolia,  but  a  few  months  past,  the 
rabble  trailing  the  fanatical  Living 
Buddha  came  within  a  day's  march  of 
the  gates  of  Peking.  Harbin,  at  the 
date  of  this  writing,  saw  thousands  of 
hunghutze  drawing  near.  And  for  a 
year,  or  longer,  the  Chinese  Eastern 
Railway  has  been  attacked  and  plun- 
dered almost  daily  by  these  same  out- 
laws, whom  the  Chinese  troops  dare 
not  defy,  knowing  that  many  of  them 
are  working  for  certain  Japanese  ad- 
venturers and  others  for  the  Russian 
reactionaries,  all  clients  of  the  mighty 
tuchun,  Chang  Tso-lin. 

This  red  arc  of  ruin  spans  the  two 
thousand  miles  that  lie  between  Vladi- 
vostok and  the  frontier  of  Burma.  It 
has  paralyzed  trade  on  a  thousand  high- 
ways and  driven  the  boatmen  from  the 
rivers.  Even  between  large  cities  travel 
is  so  hazardous  that  local  officials  forbid 
foreigners  to  attempt  it,  and  require  na- 
tive merchants  to  take  along  armed 
guards  in  such  numbers  that  only  the 
most  urgent  mission  can  justify  the 
cost.  It  is  the  thirteenth  century  on 
the  miry  roads  of  England;  night,  and  a 
dark  forest  ahead. 

in 

While  China  crumbles,  a  plan  grows 
in  the  north.  If  only  half  successful,  it 
will  shake  the  world  before  many  years 
have  gone.  No  outsider  knows  its  de- 
tails, for  they  seethe  in  the  cunning 
brain  of  Chang  Tso-lin,  inspector-gen- 
eral of  Manchuria,  the  power  behind 
Peking,  and  the  most  sinister  and  stren- 
uous of  the  war  lords.  Chang  rules 
from  Mukden  of  bloody  memory, 

VOL.  1S8  —  NO.  6 


where  he  holds  the  most  strategic  posi- 
tion in  all  Asia.  His  is  the  rich  land 
where  Russia,  China,  and  Japan  meet 
in  their  struggle  for  existence.  Man- 
churia dominates  Peking,  Vladivostok, 
the  Trans-Siberian  Railway,  the  Amur 
River  Valley,  and  Korea.  It  is  the  gate- 
way from  China  to  Siberia,  from  China 
to  Japan,  and  from  Japan  to  Mongolia 
and  world-power.  Chang  sits  at  the 
gate  and  collects  toll,  such  as  the  traffic 
will  bear. 

The  traffic  bears  a  good  deal,  and  the 
proceeds  have  gone  to  Chang's  head. 
He  dreams  of  empire.  Some  observers 
have  imagined  that  he  would  be  mon- 
arch of  all  China;  but  Chang  is  too 
shrewd  for  that;  and  if  he  were  not,  his 
shrewder  Japanese  backers  would  halt 
him.  His  vision  is  much  more  practic- 
able, hence  more  dangerous.  He  sees 
anewManchu-Mongol  Empire,  stretch- 
ing from  the  sea  to  the  core  of  Asia.  On 
Manchuria  and  Mongolia  Chang  would 
rebuild  the  throne  of  Jenghiz  Khan,and 
send  the  bill  to  the  Japanese.  He  will 
sell  to  the  Japanese,  at  their  own  terms, 
a  thousand  concessions;  and  on  his 
coronation  day  Japan  will  occupy 
peaceably  a  wedge  twenty-four  hundred 
miles  long,  giving  them  'interior  lines' 
dominating  both  Siberia  and  China.  In 
short,  what  'little  Hsu'  and  his  An- 
fuites  dreamed  of  doing  'for  China,' 
Chang  would  do  for  himself  and  his 
Tokyo  friends.  The  Japanese  backed 
the  Anfuites,  and  lost.  Now  they  are 
backing  Chang,  and  hope  to  win.  And 
to-day  the  odds  are  strongly  in  their 
favor. 

Three  facts  will  convince  you  of  all 
this.  One  is  Chang's  military  power, 
another  is  his  management  of  the  Pe- 
king Government,  and  the  third  is  his 
long  series  of  business  deals  with  Japan- 
ese. It  must  shock  the  American  read- 
er to  learn  that  this  clever  schemer  now 
rules  an  army  of  300,000  well-equipped 
soldiers,  over  which  the  so-called  Cen- 


674 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


tral  Government  exercises  not  the 
slightest  control,  although  it  is  com- 
pelled to  pay  most  of  its  upkeep.  Since 
Hsu  demobilized  some  300,000  of  the 
Peking  forces  last  summer,  Chang  has 
become  the  overshadowing  force;  and 
not  alone  because  his  is  the  largest 
army  in  China.  His  strength  flows 
largely  from  three  immense  strategic 
advantages:  adequate  food-supplies 
within  his  own  lines,  the  superior  rail- 
way system  of  Manchuria,  and  the  re- 
serves of  munitions  held  ready  by  his 
Japanese  friends  in  Manchuria  and 
Korea.  To  all  this,  add  a  double  geo- 
graphic advantage:  Manchuria  is  quite 
detached  from  the  rest  of  China,  hence 
not  surrounded  by  potentially  hostile 
provinces;  and  it  is  near  the  arsenals 
and  shipyards  of  Japan.  Why  should 
not  Chang  dream  of  empire? 

And  how  can  the  frail  Hsu  resist 
Chang's  demands?  Dexterous,  cunning, 
and  strong  of  will,  the  uncrowned  king 
of  Manchuria  manipulates  his  marion- 
ettes at  Peking  without  an  effort.  His 
technique  is  too  elaborately  celestial  to 
report  here.  Judge  it  by  its  fruits. 
Chang  milks  the  treasury  dry,  plays  off 
one  clique  against  another,  and  traffics 
with  the  Japanese  'going  and  coming.' 
Week  by  week  he  sells  off  China's  as- 
sets and  invests  the  proceeds  in  Chang. 
And  all  so  quietly  and  suavely,  that  no- 
body quite  knows  what  is  happening 
until  too  late. 

Last  July  Chang  seemed  to  be  des- 
perately hard  up.  But  of  a  sudden  he 
handed  over  to  his  commissary  general 
$2,510,000  in  honest  cash,  albeit  Mex- 
ican. This  oddly  coincided  with  his 
signing  incorporation  papers  and  con- 
cessions for  a  large  Japanese  develop- 
ment company  in  Mongolia;  and  it  pre- 
ceded by  only  a  few  days  his  shocking 
surrender  of  the  Chinese  Eastern  Rail- 
way, through  a  shady  bond-issue  vote. 
Because  of  an  old  debt,  conveniently 
overlooked  for  years,  Chang's  Peking 


Government  was  able  legally  to  de- 
mand the  payment  of  some  13,000,000 
taels  from  that  road;  and  the  road 
could  pay  only  with  a  bond  issue  whose 
terms  had  to  meet  with  the  approval  of 
the  Peking  Minister  of  Finance  and  the 
Minister  of  Communications  —  both 
Chang's  trained  Pekingese.  The  issue 
was  authorized  in  such  a  form  that  only 
Japanese  would  consider  underwriting 
it,  and  they  for  political  purposes. 

At  the  date  of  writing,  strong  efforts 
are  being  made  to  block  the  issue. 
Whether  they  succeed  or  not,  Chang's 
intentions  and  methods  remain  clear. 
If  he  is  thwarted  here,  it  will  be  only 
for  a  while.  Legally  as  well  as  factually, 
no  man  can  launch  an  enterprise  in 
Manchuria  or  Mongolia  save  by  Chang's 
leave.  And  Chang  sees  fit  to  favor  the 
Japanese.  Steadily  since  1906  the 
Japanese  have  been  pouring  money 
into  his  domain.  They  have  financed 
twenty-seven  large  corporations,  most- 
ly banks  and  the  rest  mining  companies, 
lumber-mills,  railways,  and  electrical 
plants.  They  show  a  gross  authorized 
capitalization  of  71,525,000  yen,  a  sum 
which  means  much  more  in  that  raw 
country  of  cheap  land  and  coolie  wages 
than  twice  as  many  dollars  would  mean 
to-day  in  our  own  country.  Apart  from 
its  arithmetical  significance,  the  invest- 
ment acquires  abnormal  power  from 
the  protection  against  non-Japanese 
competition  furnished  by  the  Japanese 
authorities,  as  well  as  by  Chang  him- 
self. 

Manchuria  being  thoroughly  in  hand, 
Chang  now  prepares  to  absorb  Mon- 
golia. Circumstances  played  into  his 
hand  last  spring,  when  the  Siberian 
peasants  and  the  Far  Eastern  Republic 
drove  Ungern's  reactionary  riff-raff  all 
the  way  to  Urga,  in  Mongolia.  Ungern 
carried  on  a  variety  of  still  obscure 
schemes,  now  to  capture  Chita,  now 
to  attack  Peking  through  the  Living 
Buddha.  Chang  saw  in  Peking's  panic 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


675 


his  own  chance.  Knowing,  as  every 
other  well-informed  person  in  the  Far 
East  knew,  that  Semenoff  and  Ungern 
were  third-rate  adventurers,  with  never 
a  chance  of  wrecking  the  Chita  Govern- 
ment, and  that  they  were  merely  being 
used  by  a  small  clique  of  Japanese 
militarists  as  a  means  of  bringing  pres- 
sure to  bear  upon  the  Far  Eastern  Re- 
public for  the  gaining  of  concessions, 
Chang  nobly  volunteered  to  drive  the 
invaders  off  Chinese  soil.  It  would  cost 
Peking  seven  to  ten  millions,  of  course, 
but  the  job  would  be  done  with  neat- 
ness and  dispatch.  Unhappy  Hsu  ad- 
vanced three  millions,  then  two  more. 
Chang  posted  bulletins  of  his  plans  and 
progress.  Months  passed,  and  not  a 
soldier  moved.  Chang  had  to  wait  till 
Japan  was  through  with  Semenoff. 
Finally,  when  the  Japanese  had  kicked 
Semenoff  out,  and  Ungern,  his  under- 
ling, had  not  even  a  broken  reed  to  lean 
on,  and  the  Living  Buddha  had  wan- 
dered back  into  the  windy  solitudes, 
China's  great  defender  marshaled  a  mere 
handful  of  braves.  Perhaps  some  of  them 
are  arriving  in  Urga  now;  and  Chinese 
history  will  not  run  true  to  form  unless, 
once  in  Urga,  they  stay  there  as  long  as 
Chang  finds  backing  for  his  Mongol 
entpire.  They  may  be  there  when  the 
second  Jenghiz  Khan  enters  in  triumph, 
escorted  by  a  purely  honorary  Japanese 
army.  Who  knows?  Mad  dreams  do 
come  true.  And  the  truth  itself  is  often 
madness. 

IV 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  disarma- 
ment? Well,  each  tendency  in  China's 
chaos  affects  every  foreign  investor 
there.  Each  will  do  so  much  more  after 
a  disarmament  programme,  however 
modest,  has  been  adopted.  Now,  the 
British  investor  in  China  largely  shapes 
British  policy  toward  China;  and  so 
too  with  the  American  and  Japanese. 
Furthermore,  disarmament  hangs  upon 


a  prior  understanding  among  the  powers 
as  to  their  Far  Eastern  policies.  Plainly, 
then,  every  move  toward  disarmament 
must  be  determined  chiefly  by  what 
foreign  investors  think  of  the  drift  in 
China.  What  must  their  thoughts  be? 

What  if  Chang  has  his  way?  Then 
Japan  will  become  a  colossal  conti- 
nental power  as  well  as  a  maritime  one. 
Her  protectorate  will  extend  first  over 
Manchuria  and  Mongolia;  next  over 
Shantung;  then  probably  over  Kansu, 
whose  tuchun  is  a  friend  of  Chang,  in- 
stalled by  Chang's  cunning.  The  Jap- 
anese militarist  party  will  have  justi- 
fied its  expensive  policy.  The  price  of 
conquest  will  be  collected  from  the 
conquered,  and  Japan's  finances  will 
be  greatly  strengthened.  The  present 
monopolistic  policy  of  Japan,  which  has 
just  been  extended  still  further  in 
Korea,  will  swiftly  drive  foreign  inves- 
tors out. 

What  if  Sun  Yat-sen  prevails?  Sun 
is  an  intense  nationalist,  aglow  with 
the  desire  to  free  China  from  the  alien. 
He  hates  Japan  most,  America  least. 
In  common  with  millions  of  his  coun- 
trymen, he  believes  that  the  foreigner 
has  caused  most  of  China's  woes,  and 
that  expelling  the  money  and  the  po- 
litical influence  of  all  foreigners  is  the 
first  step  toward  national  regeneration. 
Given  full  power,  Sun  would  cancel  or 
heavilyamend  every  foreign  concession, 
put  a  quick  end  to  extraterritoriality, 
restore  the  treaty  ports  to  China,  and 
finance  the  country  from  within.  All  of 
which  would  not  encourage  outsiders  to 
drop  money  in  Chinese  ventures. 

What  if  provincial  autonomy  arrives? 
The  eighteen  new  nations  would  soon 
join  in  one  or  two  loose  confederations, 
but  these  latter  would  not  hamper  the 
new  military  kings.  Forthwith,  the 
status  of  innumerable  concessions  would 
become  dubious,  for  the  central  govern- 
ment which  had  granted  them  would 
have  ceased.  All  would  depend  upon 


676 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


the  good  will,  the  cupidity,  or  the  fear 
of  the  local  tuchun.  It  would  tfe  Cen- 
tral Europe  and  the  Balkans  over 
again,  but  poisoned  with  medisevalism. 
Civil  wars,  intrigues,  an  endless  un- 
stable balancing  of  petty  powers,  and 
interminable  uncertainty  as  to  to-mor- 
row would  sap  the  courage  of  the  bold- 
est foreign  investor  and  leave  the  field 
open  only  to  the  adventurer.  Probably 
the  treaty  ports  would  thrive,  for  even 
the  dullest  war  lord  realizes  that  they 
are  the  life  of  their  provinces.  But  all 
expansion  beyond  their  environs  would 
halt. 

To  all  this,  one  exception.  Japan 
would  profit  richly  by  the  disintegra- 
tion. She  would  sign  treaties  with  the 
new  northern  kingdoms,  paying  gladly 
the  tuchuns'  price.  The  technique  fol- 
lowed in  olden  days  by  the  British  in 
dealing  with  the  native  states  of  India 
would  be  repeated,  with  modern  varia- 
tions and  embellishments.  And  a  quar- 
ter-century would  see  Japan  the  master 
of  the  continent. 

Here  are  the  three  outstanding  pos- 
sibilities in  China,  in  their  baldest 
form.  Each  is  little  more  than  a  possi- 
bility, as  matters  now  stand.  Chang 
will  not  have  his  way  as  sweetly  as  he 
hopes;  for  his  countrymen  understand 
him,  and  the  Japanese  behind  him  real- 
ize the  danger  of  quick  and  open  im- 
perialism. Sun's  foes  are  many  and 
mighty,  while  his  purse  is  lean.  And 
provincial  autonomy  is  suspect  because 
too  many  militarists  are  shouting  for  it, 
while  clear  thinkers  understand  that 
China  must  present  a  united  front 
against  Japan,  or  go  under.  Over  and 
above  all  these  restraints  tower  the 
battleships  that  ride  in  the  harbors 
of  Manila,  Shanghai,  and  Hong  Kong. 
These  vessels  are  singularly  unpopular 
among  river  pirates,  opium  smugglers, 
poppy  farmers,  white  slavers,  bandit 
chieftains,  and  exploiters  white  and 
yellow.  All  of  which  suggests  a  leading 


question.  What  if  the  Washington 
Conference,  moved  by  lofty  idealism,  — 
whatever  that  may  mean,  —  were  to 
persuade  the  three  dominant  naval 
powers  to  scrap,  let  us  say,  one  half  of 
their  fleets,  or  to  cease  new  construc- 
tion? How  would  that  noble  act  affect 
Chang,  Sun,  and  provincial  autonomy? 
And  how,  in  turn,  the  American,  Brit- 
ish, and  Japanese  investors  in  China? 

The  answer  is  too  easy.  And  it  gives 
us  a  first  clear  glimpse  of  the  obstacles 
to  disarmament. 

Cut  the  British  and  American  fleets 
one  half,  whether  by  scrapping  battle- 
ships or  by  suspending  new  construc- 
tion, and  you  leave  the  coast  clear  for 
Chang  and  his  Japanese  friends  to  an- 
nex Mongolia  and  Shantung.  They  can 
and  will  double  their  speed  of  conquest 
on  the  day  Anglo-Saxon  sea-power 
dwindles.  How  so?  Geography  tells  the 
whole  story.  From  Japan's  huge  naval 
port,  Nagasaki,  to  the  mainland  of 
Asia  is  less  than  150  miles  —  an  easy 
night's  run  for  transports  and  battle- 
ships. The  waters  are  dotted  with 
islands  which,  fortified  or  used  as  bases 
for  destroyers  and  submarines,  make 
the  passage  fairly  safe,  even  under 
heavy  attack.  Furthermore,  the  Japan- 
ese can  mass  in  Korea  and  Manchuria 
millions  of  soldiers,  if  need  be,  long  be- 
fore a  foreign  power  could  effectively 
interfere.  Military  railways,  ware- 
houses, terminals,  and  other  basic 
necessities  of  war,  are  already  installed 
in  vital  points.  And  the  farmers  of 
Manchuria  can  now  supply  food  for  a 
sizable  army.  To  all  of  which  facts  we 
need  add  but  one,  unsuspected  by  most 
Americans,  perhaps,  but  recognized  by 
all  naval  experts:  neither  the  British 
nor  the  American  fleet  of  to-day  is 
strong  enough  to  carry  on  a  modern 
war  anywhere  in  the  Far  East,  chiefly 
because  of  the  abnormally  long  and 
weak  line  of  supplies  and  the  distance 
from  primary  bases. 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


677 


The  militarist  party  of  Japan  would 
rejoice  at  an  international  slashing  of 
naval  budgets,  provided  nothing  was 
done  to  cut  army  expenditures  and 
policies.  Winning  that,  they  will  win 
Asia  at  a  fraction  of  the  price  they  had 
expected  to  pay. 

After  disarmament,  Chang  may  turn 
the  trick  for  Japan  in  three  ways.  He 
may  allow  her  militarists  to  trump  up 
a  pretext  for  war,  and  he  will  offer  only 
nominal  resistance.  Should  Sun  and 
his  constitutionalists  sweep  the  coun- 
try, Chang  might  resort  to  this  proce- 
dure; otherwise  not.  He  will  find  it 
simpler  to  sell  off  the  assets  of  China,  as 
the  Peking  Government  grows  more 
and  more  desperate  for  funds;  and  thus, 
in  a  few  years,  Japanese  buyers  will  own 
Manchu-Mongolia  by  the  highly  re- 
spectable right  of  purchase.  Should 
this  prove  too  slow,  a  third  method  re- 
mains. Chang  may  come  out  for  pro- 
vincial autonomy,  after  the  battleships 
have  vanished.  He  may  retain  sundry 
wise  men,  yea,  even  college  professors, 
to  demonstrate  to  a  dubious  world  that 
this  is  China's  one  true  salvation.  The 
wise  men  will  cite  the  famous  doctrine 
of  self-determination.  And  they  will 
make  out  an  extraordinarily  strong 
case;  for,  in  the  long  run,  provincial 
autonomy  may  really  be  the  best  solu- 
tion. Chang  of  Mukden  will  secede 
from  Chang  of  Peking.  The  new  em- 
pire of  the  north  will  straightway  enter 
into  close  alliance  with  Japan.  And  all 
will  be  over  but  the  banzai. 

Suppose  finally  that,  after  naval  dis- 
armament, Sun  Yat-sen  wins.  What 
then?  It  is  hazardous  to  make  more 
than  two  broad  conjectures,  as  the 
outcome  of  a  constitutionalist  victory 
must  be  highly  complex.  This  much  is 
sure,  though:  the  restored  Republic 
could  not  block  Japan's  expansion  in 
Manchuria  and  Mongolia,  as  it  lacks 
railroads,  finance,  technical  staffs,  and 
general  organization.  And,  with  British 


and  American  navies  negligible,  Japan 
might  declare  war  on  a  democratic 
China,  on  the  ridiculous  pretext  that 
Sun  is  Bolshevist,  precisely  as  it  attacked 
the  Maritime  Provinces  of  Siberia.  As 
for  Sun  himself,  he  would  doubtless  up- 
root British  and  American  concession- 
naires  at  a  great  rate,  if  not  menaced 
by  their  battleships.  And  in  this  he 
would  be  aided  by  the  fast-mounting 
hatred  of  the  foreigner,  among  even 
the  common  folk  of  China. 

Were  disarmament  to  be  followed  by 
provincial  autonomy,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  even  the  lives  of  foreigners 
would  be  safe  in  most  regions.  The 
World  War  shattered  the  white  man's 
prestige  and  revealed  the  infamy  of  the 
Japanese  militarists.  China  now  fol- 
lows Japan  and  India  in  her  distrust  of 
European  civilization.  The  thoughts  of 
Gandhi,  the  Hindu  saint,  and  the  poet 
Tagore  are  blazing  up  the  dense  valleys. 
The  outcry  against  the  Consortium,  the 
thirty-million-dollar  loan  from  native 
bankers  to  the  Peking  Government, 
last  summer,  and,  above  all,  the  wild 
enthusiasm  in  the  south  over  Sun's  ex- 
treme nationalism,  are  a  few  gusts  that 
scurry  ahead  of  the  great  storm  which 
must  some  day  break,  once  the  re- 
straint of  naval  force  is  withdrawn. 
Everybody  who  knows  China  seems  to 
agree  that,  in  the  chaos  following  the 
creation  of  eighteen  kingdoms,  the 
foreign  devils  would  suffer  first  and 
foremost. 


Thus  far  we  have  noted  only  internal 
tendencies  in  China.  Is  there  not  hope 
that  the  prospect  will  brighten  when 
we  consider  other  possibilities?  May 
not  Japan,  reassured  by  Anglo-Saxon 
disarmament,  forsake  her  militant 
ways  in  Asia?  And  if  China,  no  longer 
threatened  by  her  neighbor,  continues 
chaotic,  may  not  the  powers  join  to  put 
her  house  in  order,  under  some  benev- 


678 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


olent  scheme  of  international  control? 

Alas  for  these  hopes!  The  militarist 
party  is  still  unbroken  at  Tokyo,  and 
its  counsel  will  prevail  at  the  Washing- 
ton Conference,  where  it  will  confound 
its  adversaries  with  an  argument  bor- 
rowed from  the  very  advocates  of  dis- 
armament. Japan  can  defend  her  Asi- 
atic policy  with  the  greatest  lesson  of 
the  World  War.  Her  militarists  can  ap- 
peal to  Mr.  Frank  I.  Cobb's  vigorous 
and  accurate  statement  of  it,  in  the 
August  Atlantic:  — 

'Nations  that  are  rich  are  not  de- 
fenseless. They  contain  in  themselves 
all  the  elements  of  defense.  They  may 
have  been  defenseless  in  times  when  war 
was  the  exclusive  business  of  profes- 
sional soldiers,  but  all  that  has  been 
changed.  The  elements  of  national  de- 
fense are  now  the  sum  total  of  all  the 
economic  resources  of  the  country  plus 
all  the  man-power.  .  .  . 

'Economic  resources  can  be  easily 
and  quickly  translated  into  military 
resources;  and  a  sound  economic  sys- 
tem is  the  essential  element  in  any  ex- 
tensive military  undertaking.' 

Mr.  Cobb  correctly  used  this  as  an 
argument  for  America's  disarming. 
Japanese  war  lords  can  use  it  to  dem- 
onstrate Japan's  need  of  dominating 
Manchuria  and  Mongolia,  if  not  also  a 
slice  of  Siberia.  They  can  thus  prove 
that  their  fatherland  cannot  even  de- 
fend itself  unless  it  acquires  immense 
economic  resources.  To-day  their  coun- 
try is  perilously  poor  in  the  materials 
that  make  for  strength.  Her  people  no 
longer  feed  themselves,  but  import  vast 
quantities  of  rice  and  millet.  Most  of 
her  peasants  make  money  only  from 
silkworm  culture.  Unhappily,  silk  is  a 
luxury  whose  value  fluctuates  widely, 
and  imitations  made  from  cotton  al- 
ready threaten  its  market.  So  a  nation 
whose  natural  resources  are  mostly 
silkworms  hangs  by  a  thread.  To  sur- 
vive, Japan  must  own  coal,  iron,  cop- 


per, timber,  cotton,  and  all  the  other 
ingredients  of  modern  security  and 
comfort.  She  will  seek  these  even  as 
Great  Britain,  France,  and  the  United 
States  do  to-day.  Failing  to  get  them, 
she  must  join  the  ranks  of  pauper  Italy 
and  Greece.  Economic  expansion  on  a 
vast  scale,  or  a  surrender  of  national 
power  —  there  is  no  third  course! 

Can  any  American  or  Briton  soberly 
advise  the  Japanese  delegates  that  they 
should  show  true  moral  grandeur  by 
choosing  the  second  alternative?  And, 
if  you  once  grant  the  right  of  economic 
expansion,  where  else  would  you  have 
Japan  expand,  if  not  due  west? 

We  come  now  to  the  proposed  inter- 
national control  of  China,  which  some 
observers  feel  would  at  once  restore 
order  there  and  hold  the  Tokyo  mili- 
tarists in  check.  Here  is  no  place  to 
debate  the  broader  merits  of  the  plan. 
We  have  only  to  note  its  relation  to  dis- 
armament, which  is  as  clear  as  sun- 
shine. So  sincerely  do  the  Chinese  hate 
foreign  domination,  that  internation- 
al management  could  succeed  only  if 
backed  up  by  a  large  army  and  navy. 
The  day  the  first  alien  manager  entered 
Peking,  Sun  Yat-sen's  strength  would 
be  doubled.  To  the  1,700,000  troops  of 
the  tuchuns  would  be  added  the  might 
of  armed  mobs  and  bandits  innumer- 
able; and  we  should  be  committed  to  a 
new  benevolent  militarism  for  years  to 
come. 

This  brings  us  to  the  one  obstacle  to 
world  peace  which  lies  wholly  within 
our  own  gates.  We  have  most  of  the 
world's  gold,  most  of  the  free  capi- 
tal, immense  factories,  and  millions 
of  skilled  workers.  The  unbalance  of 
trade  has  ruined  our  foreign  trade  with 
Europe;  our  exports  and  imports  de- 
clined 50  per  cent  in  the  first  seven 
months  of  this  year;  Germany  is  selling 
textiles  60  per  cent  cheaper  than  we 
can;  German  mills  are  underbidding 
Pittsburgh  in  our  domestic  steel  mar- 


WHAT  DELAYS  DISARMAMENT? 


679 


ket;  our  automobile  factories  are  run- 
ning at  57  per  cent  capacity;  and  five 
million  workers  are  idle,  as  winter  comes 
on.  Meanwhile,  taxes  refuse  to  shrink, 
and  battleships  are  being  built,  while 
our  farmers  see  their  minute  profits  de- 
voured by  abnormal  freight-rates  and 
our  builders  touch  only  the  most  urgent 
contracts.  There  is  but  one  escape  from 
the  deadly  combination  of  war-debts, 
an  over-expanded  factory  system,  and 
a  money  glut.  New  markets  must  be 
tapped  quickly,  new  consumers  found, 
new  desires  created.  But  where  and 
how? 

Not  in  Europe,  for  Europeans  are 
finding  it  hard  enough  to  fill  their 
stomachs;  and  they  can  undersell  us  at 
almost  every  point.  Not  in  Russia, 
where  none  has  a  dollar  save  for  black 
bread.  Not  in  South  America,  whose 
buying  power  is  probably  less  than  that 
of  Texas,  in  spite  of  the  large  claims  of 
sundry  bank  presidents  whose  know- 
ledge of  that  continent  and  its  people 
appears  to  have  been  derived  from 
grammar-school  geographies  and  smok- 
ing-room tales.  Where,  then?  There 
remains  only  the  Far  East.  China  and 
Siberia  can  absorb  billions  of  capital, 
much  of  which,  as  Mr.  T.  W.  Lament 
remarked,  must  eventually  earn  a  thou- 
sand per  cent.  They  can  also  consume 
billions'  worth  of  manufactures;  and, 
as  their  standards  of  living  rise,  these 
billions  will  become  tens  of  billions.  To 
those  lands,  then,  our  financiers  and 
manufacturers  must  look  for  the  only 
foreign  trade  that  can  restore  our  eco- 
nomic balance  appreciably.  Their  logic 
is  impeccable,  granting  the  premise  that 
we  must  look  abroad  for  new  markets. 

But  how  dares  any  American  finan- 
cier invest  millions  in  such  chaos,  where 
governments  totter,  intriguers  plot  new 
empires,  and  war  lords  revel  in  civil 
strife?  Neither  Peking  nor  Canton  can 
protect  him,  and  Tokyo  will  not.  His 
alternatives,  then,  are  clear:  either  he 


must  have  his  own  country  protect 
him  with  as  much  force  as  is  necessary, 
or  else  he  must  stay  out  of  Asia.  As  for 
the  manufacturer  and  the  exporter,  he 
is  vexed  by  this  same  dilemma  and  two 
further  annoyances.  He  must  under- 
sell the  British,  Germans,  and  Japan- 
ese in  China;  and  this  he  cannot  do  now 
save  in  a  few  monopolistic  lines,  such 
as  cheap  automobiles  and  sewing  ma- 
chines. And  even  when  he  can  meet 
their  prices,  he  cannot  reap  their  prof- 
its, because  Great  Britain  and  Japan 
have  exempted  their  nationals  doing 
business  in  China  from  all  income  taxes 
and  excess-profits  taxes  on  their  China 
trade.  But  these  worries  pale  beside 
the  chaos  in  China. 

This  chaos  creates  for  the  Republican 
party  a  terrible  dilemma.  Champion  of 
the  full  dinner-pail,  roaring  factories, 
and  hundred-per-cent  dividends,  —  all 
excellent  ideals !  —  it  has  committed 
itself  heart  and  soul  to  the  utmost  stim- 
ulation of  foreign  trade  and  foreign 
investments.  Champion  of  general  pros- 
perity, it  aims  to  reduce  the  cost  of  liv- 
ing, especially  taxes,  which  are  nine 
tenths  military.  The  first  goal  demands 
a  navy.  The  second  demands  the  aboli- 
tion of  navies.  And  neither  a  navy  nor 
an  abolished  one  will  guarantee  success 
in  the  Far  East! 

Is  it  to  be  marveled  at  that  some 
Republicans  have  lost  interest  in  the 
Disarmament  Conference,  while  others 
are  losing  sleep  over  it? 

VI 

Disarm  and  leave  Asia  to  the  Asi- 
atics, or  else  run  Asia  and  a  huge  fleet. 
This,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  is  the 
alternative  that  delays  disarmament. 
It  may  be  dodged  for  a  while,  but  it  can- 
not be  evaded.  It  will  not  help  to  emit 
hypocritical  shrieks  over  the  wicked 
Japanese,  whose  imitation  of  our  politi- 
cal ways  is  the  sincerest  flattery.  Nor 


680 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


will  it  serve  any  good  end  to  shed  croc- 
odile tears  over  poor,  down-trodden 
China,  which  is  not  a  whit  worse  off 
than  some  of  our  own  Southern  states, 
man  for  man,  road  for  road,  town  for 
town.  Asia  is  Asia.  It  must  work  out 
its  own  salvation.  Too  far  away  and 
too  huge  to  be  controlled  by  us,  who 
cannot  even  manage  our  own  cities 
intelligently,  its  hundreds  of  millions 
can  be  swayed  by  us  only  under  the 
compulsion  of  overwhelming  force. 
They  who  are  compelled  will  gain  little. 
We  who  compel  shall  lose  much  in 
money  and  in  reputation.  Only  a  few 


exploiters,  white  and  yellow,  will  emerge 
with  riches. 

Some  influential  Republicans  under- 
stand this  and  are  ready  to  accept  its 
implications.  But  the  majority  seem 
still  under  the  spell  of  economic  impe- 
rialism, or  else  hypnotized  by  the  Jap- 
anese bogey  manufactured  by  our  yel- 
low press.  And  so,  while  they  may  cry 
for  world  peace  and  the  prosperity  it 
must  bring,  they  thwart  it  by  refusing 
to  accept  the  consequences  of  disarma- 
ment. If  the  Conference  fails,  they  will 
probably  have  to  share  the  guilt  with 
the  extreme  militarists  of  Japan. 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


BY  J.  O.  P.  BLAND 


EARLY  in  August,  the  Washington 
correspondent  of  the  Philadelphia  Led- 
ger announced  that  it  was  the  intention 
of  the  United  States  Government  to 
'  make  the  settlement  of  the  Far  East- 
ern situation  a  condition  precedent  to 
the  discussion  of  the  curtailment  of 
armaments.9  If  this  be  so,  supreme 
importance  must  attach  to  whatever 
scheme  of  settlement  is  eventually 
framed  and  proposed  by  the  State  De- 
partment. Seldom,  indeed,  have  the 
prospects  of  peace  in  our  time  been  more 
directly  dependent  upon  the  knowledge 
and  breadth  of  vision  of  a  few  states- 
men. America,  because  of  her  unchal- 
lengeable wealth  and  resources,  holds 
the  master-key  to  the  gates  of  peace 
and  war  in  the  regions  of  the  Pacific. 
If,  at  this  juncture,  her  foreign  policy  is 


based  upon  recognition  of  the  realities 
of  the  Far  Eastern  situation  (including 
recognition  of  the  instinct  of  self-pres- 
ervation which  underlies  Japan's  ex- 
pansion on  the  Asiatic  mainland),  the 
Conference  should  pave  the  way,  at 
least,  to  what  President  Harding  calls 
'approximate  disarmament,'  and  thus 
relieve  the  world  of  the  burden  and  dan- 
ger of  acute  naval  rivalry. 

At  the  outset  it  may  be  asked,  why 
should  America  seek  to  make  an  inter- 
national agreement  for  disarmament 
dependent  upon  the  settlement  of  the 
Far  Eastern  question,  more  than  upon 
the  removal  of  any  other  potential  cause 
of  conflict?  The  answer  lies  obviously 
in  the  fact  that  every  nation's  foreign 
policy  is  inevitably  inspired  by  the  fun- 
damental instinct  of  survival,  which 


681 


compels  it  to  seek  and  preserve,  at  all 
costs,  national  security.  Also,  that 
many  things  have  happened  during  the 
past  ten  years  to  lead  public  opinion  in 
the  United  States  to  the  belief  that 
America's  security  is  menaced  by  Ja- 
pan's rapid  rise  to  the  front  rank  of 
world  powers  and  by  the  activities  and 
ambitions  of  her  military  party. 

When,  after  the  Russo-Japanese  War, 
the  United  States  played  the  part  of 
host  and  peacemaker  at  the  making  of 
the  Treaty  of  Portsmouth  (1905),  the 
general  sentiment  of  the  American  na- 
tion was  one  of  unmistakable  sympathy 
and  friendship  for  Japan;  but  since 
then  much  has  occurred  to  change  this 
feeling  into  one  of  apprehension  and  in- 
creasing antagonism.  First  came  the 
Russo-Japanese  Entente  of  1907,  fol- 
lowed by  the  definite  agreement  of 
July,  1910,  which  made  the  Treaty  of 
Portsmouth  a  dead  letter  and  definitely 
abrogated  the  principle  of  the  Open 
Door  in  Manchuria  and  Mongolia. 
Next  came  the  humiliating  fiasco  of 
Mr.  Secretary  Knox's  scheme  for  the 
neutralization  of  railways  in  Manchu- 
ria; and  finally,  the  annexation  of  Korea 
by  Japan.  But  more  significant  than 
all  these  indications  of  Japan's  activi- 
ties as  a  world  power  was  her  increasing 
insistence  on  the  principle  of  racial 
equality,  combined  with  the  assertion 
of  rights  of  migration  to  the  American 
continent.  Thus,  before  the  revolution 
in  China  and  the  great  war  in  Europe 
gave  Japan  new  and  unexpected  oppor- 
tunities for  advancing  her  outposts  and 
accelerating  her  economic  penetration 
in  the  comparatively  undeveloped  re- 
gions of  the  Asiatic  mainland  adjacent 
to  Korea,  the  Yellow  Peril  (as  pro- 
claimed by  Homer  Lea  in  the  Valor  of 
Ignorance)  had  begun  to  loom  largely 
on  the  political  horizon,  and  public  opin- 
ion in  America  had  become  definitely 
imbued  with  the  conviction  that  Ja- 
pan's ambitions  must  involve  a  chal- 


lenge to  Western  civilization  and,  ulti- 
mately, a  claim  to  the  mastery  of  the 
Pacific. 

The  course  of  events  during  and 
since  the  great  war  —  the  elimination 
of  Russia  as  an  Asiatic  power,  the  in- 
creasing chaos  in  China,  and  the  swift 
rise  of  the  United  States  to  leadership 
in  the  council  of  nations  —  has  served 
to  increase  the  points  of  contact  and  to 
accentuate  the  economic  and  political 
differences  between  the  two  nations 
which  confront  each  other  across  the 
Pacific.  The  racial  aspect  of  the  an- 
tagonism thus  created  was  emphasized 
at  Versailles,  and  finds  expression  to- 
day in  a  widely  prevalent  belief  hi  the 
idea  of  a  '  color  war,'  wherein  the  forces 
of  Pan-Asia  (and  even  Pan-Africa),  or- 
ganized and  led  by  Japan,  will  chal- 
lenge and  overthrow  the  dominant 
white  race.  Mr.  Lothrop  Stoddard's 
Rising  Tide  of  Color,  and  other  works  of 
the  same  kind,  have  given  form  and 
substance  to  a  Yellow  Peril  spectre,  as 
fantastic  in  its  way  as  Kaiser  Wilhelm's 
famous  vision  of  China's  warlike  mil- 
lions ranged  in  battle  array  against  the 
pale  legions  of  the  West. 

The  limits  of  this  article  do  not  per- 
mit, nor  does  the  occasion  require,  any 
detailed  exposition  of  the  absurdity  of 
this  Pan-Asian  delusion.  In  propound- 
ing their  scheme  for  the  settlement  of 
the  Far  Eastern  question  to  the  Wash- 
ington Conference,  the  American  State 
Department  and  the  British  Foreign 
Office  will  have  work  and  to  spare  in 
dealing  with  the  actual  and  immediate 
difficulties  of  the  situation.  The  theory 
of  profound  racial  antagonism  is  obvi- 
ously incompatible  with  the  proclaimed 
intention  of  the  British  and  American 
governments  to  substitute  a  spirit  of 
cooperation  and  mutuality  for  the  in- 
tense spirit  of  competition  in  solving 
the  problems  which  arise  out  of  the 
political  and  financial  disorganization 
of  China.  It  is  a  theory  that  cannot  be 


682 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


invoked  without  weakening  the  whole 
Anglo-American  position  in  the  matter 
of  the  Asiatic  Exclusion  acts,  and  stulti- 
fying their  essential  justification,  which 
rests  on  economic,  as  distinct  from 
racial,  grounds. 

Mr.  Lloyd  George  has  recently  de- 
clared that  the  foreign  policy  of  Great 
Britain,  as  a  partly  Asiatic  empire, 
'can  never  range  itself  in  any  sense 
upon  the  differences  of  race  and  civili- 
zation between  East  and  West.  It 
would  be  fatal  to  the  Empire.  No 
greater  calamity  can  overtake  the  world 
than  any  further  accentuation  of  its 
divisions  upon  the  lines  of  race.  We 
look  confidently  to  the  Government 
and  people  of  the  United  States  for 
their  understanding  and  sympathy  in 
this  respect.  Friendly  cooperation  with 
the  United  States  is  for  us  a  cardinal 
principle,  dictated  by  what  seems  to 
us  the  proper  nature  of  things,  dictated 
by  instinct  quite  as  much  as  by  reason 
and  by  common  sense.' 

Mr.  Lloyd  George's  words  undoubt- 
edly express  the  sentiments  of  the  great 
majority  of  his  countrymen.  Every  dis- 
cussion of  the  question  of  the  Anglo- 
Japanese  Alliance,  by  the  Imperial 
Conference,  in  Parliament,  and  in  the 
press,  has  served  to  emphasize  the 
general  opinion  that  the  treaty  should 
be  renewed,  but  in  a  form  that  will 
give  no  umbrage,  and  evoke  no  misgiv- 
ings, in  the  United  States.  The  Aus- 
tralian Premier  has  declared  that  'Aus- 
tralia's safety  lies  in  a  renewal  of  the 
Anglo-Japanese  Alliance,  and  that  it 
is  her  bounden  duty  to  use  every  means 
at  her  disposal  to  effect  such  a  modus 
vivendi  as  will  secure  it  in  a  form  agree- 
able to  the  United  States.'  On  a  later 
occasion,  Mr.  Hughes  expressed  the 
opinion  (which  has  found  wide  support 
in  the  British  press)  that,  in  the  event 
of  a  tripartite  understanding  being 
reached  between  America,  Great  Brit- 
ain, and  Japan,  dealing  with  the  Far 


East  and  with  disarmament,  there  would 
be  no  necessity  for  a  renewal  of  the 
Anglo-Japanese  Alliance. 

II 

As  matters  now  stand,  the  first  thing 
necessary,  to  remove  the  immediate 
difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  Far  East- 
ern situation,  and  to  diminish  the  causes 
of  friction  between  Japan  and  the 
United  States,  is  the  conclusion  of  an 
international  agreement  for  the  restora- 
tion, by  concerted  action,  of  the  powers 
of  law  and  order  in  China.  Unless  steps 
are  taken,  and  that  speedily,  to  this 
end,  there  can  be  no  prospect  of  any 
permanent  settlement  of  the  Far  East- 
ern question.  American  participation 
in  such  an  agreement,  and  in  an '  Inter- 
national Council '  to  carry  it  into  effect, 
is  a  solution  that  presents  obvious  diffi- 
culties; nevertheless,  it  is  the  only  one 
that  affords  practical  means  of  carrying 
out  the  American  idea  of  friendly  coop- 
eration, and  the  only  way  of  putting  an 
end  to  the  chaos  of  misrule  in  China,  in 
a  spirit  of  genuine  friendship  for  the 
Chinese  people.  Failing  active  Amer- 
ican participation,  the  Anglo-Japanese 
Alliance,  renewed  under  conditions 
consistent  with  the  Covenant  of  the 
League  of  Nations,  would  appear  to 
offer  the  only  alternative  solution  of  the 
problem;  the  only  one,  at  all  events, 
that  would  provide  England  with  the 
leverage  necessary  to  secure  the  future 
maintenance  of  the  Open  Door  for 
trade,  a  revision  of  the  Shantung  ques- 
tion, and  the  settlement  of  other  points 
of  difference  in  the  Far  East. 

Assuming  that  the  first  desideratum 
for  the  Washington  Conference  is  a 
spirit  of  harmony  and  helpfulness  be- 
tween the  representatives  of  those 
powers,  whose  ultimate  object  is  the 
limitation  of  armaments,  the  decision 
to  invite  China's  participation  in  the 
Conference,  though  diplomatically  and 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


683 


theoretically  sound,  is  calculated,  in 
practice,  to  frustrate  the  ends  desired. 
For  there  is  already  ample  evidence  in 
the  press,  here  and  in  the  United  States, 
that  China's  representatives  on  this 
occasion  will  conform  faithfully  to  their 
traditional  policy  of  setting  one  bar- 
barian against  another,  and  will  do 
everything  in  their  power  to  make  the 
Conference  an  arena  of  enmity  and  sus- 
picion. All  the  undeniable  eloquence 
and  intelligence  of  that  highly  vocal 
element  of  Young  China  which  pro- 
fesses its  present  belief  in  American 
institutions  and  ideals  will  be  concen- 
trated in  an  appeal  to  the  chivalrous 
support  of  the  American  people,  and 
this  appeal  will  no  doubt  be  powerfully 
supported  by  many  of  the  missionary 
societies  and  the  Y.M.C.A.,  which 
naturally  sympathize  with  the  aspira- 
tions of  their  pupils  and  proteges  to  be- 
come the  dominant  force  in  Chinese 
politics.  There  is  already  evidence  that 
the  public  utterances  of  adroit  diplo- 
mats and  lawyers  like  Mr.  Wellington 
Koo  and  Dr.  Wang,  and  the  press  prop- 
aganda conducted  by  Putnam  Weale, 
and  other  foreigners  in  Chinese  pay, 
to  which  Professor  Dewey's  distin- 
guished reputation  lends  additional 
force,  have  achieved  considerable  re- 
sults in  the  direction  indicated;  that  is 
to  say,  they  have  created  an  atmos- 
phere of  hostility  toward  Japan,  and 
toward  the  Anglo-Japanese  Alliance,  in 
the  United  States.  Something  of  the 
effect  of  China's  propaganda  and  ap- 
peals may  even  be  discerned  in  the  dis- 
patches of  the  State  Department  that 
form  part  of  the  correspondence  ante- 
cedent to  the  establishment  of  the  In- 
ternational Financial  Consortium  last 
year. 

Briefly  stated,  the  object  of  the  Amer- 
ican Government,  as  expressed  in  these 
dispatches,  was  to  eliminate  all  special 
claims  in  particular  spheres  of  interest 
in  China  and  to  throw  open  the  whole 


country,  including  Manchuria  and 
Mongolia,  without  reserve,  to  the  com- 
bined activities  of  the  Consortium. 
The  British  Government,  at  the  outset, 
gave  friendly  support  to  this  proposal; 
but  inasmuch  as  it  conflicted  obviously 
with  certain  accomplished  facts  and 
recorded  pacts,  it  was  possible  to  do  so 
only  by  concurring  vaguely  in  the 
benevolent  argument  that,  'with  the 
establishment  of  the  Consortium,  a 
new  era  was  about  to  dawn,  in  which 
conditions  have  changed,  and  that  the 
powers  therefore  propose  henceforward 
to  work  together  in  harmonious  and 
friendly  cooperation,  rather  than  in 
competition.' 

The  Japanese  Ambassador's  reply  to 
the  dispatch  in  which  Lord  Curzon 
supported  this  argument  tactfully  re- 
frained from  discussing  the  practical 
effects  of  the  'new  era'  upon  inter- 
national politics.  He  contented  himself 
with  reiterating  his  Government's  reli- 
ance upon  the  British  Government's 
explicit  assurance  that  the  powers  would 
refuse  to  countenance  any  activities  of 
the  Consortium  'affecting  the  security 
of  the  economic  life  or  the  national 
defense  of  Japan,'  a  reservation  capable 
of  the  widest  application,  and  one  which 
leaves  the  question  of  Japan's  '  special 
interests'  in  the  same  nebulous  condi- 
tion as  that  in  which  it  remained  after 
the  Lansing-Ishii  agreement  of  1917. 

m 

The  line  that  China's  representatives 
and  advisers  may  be  expected  to  adopt 
at  Washington  was  clearly  indicated 
some  months  ago  by  the  Chinese  Min- 
ister in  London,  Mr.  Wellington  Koo, 
well  known  in  the  United  States.  They 
will  undoubtedly  present  a  glowing 
picture  of  the  Chinese  Republic,  suc- 
cessfully progressing  toward  Utopia  by 
the  development  of  liberal  ideas  and 
democratic  institutions,  all  regardless 


684 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


of  the  fact  that  these  are  as  remote  as 
the  planet  Mars  from  all  the  realities  of 
the  situation  in  China.  They  will  make 
eloquent  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of 
the  civilized  world,  in  the  name  of 
Democracy,  on  behalf  of  Young  China's 
chimerical  Republic,  and  of  its  splen- 
did programme  of  purely  imaginary 
reforms.  In  the  typical  words  of  Put- 
nam Weale,  they  will  'claim  their 
place  in  the  family  of  nations,  not  only 
on  terms  of  equality,  but  as  represent- 
atives of  Liberalism  and  subscribers  to 
all  those  sanctions  on  which  the  civili- 
zation of  peace  rests.'  They  will  con- 
tinue to  describe  the  social  activities 
and  academic  theories  of  a  few  thousand 
'Western-learning'  students  and  jour- 
nalists as  truly  representative  of  the 
political  convictions  and  institutions  of 
the  Chinese  people. 

And  all  the  while  they  will  compla- 
cently ignore  the  lamentable  and  noto- 
rious facts  of  China's  actual  position, 
the  utter  demoralization  and  inevitable 
bankruptcy  of  the  Peking  Government, 
the  lawlessness  and  insatiable  greed  of 
the  military  chieftains,  whose  rabble 
armies  have  devastated  the  country  for 
the  last  ten  years,  and  the  untold  suffer- 
ings of  the  defenseless  people,  more 
pitiful  to-day  than  ever  they  were  un- 
der the  Manchus.  Above  all,  they  will 
carefully  refrain  from  admission  of  the 
undeniable  truth  that  the  political  and 
financial  ascendancy  which  Japan  has 
established  at  Peking,  and  the  rapid 
advance  of  her  'peaceful  penetration' 
in  Manchuria  and  Mongolia,  are  direct 
results  of  the  incorrigible  money-lust  of 
the  mandarin  class,  more  flagrantly  dis- 
played by  the  officials  of  the  Republic 
than  under  the  old  regime.  They  will 
earnestly  invoke  the  assistance  of 
America  and  England  against  Japan, 
for  the  restoration  of  China's  rights  in 
Shantung,  and  of  her  unfettered  sov- 
ereignty over  the  Northern  dependen- 
cies; but  they  will  say  nothing  of  the 


lamentable  fact  that,  since  the  death 
of  Yuan  Shih-k'ai  (1916),  the  several 
political  factions  that  have  struggled 
for  mastery  at  Peking  have  vied  with 
each  other  in  mortgaging  to  Japan, 
in  return  for  subsidies  and  loans, 
many  rights,  privileges,  and  concessions 
calculated  to  jeopardize  their  country's 
political  independence. 

Early  this  year,  the  Chinese  Minister 
in  London  gave  the  Foreign  Office  an 
indication  of  the  attitude  to  be  adopted 
by  China's  representatives  at  the  forth- 
coming Conference  in  regard  to  the 
renewal  of  the  Anglo-Japanese  Alliance. 
They  desire  to  protest,  in  the  first  place, 
against  any  reference  in  the  treaty,  if 
renewed,  to  'the  preservation  of  the 
territorial  integrity  and  political  inde- 
pendence of  China,'  as  an  implication 
derogatory  to  the  dignity  of  China  as  a 
sovereign  State,  and  distasteful  to  the 
sentiment  of  her  people. 

Inasmuch  as  the  first  object  of  their 
presence  at  the  Conference  is  to  in- 
voke assistance  for  the  maintenance  of 
China's  sovereign  rights,  this  initial  pro- 
test may  be  regarded  as  a  face-saving  de- 
vice, a  mild  bluff  for  the  benefit  of  the 
gallery,  based  on  the  oldest  traditions 
of  Oriental  statecraft.  Next,  they  will 
ask  for  the  abrogation  of  the  'twenty-one 
demands'  agreement  (signed  by  Yuan 
Shih-k'ai  in  May,  1915,  under  pressure 
of  a  Japanese  ultimatum),  and  for  the 
restoration  of  China's  full  sovereignty 
in  Shantung.  Here  we  reach  a  crucial 
point  of  the  Far  Eastern  question.  For 
it  is  undeniable  that,  in  these  twenty- 
one  demands,  Japan  availed  herself  of 
the  opportunities  created  by  the  war 
in  Europe  and  the  demoralization  of 
China,  to  regularize  and  consolidate  her 
position  at  China's  expense,  in  Shan- 
tung (as  successor  to  Germany),  and  in 
Manchuria,  Eastern  Inner  Mongolia, 
and  on  the  coast  of  Fukhien  province. 

Now,  it  must  be  obvious  that  no 
satisfactory  results  are  to  be  expected 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


685 


from  the  Washington  Conference,  ex- 
cept upon  the  initial  assumption  that 
henceforward  Japan,  in  concert  with 
England  and  the  United  States,  is  pre- 
pared to  cooperate  loyally  in  practical 
measures  for  the  restoration  of  law,  or- 
der, trade,  and  sound  finance,  in  China. 
This  assumption  implies,  not  only  the 
definite  cessation  of  the  Japanese  mili- 
tary party's  activities  in  Peking,  but  the 
abandonment  by  Japan,  as  part  of  a 
general  self-sacrificing  agreement  be- 
tween the  powers,  of  all  claims  to  *  spe- 
cial interests '  in  any  province  of  China 
proper,  such  as  those  which  were 
created  by  the  twenty-one  demands  in 
1915,  and  subsequently  by  the  secret 
'military  agreement,'  concluded  in 
March,  1918,  with  the  corrupt  clique 
then  in  power  at  Peking. 

Having  discussed  these  questions 
with  many  of  the  leading  statesmen 
and  publicists  in  Japan,  I  firmly  believe 
that  the  Japanese  Government  is  pre- 
pared to  welcome  an  Anrlo-American- 
Japanese  understanding,  having  as  its 
avowed  object  a  common  reconstructive 
policy  in  China.  Even  before  the  pros- 
pect of  a  limitation  of  armaments  had 
emphasized  the  desirability  of  such  an 
understanding,  the  Japanese  Prime 
Minister  had  declared  (1919)  his  Gov- 
ernment's readiness  to  cooperate  in  the 
difficult  task  of  restoring  financial  and 
administrative  order  in  China,  with  due 
regard  to  her  sovereign  rights.  Many 
things  have  happened  in  the  last  five 
years  to  lead  the  rulers  of  Japan  to  per- 
ceive that  persistence  in  the  aggressive 
'forward'  policy  of  the  military  party 
can  lead  only  to  a  dangerous  position  of 
national  isolation,  besides  involving  the 
over-taxed  people  in  further  heavy 
expenditure.  For  these  and  other  rea- 
sons, there  appear  to  be  valid  grounds 
for  expecting  good  results  from  the 
Conference,  provided  that  responsible 
American  opinion  be  not  misled  by  the 
specious  pleadings  of  China's  repre- 


sentatives, into  finding  in  the  gospel  of 
the  'new  era,'  tidings  of  comfort  and 
joy  for  all  the  world  —  with  the  excep- 
tion, and  to  the  detriment,  of  Japan. 

In  particular,  the  question  of  Shan- 
tung, though  apparently  simple  enough 
in  its  broad  moral  aspect,  will  require 
delicate  handling.  China  and  the 
United  States,  not  being  parties  to  the 
Treaty  of  Versailles,  may  be  justified 
in  questioning  the  decision  of  the  Allies, 
whereby  Japan  obtained  the  reversion 
of  Germany's  exclusive  privileges  in 
Shantung;  but  the  fact  must  not  be 
overlooked  that  America's  represent- 
ative and  President  was  a  consenting 
party  to  that  decision;  also  that,  be- 
cause of  it,  Japan  agreed  to  withdraw 
from  discussion  the  thorny  question  of 
'racial  equality.'  In  originally  raising 
that  question,  Japan  practically  claimed 
recognition  of  her  right  to  equal  oppor- 
tunity in  the  matter  of  migration  over- 
seas; and  President  Wilson,  unable  to 
concede  that  claim,  was  fain  to  com- 
promise it  along  the  line  of  least  re- 
sistance—  that  is,  at  China's  expense. 

As  for  the  position  of  China  in  the 
matter,  it  is  evident  that  the  activities 
of  her  diplomats  and  publicists  are  in- 
spired rather  by  the  desire  to  create 
dissension  between  Japan  and  the 
United  States  than  by  genuine  zeal  for 
the  integrity  and  independence  of  their 
country.  For  the  men  who  strain  so 
noisily  at  the  Shantung  gnat  are  the 
same  as  those  who  quietly  swallowed 
the  camel  of  the  secret  military  agree- 
ment (to  which  I  have  already  referred) 
—  a  pact  concluded  by  their  Govern- 
ment, of  its  own  accord,  with  Japan, 
which  made  Peking,  for  all  practical 
purposes,  a  subsidized  dependency  of 
Tokyo. 

IV 

Two  fundamental  facts  must  be 
faced  at  the  outset  by  the  Conference  if 
the  Far  Eastern  problem  is  to  be  solved 


686 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


in  a  spirit  of  mutuality  and  helpfulness. 
First,  that  China's  military  weakness, 
financial  chaos,  and  internecine  strife 
now  constitute  the  root-cause  of  the 
problem.  This  fact  requires  no  demon- 
stration for  anyone  who  has  studied  the 
situation.  Second,  that  Japan  is  impel- 
led, by  acute  economic  pressure,  either 
to  seek  new  outlets  for  her  surplus  pop- 
ulation overseas,  or  to  endeavor  to  se- 
cure such  a  position  of  economic  advan- 
tage in  the  undeveloped  regions  of  the 
Asiatic  mainland,  adjacent  to  her  fron- 
tiers, as  shall  enable  her  to  maintain 
and  increase  her  industries,  and  thereby 
feed  her  people,  at  home. 

Japan's  imperative  need  of  expansion 
is,  indeed,  an  undeniable  and  constant 
factor  in  the  Far  Eastern  problem. 
Morally  speaking,  and  from  the  political 
idealist's  point  of  view,  it  is,  of  course, 
lamentable  that  any  race  or  nation 
should  expand  at  the  expense  of  an- 
other; nevertheless,  pace  the  'new-era' 
doctrine,  the  struggle  for  supremacy 
and  survival  between  races  has  not 
ended  with  the  Treaty  of  Versailles, 
and  the  ideal  of  self-determination 
must  always  prove  to  be  an  empty 
phrase  when  confronted  with  the  ele- 
mental instinct  of  self-preservation. 
Japan  has  expanded  into  Korea,  and  is 
thence  expanding  northward  and  west- 
ward, impelled  by  the  same  instincts 
and  impulses  as  those  which  have  peo- 
pled England's  colonies  and  doubled 
the  territory  and  number  of  the  United 
States. 

America's  nayal  programme  affords 
more  convincing  testimony  to  the 
realities  of  the  situation  than  all  the 
acts  of  the  apostles  of  pacifism.  The 
conflict  between  benevolent  idealism 
and  the  stern  facts  of  existence  is  as 
old  as  the  hills;  and  despite  humani- 
tarians and  vegetarians,  the  inexorable 
law  remains  that  all  life  on  this  planet 
exists  and  persists  at  the  cost  of  other 
lives.  Charm  they  never  so  wisely,  it 


will  need  more  than  the  eloquence  of  the 
idealists  to  convince  responsible  states- 
men that  this  instinct  and  the  economic 
pressure  behind  it  can  be  exorcised  by 
invoking  a  new  era  of  universal  altru- 
ism. The  philosophers  have  not  yet 
found  the  stone  which  will  satisfy  a 
people  that  cries  for  bread. 

Considered  in  this  light,  the  crux  of 
the  Far  Eastern  discussion  will  prob- 
ably be  found  to  lie  in  the  question  of 
Japan's  claim  to  'special  interests'  in 
Manchuria  and  Mongolia.  In  seeking 
the  abrogation  of  the  twenty-one- 
demands  agreement  of  1915,  China  asks, 
in  fact,  that  Japan  should  vacate  the 
'leased'  territory  of  the  Liaotung  pen- 
insula, including  Dairen  and  Port 
Arthur,  at  the  date  named  in  the  orig- 
inal Russian  lease  (that  is  to  say,  in 
March,  1923),  and  that  the  ninety- 
years'  term  —  subsequently  conceded 
in  compliance  with  the  twenty-one- 
demands  ultimatum — should  now  be 
annulled.  But  no  good  purpose  can  be 
served  by  ignoring  the  truth  that  the 
original  'lease'  of  the  Liaotung  penin- 
sula by  China  to  Russia  was  never  any- 
thing but  a  diplomatic  fiction,  a  politic 
device  whereby  the  face  of  Li  Hung- 
Chang  was  partially  saved.  Common 
sense,  if  not  common  justice,  compels 
recognition  of  the  lamentable  truth, 
that  China's  sovereign  rights  in  Man- 
churia and  Mongolia  were  virtually 
doomed  when  Russian  diplomacy  con- 
cluded the  original  'lease'  compact 
with  China's  complaisant  rulers.  By 
that  compact,  Japan's  economic  exist- 
ence and  national  security  were  threat- 
ened with  dangers  so  imminent,  that 
war  between  her  and  Russia  became 
inevitable. 

The  development  of  a  position  of 
economic  and  political  ascendancy  by 
Japan  in  Manchuria  and  Mongolia  — 
euphemistically  described  in  the  Lan- 
sing-Ishii  agreement  as  'special'  inter- 
ests —  became  equally  inevitable  when, 


THE  FAR  EASTERN  PROBLEM 


687 


by  the  Treaty  of  Portsmouth,  Russia 
handed  over  to  her  conqueror  the  leased 
territory  of  Liaotung  and  the  South 
Manchurian  railway.  China  not  only 
consented  to  this  arrangement,  but  by 
certain  secret  clauses  of  an  agreement 
voluntarily  concluded  between  her  Gov- 
ernment and  Japan  in  December,  1905, 
she  deprived  herself  of  valuable  rights, 
specifically  reserved  for  her  by  the 
Treaty  of  Portsmouth,  in  regard  to  the 
economic  and  industrial  development 
of  Manchuria.  By  pledging  herself 
not  to  build  any  railways  which  might 
compete  with  the  South  Manchurian 
line,  she  made  it  possible  for  Japan  to 
veto  (as  she  subsequently  did,  in  part- 
nership with  Russia)  all  British  and 
American  enterprises  in  that  region. 
To-day,  Japan's  privileged  position 
and  paramount  influence  on  the  main- 
land to  the  north  and  west  of  Korea  is 
regarded  by  the  nation,  not  only  as  one 
of  vital  necessity,  but  of  indisputable 
right  —  a  right  established  at  the  cost 
of  two  victorious  wars,  and  subsequent- 
ly developed  by  means  of  concessions 
freely  granted  by  China's  rulers  in 
return  for  money  loans.  To  suggest  (as 
was  done  by  Lord  Curzon  and  Mr. 
Lansing  in  the  Consortium  dispatches 
of  1919)  that  Manchuria  and  Mongolia 
are  actually  integral  'provinces'  of 
China,  to  be  regarded  and  dealt  with 
internationally  in  the  same  way  as  the 
eighteen  provinces  of  China  proper,  is 
to  ignore  the  basic  realities  of  the  situa- 
tion, not  to  mention  elementary  geog- 
raphy and  history. 

Mongolia,  as  a  dependency,  stands 
toward  China  in  precisely  the  same  rela- 
tion as  Tibet.  It  is  not  easy  to  under- 
stand upon  what  grounds  Great  Brit- 
ain, after  having  required  China  to 
abandon  her  claims  to  effective  sover- 
eignty over  autonomous  Tibet,  can 
profess  to  regard  Mongolia  (which  has 
asserted  its  independence  of  Peking)  as 
a  'province'  of  China.  Nor  can  any 


valid  process  of  reasoning  justify  Eng- 
land or  America  in  supporting  China's 
contention  that  Japan  should  now  sur- 
render, or  greatly  modify,  her  claims  to 
'special  interests'  in  Manchuria.  The 
arguments  and  attitude  of  Japan's  rep- 
resentatives at  Versailles  clearly  dem- 
onstrated their  determination  to  insist 
upon  recognition  of  those  interests,  as 
an  equitable  quid  pro  quo  for  our 
Asiatic  Exclusion  acts  and  all  that  they 
imply.  The  same  determination  was 
unmistakably  manifested  in  the  nego- 
tiation and  conclusion  of  the  Lansing- 
Ishii  agreement  in  1917. 

To  sum  up.  If  England,  America, 
and  Japan  now  concur  in  recognizing 
the  critical  condition  of  affairs  in 
China,  and  unite,  in  a  common  purpose 
of  good-will,  to  restore  her  stability  of 
government  and  to  protect  her  sover- 
eignty, the  resources  of  diplomacy 
should  be  capable  of  devising  a  practical 
and  equitable  solution  of  the  Far  East- 
ern problem.  Frank  discussion  of  the 
existing  situation  should  entail,  part 
passu  with  reasonable  recognition  of 
Japan's  established  position  in  Man- 
churia and  Mongolia,  the  simultaneous 
restoration  to  China,  by  all  the  powers 
concerned,  of  'leased'  territories  in 
China  proper,  the  withdrawal  of  all 
foreign  garrisons  and  post-offices  from 
the  eighteen  provinces,  and  the  aban- 
donment therein  of  all  claims  to  spheres 
of  influence  and  concessions,  which 
conflict  with  the  sovereignty  of  China 
and  the  principle  of  equal  opportunity. 

Given  such  an  agreement,  concerted 
measures  for  the  restoration  of  the 
Central  Government's  authority  and 
fiscal  machinery,  for  the  effective  dis- 
bandment  of  the  tuchuns'  irregular 
forces,  and  for  financial  reorganization, 
might  be  profitably  discussed  with 
China's  representatives.  But,  pending 
the  application  of  such  remedial  meas- 
ures, it  is  foolish  and  futile  to  talk  of 
restoring  the  unfettered  authority  of 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


the  Chinese  Government  in  Manchuria 
and  Mongolia,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  there  is  no  effective  government  in 
China.  Under  existing  conditions,  the 
rapid  economic  development  of  these 
dependencies,  which  has  resulted  from 
Japan's  railway  and  mining  enter- 
prises, has  proved  of  immediate  bene- 
fit, not  only  to  China's  revenues,  but  to 
large  numbers  of  Chinese  workers  and 
settlers,  who  have  poured  into  the 
country  from  Shantung  and  Chihli, 
attracted  by  good  wages  and  the  pros- 
pect of  immunity  from  the  lawlessness 
that  preys  upon  all  forms  of  produc- 
tive industry,  as  the  result  of  chronic 
misrule  under  the  Chinese  Republic. 

A  word,  in  conclusion,  with  the  polit- 
ical idealists  who  would  have  us  believe 
in  the  impending  federation  of  the 
world  by  virtue  of  Christianity  and 
faith  in  the  blessings  of  Democracy. 
It  were  well  for  the  peace  of  mankind  if 
they  could  be  led  to  realize  the  simple 


truth  that  the  impact  and  influence  of 
the  West  have  tended  to  destroy  the 
cohesive  and  self-sufficient  qualities  of 
China's  patriarchal  system  of  govern- 
ment, without  supplying  anything  of 
practical  value  in  its  place.  A  venerable 
civilization,  probably  the  wisest,  and 
certainly  the  oldest,  that  humanity  has 
produced,  is  now  in  danger  of  perish- 
ing, as  so  many  others  have  perished, 
by  contact  with  our  machine-driven, 
armor-plated  culture,  in  combination 
with  soulless  international  finance. 
Time  will  show  whether  the  process  of 
disintegration  wrought  by  these  dis- 
ruptive influences  can  possibly  be 
arrested  by  a  new  policy  of  harmonious 
cooperation,  for  China's  good,  between 
the  friendly  powers,  so  as  to  preserve 
her  independence  as  a  nation  and  to 
restore  peace  and  prosperity  to  her 
people.  Reduced  to  simple  terms,  this 
is  the  real  Far  Eastern  question,  which 
awaits  the  deliberations  of  the  Washing- 
ton Conference. 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL?  II 


BY  E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL 


THE  key  to  Japanese  militarism  and 
imperialism  is  to  be  found  in  the  dual 
government  that  exists  in  Japan.  There 
is  the  constitutional  government  — 
the  Cabinet,  the  Diet,  consisting  of  the 
House  of  Peers  and  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives, and  the  administrative  bu- 
reaucracy —  with  which  the  world  is 
familiar.  But  there  is  also  an  invisible 
government,  an  unseen  empire,  com- 


posed of  a  clique  of  military  men  and 
men  with  military  affiliations,  headed 
by  the  Genro,  or  Elder  Statesmen,  with 
the  General  Staff  of  the  Army  as  its  in- 
strument. Of  the  two  governments, 
the  latter  is  by  far  the  more  powerful. 
Japanese  policy,  particularly  in  foreign 
affairs,  is  invariably  shaped  by  this 
unseen  government,  its  wishes  gener- 
ally being  translated  by  the  constitu- 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


689 


tional  government's  actions.  The  two 
regimes,  whose  interests  are  by  no 
means  always  opposed,  are  of  necessity 
more  or  less  intermixed,  like  interlock- 
ing directorates.  For  example,  many 
officials  of  the  permanent  civil  bureau- 
cracy —  that  is,  the  bureau  chiefs  and 
their  staffs  —  are  drawn  from  the  mili- 
taristic clique,  which  is  identical  with 
the  unseen  government,  with  which,  as 
might  be  expected,  they  work  in  har- 
mony. 

At  the  head  of  the  Japanese  State 
stands  the  Emperor,  generally  spoken 
of  by  foreigners  as  the  Mikado  ('  Hon- 
orable Gate,'  a  title  comparable  with 
Sublime  Porte),  and  by  his  own  sub- 
jects as  Tenn5,  or  Heavenly  King. 
The  present  Emperor,  Yoshihito,  is  the 
one  hundred  and  twenty-second  of  his 
line,  according  to  Japanese  history, 
which  reckons  from  660  B.C.  when 
Jimmu  ascended  the  throne.  But  as 
written  records  do  not  carry  us  back 
further  than  A.D.  712,  the  reigns  and 
periods  of  the  very  early  monarchs  are 
more  or  less  apocryphal.  Still,  the  fact 
remains  that  Japan  has  been  ruled  by 
an  unbroken  dynasty  ever  since  the 
dawn  of  her  history,  in  which  respect 
she  is  unique  among  all  the  nations  of 
the  world.  By  the  Constitution  of  1889 
the  Emperor  combines  hi  himself  the 
rights  of  sovereignty  and  exercises  the 
whole  of  the  executive  powers,  with  the 
advice  and  assistance  of  the  nine  Cabi- 
net ministers.  He  alone  can  make  war, 
declare  peace,  and  conclude  treaties. 
But  between  the  Cabinet  and  the 
Crown  stands  a  small  body  of  men,  the 
survivors  of  those  by  whose  genius 
modern  Japan  was  raised  to  her  present 
high  position  among  the  nations.  They 
are  known  as  the  Genro,  or  Elder 
Statesmen.  At  the  present  time  only 
three  remain  —  Field-Marshal  Prince 
Yamagata,  Marquis  Okuma,  and  Mar- 
quis Matsukata.  These  three  old  men 
are  the  real  rulers  of  Japan. 

VOL.  Ii8  —  NO.  A 


Now  let  me  make  it  clear  that  the 
Elder  Statesmen  are  neither  appointed 
nor  elected.  Indeed,  there  is  no  such 
office  as  that  of  Elder  Statesman  per  se. 
You  will  find  no  mention  of  them  in  the 
Japan  Year-Book  or  other  works  of 
reference.  They  are  not  officials,  though 
they  hold  the  reins  of  power,  though 
by  virtue  of  their  rank  they  have  seats 
in  the  House  of  Peers.  They  are  private 
citizens  who,  because  of  their  experi- 
ence and  sagacity,  are  the  trusted  ad- 
visers of  the  Emperor,  as  they  were  of 
his  father  before  him.  They  are  so 
firmly  intrenched  in  the  confidence  of 
the  Emperor  and  great  nobles;  they 
are  the  embodiment  of  traditions  so  in- 
dissolubly  linked  with  the  history  of  the 
Empire;  the  social,  political,  financial, 
and  military  interests  which  they  repre- 
sent are  so  powerful;  that  all  attempts 
to  dislodge  them  or  seriously  to  weaken 
their  influence  have  met  with  failure. 

The  invisible  government  of  which 
the  Elder  Statesmen  are  the  head  and 
brains  is  not  a  modern  development;  it 
goes  back  into  Japanese  history  for 
centuries.  For  nearly  a  thousand  years 
Japan  has  had  a  nominal  government 
and  another  unacknowledged  govern- 
ment, the  latter  more  or  less  cloaked 
and  independent  of  check  or  control, 
existing  side  by  side.  This  unseen  em- 
pire dates  from  the  period  of  the  Sho- 
gunate,  during  which  the  Emperor  was 
the  titular  ruler  and  the  Shogun  the 
actual  ruler  of  Japan.  When  the  Sho- 
gunate  was  abolished  in  1868,  and  the 
unification  of  the  country  under  the 
Emperor  Mutsuhito  begun,  the  task  of 
reconstruction  was  undertaken  by  the 
daimyo,  or  feudal  nobles.  They  became 
the  officials  of  the  new  government  and 
directed  the  transformation  of  Japan 
into  a  modern  state.  Their  descendants 
fill  those  offices  to-day. 

When  it  is  remembered  that  the 
present  officeholders  are  almost  all 
members  of  the  ancient  military  clans, 


690 


ARE   WE   GIVING   JAPAN   A   SQUARE   DEAL? 


it  is  not  difficult  to  understand  the  as- 
cendancy of  the  militarists  in  Japanese 
politics.  For  example,  nearly  all  the 
members  of  the  military  clique  belong 
to  the  Chosun  clan,  while  the  navy 
clique  is  recruited  from  the  Satsuma 
clan.  The  acknowledged  leader  of  them 
all,  the  uncrowned  ruler  of  Japan,  is 
Prince  Yamagata,  himself  a  soldier  and 
a  field-marshal.  The  Emperor,  feeble 
in  health  and  mind,  in  spite  of  the  pro- 
found veneration  in  which  he  is  still 
held  by  the  great  mass  of  his  subjects, 
is  a  ruler  only  in  name. 

Of  the  nine  members  of  the  Cabinet, 
two  —  the  Minister  of  War  and  the 
Minister  of  Marine  —  are  not  answer- 
able for  their  actions  to  the  Premier, 
but  are  responsible  only  to  the  Em- 
peror—  which,  translated,  means  the 
Elder  Statesmen.  As  a  result  of  this 
anomalous  situation,  these  two  minis- 
ters can,  and  frequently  do,  defy  the 
Premier  and  block  legislation.  In  fact, 
a  former  Prime  Minister  resigned  be- 
cause he  was  unable  to  find  men  for 
these  portfolios  who  would  consent  to 
carry  out  his  policies.  As  the  members 
of  the  Cabinet  are  appointed  by  the 
Emperor,  instead  of,  as  is  the  custom 
in  most  European  countries,  by  the 
Premier,  it  is  self-evident  that  no  one 
could  obtain  the  portfolio  of  war  or  of 
marine  unless  he  was  persona  gratis- 
sima  to  the  militarist  party.  This 
closest  of  close  corporations  is  still 
further  bound  together  by  family  ties, 
the  present  Minister  of  War,  Major- 
General  Giichi  Tanaka,  being  a  son-in- 
law  of  Prince  Yamagata. 

It  is  this  curious  relic  of  feudal  times 
which  is  responsible  for  those  failures 
to  keep  her  agreements  which  have 
done  so  much  to  lose  for  Japan  the  con- 
fidence of  other  nations.  Japan's  fail- 
ure to  abide  by  her  promise  to  evacuate 
Siberia  upon  the  withdrawal  of  the 
American  and  other  Allied  troops  pro- 
vides a  case  in  point.  This  commit- 


ment was  made  to  the  United  States 
and  her  European  allies  by  the  consti- 
tutional Government,  as  represented  by 
Premier  Kara.  I  have  good  reason  to 
believe  that,  in  making  this  promise, 
the  Government  was  entirely  sincere 
and  that  it  fully  intended  to  carry  out 
the  evacuation.  But  the  unseen  govern- 
ment —  by  which  is  meant  the  militar- 
ist party  —  wished  Japan  to  remain 
in  Siberia,  for  reasons  of  its  own.  It 
wanted  territory  in  that  region,  —  ter- 
ritory rich  in  mines  and  forests,  —  and 
here  was  an  easy  way  to  get  it.  I  do 
not  know  precisely  what  procedure  was 
followed  by  the  militarists,  of  course; 
but  I  imagine  that  it  was  something 
like  this.  Prince  Yamagata,  speaking 
with  the  authority  of  the  Emperor,  in- 
formed his  son-in-law,  the  Minister  of 
War,  that  the  occupation  of  Siberia  was 
to  be  continued;  whereupon  the  Min- 
ister of  War,  presumably  without  the 
consent  of  the  Premier,  and  quite  pos- 
sibly without  his  knowledge,  instead 
of  withdrawing  the  Siberian  garrisons, 
reinforced  them.  It  thus  being  made 
impossible  for  the  constitutional  Gov- 
ernment to  keep  the  agreement  it  had 
made,  Premier  Hara,  in  order  to  'save 
his  face/  as  they  say  in  the  East,  was 
forced  to  explain  his  failure  to  with- 
draw the  troops  by  asserting  that  it 
had  been  found  necessary  to  retain 
them  in  Siberia  temporarily  in  order 
to  guard  Japan  from  Bolshevist  attacks. 
Result:  loss  of  confidence  by  the  other 
powers  in  Japan's  promises. 

The  effect  on  foreign  opinion  of  such 
usurpation  of  power  by  the  invisible 
government  is  recognized  by  the  liber- 
al element  in  Japan ;  as  witness  a  recent 
editorial  in  the  Yomi-Yuri  Shimbun:  — 

'It  is  regrettable  that  the  declara- 
tions of  the  Japanese  Government  are 
often  not  taken  seriously.  The  Powers 
regard  Japan  as  a  country  that  does 
not  mean  what  it  says.  The  most  im- 
portant reasons  for  this  will  be  found  in 


ARE   WE   GIVING   JAPAN   A   SQUARE   DEAL? 


691 


the  actions  of  the  militarists,  whose  ut- 
terances are  the  cause  of  the  Govern- 
ment's attitude  being  misunderstood 
abroad.  Unless  the  militarist  evil  is 
stamped  out,  a  hundred  declarations 
disavowing  territorial  ambitions  will 
not  be  able  to  convince  the  Powers.' 

The  militarists  placed  the  Govern- 
ment in  almost  as  embarrassing  a  posi- 
tion in  Korea  last  year  as  in  Siberia. 
Premier  Hara,  stirred  to  action  by  the 
excesses  of  the  Japanese  troops,  issued 
orders  that  the  military  forces  in  Korea 
should  be  subordinated  to  the  civil 
authorities;  but  the  military,  backed  by 
the  unseen  government,  virtually  ig- 
nored these  orders,  the  newly  appointed 
Governor-General,  Baron  Saito,  being 
unable  to  enforce  his  commands  where 
the  military  were  concerned.  Should 
the  Prime  Minister  resent  such  at- 
tempts to  block  the  policy  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, and  appeal  to  the  Emperor, 
he  would  really  be  appealing  to  the 
Elder  Statesmen,  who,  as  I  have  ex- 
plained, stand  between  the  Emperor 
and  the  Cabinet.  Or,  should  the  Diet 
attempt  to  put  a  check  on  the  militar- 
ists by  refusing  to  pass  the  army  ap- 
propriations, it  would  have  no  effect  on 
the  situation,  for  in  such  a  case  the 
budget  holds  over  from  the  previous 
year.  Having  direct  access  to  the  Em- 
peror and  to  the  funds  of  the  Imperial 
Household,  which  is  the  richest  in  the 
world,  the  militarists  never  lack  for 
money.  Indeed,  when  all  is  said  and 
done,  it  is  they  who  hold  the  purse- 
strings.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that 
the  Progressive  Premier,  Mr.  Hara,  is 
in  a  trying  and  none  too  strong  posi- 
tion. The  military  party  and  the  forces 
of  reaction  typified  by  Prince  Yama- 
gata  have  too  much  power  for  him.  The 
Premier,  speaking  for  the  Government 
and  through  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  makes  commitments  to  other 
powers.  The  unseen  government  ig- 
nores these  commitments  and  leaves  it 


to  the  Premier  to  explain  as  best  he  can. 
There  you  have  the  real  reason  why  Ja- 
pan seems  so  often  to  violate  her  treaty 
obligations.  She  is  not  insincere  in  mak- 
ing them.  The  men  who  make  them  are 
not  the  men  who  break  them. 

This  continued  exercise  of  irrespon- 
sible authority  by  the  military  party  is 
the  most  important  and  the  most  dan- 
gerous factor  in  the  whole  Japanese 
question.  Until  the  invisible  and  irre- 
sponsible powers  behind  the  throne  are 
suppressed  in  favor  of  the  constitu- 
tional Government,  there  can  be  no  real 
hope  of  a  satisfactory  understanding 
between  Japan  and  the  United  States. 
A  democracy  like  ours  cannot  do  busi- 
ness with  a  government  that  is  masked; 
we  must  know  with  whom  we  are  deal- 
ing. If  Japan  sincerely  desires  the 
friendship  of  the  United  States,  then 
she  must  give  valid  assurances  that  the 
declared  policies  of  her  Government 
will  henceforward  be  binding  on  her 
military,  as  well  as  her  civil  agents. 

n 

Although  close  observers  have  of 
late  detected  a  noticeable  change  in  the 
attitude  of  the  younger  generation  of 
Japanese  toward  the  Emperor,  who  is 
no  longer  venera.ted  as  he  has  been  by 
past  generations,  and  although  the 
strength  of  the  anti-militarist  party  is 
steadily  increasing,  to  talk  glibly,  as 
certain  American  visitors  to  Japan 
have  done,  of  Japanese  militarism  be- 
ing on  its  last  legs,  is  to  reveal  profound 
ignorance  of  the  actual  conditions.  If 
the  system  of  unseen  government  were 
merely  transitory,  it  might  readily 
yield  before  the  growth  of  education 
and  enlightened  opinion.  But  it  is  not 
transitory.  Its  tentacles  reach  deep 
into  the  traditions  of  the  Empire.  It 
would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  the  mili- 
tarists were  not  dominant  in  Japan, 
for  the  whole  history  of  the  nation  is 


692 


ARE  WE   GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE   DEAL? 


punctuated  by  wars,  feuds,  and  revolu- 
tions; it  climbed  to  its  present  position 
as  one  of  the  Great  Powers  on  the  guns 
of  its  battleships  and  the  bayonets  of 
its  soldiers;  it  has  always  been  ruled  by 
military  men.  The  militarism  which 
pervades  the  nation  is  vitalized,  more- 
over, by  Japan's  obsession  that  she  is 
hemmed  in  by  a  ring  of  enemies.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  the  great 
majority  of  Japanese  look  to  the  mili- 
tarists as  the  saviors  of  the  Empire. 

Although  the  Japanese  are  gradually 
becoming  more  democratic  in  their  ten- 
dencies, let  us  not  delude  ourselves  into 
thinking  that  the  disappearance  of 
militarism  is  a  probability  of  the  not 
far  distant  future.  That  it  will  eventu- 
ally disappear  is  as  certain  as  that  dawn 
follows  the  dark.  But  it  may  take  a 
generation,  or  more.  That  the  militar- 
ists will  remain  in  the  ascendant  during 
the  lifetime  of  the  Elder  Statesmen 
there  can  be  little  doubt.  Not  until 
the  grip  of  those  aged  dictators  has  been 
relaxed  by  death  is  the  power  of  the 
militarists  likely  to  wane.  Nor  is  there 
any  certainty  that  it  will  wane  then; 
for  in  recent  years  their  power  has  been 
immensely  strengthened  by  a  force 
far  mightier  and  more  sinister  than 
that  of  the  Elder  Statesmen.  I  refer 
to  the  force  of  organized  capital,  of  Big 
Business.  As  Mr.  Nathaniel  Peffer,  one 
of  the  shrewdest  and  best-informed  stu- 
dents of  Far  Eastern  politics,  has  shown, 
it  is  Big  Business  that  has  reinforced 
and  is  keeping  in  power  the  unseen 
government  —  the  military  party. 

Only  recently  has  modern  industrial 
Japan  awakened  to  a  realization  of  its 
own  strength.  But  it  is  now  fully  alive 
to  the  almost  unlimited  power,  the  end- 
less possibilities,  to  be  realized  by  the 
great  business  interests  of  the  country 
joining  hands  and  working  together 
for  a  common  purpose.  One  who  could 
trace,  through  the  political  structure  of 
the  Empire,  the  ramifications  of  the 


great  industrial  and  trading  companies 
would  be  in  a  position  to  analyze  Jap- 
anese politics,  domestic  and  foreign. 
Those  policies  of  the  Japanese  Govern- 
ment which  are  usually  attributed  by 
foreigners  to  the  ambitions  of  the  mili- 
tarists are  in  reality  due  to  the  machi- 
nations of  the  capitalists.  Here  you 
have  the  key  to  the  annexation  of  Ko- 
rea, to  Japanese  aggression  in  Manchu- 
ria and  Siberia,  to  the  unreasonable 
demands  made  on  China,  to  the  opposi- 
tion to  the  restoration  of  Shantung. 
All  of  those  regions  are  immensely  rich 
in  natural  resources;  they  offer  unlim- 
ited possibilities  for  profitable  exploita- 
tion. And  it  is  Japanese  Big  Business 
which  proposes  to  do  the  exploiting. 
So,  in  order  to  obtain  control  of  the  ter- 
ritories which  it  proposes  to  exploit,  it 
has  joined  forces  with  the  land-hungry 
militarists.  It  is  the  most  sinister  com- 
bination of  high  politics  and  Big  Busi- 
ness that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Dominating  Japanese  business  and 
finance  are  a  few  great  corporations: 
Mitsui,  Mitsubishi,  Suzuki,  Okura, 
Sumitomo,  Kuhara,  Takata,  Furu- 
kawa.  So  much  larger  than  the  others 
that  they  are  in  a  class  by  themselves 
are  the  Mitsui  and  Mitsubishi  com- 
panies, owned  respectively  by  the 
Mitsui  and  Iwasaki  families.  Indeed, 
it  is  a  common  saying  in  Japan  that  no 
one  knows  where  Mitsui  ends  and  the 
Government  begins.  Their  tentacles 
sink  deep  into  every  phase  of  national 
life  —  commercial,  industrial,  financial, 
political.  They  own  banks,  railways, 
steamship  lines,  mills,  factories,  dock- 
yards, mines,  forests,  plantations,  in- 
surance companies,  trading  corpora- 
tions. They  and  the  leaders  of  the 
unseen  government  are  as  intertwined 
by  marriage,  mutual  interest,  and  inter- 
locking directorates  as  President  Wilson 
boasted  that  the  Treaty  of  Versailles 
was  intertwined  with  the  Covenant  of 
the  League  of  Nations. 


ARE   WE   GIVING  JAPAN  A   SQUARE  DEAL? 


693 


Each  of  these  great  companies,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Peffer,  has  its  political, 
financial,  or  family  alliances  with  the 
leaders  of  the  unseen  government. 
Marquis  Okuma,  one  of  the  Elder 
Statesmen,  is  related  by  marriage  to  the 
Iwasakis,  who,  as  I  have  said,  own  the 
great  house  of  Mitsubishi.  The  same 
house  is  connected  with  the  opposition 
party  through  its  leader,  Viscount  Kato, 
who  is  Baron  Iwasaki's  son-in-law. 
Another  of  the  Elder  Statesmen,  Mar- 
quis Matsukata,  is  adviser  to  one  of 
these  political  dynasties.  The  late  Mar- 
quis Inoue,  who  held  in  turn  the  port- 
folios of  agriculture  and  commerce, 
home  affairs,  finance,  and  foreign  af- 
fairs, was  closely  connected  with  the 
house  of  Mitsui.  The  late  Field-Mar- 
shal Terauchi,  at  one  time  Prime  Min- 
ister of  Japan  and  one  of  the  foremost 
leaders  of  the  military  party,  was  equal- 
ly close  to  Okura,  a  relationship  which 
explains  that  house's  success  in  ob- 
taining army  contracts  and  concessions 
on  the  mainland  of  Asia.  And  so  with 
the  highest  military  men  of  the  Empire 
and  the  leading  statesmen  of  both  po- 
litical parties.  Each  has  his  relation- 
ship to  some  great  financial  house,  to 
some  captain  of  industry.  Big  Business 
uses  these  affiliations  with  the  militar- 
ists to  obtain  for  its  schemes  the  sup- 
port of  the  unseen  government,  which 
is  enormously  strengthened  by  the  affili- 
ations of  the  militarists  with  Big  Busi- 
ness. It  is  like  a  cross-ruff  at  bridge. 

m 

*  Japan's  future  lies  oversea.'  In 
those  four  words  is  found  the  policy  of 
the  military-financial  combination  that 
rules  Japan.  The  annexation  of  For- 
mosa and  Korea  and  Sakhalin,  the  oc- 
cupation of  Manchuria  and  Siberia  and 
Shantung,  are  not,  as  the  world  sup- 
poses, examples  of  haphazard  land- 
grabbing,  but  phases  of  a  vast  and 


carefully  laid  scheme,  which  has  for 
its  aim  the  eventual  control  of  all  East- 
ern Asia.  Ostensibly  to  solve  the  prob- 
lems with  which  she  has  been  con- 
fronted by  her  amazing  increase  in 
population  and  production,  but  in 
reality  to  gratify  the  ambitions  of  the 
militaristic-financial  clique,  Japan  has 
embarked  on  a  campaign  of  world- 
expansion  and  exploitation.  Con- 
vinced that  she  requires  a  colonial  em- 
pire in  her  business,  she  has  set  out  to 
build  one  as  she  would  build  a  bridge 
or  a  dry-dock.  The  fact  that  she  had 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  to  start  with 
did  not  worry  her  at  all.  Having  once 
made  up  her  mind  that  the  realization 
of  her  political,  economic,  and  territo- 
rial ambitions  necessitated  the  acquire- 
ment of  overseas  dominions,  she  has 
permitted  nothing  to  stand  hi  the  way 
of  her  getting  them.  In  other  words, 
wherever  an  excuse  can  be  provided 
for  raising  a  flagstaff,  whether  on  an 
ice-floe  in  the  Arctic  or  an  island  in  the 
Pacific,  there  the  Rising  Sun  flag  shall 
flutter;  wherever  trade  is  to  be  found, 
there  Yokohama  cargo-boats  shall  drop 
their  anchors,  there  Osaka  engines 
shall  thunder  over  Kobe  rails,  there 
Kyoto  silks  and  Nagoya  cottons  shall 
be  sold  by  merchants  speaking  the  lan- 
guage of  Nippon.  It  is  a  scheme  as- 
tounding by  its  very  vastness,  as  me- 
thodically planned  and  systematically 
conducted  as  an  American  presidential 
campaign;  and  already,  thanks  to 
Japanese  audacity,  aggressiveness,  and 
perseverance,  backed  up  by  Japanese 
banks,  battleships,  and  bayonets,  it  is 
much  nearer  realization  than  the  world 
imagines. 

In  China,  Siberia,  and  the  Philip- 
pines, in  California,  Canada,  and  Mex- 
ico, in  the  East  Indies,  Australia,  and 
New  Zealand,  on  three  continents  and 
on  all  the  islands  of  the  Eastern  seas, 
Japanese  merchants  and  Japanese 
money  are  working  twenty-four  hours 


694 


ARE  WE  GIVING  JAPAN   A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


a  day,  building  up  that  overseas  em- 
pire of  which  the  financiers  and  the 
militarists  dream.  The  activities  of 
Japan's  outposts  of  commerce  and 
finance  are  as  varied  as  commerce  and 
finance  themselves.  Their  voices  are 
heard  in  every  Eastern  market-place; 
their  footsteps  resound  in  every  avenue 
of  Oriental  endeavor.  Their  mines  in 
Siberia  and  China  and  Manchuria 
rival  the  cave  of  Al-ed-Din.  The  rail- 
ways that  converge  on  Peking  from  the 
north  and  east,  the  great  trunk-line 
across  Manchuria,  and  the  eastern 
section  of  the  trans-Siberian  system 
are  already  in  their  hands.  They  work 
tea-plantations  in  China,  coffee-plan- 
tations in  Java,  rubber-plantations  in 
Malaya,  cocoanut-plantations  in  Bor- 
neo, hemp-plantations  in  the  Philip- 
pines, spice-plantations  in  the  Celebes, 
sugar-plantations  in  Hawaii,  prune- 
orchards  in  California,  apple-orchards 
in  Oregon,  coal-mines  in  Manchuria, 
gold-mines  in  Korea,  forests  in  Siberia, 
fisheries  in  Kamchatka.  Their  argo- 
sies, flying  the  house-flags  of  the  Toyo 
Kisen  Kaisha,  the  Nippon  Yusen 
Kaisha,  the  Osaka  Shosen  Kaisha,  and 
a  score  of  other  lines,  bear  Japanese 
goods  to  Japanese  traders  on  all  the  sea- 
boards of  the  Orient,  while  Japanese 
warships  are  constantly  a-prowl,  all 
up  and  down  the  Eastern  seas,  ready 
to  protect  the  interests  thus  created 
by  the  menace  of  their  guns. 

In  regions  where  Japanese  banks  are 
in  control  and  Japanese  settlers  abound, 
it  is  seldom  difficult  for  Japan  to  find 
an  excuse  for  aggression.  It  may  be 
that  a  Japanese  settler  is  mistreated 
or  a  Japanese  consul  insulted,  or  that 
a  Japanese  bank  has  difficulty  in  col- 
lecting its  debts.  So  the  slim  cables 
flash  the  complaint  to  Tokyo;  there 
are  secret  consultations  between  the 
militaristic  leaders  and  the  chieftains 
of  Big  Business;  a  spokesman  of  the 
unseen  government  rises  in  the  Diet  to 


announce  that,  in  Siberia  or  China, 
Japanese  interests  have  been  endan- 
gered or  Japanese  dignity  affronted; 
the  newspapers  controlled  by  Big  Busi- 
ness inflame  the  national  resentment; 
the  heads  of  the  invisible  government, 
speaking  with  the  authority  of  the 
Emperor,  issue  the  necessary  orders 
to  the  Ministers  of  War  and  Marine; 
and  before  the  country  in  question 
awakens  to  a  realization  of  what  is  hap- 
pening, Japanese  transports  are  at 
anchor  in  her  harbors  and  Japanese 
troops  are  disembarking  on  her  soil. 
Before  they  are  withdrawn,  —  if  they 
are  withdrawn,  —  Japan  usually  suc- 
ceeds in  extorting  a  concession  to  build 
a  railway,  or  to  work  a  coal-field,  or  to 
underwrite  a  loan,  or  a  ninety-nine- 
year  lease  of  a  harbor  which  can  be 
converted  into  a  naval  base,  or  the 
cession  of  a  more  or  less  valuable  strip 
of  territory  —  and  so  the  work  of 
building  up  an  overseas  empire  goes 
merrily  and  steadily  on. 

Now  this  steady  territorial  expansion 
—  or,  rather,  the  aggressive  militarism 
that  has  produced  it  —  has  naturally 
aroused  suspicion  abroad  of  Japan's  in- 
tentions. In  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury the  area  of  the  Empire  has  grown 
from  148,000  to  261,000  square  miles. 
And  virtually  every  foot  of  this  great  ter- 
ritory has  been  won  by  the  sword.  We 
have  seen  Formosa  and  the  Pescadores 
filched,  as  spoils  of  war,  from  a  helpless 
China.  We  have  witnessed  the  rape  of 
Korea.  We  have  observed  Manchuria 
become  Japanese  in  fact,  if  not  in  name. 
We  have  watched  first  Southern  and 
now  Northern  Sakhalin  brought  under 
the  rule  of  Tokyo.  We  have  seen  the 
Rising  Sun .  flag  hoisted  over  Kiao- 
chow,  the  Marshalls,  and  the  Caro- 
lines. We  have  noted  Japan's  reluc- 
tance to  withdraw  from  Shantung  or  to 
permit  the  neutralization  of  Yap.  We 
have  watched  the  armies  of  Nippon 
pushing  deeper  and  deeper  into  Siberia 


695 


instead  of  withdrawing  altogether,  as 
the  Tokyo  Government  had  promised. 
Let  the  honest-minded  Japanese  ask 
himself,  then,  if,  in  the  face  of  such 
aggressive  imperialism,  we  are  not  jus- 
tified in  our  suspicion  and  apprehension. 
Not  a  little  of  our  suspicion  of  Jap- 
anese imperialism  is  directly  traceable 
to  the  circumstantial  stories  told  by 
Americans  returning  from  the  East, 
particularly  army  and  navy  officers,  of 
Japan's  secret  designs  against  the 
Philippines.  In  substantiation  of  these 
stories  they  point  to  the  temptation 
offered  by  the  great  natural  wealth  of 
the  islands;  to  the  alleged  alarming 
increase  in  the  number  of  Japanese 
settlers,  particularly  in  Mindanao;  and 
to  the  geographical  fact  that  the  Philip- 
pines form  a  prolongation  of  the  Jap- 
anese archipelago.  (Were  you  aware 
that  Taiwan  [Formosa],  the  southern- 
most Japanese  island,  can  be  seen  from 
the  highlands  of  Luzon  on  a  clear  day?) 
That  the  Philippines  would  be  an  ob- 
jective of  Japanese  attack  in  the  event 
of  war  between  the  United  States  and 
Japan  is  a  foregone  conclusion.  What 
Japan's  attitude  might  be  were  we  to 
withdraw  from  the  islands,  leaving  the 
natives  to  paddle  their  own  canoe,  is, 
perhaps,  open  to  question.  But  of  this 
I  am  convinced:  as  things  stand  to-day 
Japan  harbors  no  designs  whatsoever 
against  the  Philippines.  Look  at  it 
from  the  standpoint  of  common  sense. 
Why  should  Japan  embark  on  a  war 
with  a  rich  and  powerful  country  like 
the  United  States,  in  order  to  seize  the 
Philippines,  —  which,  as  she  doubtless 
realizes,  she  could  not  permanently 
hold,* —  when,  without  the  risk  of  war, 
she  can  help  herself  to  even  more  valu- 
able territory  much  nearer  home?  It  is 
quite  true  that  Japan  is  opposed  to  the 
fortification  of  the  Philippines,  which 
she  would  regard  as  a  threat  against 
herself,  just  as  we  are  opposed  to  and 
would  probably  prohibit  the  establish- 


ment of  a  fortified  Japanese  naval  base 
on  the  coast  of  Mexico.  While  on  the 
subject  of  the  Philippines,  here  is  an 
interesting  bit  of  secret  history.  Vis- 
count Kaneko.told  me  that,  some  years 
prior  to  the  Spanish-American  War, 
Spain  approached  Japan  with  an  offer 
to  sell  her  the  Philippines  for  eight 
million  dollars  gold,  and  that  Japan 
declined  the  offer  on  the  ground  that 
the  islands  were  too  far  away  for  her  to 
administer  satisfactorily  and  that  their 
climate  was  not  suitable  for  Japanese  to 
live  in. 

Another  reason  for  our  distrust  of 
the  peacefulness  of  Japanese  intentions 
is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that,  at  a  time 
when  other  nations  are  seriously  dis- 
cussing the  question  of  disarmament, 
Japan  announces  a  military  programme 
which  calls  for  an  army  with  a  war- 
time strength  of  close  to  five  million 
men,  thereby  making  her  the  greatest 
military  power  on  earth,  and  a  naval 
programme  designed  to  give  her  eight 
battleships  and  eight  battle-cruisers, 
each  to  be  replaced  by  a  new  vessel 
every  eight  years.  Japan  asserts  that 
these  vast  armies,  this  powerful  arma- 
da, should  not  be  interpreted  as  a 
threat  against  ourselves.  But,  we  nat- 
urally ask,  against  whom,  then,  are  they 
intended?  Surely  not  against  her  ally, 
England,  or  against  revolution-torn 
Russia,  or  against  prostrate  Germany, 
or  against  decrepit  China.  Leaving 
these  out  of  the  question,  who  is  left? 

But  there  are  two  sides  to  every  ques- 
tion. Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at 
Japan's.  Is  it  not  fair  and  reasonable  to 
judge  her  by  ourselves?  What  should 
we  say  if  the  Japanese  charged  us  with 
planning  a  war  against  them  because 
we  are  increasing  our  naval  strength? 
We  are  building  a  navy  for  national 
defense.  Japan  is  building  one  for 
precisely  the  same  reason.  Defense 
against  whom,  you  ask?  Well,  if  you 
wish  to  know  the  truth,  defense  against 


696 


ARE   WE   GIVING   JAPAN   A   SQUARE   DEAL? 


the  United  States.  For,  grotesque  as 
such  an  assertion  may  appear  to  Amer- 
icans, the  majority  of  Japanese  are 
convinced  that  we  are  deliberately 
trying  to  force  a  war  upon  them.  As 
evidence  of  this,  they  point  to  the  dis- 
criminatory and  humiliating  treatment 
which  we  have  accorded  to  Japanese  in 
the  United  States;  to  pur  opposition  to 
Japan's  legitimate  ambitions  on  the 
mainland  of  Asia;  to  our  blocking  the 
insertion  in  the  Covenant  of  the  League 
of  Nations  of  a  clause  recognizing 
Japanese  racial  equality;  to  our  refusal 
to  recognize  the  Japanese  mandate  for 
the  former  German  possessions  in  the 
Pacific;  to  our  unofficial  but  none  the 
less  active  support  of  China  in  the  con- 
troversy over  Shantung ;  to  the  strength- 
ening of  our  naval  bases  at  Cavite  and 
Pearl  Harbor;  and  finally,  to  the  long 
succession  of  sneers,  gibes,  and  insults 
indulged  in  by  American  jingoes,  anti- 
Japanese  politicians,  and  certain  sec- 
tions of  the  American  press.  Viewing 
the  situation  without  prejudice,  it  seems 
to  me  that  Japan  has  as  good  ground  for 
her  suspicion  of  us  as  we  have  for  our 
suspicion  of  her. 

IV 

Finally,  we  come  to  the  most  press- 
ing, the  most  delicate,  and  the  most 
dangerous  of  all  the  questions  in  dis- 
pute between  the  two  countries  —  that 
of  Japanese  immigration  into  the 
United  States.  Now  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  embarking  on  a  discussion  of 
the  pros  and  cons  of  this  question.  But, 
because  I  have  found  that  most  Amer- 
icans have  of  it  only  an  inexact  and 
fragmentary  knowledge,  and  because  a 
rudimentary  knowledge  of  it  is  essen- 
tial to  a  clear  understanding  of  the 
larger  question,  our  relations  with 
Japan,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  sketch 
in  briefest  outline  the  events  leading  up 
to  the  present  immigration  situation. 

Under  the  administrative  interpre- 


tation of  our  naturalization  laws,  Jap- 
anese aliens  are  ineligible  to  American 
citizenship.  But  down  to  the  summer 
of  1908  there  was  no  restriction  on  Jap- 
anese immigration.  In  that  year,  how- 
ever, the  much-discussed  '  Gentlemen's 
Agreement,'  whereby  Japanese  labor- 
ers are  excluded  from  the  United 
States,  went  into  effect.  That  agree- 
ment is  not  in  the  shape  of  a  formal 
treaty  or  undertaking.  The  term  ap- 
plies simply  to  the  substance  of  a  num- 
ber of  informal  notes  exchanged  be- 
tween the  then  Secretary  of  State, 
Elihu  Root,  and  the  Japanese  Ambas- 
sador in  Washington.  Under  the  terms 
of  this  agreement  we  announced  that 
no  Japanese  could  enter  our  ports  from 
Japan  or  Hawaii  without  a  proper 
passport  from  their  own  government, 
and  Japan  promised  in  turn  to  give  no 
passports  to  laborers.  There  has  been 
no  charge  that  Japan  has  failed  to  keep 
both  letter  and  spirit  of  this  agreement 
with  absolute  integrity.  In  fact,  the 
Japanese  Foreign  Office  has  at  times 
leaned  backward  in  its  endeavor  to  keep 
faith.  But  the  labor  elements  in  Califor- 
nia, unable  to  meet  Japanese  industrial 
competition  and  jealous  of  Japanese 
success,  continued  their  anti-Japan- 
ese agitation,  being  aided  by  politicians 
seeking  the  labor  vote;  and  in  1913  a 
law  prohibiting  the  purchase  of  land 
by  Japanese  in  that  state  was  placed 
on  the  statute-books  of  California. 

But  there  were  certain  loopholes  left 
by  this  law  which  made  it  possible  for 
agricultural  land  to  be  leased  for  three 
years  by  Japanese;  for  land  to  be  pur- 
chased by  corporations  in  which  Jap- 
anese were  interested:  and  for*  land 
to  be  purchased  by  American-born 
children  of  Japanese  parents.  To  block 
up  these  loopholes  the  Oriental  Exclu- 
sion League  circulated  a  petition  to 
place  an  initiative  act  —  known  as  the 
Alien  Land  Act  —  on  the  ballot,  in 
1920.  To  bolster  up  its  arguments  in 


ARE   WE   GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE   DEAL? 


697 


favor  of  this  act,  it  called  attention  to 
the  rapid  increase  of  the  Japanese 
birth-rate  in  California.  This  increase 
in  the  birth-rate  was  due,  it  was  claim- 
ed, to  the  custom  followed  by  many  of 
the  poorer  Japanese  settlers  in  Cali- 
fornia of  having  pictures  sent  to  them 
from  Japan  of  eligible  girls,  to  whom 
they  were  married  in  absentia,  these 
so-called  'picture  brides,'  being  thus 
legally  married,  having  the  right  under 
our  laws  to  join  their  husbands  in  the 
United  States.  The  more  picture  brides, 
the  more  children,  and  the  more  child- 
ren, the  more  land  passing  under  Jap- 
anese control;  for  the  Japanese  cir- 
cumvented the  prohibition  against 
their  holding  land  by  purchasing  in 
the  name  of  their  American-born  child- 
ren, who  were  automatically  American 
citizens  and  of  whom  the  parents  were 
the  legal  guardians.  Japan,  in  order 
to  remove  another  source  of  contro- 
versy, in  February,  1920,  ceased  to 
issue  passports  to  'picture  brides.' 
But  this  did  not  satisfy  the  anti-Japan- 
ese element  in  California,  which  succeed- 
ed in  having  the  adoption  of  the  Alien 
Land  Act  put  to  a  popular  vote.  This 
act  —  perhaps  the  most  stringent  meas- 
ure ever  directed  against  the  civil  rights 
of  residents  in  the  United  States  — 
provides  for  the  prohibition  (a)  of  land- 
ownership  by  Japanese;  (6)  of  leasing  of 
agricultural  lands  by  Japanese;  (c)  of 
land-ownership  by  companies  or  corpo- 
rations in  which  Japanese  are  interest- 
ed; (d)  of  land-ownership  by  Japanese 
children  born  in  the  United  States,  by 
removing  them  from  the  guardianship 
of  their  parents  in  such  cases. 

At  the  elections  in  November,  1920, 
this  measure  was  carried  by  a  minority 
of  the  registered  voters  and  by  a  three- 
to-one  vote  of  those  who  expressed  an 
opinion  on  the  subject.  The  vote  stood 
668,483  in  favor  and  222,086  opposed. 

There  you  have  the  Japanese  immi- 
gration situation  up  to  the  minute. 


Now,  the  point  I  wish  to  emphasize 
is  this:  the  Japanese  are  not  clamoring 
for  the  removal  of  any  of  the  present 
restrictions  on  Japanese  immigration. 
They  consider  these  restrictions  offen- 
sive and  humiliating,  —  that  goes  with- 
out saying,  —  but  they  concede  our 
right  to  decide  who  shall  enter  our 
doors  and  who  shall  stay  out.  Not  for 
a  moment,  however,  have  the  Japanese 
accepted  our  assertion  that  our  exclu- 
sion of  them  is  based  on  economic 
grounds.  They  know,  and  we  know, 
that  the  cause  of  their  exclusion  is 
racial.  No  one  realizes  more  clearly 
than  the  Japanese  that,  in  excluding 
them  from  the  United  States,  we  have 
virtually  proclaimed  them  an  inferior 
race.  I  repeat,  however,  that  they  con- 
cede our  right  to  exclude  whom  we 
please.  But  what  they  do  not  con- 
cede, what  they  will  not  agree  to,  is  the 
right  of  the  United  States,  or  of  any 
state  in  the  United  States,  to  discrim- 
inate against  those  Japanese  who  are 
lawfully  resident  in  this  country.  To 
attempt  to  deprive  those  Japanese 
dwelling  within  our  borders  of  the 
personal  and  property  rights  that  we 
grant  to  all  other  aliens  is  so  obviously 
unjust  that  it  scarcely  merits  discus- 
sion. The  Japanese  have  excellent 
grounds  for  believing  that  such  dis- 
criminatory legislation  is  unconstitu- 
tional; they  know  that  it  constitutes  an 
open  defiance  of  justice  and  equity. 
They  feel  —  and  their  feeling  is  shared, 
apparently,  by  the  222,000  Californi- 
ans  who  voted  against  it  —  that  such 
legislation  makes  ridiculous  our  oft- 
repeated  boast  that  we  stand  for  the 
'Square  Deal.' 

The  bitterness  of  Japanese  resent- 
ment over  the  immigration  question  is 
not  entirely  due,  however,  to  wounded 
racial  pride,  but  quite  as  much,  I  think, 
to  the  rudeness  and  lack  of  tact  which 
have  characterized  the  anti-Japanese 
campaign  in  California.  For  it  should 


698 


ARE   WE   GIVING  JAPAN  A  SQUARE  DEAL? 


be  remembered  that  in  no  country  is 
the  code  of  social  courtesy  or  considera- 
tion for  aliens  so  rigidly  observed  as  in 
Japan.  In  dealing  with  the  Japanese 
nothing  is  ever  gamed  by  insults  or 
bullying.  Politeness  is  the  shibboleth 
of  all  classes,  and  the  lowest  coolie 
usually  responds  to  it  instantly.  Is  it 
to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  the  Jap- 
anese are  irritated  and  resentful  at  the 
lack  of  courtesy  and  ordinary  good 
manners  which  we  have  displayed  in 
our  handling  of  so  peculiarly  delicate 
a  matter  as  the  immigration  question? 
It  may  be  that  local  conditions  jus- 
tify the  wave  of  anti-Japanese  hysteria 
which  is  sweeping  the  Pacific  Coast. 
It  may  be  that  the  people  of  the  West- 
ern states  can  offer  valid  reasons  for 
their  constant  pin-pricking  and  irrita- 
tion of  Japan.  But  I  doubt  it.  I  am  no 
stranger  to  California,  —  I  have  lived 
there,  off  and  on,  for  years,  —  nor  am 
I  ignorant  of  the  relations  between 
labor  and  politics  in  that  state.  That 
is  why  I  refuse  to  become  excited  over 
the  threatened  'conquest'  of  California 
by  a  little  group  of  aliens  which  com- 
prises only  two  per  cent  of  the  popula- 
tion of  the  state,  and  which  owns  or 
leases  only  one  and  six  tenths  per  cent 
of  its  cultivated  lands.  The  Califor- 
nians  assert  that  their  anti-Japanese 
legislation  is  a  matter  for  them  to  de- 
cide and  does  not  concern  the  rest 
of  the  country.  Therein  they  are  wrong. 
For  in  the  unwished-for  event  of  war 
with  Japan,  it  would  not  be  a  war  be- 
tween California  and  Japan,  but  be- 
tween the  United  States  and  Japan. 
Therefore,  in  its  treatment  of  the  Jap- 
anese, it  behooves  California  to  take 
the  rights  and  interests  of  the  rest  of 
the  country  into  careful  consideration. 
So,  because  we  must  all  share  in  the 
responsibility  for  California's  treat- 
ment of  the  Japanese,  let  us  make  cer- 


tain beyond  doubt  or  question  that  that 
treatment  is  based  on  equity  and  jus- 
tice. Under  no  conditions  must  racial 
prejudice  or  political  expediency  be  per- 
mitted to  serve  as  an  excuse  for  giving 
the  Japanese  anything  save  a  square 
deal. 

From  talks  that  I  have  recently  had 
with  many  of  the  leading  men  of  Japan, 
including  the  Prime  Minister,  the  Minis- 
ter for  Foreign  Affairs,  the  Minister  for 
War,  and  the  President  of  the  House  of 
Peers,  I  am  convinced  that  an  under- 
standing can  be  reached  with  the  Japan- 
ese Government  over  the  immigration 
question,  —  and,  indeed,  over  most  of 
the  other  questions  pending  between  the 
two  nations,  including  that  of  Yap, — 
provided  we  approach  Tokyo  in  a 
courteous  manner  and  with  at  least  an 
outward  show  of  sympathetic  friend- 
liness. My  conversations  with  the 
Japanese  leaders  showed  me  that  they 
have  a  much  clearer  understanding  of 
our  difficulties  and  perplexities  than 
most  Americans  suppose.  It  might  be 
well  for  us  to  remember  that  the  Jap- 
anese Government  is  itself  in  an  ex- 
tremely trying  position,  and  that  its 
leaders  are  extremely  apprehensive  of 
the  effect  on  Japanese  public  opinion 
of  any  settlement  of  the  immigration 
question  which  might  be  interpreted  as 
an  affront  to  Japanese  racial  pride  or 
national  dignity.  But  of  this  I  can  as- 
sure you:  Japan  is  genuinely,  almost 
pathetically,  anxious  for  American 
confidence  and  good-will,  and,  in  order 
to  obtain  them,  she  is  prepared  to  make 
almost  every  concession  that  her  self- 
respect  will  permit  and  that  a  fair- 
minded  American  can  demand.1 

1  For  many  valuable  suggestions  and  for  many 
important  data  incorporated  in  this  article  I  am 
deeply  indebted  to  the  Hon.  Roland  S.  Morris, 
former  American  Ambassador  to  Japan,  and  to 
Nathaniel  Peffer,  Esq.,  correspondent  in  the  Far 
East  of  the  New  York  Tribune. 


(The  End) 


ENGLAND  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


BY  HERBERT  SIDEBOTHAM 


THERE  has  been  little  public  discus- 
sion in  England  of  the  problems  of  the 
Washington  Conference;  but  on  that 
account  people  have  been  thinking  the 
more.  Six  months  ago  it  used  to  be  said 
that  all  roads  in  English  politics  led  to 
Dublin,  so  strongly  did  people  feel  that 
on  a  just  settlement  of  the  Irish  problem 
depended  the  health  of  the  whole  State. 
In  regard  to  Ireland,  the  British  Gov- 
ernment has  done  everything  that  it 
could  do  to  bring  about  a  settlement; 
and  whether  it  is  reached  or  not  rests 
with  the  Sum  Fein  leaders  rather  than 
with  England.  At  any  rate,  we  have 
done  enough,  it  is  hoped,  to  prove  the 
sincerity  of  our  desire  for  peace,  and  to 
disprove  that  strange  legend  of  England 
as  a  nation  besotted  with  Imperialism 
and  caring  nothing  for  the  liberty  of 
mankind,  so  long  as  her  own  interests 
are  served.  From  this  point  of  view,  the 
negotiations  with  Sinn  Fein,  whether 
they  succeed  or  fail,  will  serve  to  strike 
the  keynote  both  of  our  policy  and  of 
our  reputation  at  Washington. 

This  is  not  a  Liberal  government  in 
the  party  sense;  but  in  the  real  sense, 
especially  in  the  domain  of  foreign  af- 
fairs, it  is  perhaps  the  most  liberal  gov- 
ernment that  England  has  ever  had. 
Let  Americans  compare  the  ease  with 
which  a  great,  humane,  liberal  idea 
gains  acceptance  in  official  circles  now, 
with  the  passive  obstinacy  it  used  to 
encounter  in  the  past,  and  they  will 
realize  that  this  is  no  idle  boast. 

Observe,  too,  how  interest  and  senti- 
ment unite  from  the  most  diverse  quar- 
ters to  make  Washington  the  focus  of 


every  political  orientation  just  now.  Is 
relief  from  heavy  taxation  the  domin- 
ant desire  in  the  British  electorate?  It 
can  look  nowhere  for  hope  except  to  the 
success  of  Washington  hi  producing 
some  effective  scheme  of  disarmament; 
for,  apart  from  economy  in  armaments, 
the  anti- waste  compaign  is  only  a  suc- 
cession of  cat-calls.  Is  the  conscience 
overborne  with  a  sense  of  the  horror 
and  wickedness  of  war?  We  cannot 
escape  the  sense  of  impending  tragedy 
except  by  settling  before  they  become 
acute  the  political  differences  in  the 
Far  East,  which,  left  alone,  are  even 
now  shaping  themselves  toward  an- 
other great  war.  Does  this  man  long 
for  the  power  and  opportunity  to  sweet- 
en the  toil  of  the  poor?  He  too  must  fix 
his  hopes  on  Washington,  for  the  expen- 
diture on  war  is  the  greatest  of  obstacles 
to  all  political  schemes  for  promoting 
domestic  happiness.  Or  is  that  man's 
principal  interest  in  the  personalities  of 
politics?  For  him,  too,  Washington 
will  provide  one  of  the  most  moving  of 
dramas. 

By  his  offer  of  peace  to  Ireland,  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  has  proved  that  war  has 
not  dulled  the  edge  of  his  Liberal  faith. 
If,  in  addition,  he  can  in  conjunction 
with  American  statesmen  settle  the  prob- 
lem of  disarmament,  which  has  defied 
the  efforts  of  good-will  for  genera- 
tions, his  power  is  assured  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  and  the  policy  of  England 
will  be  Liberal  for  another  generation, 
or  more.  Mr.  Lloyd  George  knows 
that,  and  the  spur  of  ambition  will 
speed  him  in  the  same  direction  as  the 

699 


700        ENGLAND  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


conscience  of  the  people.  America  need 
have  no  fear  that  our  politicians  will 
not  take  the  Washington  Conference 
seriously.  They  are  desperately  in  ear- 
nest about  it,  and  they  have  every  rea- 
son —  of  ambition,  of  expediency,  and 
of  principle  —  to  work  hard  for  success. 
America  has  been  led  to  propose  the 
Conference  for  reasons  that  are  parallel 
to,  but  not  identical  with,  those  which 
lead  us  to  support  her  effort  so  warmly. 
She  has,  like  us,  economic  reasons  for 
desiring  a  reduction  in  the  expenditure 
on  armaments,  though  they  are  less 
strong  than  with  us.  America  has  not 
passed  the  limit  of  her  taxable  capacity 
(or  so  it  seems  to  us  here)  so  far  as  we 
have  done.  On  the  other  hand,  her  po- 
litical reasons  for  desiring -a  settlement 
with  Japan  which  shall  avoid  the  oc- 
casion of  war  are  stronger  even  than 
ours.  In  no  conceivable  circumstances, 
should  we  go  to  war  against  America  on 
the  side  of  Japan;  our  risk  of  war  lies  in 
the  remote  contingency  of  our  interven- 
tion if  America  were  really  hard  pressed ; 
for  we  could  not  afford  to  let  America 
be  defeated  any  more  than  America 
could  have  afforded  to  let  us  be  defeated 
in  the  late  war.  And  it  is  safe  to  say 
that,  if  Japan  knew  that  that  would  be 
our  attitude,  there  would  be  no  risk  of 
war  between  her  and  America.  We 
hold  the  keys  of  peace  between  America 
and  Japan,  and  America  must  allow  us 
to  use  them  in  the  sense  that  we  think 
would  be  most  effectual  for  the  pur- 
poses of  peace.  If  we  were  to  denounce 
the  alliance  with  Japan,  the  danger 
could  be  met  only  by  a  military  alliance 
between  England  and  the  United 
States,  by  which  we  should  bind  our- 
selves to  provide  an  army  for  the  de- 
fense of  China  against  military  aggres- 
sion by  Japan.  That  is  a  prospect  that 
is  agreeable  to  neither  of  us.  As  neither 
of  us  wishes  to  engage  in  difficult  and 
dangerous  operations  in  China,  let  us 
rather  use  the  instrument  that  we  have 


to  hand  in  the  Japanese  alliance,  and,  by 
associating  Japan  with  our  policy,  pre- 
vent the  occasion  of  war  from  ever  aris- 
ing. It  would  be  a  great  mistake  on  the 
part  of  America  if  she  were  to  make  the 
abandonment  of  this  alliance  the  test  of 
our  friendship  with  her,  for  that  would 
be  to  precipitate  the  danger  we  are  both 
anxious  to  avoid.  But  if  America  were 
to  say,  'Make  this  alliance  the  means 
of  preserving  peace  and  the  interests 
that  we  have  in  common,'  that  is  a  test 
that  we  should  accept  with  alacrity,  be- 
cause we  are  sure  that  we  can  satisfy  it. 

The  main  motive,  however,  of  Presi- 
dent Harding 's  invitation  to  the  Con- 
ference at  Washington  is  not  the  out- 
cry against  excessive  taxation  or  the 
fear  of  war  with  Japan,  but  a  view  of 
world-policy  with  which  England  has  a 
very  close  sympathy.  America  fears 
that,  if  expenditure  remains  at  its  pres- 
ent height,  not  only  will  the  expansion 
of  commercial  enterprise  be  checked, 
but  an  irresistible  popular  movement 
will  arise  for  the  repudiation  of  debts. 
There  are  people  in  England  who  fear 
it  too,  and  on  that  account  Lord  Birk- 
enhead  is  believed  to  be  anxious  to 
democratize  the  House  of  Lords  and  to 
give  it  some  control  over  finance,  in 
order  to  prevent  a  chance  Labor  ma- 
jority in  the  House  of  Commons  from 
measures  of  confiscation. 

A  second  motive  with  America  is 
that  she  has  made  the  discovery  that 
the  world  is,  in  the  economic  sense,  all 
one.  Nations  live  on  each  other's  pros- 
perity, and  the  first  condition  of  healthy 
exchange  of  commodities  is  a  healthy 
state  of  the  exchange  in  money.  We 
had  just  made  up  our  minds  that  the 
'economic  man'  of  the  Manchester 
school  did  not  exist,  when  lo,  a  very  big 
economic  man  comes  into  life.  America 
is  that  man;  and  she  is  interested  in  the 
political  and  economic  health  of  Eu- 
rope because  (apart  from  humane  rea- 
sons) without  it  her  own  foreign  trade 


ENGLAND  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE         701 


must  languish.  So  true  is  it  that  na- 
tions, however  wealthy  and  prosperous, 
cannot  live  alone. 

And,  lastly,  America,  dissatisfied 
with  the  political  arrangements  made 
at  the  Paris  Conference  for  preserving 
the  peace  of  the  world,  knows  that  she 
cannot  rest  in  an  attitude  of  mere  nega- 
tion, but  that,  if  she  rejects  those  ar- 
rangements, she  must  substitute  some- 
thing better  for  them.  That  arises  from 
her  discovery  that  the  political  as  well 
as  the  economic  world  is  one;  indeed, 
that  you  cannot  separate  politics  and 
economics  any  more  than  you  can  sep- 
arate the  head  from  the  tail  of  a  coin. 

America  is  coming  into  world-poli- 
tics, not  from  choice  but  because  she 
must  —  that  is  the  first  and  most  im- 
portant meaning  of  the  Conference. 
England  welcomes  the  decision,  not  be- 
cause she  thinks  that  America  will  sup- 
port any  particular  views  of  hers,  but 
because  she  will  be  a  new  arbiter  in  Eu- 
ropean affairs ,  who,  whether  she  agrees 
with  us  or  not,  will  at  any  rate  speak 
our  idiom.  That  idiom  is  the  idiom  of 
the  Common  Law,  which  we  share.  Its 
main  characteristic  is  the  view  that  the 
State  is,  after  all,  only  the  sum  of  the 
individuals  that  compose  it,  and  has 
no  separate  abstract  entity,  which  has 
rights  of  its  own;  and  it  follows  that  it 
resents  the  conception  of  foreign  poli- 
tics as  a  game  of  the  chancelleries,  to  be 
played  in  secret,  with  human  lives  as  its 
pawns.  It  insists  that  the  test  of  for- 
eign policy  is  not  the  welfare  of  an  ab- 
straction called  the  State,  but  the  sum 
of  happiness  among  the  individuals  who 
compose  it. 

The  Paris  Conference  was  far  from 
realizing  that  ideal,  and,  so  far  from 
composing  the  differences  between  na- 
tions, has  exhibited  in  sharp  conflict 
two  opposing  conceptions  of  foreign 
policy:  the  French  conception,  which 
holds  that  one  state  is  strong  by  an- 
other's weakness,  prosperous  by  its 


depression,  secure  by  strategic  combi- 
nations and  alliances,  and  the  Anglo- 
American  conception,  which  believes  in 
the  family  of  nations  and  in  a  concert  of 
powers  based  on  law  and  justice.  At 
Paris  this  conflict  could  be  resolved 
only  by  compromise,  for,  in  the  face  of 
the  enemy,  our  first  duty  was  at  all  costs 
to  maintain,  at  any  rate,  the  semblance 
of  unity.  It  is  nothing  to  be  surprised 
at  that  such  compromise  has  aroused 
dissatisfaction;  the  wonder  rather  is 
that  so  much  promises  to  be  durable. 
But  now  the  conditions  are  different. 
The  Paris  Conference  was  governed  by 
the  conditions  of  war;  the  Washington 
Conference  will  be  held  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  peace  —  a  state,  however,  not 
of  tranquil  acquiescence  on  the  part  of 
the  peoples,  but  of  clamant  demand 
that  they  shall  cease  to  be  ridden  by 
the  nightmare  of  the  omnipotent  State 
exacting  toll  of  life  and  treasure  from 
its  citizens. 

The  more  one  thinks  of  the  work  of 
the  Washington  Conference,  the  more 
one  realizes  that  it  must  develop  into  a 
revision  of  a  great  deal  that  is  in  the 
Treaty  of  Versailles.  The  article  that  I 
wrote  for  the  July  number  of  the  Atlan- 
tic Monthly  insisted  that  no  effective 
disarmament  was  possible  except  on  the 
basis  of  certain  political  settlements. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  surprising  that, 
for  the  reasons  then  advanced  and 
doubtless  for  many  others,  President 
Harding's  invitation  to  a  disarmament 
conference  was  also  an  invitation  to 
survey  some  of  the  problems  that  make 
for  swollen  armaments  by  the  political 
friction  that  they  engender.  But  no 
survey  of  political  conditions  can  be 
restricted  artificially  to  one  part  of  the 
world,  even  though  that  part  be  a  hemi- 
sphere like  the  Pacific.  For  every  po- 
litical settlement  implies  a  political 
philosophy,  and  in  laying  down  condi- 
tions in  the  Pacific,  we  create  a  pre- 
sumption in  favor  of  similar  conditions, 


702         ENGLAND  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


similar  guaranties  of  the  peace,  else- 
where. Besides,  one  main  motive  of  the 
invitation  to  the  Conference  was  Amer- 
ica's conviction  that  the  world  was 
economically,  and  therefore  politically, 
one. 

One  can  now  distinguish  three  main 
divisions  of  the  work  of  the  Conference. 
These  are:  — 

1.  To  determine  the  conditions  on 
which  America  will  be  able  to  take  her 
part  in  maintaining  the  peace  of  the 
world. 

2.  To  settle  certain  political  problems 
in  the  Pacific,  more  particularly  in  rela- 
tion to  China. 

3.  On  the  basis  of  this  political  settle- 
ment, to  bring  about  a  measure  of  naval 
and  military  disarmament. 

Some  observations,  necessarily  gen- 
eral in  character,  may  be  offered  on 
each  of  these  divisions  in  the  work  of 
the  Conference;  more  particularly  in 
relation  to  the  policy  that  England  is 
known  to  approve,  or  is  likely  to  advo- 
cate there. 

It  was  a  great  disappointment  to 
England  that  America  could  not  see  her 
way  to  join  the  League  of  Nations;  but 
her  reasons  were  intelligible,  and  were 
not,  in  enlightened  English  opinion,  ref- 
erable to  mere  selfish  desire  to  main- 
tain her  old  isolation.  Nor  does  it  lie 
with  Englishmen,  who  used  to  speak  of 
their  own  'splendid  isolation'  from  the 
quarrels  of  Europe,  to  reproach  Amer- 
ica, at  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
with  her  detachment  on  many  matters 
which  seem  to  us  of  vital  importance. 
In  fact,  the  Covenant  of  the  League, 
like  many  other  things  done  at  the 
Paris  Conference,  was  a  compromise  be- 
tween two  logical  alternatives.  Your 
League  of  Nations  could  be  one  of  two 
things.  Either  you  could  give  it  execu- 
tive power,  or  you  could  deny  it  that 
power.  In  the  former  alternative,  your 
League,  if  it  was  to  be  effective,  would 
have  to  be  a  super-state,  with  an  army 


and  navy  of  its  own.  In  the  second  al- 
ternative, your  League  would  be  a  pure- 
ly advisory  and  administrative  body. 

The  actual  League  sought  to  recon- 
cile the  objections  to  either  alternative 
by  combining  them  in  one  scheme,  and, 
as  usual  in  such  cases,  it  succeeded  in 
combining  their  faults  without  combin- 
ing their  advantages.  It  was  criticized, 
and  in  America  very  successfully,  be- 
cause it  impaired  national  sovereignty 
and  committed  the  people  beforehand 
to  a  policy  which  it  might  not  approve 
when  the  time  came.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  League  had  very  little  real  power, 
and  when  any  definite  action  had  to  be 
taken  in  connection  with  the  settlement, 
it  always  fell  to  the  national  govern- 
ments (until  the  last  reference  of  the 
Silesian  problem  to  the  arbitration  of 
the  League),  and  the  League  showed 
itself  quite  unable,  unassisted,  to  curb 
the  egoism  of  French  policy  in  Europe. 
These  objections  to  the  League  as  at 
present  constituted  are  fully  realized  by 
the  British  Government;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  much  of  the  advocacy  of 
the  League  principles  is  avowedly  hos- 
tile to,  or  at  any  rate  critical  of,  the 
present  Government. 

President  Harding  is  credited  with  a 
project  for  setting  up  councils  of  a  pure- 
ly legal  character  and  without  execu- 
tive power,  to  deal  with  specific  regional 
problems.  He  will  not  find  the  British 
Government  unsympathetic,  for  these 
regional  Areopagi,  consisting  of  repre- 
sentatives of  the  powers  concerned,  will 
not  necessarily  supersede  the  World- 
League,  but  will  enable  America  to  pull 
her  weight  in  the  regeneration  of  the 
world  and  in  the  prevention  of  future 
wars.  That  is  an  object  hardly  less  im- 
portant for  America  herself  than  for  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

The  danger  in  the  second  part  of  the 
programme,  namely  the  political  settle- 
ment of  Pacific  problems,  is  that  their 
nature  and  difficulties  lend  themselves 


ENGLAND   AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


703 


to  the  operations  of  intrigue.  It  was  for 
this  reason  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George  pro- 
posed a  preliminary  conference  between 
the  powers  directly  concerned,  namely, 
the  United  States,  Japan,  and  Great 
Britain  (including  Canada  and  Aus- 
tralia), to  explore  the  ground  and  to 
come  to  provisional  definitions  of  pol- 
icy; and  it  was  a  matter  of  very  great 
regret  to  the  British  Government  that 
the  proposal  was  not  approved.  Possi- 
bly, the  objects  of  the  proposal,  namely 
to  expedite  business  and  to  forestall  in- 
trigue, may  be  achieved  in  some  other 
way;  nor,  if  they  are  attacked  in  the 
right  spirit,  are  these  political  problems 
insoluble.  The  view  strongly  held  by 
the  British  Government  is  that  the  best 
prospects,  both  of  a  political  settlement 
and  of  enduring  peace  in  the  Pacific,  are 
to  retain  the  alliance,  but  with  modifi- 
cations, so  as  to  limit  it  strictly  to  the 
objects  of  policy  agreed  upon  at  the 
Conference.  To  repudiate  this  alliance 
would  be  to  force  Japan  to  seek  another 
ally  and  to  bring  about  the  system  of 
alliances  and  counter-alliances  which 
was  the  basis  of  European  militarism. 
The  logical  corollary  of  a  repudiation 
of  the  alliance  would  be  an  Anglo-Amer- 
ican military  and  naval  alliance  for  the 
defense  of  China  against  the  attack  that 
Japan,  freed  from  the  obligations  of  her 
treaty  with  us,  would  probably  make. 
If  America  were  to  propose  such  an  alli- 
ance, it  would  have  some  strong  advo- 
cates in  England;  but  one  does  not  so 


read  present  political  tendencies  in 
America;  and,  that  being  so,  our  alli- 
ance with  Japan  will  be  an  understruc- 
ture  to  the  settlement  made  at  the  Con- 
ference, not  lightly  to  be  removed. 

To  the  long  discussion  in  the  July 
Atlantic  Monthly,  by  the  present  writer, 
of  the  problems  of  naval  disarmament, 
it  is  not  necessary  to  add  anything  here. 
The  more  ambitious  the  project  is,  the 
more  likely  it  is  to  succeed ;  and  nothing 
less  than  the  neutralization  of  the  Paci- 
fic outside  certain  limits  should  satisfy 
the  Conference.  The  basis  of  naval  dis- 
armament should  be  partly  political 
and  partly  legal,  and  should  include 
certain  reforms  in  the  laws  of  interna- 
tional law  at  sea.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  rationale  of  military  disarmament 
is  financial.  There  is  no  common  di- 
visor possible  except  that  of  finance, 
with  a  universal  reduction  of  military 
budgets  by  one  half,  two  thirds,  or 
three  fourths,  or  whatever  proportion 
may  be  arranged,  allowances  being 
made  for  the  military  costs  of  adminis- 
tering a  mandate. 

But  this  is  a  vast  and  complicated 
subject  and  may  demand  a  whole  arti- 
cle to  itself.  One  thing,  however,  can 
be  promised.  When  the  proposals  for 
reduction  of  armaments  come  to  be 
discussed,  England  will  not  be  among 
the  laggards  but  among  the  most  dras- 
tic of  pioneers,  and  the  most  probable 
criticism  of  her  will  be  that  she  wants 
to  do  too  much  and  to  go  too  fast. 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


BY  HECTOR  C.  BYWATER 


IN  discussing  the  forthcoming  Con- 
ference at  Washington  and  the  issues  to 
be  raised  there,  the  Japanese  newspa- 
pers, with  very  few  exceptions,  assume 
that  under  no  circumstances  whatever 
will  the  Imperial  Government  consent 
to  abandon  the  so-called  'eight-eight' 
programme  of  naval  construction,  be- 
cause, as  they  infeist,  it  represents  the 
irreducible  minimum  of  naval  strength 
needed  by  the  Island  Empire  for  its 
own  security  and  that  of  its  overseas  in- 
terests. The  Chuo,  a  semi-official  organ, 
denies  that  Japan  entertains  any  fresh 
scheme  of  naval  expansion,  and  adds: 
'All  that  we  wish  to  do  is  to  complete 
a  national  defense  programme  which 
was  decided  on  long  ago.  For  our  part, 
we  see  no  necessity  for  restricting  our 
naval  armaments;  nor,  indeed,  is  there 
any  margin  for  curtailment.'  It  would, 
however,  be  a  mistake  to  interpret 
these  press  utterances  too  literally. 
From  recent  speeches  by  the  Foreign 
Minister,  Count  Uchida,  and  the  Minis- 
ter of  Marine,  Admiral  Kato,  it  is  clear 
that  official  Japan  does  not  regard  the 
eight-eight  programme  as  sacred,  and 
would  be  prepared  to  consider  its  revi- 
sion, in  the  event  that  the  other  great 
powers  agree  to  make  corresponding 
reductions  in  their  own  navies. 

In  his  address  to  the  Gubernatorial 
Conference  held  at  the  Home  Office, 
Tokyo,  on  May  4,  Admiral  Kato  made 
the  following  significant  statement: 

1  Mr.  Bywater,  a  British  naval  writer  of  note, 
speaks  as  a  friendly,  but  absolutely  neutral  critic. 
—  THE  EDITOR. 

704 


'The  Japanese  Government  indorses 
the  theory  of  disarmament  in  principle, 
and  is  ready  to  support  any  concrete 
plans  for  the  carrying  out  of  disarma- 
ment proposals.'  At  the  same  time  he 
took  occasion  to  explain  that  the  eight- 
eight  programme  was  in  no  sense  a  new 
scheme.  It  originated,  he  said,  as  far 
back  as  1905,  and  was  based  upon  the 
experience  gained  in  the  war  with  Rus- 
sia. Previous  to  that  war  the  Japanese 
Navy  had  been  organized  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  a  'six-six'  squadron,  that  is,  a 
main  battle-fleet  consisting  of  six  bat- 
tleships and  six  armored  cruisers,  with 
a  proportionate  complement  of  an- 
cillary vessels.  But  the  engagements 
fought  in  the  Yellow  Sea  in  August, 
1904,  and  in  the  Sea  of  Japan  in  the 
following  year,  showed  this  fleet  to  be 
too  limited  in  numbers  to  carry  out  its 
tactical  functions  with  full  effect.  It 
was  consequently  decided  to  increase 
the  strength  of  each  armored  squadron 
by  25  per  cent,  thus  making  the  tactical 
unit  a  battle-squadron  of  sixteen  cap- 
ital ships,  half  to  be  battleships  and 
the  other  half  armored  cruisers. 

Such  a  squadron  was  actually  formed 
soon  after  the  war  by  utilizing  the  ar- 
mored ships  captured  from  Russia;  but 
as  most  of  these  vessels  were  obsoles- 
cent, the  practical  fighting  value  of  the 
first  eight-eight  squadron  was  consider- 
ably below  its  paper  strength.  Admiral 
Kato  argues,  therefore,  that  the  con- 
struction programme  on  which  Japan 
is  now  engaged  signifies  nothing  but  an 
attempt  to  make  up  for  the  deficit 


JAPANESE  AND   AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


705 


caused  in  the  eight-eight  tactical 
scheme  by  the  withdrawal  of  obsolete 
ships.  Germany,  it  will  be  recalled, 
used  the  same  argument  to  justify  her 
intensive  building  under  the  successive 
Flottengesetze,  which  enabled  her  to 
'replace'  small  and  ancient  coast-de- 
fense ironclads  by  super-dreadnoughts 
of  the  most  powerful  type.  Used  in  this 
connection,  'replacement'  is  therefore 
something  of  a  euphemism,  though  it 
would  be  unfair  to  criticize  Japan  for 
borrowing  a  convenient  word,  which 
has  been  employed  by  other  powers  hi 
justification  of  new  naval  programmes. 
And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Japanese 
navy  as  it  exists  to-day  does  include 
a  fair  number  of  capital  ships  so  old 
and  weakly  armed  that  their  only  role 
in  action  would  be  that  of  defenseless 
targets. 

To  attempt  to  explore  the  extraor- 
dinary financial  intricacies  of  the  eight- 
eight  programme  would  be  a  thankless 
task,  but  its  significance  in  terms  of 
naval  tonnage  is  more  easily  explained. 
The  Japanese  battle-fleet  consists  at  the 
present  moment  of  ten  ships  of  the 
dreadnought  type,  including  battle- 
cruisers,  and  only  one  of  these  ships 
(the  Nagato)  comes  within  the  scope 
of  the  eight-eight  programme.  This 
means  that  15  more  dreadnoughts  re- 
main to  be  completed,  five  of  which  are 
already  under  construction,  leaving  ten 
ships  yet  to  be  laid  down. 

Let  us  now  turn  for  a  moment  to  the 
American  battle-fleet.  At  this  date  — 
September — it  comprises  20  dread- 
nought battleships  completed,  with  15 
additional  capital  ships  in  various  stages 
of  building  or  completion.  In  ships  of 
the  line  available  for  immediate  service, 
it  thus  outnumbers  the  Japanese  fleet 
by  two  to  one;  and  the  position,  super- 
ficially regarded,  is  so  entirely  in  favor 
of  the  United  States,  that  the  idea  of 
Japan's  attempting  to  contest  the  su- 
premacy of  the  Pacific  may  seem  ab- 

VOL.  1K8—NO.  6 


surd.  Of  that,  more  anon.  The  point 
to  be  noted  is  that,  as  regards  capital 
ships  still  in  the  building  stage,  —  that 
is,  ships  which  incorporate  the  very 
latest  ideas  as  to  armament,  protection, 
and  other  military  characteristics,  — 
the  two  powers  are  absolutely  equal. 

The  international  naval  view,  which 
may  possibly  be  exaggerated,  is  that 
ships  designed  before  the  battle  of  Jut- 
land are  so  inherently  inferior  to  those 
designed  subsequently,  that  the  result 
of  a  duel  between  a  pre-Jutland  ship 
and  a  post-Jutland  ship  would  be  a 
foregone  conclusion:  in  other  words, 
that  the  post-Jutland  type  of  capital 
ship  has  rendered  all  her  predecessors 
totally  obsolete.  That  there  are  grounds 
for  conceding  this  claim  hi  large  meas- 
ure will  be  denied  by  no  one  who  is 
conversant  with  current  developments 
in  naval  architecture,  ship-protection, 
ordnance,  and  so  forth;  and  the  fact 
that  pre-Jutland  and  post-Jutland  are 
labels  which  are  coming  to  bear  much 
the  same  meaning  in  naval  circles  as 
that  which  attaches  to  pre-dreadnought 
and  post-dreadnought  is  sufficient  to 
indicate  the  importance  attributed  by 
students  of  nava  warfare  to  the  line 
of  demarcation  between  ships  dating 
from  these  respective  periods.  While  it 
might  be  straining  a  point  to  assert 
that  all  capital  ships  belonging  —  as 
the  vast  majority  do  —  to  the  pre-Jut- 
land era  would  be  useless  in  any  future 
sea  fight,  it  is  unquestionably  true  that 
naval  opinion  has  lost  confidence  in 
these  vessels  and  is  ready  to  consign 
them  to  the  scrap-heap  as  soon  as  they 
can  be  replaced.  As  we  have  seen, 
Japan  and  the  United  States  are  both 
at  work  on  large  programmes  of  post- 
Jutland  capital  ships;  and  it  is  at  these, 
programmes  we  must  look,  not  at  the 
respective  fleets  of  older  ships,  if  we 
wish  to  form  a  true  estimate  of  relative 
naval  strength  in  the  Pacific  a  few  years 
hence. 


706 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


n 


Of  the  15  big  ships  authorized  by  the 
eight-eight  programme,  only  one  has 
been  completed  to  date.  This  is  the 
Nagato,  commissioned  in  December, 
1920,  and  at  present  the  largest  and 
most  powerful  battleship  in  the  world. 
With  a  displacement  of  33,800  tons  and 
a  speed  of  23  knots,  she  is  1200  tons 
heavier  and  two  knots  faster  than  the 
Maryland,  America's  first  post-Jutland 
vessel,  which  is  now  performing  her 
trials.  Both  ships  carry  a  main  battery 
of  eight  16-inch  guns,  and  may  be 
classed  as  equal  in  fighting  power, 
though  the  Nagato's  superior  speed 
might  give  her  an  advantage  in  certain 
conditions.  A  sister  to  the  Nagato,  the 
Mutsu,  is  practically  ready  for  sea,  and 
will  join  the  flag  before  the  close  of  the 
year.  The  next  two  battleships  of  the 
eight-eight  programme  are  the  Kaga 
and  Tosa,  laid  down  last  year  and  due 
for  delivery  in  1922-23.  They  will  dis- 
place nearly  40,000  tons,  and  are  cred- 
ited with  a  battery  of  twelve  16-inch 
guns,  which  is  identical  with  that  to 
be  mounted  in  the  American  Indiana 
class.  Next  come  four  battle-cruisers, 
the  Amagi,  Akagi,  Atago,  and  Takao, 
all  of  which  are  expected  to  be  in  serv- 
ice before  the  end  of  1924.  These  ves- 
sels are  approximately  of  the  same  size, 
speed,  and  armament  as  the  six  Amer- 
ican battle-cruisers  now  building. 

Of  the  eight  remaining  capital  ships 
to  be  built  under  the  eight-eight  scheme 
no  definite  information  is  available, 
save  that  four  of  them  will  be  battle- 
cruisers.  As  these  vessels  have  not  yet 
been  begun,  their  designers,  having  had 
the  advantage  of  studying  current  de- 
velopments abroad,  will  be  able  to  en- 
dow them  with  tactical  qualities  on  the 
very  latest  principles.  Two  of  the  bat- 
tleships to  be  laid  down  next  year,  the 
Owari  and  the  Kii,  are  reported  by 
Japanese  papers  to  be  designed  for  an 


armament  of  18-inch.  If  true,  there 
would  be  nothing  surprising  in  this,  for 
Japan  has  always  had  a  partiality  for 
very  heavy  guns,  and  was,  in  fact,  the 
first  power  to  arm  her  cruisers  with 
weapons  which  had  previously  been 
carried  only  by  battleships. 

In  this  connection  attention  may  be 
drawn  to  an  important  circumstance 
that  is  almost  invariably  overlooked  in 
making  comparisons  between  the  pres- 
ent and  future  standing  of  the  Japanese 
and  American  navies.  Whereas  all  the 
16  capital  ships  authorized  by  the  Amer- 
ican three-year  programme  are  already 
under  construction,  and  their  essen- 
tial characteristics  known,  only  half  of 
the  16  capital  ships  for  which  provision 
is  made  under  the  Japanese  eight-eight 
project  have  been  actually  begun.  The 
remaining  eight  may  therefore  prove 
to  be  vessels  of  unprecedented  dimen- 
sions and  fighting  power,  in  which  case 
all  estimates  of  future  comparative 
strength  based  on  the  principle  of 
'counting  noses'  would  be  vitiated. 
This  is  not  by  any  means  an  improbable 
contingency,  for  on  three  occasions 
since  the  dawn  of  the  Dreadnought  Era, 
Japan  has  enjoyed  for  a  time  the  dis- 
tinction of  possessing  the  most  power- 
ful capital  ship  afloat,  namely,  the 
battle-cruiser  Kongo  in  1913,  the  bat- 
tleship Fu-so  in  1915,  and  the  battle- 
ship Nagato  in  1920. 

Of  course,  it  may  be  argued  that  the 
conventional  method  of  appraising  re- 
lative strength  by  the  formula  of  battle- 
ship tonnage  is  no  longer  admissible, 
seeing  that  the  primacy  of  the  big  ship 
has  been  impeached  by  authoritative 
critics,  such  as  Admiral  Sir  Percy  Scott. 
This,  however,  is  not  the  place  to  dis- 
cuss the  present  status  of  the  battleship 
in  the  naval  hierarchy,  nor  is  it  neces- 
sary to  do  so,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
the  three  leading  navies  of  the  world 
have  all  decided  to  perpetuate  the  bat- 
tleship as  the  chief  tactical  unit.  Then, 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


707 


again,  it  is  conceded,  even  by  members 
of  the  '  anti-mastodon '  school,  that  the 
great  armored  ship  may  still  prove  val- 
uable, if  not  indispensable,  when  war 
has  to  be  conducted  in  so  vast  an  arena 
as  the  Pacific,  however  much  her  value 
for  operations  in  the  restricted  waters 
of  the  North  Sea  or  the  Mediterranean 
has  been  depreciated  by  the  evolution 
of  submarines  and  aircraft.  Conse- 
quently no  excuse  is  needed  for  basing 
an  estimate  of  naval  power  in  the  Pa- 
cific on  the  dimensions  of  the  respective 
battle-fleets. 

At  the  same  time,  it  would  be  a  great 
mistake  to  ignore  the  many  other  types 
of  ships  represented  in  every  modern 
and  well-balanced  fleet.  Light  cruisers, 
destroyers,  submarines,  and  auxiliaries 
are  essential  components,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  any  one  of  these  types  would 
mean  a  corresponding  reduction  in  the 
efficiency  of  the  fleet  as  a  whole. 

Japan,  it  must  be  confessed,  has 
shown  a  keener  sense  of  proportion 
than  the  United  States  in  developing 
her  ship-building  policy.  She  has  never 
committed  the  error  of  putting  all  her 
money  into  battleships,  and  neglecting 
to  provide  the  satellites  without  which 
the  big  ship  is  a  more  or  less  blind,  grop- 
ing, and  vulnerable  Goliath.  Since  the 
year  1904  the  United  States  has  auth- 
orized only  13  fast  light  cruisers,  where- 
as Japan,  in  the  same  period,  has  pro- 
vided 27.  The  disparity  becomes  still 
more  pronounced  when  it  is  remembered 
that  throughout  this  period  the  United 
States  has  possessed  more  than  twice  as 
many  battleships  as  her  rival. 

This  omission  to  build  an  adequate 
number  of  fast  scouting  vessels  imposes 
a  severe  handicap  on  the  American 
fleet  even  in  time  of  peace,  and  would 
undoubtedly  be  a  matter  of  grave  con- 
cern in  the  event  of  war.  As  the  three 
scouts  of  the  Birmingham  class,  com- 
pleted in  1908,  are  now  obsolete,  and  as 
the  first  of  the  ten  new  scouts  building 


under  the  1916  programme  is  still  un- 
completed, the  fleet  at  this  moment 
does  not  dispose  of  a  single  fast  cruising 
ship,  and  is  therefore  dependent  for 
reconnaissance  duties  on  its  destroyers, 
which  have  neither  the  fuel-endurance 
nor  the  seaworthiness  to  perform  such 
work  efficiently. 

Japan,  on  the  other  hand,  is  reaping 
the  fruits  of  a  wiser  policy.  Irrespective 
of  certain  older  ships,  which  are  too 
slow  to  work  with  a  modern  fleet  at 
sea,  she  has  10  fast  cruisers  completed, 
4  building,  and  12  about  to  be  laid 
down  under  the  eight-eight  scheme. 
From  these  figures  it  may  be  inferred 
that  she  attributes  to  the  fast  scouting 
cruiser  an  importance  secondary  only 
to  that  of  the  capital  ship,  and  the  ex- 
perience of  the  World  War  suggests 
that  she  is  right.  That  conflict  had  not 
been  in  progress  a  month  before  the 
principal  naval  belligerents  discovered 
the  urgent  need  of  fast  cruisers,  and 
forthwith  proceeded  to  build  them  in 
large  numbers.  Between  the  outbreak 
of  war  and  the  Armistice  Great  Britain 
had  laid  down  no  less  than  40;  and  Ger- 
many's effort  in  the  same  direction  was 
limited  only  by  the  exigencies  of  her 
huge  submarine  programme.  It  was 
one  more  case  of  history  repeating  it- 
self; for  Nelson  a  century  earlier  was  al- 
ways calling  out  for  'more  frigates,'  and 
finding  himself  hampered  at  every  turn 
by  the  lack  of  speedy  scouts  to  keep  in 
touch  with,  and  bring  intelligence  of,  the 
enemy.  Under  modern  conditions  the 
functions  of  the  light  cruiser  have  ex- 
panded, and  although  certain  of  her  du- 
ties may  in  future  devolve  upon  air- 
craft, she  is,  and  will  remain  for  many 
years  to  come,  a  most  necessary  ad- 
junct to  the  battle-fleet. 

m 

After  their  wonderful  records  of  serv- 
ice accomplished  during  the  World 


708 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


War,  it  would  be  superfluous  to  em- 
phasize the  unique  value,  in  their  differ- 
ent spheres,  of  the  destroyer  and  the 
submarine.  There  are  some  critics  who 
hold  that  neither  type  would  find  in  a 
Pacific  campaign  so  many  opportuni- 
ties for  useful  work  as  they  found  in  the 
late  struggle,  which  was  fought,  for  the 
most  part,  in  narrow  seas  and  within 
easy  reach  of  fuel  stations.  This  holds 
good  so  far  as  the  destroyer  is  concern- 
ed. For  the  rough-and-tumble  work  of 
patrol,  submarine-hunting,  and  convoy 
escort,  the  medium-type  destroyer  of 
1000  tons  or  thereabouts  proved  ad- 
equate for  all  practical  purposes,  and 
was  therefore  rapidly  multiplied  by 
nearly  all  the  belligerents.  America, 
in  particular,  created  a  record  in  mass- 
production  by  building  270  destroy- 
ers to  a  standard  design;  and  thanks 
to  this  sudden  spurt,  is  now  amply  pro- 
vided with  destroyers  of  a  staunch,  fast, 
and  well-armed  type.  She  can  muster, 
in  round  numbers,  300  boats,  all  of 
modern  design.  The  Japanese  total  is 
barely  one  third  of  this  at  present,  but 
it  will  rise  to  150  when  the  eight-eight 
programme  is  complete,  not  counting 
half  a  hundred  older  boats  that  are  still 
good  for  many  years  of  subsidiary  serv- 
ice. Japan,  however,  has  not  adopted 
the  system  of  standardization  in  build- 
ing up  her  destroyer  flotilla.  Her  meth- 
od is  to  build  boats  in  groups  of  10  to 
20,  each  group  an  improvement  on  its 
predecessor,  with  the  result  that  her 
latest  classes  are  larger,  more  heavily 
armed,  and  have  a  wider  range  of  ac- 
tion than  the  American  'flush-deckers.' 
In  effect  they  are  small  but  very  fast 
cruisers,  of  2000  tons  or  more,  steaming 
36  knots  at  full  speed,  and  mounting  a 
battery  of  five  4.7-inch  guns.  Twenty 
boats  of  this  design  are  known  to  be 
under  construction,  and  in  all  probabil- 
ity a  certain  number  of  the  40  new  de- 
stroyers for  which  funds  have  been 
voted  will  prove  to  be  even  larger  and 


more  heavily  armed.  On  the  whole, 
therefore,  the  American  margin  of  su- 
periority in  destroyers  is  less  than  the 
bare  figures  seem  to  indicate. 

The  relative  position  in  submarines 
is  less  easy  to  define,  owing  to  the  in- 
tense secrecy  in  which  the  Japanese 
naval  authorities  have  always  shrouded 
this  branch  of  their  service.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  anyone  outside  the 
Tokyo  Navy  Department  knows  either 
the  exact  number  of  underwater  craft 
that  Japan  has  available  at  the  present 
moment  or  how  many  she  has  on  the 
building  slips.  All  that  can  be  said  with 
certainty  is  that  most  of  the  statistics 
and  other  data  relating  to  the  Japanese 
submarine  flotilla  which  appear  in  for- 
eign naval  textbooks  are  unreliable,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  they  are 
derived  in  some  cases  from  official 
sources  in  Japan.  The  eight-eight 
scheme  provides  for  an  establishment 
of  80  submarines,  all  of  which  are  to  be 
ready  for  service  by  the  end  of  1927; 
but  this  total  includes  only  'first-line' 
boats  of  the  latest  design  and  largest 
dimensions.  By  the  date  in  question 
Japan  will  probably  have  an  additional 
50  or  60  boats  of  older  and  smaller 
types,  which  would,  however,  be  quite 
effective  for  short-range  operations  and 
coast  defense.  A  careful  analysis  of 
information  that  has  reached  the  writer 
from  a  well-informed  quarter  shows 
Japan  to  have  ordered  from  90  to  100 
submarines  of  all  types  since  the  year 
1903.  At  least  45  of  these  boats  have 
been  completed,  leaving  about  the 
same  number  still  under  construction 
or  contracted  for.  To  these  must  be 
added  an  unknown  number  of  new 
boats  to  be  built  under  the  eight-eight 
programme.  By  far  the  major  propor- 
tion of  the  boats  built  or  ordered  in  the 
past  five  years  are  of  the  ocean-going 
type,  planned  with  a  view  to  long-dis- 
tance cruising. 

In   deciding   the   characteristics  of 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


709 


their  latest  submarines  the  Japanese 
naval  constructors  have  been  influ- 
enced by  the  design  of  the  surrendered 
German  U-boats,  particularly  those  of 
the  submersible  cruiser  class.  Of  the  10 
boats  begun  in  1919  (numbers  27  to  36), 
each  displaces  1100  tons,  and  will  have 
a  surface  speed  of  17  knots.  Cruising  at 
economical  speed,  they  will  be  able  to 
cover  a  distance  of  11,000  knots  with- 
out replenishing  their  oil-tanks.  A 
larger  type,  of  1250  tons,  armed  with 
one  5.5-inch  rapid-fire  gun  and  four 
torpedo  tubes,  was  begun  last  year;  but 
even  this  will  be  eclipsed  by  the  huge 
submersibles  reported  to  have  been  or- 
dered during  the  current  year  —  with 
displacement  of  over  2000  tons,  a  speed 
of  18  knots,  and  a  battery  of  two  5.5- 
inch  guns  and  six  torpedo  tubes.  The 
Minister  of  Marine  is  anxious  to  in- 
crease the  submarine  programme  to 
150  boats,  all  to  be  in  service  by  1926; 
but  apparently  he  has  not  yet  gained 
parliamentary  sanction  for  this  scheme. 
Nor  is  it  likely  that  the  Japanese  indus- 
try would  be  capable  of  producing  so 
many  large  submarines  by  the  date  in 
question.  Even  as  it  is,  the  Govern- 
ment has  been  compelled  to  place  con- 
tracts for  many  sets  of  submarine  en- 
gines with  European  firms. 

The  American  submarine  flotilla  now 
consists  of  154  vessels,  only  63  of  which 
are  officially  classed  as  ocean-going,  the 
remainder  being  'coastal'  boats,  with 
a  nominal  cruising  endurance  up  to 
5000  knots,  though  many  of  them  could 
not  traverse  half  that  distance  on  one 
load  of  fuel.  Hitherto  American  naval 
policy  has  differed  from  the  Japanese 
in  assigning  to  submarines  a  role  that 
is  mainly  defensive,  underwater  craft 
having  been  regarded  more  as  instru- 
ments for  coast-defense  than  as  vessels 
competent  to  operate  on  the  high  seas, 
either  independently  or  in  cooperation 
with  the  battle-fleet.  There  is,  however, 
reason  to  believe  that  this  view  has 


lately  been  modified,  and  that  most,  if 
not  all,  of  the  new  American  subma- 
rines will  be  found  equal  to  foreign  con- 
temporaries hi  cruising  range,  seawor- 
thiness, and  other  essential  qualities. 
Their  studies  of  the  strategic  problems 
of  the  Pacific  have  apparently  convinced 
American  naval  officers  that  a  very  ex- 
tensive cruising  radius  is  absolutely  in- 
dispensable hi  the  case  of  every  type  of 
vessel  liable  to  be  employed  on  war 
service  in  that  ocean.  Acceptance  of 
this  proposition  naturally  involves  a 
substantial  increase  in  size,  which  ap- 
plies as  much  to  the  submarine  as  to 
the  battleship.  While,  therefore,  the 
coastal  boats  that  constitute  so  large  a 
percentage  of  the  American  submarine 
flotilla  might  prove  valuable  enough  for 
the  defense  of  continental  and  oversea 
harbors,  they  would  count  for  little  in 
an  offensive  campaign,  which  is  gener- 
ally admitted  to  be  the  only  form  of 
strategy  open  to  the  United  States 
in  the  event  of  war  with  Japan. 

No  one  can  predict  the  part  that  air- 
power  is  destined  to  play  in  future 
naval  wars,  and  least  of  all  in  a  war 
waged  in  the  Pacific,  where  so  much 
would  depend  upon  circumstances  im- 
possible to  foresee  with  any  clearness. 
If,  for  instance,  the  Philippines  and  her 
other  insular  possessions  in  the  Western 
Pacific  remained  in  America's  hands, 
she  could  employ  her  air-power  against 
Japan  with  possibly  decisive  results. 
It  is,  however,  a  somewhat  formidable 
'if,'  as  will  become  manifest  when  we 
turn  to  the  strategical  outlook.  So  far 
as  materiel  is  concerned,  American  re- 
sources for  the  conduct  of  aerial  war- 
fare at  sea  are  far  superior  to  those  of 
Japan.  Without  entering  into  detailed 
comparisons,  it  is  enough  to  say  that 
the  United  States  has  more  than  twice 
as  many  efficient  naval  aircraft  as 
Japan;  and,  if  military  machines  are 
included,  the  American  preponderance 
becomes  as  three  to  one. 


710 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


Japan  has  not  yet  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing a  counterpart  of  the  remarkable 
NC  flying  boats  of  the  United  States 
navy;  and,  in  fact,  there  is  positive 
evidence  that  her  aviation  services, 
both  naval  and  military,  are  in  a  back- 
ward state.  The  1918  programme  made 
provision  for  140  new  naval  airplanes, 
all  of  which  were  to  be  ready  for  use  in 
five  years'  time.  Since,  in  their  present 
stage  of  development,  even  the  largest 
airplanes  have  a  relatively  limited  ra- 
dius of  action,  it  is  clear  that  they  could 
not  participate  to  any  marked  extent  hi 
a  Pacific  campaign  unless  supported 
by  aircraft-carriers.  This,  however,  is  a 
type  of  vessel  in  which  both  navies  are 
sadly  deficient.  The  United  States  will 
shortly  have  two  such  ships,  the  Lang- 
ley  and  the  Wright;  but  as  their  speed 
is  not  more  than  15  knots,  they  would  be 
too  slow  to  accompany  the  battle-fleet, 
and  might  prove  more  of  a  hindrance 
than  a  help  if  attached  to  it.  Japan  is 
even  worse  off,  possessing  as  she  does 
only  one  old  and  slow  ship  of  limited 
carrying  capacity;  but  the  Hosho,  a 
new  aircraft-carrier  of  high  speed,  is 
under  construction  and  will  join  the 
fleet  next  year. 

IV 

The  personnel  factor,  it  need  hardly 
be  said,  is  of  supreme  importance  in  re- 
lation to  naval  efficiency.  Only  the 
test  of  war  could  determine  which  navy 
has  the  most  highly  trained  and  efficient 
officers  and  men;  but  there  is  no  reason 
to  suppose  that  any  marked  difference 
exists  between  American  and  Japanese 
seamen  in  respect  of  morale  and  pro- 
fessional keenness.  Both  services  have 
an  unbroken  record  of  victorious  war- 
fare, and  both  are  imbued  with  the 
glorious  traditions  that  inspire  men 
with  an  iron  'will  to  win.'  Japan  is  in  a 
particularly  advantageous  position  by 
virtue  of  her  large  establishment  of 


trained  personnel.  She  has  sufficient 
officers  and  men  to  provide  a  full  com- 
plement for  every  vessel  that  would  be 
mobilized  in  case  of  war,  and,  in  addi- 
tion, a  reserve  force  numerous  enough 
to  man  every  new  warship  and  auxiliary 
that  could  be  placed  in  commission. 
This  means  that  the  whole  of  the  effec- 
tive strength  of  the  Japanese  navy 
could  be  mobilized  swiftly  and  secretly, 
and  dispatched  to  the  war  zone  without 
a  week's  delay. 

The  American  navy,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  hampered  by  the  chronic  short- 
age of  personnel.  Judging  from  recent 
experience,  the  first  hint  of  war  would 
flood  the  recruiting  bureaus  and  fill  the 
training  camps  to  overflowing;  but  the 
fact  remains  that  competent  naval  of- 
ficers and  bluejackets  cannot  be  im- 
provised. Two  years  is  a  very  narrow 
estimate  of  the  time  required  to  convert 
a  civilian  into  a  useful  rating  on  board 
a  modern  man-of-war.  What  propor- 
tion of  the  United  States  active  fleet 
could  put  to  sea  on  the  outbreak  of  war, 
fully  manned  with  trained  officers  and 
men,  is  a  secret  known  only  to  the  Navy 
Department;  but  external  evidence 
suggests  that  the  figure  would  be  con- 
siderably below  the  total  paper  strength 
of  the  United  States  navy. 

In  the  Pacific,  as  in  other  possible 
theatres  of  war,  strategy  is  merely  the 
handmaid  of  policy.  Previous  to  the 
war  with  Spain  the  United  States  had 
no  commitments  in  the  Pacific  beyond 
her  own  territorial  waters,  and  was 
consequently  under  no  necessity  to 
maintain  a  powerful  naval  force  in  that 
ocean;  for  geography  had  imposed  in- 
superable barriers  between  her  Western 
littoral  and  a  would-be  invader  from 
the  East.  But  with  the  acquisition 
of  the  Philippines  and  other  Pacific  is- 
lands formerly  held  by  Spain,  the  posi- 
tion underwent  a  fundamental  change. 
The  frontiers  of  America  were  thrust 
forward  many  thousands  of  miles,  and 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  TOWER 


711 


the  task  of  defending  them  by  sea-power, 
hitherto  so  very  simple,  developed  into 
a  problem  the  complexity  of  which  does 
not  even  yet  seem  to  have  been  com- 
pletely visualized.  If  it  were  possible 
to  rule  out  these  islands,  the  American 
people  might  feel  supremely  confident 
as  to  their  naval  position.  But  no  one 
familiar  with  the  American  temper  ever 
supposes  that  the  Philippines  would  be 
tamely  surrendered  to  the  Japanese  or 
to  any  other  invader.  Then*  retention 
would  therefore  compel  America  to 
concentrate  her  naval  effort  in  the  West- 
ern Pacific,  where  she  does  not  as  yet 
possess  a  single  first-class  naval  base, 
and  possibly  to  fight  a  decisive  action 
at  a  distance  of  nearly  7000  miles  from 
her  home  coast.  She  has  one  asset  of 
great  value  in  the  Isthmian  Canal, 
which  would  enable  her  to  transfer 
naval  force  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific  with  the  minimum  of  delay;  but 
against  this  must  be  set  a  host  of  disad- 
vantageous conditions,  which  cannot 
be  fully  realized  unless  the  student  has 
before  him  a  large-scale  map  of  the 
Pacific. 

Assuming  war  with  Japan  to  be  a 
possibility  of  the  future,  three  proposi- 
tions may  be  advanced  without  much 
fear  of  contradiction.  (1)  The  Western 
seaboard  of  the  United  States  is  abso- 
lutely safe  from  serious  hostile  attack, 
and  a  military  invasion  would  be  a  sheer 
impossibility.  (2)  In  the  event  of  war, 
the  Philippines  are  practically  certain 
to  be  seized  by  Japan  unless  a  powerful 
American  fleet  arrives  in  the  Western 
Pacific  within  a  fortnight  after  the  dec- 
laration of  war.  (3)  No  such  fleet  could 
be  sent  unless  it  was  sure  of  finding  a 
secure  base,  with  a  submarine-proof  an- 
chorage, abundant  stocks  of  fuel  and 
other  requisite  supplies,  and  facilities 
for  carrying  out  repairs,  including  those 
necessitated  by  heavy  damage  sus- 
tained in  action.  If  these  propositions 
are  examined  with  the  aid  of  a  good 


map,  they  will  be  found  to  contain  in  a 
nutshell  the  strategical  problems  which 
the  American  naval  command  would  be 
called  upon  to  solve  in  case  of  war  in 
the  Pacific. 

Distance  and  base-power  are  the 
dominant  factors  in  the  situation.  It  is 
nearly  7000  miles  from  the  American 
coast  to  the  Philippines,  and  no  fleet 
dare  venture  so  far  in  war-time  with- 
out being  assured  of  finding  ample  sup- 
plies of  fuel  when  it  reaches  its  destin- 
ation. A  few  years  hence,  provided 
that  the  plans  of  the  Navy  Department 
are  allowed  to  mature,  a  well-defended 
base  will  have  been  established  at 
Guam.  It  will  then  be  feasible  for  the 
American  battle-fleet  to  steam  across 
the  Pacific  and  undertake  warlike  oper- 
ations against  an  Asiatic  power,  using 
Guam  as  its  advanced  base.  There  is 
some  talk,  also,  of  extending  the  dock- 
yard at  Cavite;  but  professional  opinion 
is  rather  averse  to  this  plan',  holding, 
as  it  does,  that  the  Philippines,  exposed 
as  they  are  to  successful  invasion  by 
the  Japanese,  should  not  be  reckoned 
among  the  assets  upon  which  the  Amer- 
ican navy  could  rely  in  the  event  of 
war.  The  development  of  Guam,  though 
apparently  now  determined  upon  after 
many  years  of  hesitation,  will  be  a 
task  of  several  years'  duration,  and 
until  it  is  completed,  the  American  fleet 
will  be  practically  debarred  from  wag- 
ing warfare  in  the  Western  Pacific. 

Unless  they  are  far  less  intelligent 
than  we  have  any  right  to  suppose, 
Japanese  naval  officers  must  clearly 
perceive  the  immense  strategic  impor- 
tance of  Guam;  and,  this  being  so,  it  is 
reasonable  to  assume  that  they  would 
make  strenuous  attempts  to  seize  the 
island  in  the  very  first  stage  of  a  con- 
flict with  America.  With  Guam  in  their 
hands,  they  would  have  the  Philippines 
at  their  mercy.  Whether  under  these 
circumstances  the  American  battle- 
fleet  would  advance  into  the  Western 


712 


JAPANESE  AND  AMERICAN  NAVAL  POWER 


Pacific  would  depend  far  more  on  con- 
siderations of  policy  than  of  strategy. 
From  the  latter  point  of  view  it  would 
be  courting  disaster  to  leave  the  near- 
est friendly  base  (Hawaii)  nearly  5000 
miles  behind  and  venture  into  an  area 
teeming  with  enemy  submarines,  where 
there  would  be  no  harbor  of  refuge  for 
a  damaged  ship,  no  means  of  replenish- 
ing depleted  bunkers,  and  scarcely  any 
possibility  of  striking  an  effective  blow 
at  the  enemy.  A  cruise  of  this  nature 
would  be  a  more  desperate  adventure 
than  the  voyage  of  the  Russian  Baltic 
Fleet,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  it  would 
not  be  countenanced  by  any  responsi- 
ble American  strategist. 

The  Japanese  themselves  have  never 
disguised  their  confidence  in  the  im- 
pregnability of  their  position  vis-a-vis 
the  United  States.  A  war  with  that 
country,  they  predict,  would  begin  with 
her  expulsion  from  the  Philippines  and 
the  summary  destruction  of  such  Amer- 
ican naval  forces  as  were  present  in  the 
Western  Pacific.  Japan,  having  seized 
the  Philippines,  would  revert  to  the  de- 
fensive and  calmly  await  developments. 
If  her  opponent  so  far  flouted  the  rudi- 
ments of  strategy  as  to  dispatch  a  fleet 
to  the  war  zone,  relying  on  a  5000-mile 
line  of  communications  with  Hawaii, 
the  Japanese  would  resort  to  a  war  of 
attrition  by  means  of  submarines  and 
mine-layers  working  from  numerous 
bases  in  the  South  Sea  Islands  and  off 
the  coast  of  Japan.  Then,  when  at 
length  the  American  fleet,  harassed  and 
weakened  by  incessant  submarine  at- 
tacks and  with  its  stock  of  fuel  reduced 
to  a  low  ebb,  proposed  to  return  home, 
the  Japanese  battle-fleet  in  full  strength 
would  sally  forth  at  the  psychological 


moment  and  repeat  the  triumph  of 
Tsushima  on  a  magnified  scale.  Such, 
at  least,  is  the  sanguine  expectation  of 
those  who  would  control  the  Japanese 
forces  in  time  of  war. 

But  it  is  usually  in  war-time  that  the 
unexpected  happens,  and  the  whole  his- 
tory of  the  recent  world-wide  struggle 
constitutes  a  warning  against  taking 
too  much  for  granted.  The  German 
plans  took  cognizance  of  every  foresee- 
able circumstance,  and  by  all  the  rules 
of  logic  they  were  assured  of  success; 
yet  it  was  precisely  because  of  circum- 
stances that  were  not  and  could  not  be 
foreseen  that  the  plans  were  brought  to 
shipwreck.  On  the  surface  of  things,  a 
war  with  Japan  in  the  near  future  would 
confront  the  American  naval  leaders 
with  a  problem  so  difficult  as  to  be  well- 
nigh  incapable  of  solution.  There  are, 
however,  several  alternatives  to  the 
more  obvious  line  of  American  strategy 
indicated  above;  and  the  very  fact  that 
Japan,  while  professing  so  much  con- 
fidence in  her  present  naval  position,  is 
feverishly  building  new  fighting  ships 
and  coastal  defenses,  suggests  that  she 
is  not  altogether  easy  in  her  mind  as  to 
the  issue  of  a  conflict  with  the  United 
States.  The  risks  and  uncertainties  of 
war  are  potent  factors  conducing  to  the 
maintenance  of  peace,  in  the  Pacific  as 
elsewhere.  With  the  terrible  lessons  of 
the  world  struggle  still  fresh  in  memory, 
it  is  inconceivable  that  any  nation 
would  go  to  war  except  in  defense  of  its 
most  vital  interests.  There  is  happily 
no  tendency  in  responsible  quarters  to 
exaggerate  the  differences  now  existing 
between  America  and  Japan,  and  cer- 
tainly no  suggestion  that  they  are  grave 
enough  to  justify  a  resort  to  arms. 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


ON  A   HORSE-AND-CARRIAGE 

THE  farmer's  boy  is  bringing  it  over 
for  you  this  morning.  You  know  that  it 
is  coming  because  you  can  hear  the 
quick  click-clack  of  the  horse's  hoofs  as 
they  slow  up  on  the  hard  cement  road; 
the  creak  and  grind  of  the  wheels 
against  the  sides  as  they  turn  in  the 
driveway;  the  softened  thud  of  hoofs 
and  squeak  of  springs  as  the  carriage 
rolls  over  the  grass  and  comes  to  a  stop 
below  the  terraces  beside  the  well.  To 
improve  his  time,  the  lean  horse  droops 
his  head  forward  and  crops,  crops, 
crops  at  the  short,  burned  grass,  takes 
a  step  or  two,  and,  munching  a  deli- 
cious, salivary  quid,  turns  to  look  at 
you  as  you  approach.  When  a  cow  does 
this,  you  hesitate.  Horses  are  very  dif- 
ferent from  cows. 

I  am  sorry,  indeed,  for  those  who 
have  not  had,  or  have  by  chance  for- 
gotten, all  the  sensations  of  using  a 
horse-and-carriage.  You  back  the  horse 
away  a  little,  and  turn  the  front  wheel 
out  more,  so  that  you  can  step  up  be- 
tween the  wheels;  you  raise  your  foot 
and  fit  it  neatly  to  the  little  corrugated 
iron  square;  you  step,  and  feel  the 
springs  give  toward  you,  and  are  a  little 
nervous  for  fear  the  horse  will  start 
while  you  are  in  mid-air.  A  second  later, 
and  you  are  safely  established  on  the 
burning  leather  seat.  No  procedure  on 
earth  is  attended  by  a  more  charac- 
teristic sensation  than  that  of  settling 
one's  self  in  a  carriage.  The  rough  tex- 
ture of  the  upholstery  exhales  the  leath- 
ery, stably,  but  somehow  clean,  smell  of 
sleek  horses  and  hay  and  harness;  the 
axles  squeak  a  little  in  spite  of  the 
grease  which  you  so  carefully  avoided 


in  stepping  over  the  wheels;  and  when 
you  have  unknotted  the  reins  from  the 
whip-handle,  and  arranged  them  in 
parallel  lines  along  the  horse's  back, 
and  flapped  them  once  and  clucked  a 
little,  the  horse  starts  forward,  strain- 
ing to  gain  impetus  up  the  grassy  slope; 
and  the  wheels  grit  on  the  gravel  and 
then  run  smartly  out  on  the  macadam 
road  behind  the  metallic  click  of  the 
horse's  shoes  as  he  settles  into  a  trot. 
There  is  a  feeling  of  soul  in  the  motion, 
because  a  horse  has  breathing  power 
which  cannot  be  expressed  in  a  chemi- 
cal formula  and  a  muffler  cut-out.  He 
steps  briskly  along,  trot-trot,  trot-trot, 
shaking  his  mane  from  time  to  time  and 
indulging  in  those  ecstatic  little  horse- 
heaves  and  whiskings  of  tail  that  cut  the 
coarse  horsehairs  across  your  face. 

There  does  not  seem  to  be  much 
room  for  a  simple  horse-and-carriage  on 
the  double-plated,  reenforced  edition- 
de-luxe  expanse  of  state  highway.  It  is 
annoying  to  jolt  off  and  on  the  high 
little  margin-edge,  in  order  to  make 
room  for  the  touring-cars  and  motor- 
trucks charging  to  and  fro.  There  is  a 
country  road  ahead  on  the  left,  and  you 
aim  toward  it,  steering  carefully  in, 
ploughing  through  a  sandy  curve  at  a 
slow  walk,  and  on  up  over  a  rise  to  a 
soft  dirt  road  which  is  dark  underfoot 
hi  shady  spots  and  white  with  dust  for 
long  sunny  spaces.  Trot-trot,  trot-trot, 
trot-trot  —  the  delicious  smells  of  the 
countryside  are  all  around  you,  delicate 
trailing  of  wild  grapevines,  the  tang 
of  meadows  where  daisies  and  Queen 
Anne's  Lace  run  riot,  intervals  of  hay 
couchant  and  buckwheat  rampant,  with 
serried  rows  of  corn-banners  filing  rank 
on  rank  between  stone-wall  divisions. 

718 


714 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


It  is  summer:  breath  of  sweet  air, 
simmering  noises  of  insects,  shrill  lo- 
custs high  in  the  foliage,  heavy  bees 
wading  from  milkweed  to  clover,  and  a 
vast  range  of  motions  surging  through 
the  seeming  stillness,  the  vibrations  of 
hummingbirds,  the  shimmering  of  heat- 
waves over  the  grass-fields,  and,  above, 
the  vast  piling  of  the  clouds.  You  sniff 
great  healthy,  dusty  sniffs,  and  watch 
the  horse's  little  pointed  ears  twitch, 
now  forward,  now  back,  in  response  to 
noises  that  you  cannot  hear,  while  his 
shabby  flanks  rise  and  fall  under  the 
leather  trappings. 

And  why  do  I  insist  upon  a  carriage 
behind  your  horse?  Does  it  spoil  the 
picture  of  my  summer  day  to  see  your- 
self sitting  primly  upright  in  a  wagon, 
with  all  the  commonplaceness  of  its 
wagging  shafts,  its  blistering  varnish, 
its  twinkling  wheels,  and  its  cheerful 
rattle?  Would  you  have  preferred  your- 
self a  sporting  equestrian,  with  artful 
crooks  to  your  fingers  and  elbows  and 
scientific  set  to  your  shoulders  and  a 
pressure  to  your  knees,  a  tailored  habit, 
a  stock,  a  crop,  and  a  series  of  paces, 
trots,  and  canters?  If  so,  please  step 
aside.  I  cannot  paint  you  thus.  This 
horse  has  never  heard  of  a  riding 
academy,  and  as  for  being  ridden,  the 
farmer's  boy  has  tried  racing  him  bare- 
back to  the  pasture  once  or  twice,  and 
has  rubbed  his  ribs  with  straddling  off 
and  on,  and  torn  his  mane  with  hanging 
to  it.  Is  that  what  you  call  riding?  He 
has  a  very  small  opinion  of  it:  he  prefers 
people  at  a  distance,  behind  a  dash- 
board if  possible;  and  as  for  pulling  a 
wagon  behind  him  —  why,  it  is  always 
easier  to  draw  than  to  carry,  as  anyone 
will  tell  you. 

And  now  are  you  content  to  stay 
where  you  are,  with  my  horse-and- 
carriage,  to  jog  on  and  on  through  the 
countryside  in  your  clouds  of  dusty 
glory,  with  your  heavenly  hosts  of 
swallows  darting  among  the  haycocks? 


Ah,  you  find  it  very  delightful,  or  you 
are  not  the  person  I  take  you  for.  And 
where  are  you  going?  Does  it  matter? 
Perhaps  to  the  yellow  farmhouse  yon- 
der, for  a  basket  of  peaches  and  a  jar  of 
cream;  perhaps  to  the  white  farmhouse 
under  the  hill,  for  the  week's  crisp 
laundry  and  the  tiger-kitten  with  the 
pink  nose,  which  they  have  promised 
you. 

WIGS   AND    TEACHERS 

One  day,  a  number  of  years  ago,  I,  a 
teacher,  had  the  pleasure  of  becoming 
honorary  member  of  a  college  class. 
The  next  morning  I  received  an  adver- 
tisement which  has  ever  since  kept  my 
curiosity  awake.  It  was  the  announce- 
ment that  I  might  buy  wigs  at  reduced 
rates.  Now,  why,  I  pondered,  was  it  in- 
timated to  me  that  a  wig  would  be  a 
good  investment?  Was  it  a  personal  or 
a  general  suggestion?  Should  I  look 
more  youthful  in  a  wig,  or  was  I  ex- 
pected to  take  part  in  theatricals?  The 
matter  was  never  settled  to  my  satis- 
faction until  recently,  when  I  read  the 
personal  papers  of  my  great-great- 
grandfather, who  died  in  1808.  He  was 
one  who  'most  traitorously  corrupted 
the  youth  of  the  realm  by  erecting  a 
grammar-school.'  For  forty  years  he 
was  headmaster  of  this  New  England 
grammar-school,  preparing  scores  of 
boys  for  college.  Please  note  that  he 
was  head-master.  Among  the  papers 
was  a  hair-dresser's  bill  which  ran  thus : 

1784.  Aug.  17.  —  To  shave  &  dress  wigs  14  times 
@  4d  per  time  =  £  0—4—8; 

and  so  on,  from  1784  to  1791,  in  which 
year  grandfather's  'White  Bush  Wig' 
was  dressed  48  times  —  £2  —  12  —  0. 
Never  before  had  I  thought  of  wigs 
in  relation  to  teachers  —  as  an  adjunct 
to  authority,  as  a  source  of  dignity,  as  a 
sign-capital  of  power.  In  fact,  as  re- 
gards the  schoolroom,  only  one  form  of 
headcovering  (not  the  teacher's)  has 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


715 


been  pointedly  distinguished.  I  began 
to  speculate  about  the  wig  as  mental 
furniture  hi  the  annals  of  the  intellec- 
tual life.  Lawyers,  hi  England,  still 
maintain  their  prestige  by  wearing  the 
wig.  In  Edinburgh,  tourists  flock  to 
the  advocates'  library,  where  they  can 
see  the  young  advocates  strolling  up 
and  down,  crowned,  not  by  laurels,  but 
by  false,  gray  hair.  Why  did  teachers 
abandon  wigs  to  the  legal  profession? 
Probably  the  lawyer's  habit  of  split- 
ting hairs  makes  it  essential  for  him  to 
have  access  to  an  unlimited  supply. 

Royalty,  too,  once  wore  wigs;  Roman 
emperors  and  Egyptian  potentates 
found  them  serviceable;  Louis  XIV  re- 
vived the  fashion,  preparing  the  way  for 
wigs — bag,  bob,  tie,  bush,  scratch;  curl- 
ed, dyed,  powdered,  beribboned. 

In  the  great  epoch  of  Wigs  and 
Whigs,  even  the  author  of  Robinson 
Crusoe  wore  a  wig!  The  hair-dressers  of 
the  day  evidently  vied  with  one  another 
for  custom.  One  literary  perruquier,  who 
wished  to  allure  both  sacred  and  pro- 
fane had  a  sign  in  his  shop-window:  — 

O  Absalom,  O  Absalom, 
O  Absalom,  my  son! 
If  thou  hadst  worn  a  peri- wig 
Thou  hadst  not  been  undone. 

After  all,  the  fashion  of  wearing 
wigs,  ridiculous  as  it  seems  to  us,  is 
only  one  manifestation  of  the  eternal 
impulse  to  cover  the  head,  to  conceal  it 
from  the  eyes  of  others.  Protection 
from  enemies  (especially  phrenologists), 
warmth  for  this  poll-ar  region  of  the 
human  body,  decoration  —  all  were  de- 
sired. Anubis  (as  pictured  in  the  dic- 
tionary) wore  a  head-dress,  fur-side 
outside;  the  oriental  veil,  the  monastic 
cowl,  the  Turkish  fez,  the  anonymous 
ringlets  of  modern  times,  belong  with 
the  wig  as  a  sort  of  surmounting  alias. 

Woman  especially  has  been  instructed 
to  be  covered,  for  her  hair  is  a  deadly 
snare  to  the  observer.  The  peasant 
woman  in  Italy,  to-day,  wears  her  blue 


or  saffron-colored  shawl  over  her  head; 
the  Breton  girl  has  the  most  immaculate 
white  muslin  cap,  according  to  the 
style  in  her  village.  I  have  suspected 
that  the  short  story  of  Samson's  hair 
might  be  interpreted  more  accurately. 
Delilah  undoubtedly  desired  a  new 
head-dress.  Women  are  driven  to  ex- 
pedients hi  every  age  when  pocket 
money  is  scarce.  But  to-day  the  girl  of 
America  listens  hi  wrath  to  a  passage 
which  I  am  fond  of  reading  to  my  stu- 
dents, yearly,  telling  — 

How  he,  Simplicius  Gallus,  lefte  his  wyf. 
And  hir  forsook  for  terme  of  al  his  lyf , 
Noght  but  for  open-heeded  he  hir  say 
Locking  out  at  his  dore  upon  a  day. 

As  a  result  of  my  reflections,  I  think 
favorably  of  grandfather's  white  bush 
wig.  Was  there  not  secrecy  and  safety 
hi  this  intellectual  ambush?  His  pupils 
could  not  see  through  his  mental  pro- 
cesses. The  very  thought  inclines  one  to 
revolt  against  the  open  mind.  I  shall 
ignore  the  fashion  of  my  own  day;  I 
shall  not  dye  'at  the  top';  I  shall  add, 
to  my  stature,  a  fair-haired  counterfeit. 

PIES  —  AN   ESSAY 

At  our  house  pies  were  a  real  occasion 
fraught  with  happiness,  and  everything 
was  as  it  should  have  been.  Mother,  dis- 
tant far-away  pretty  mother,  descended 
into  the  kitchen  with  a  large  red- 
checked  gingham  apron,  which  flowed 
all  over  her  pretty  shoulders  and  gave 
size  and  matronly  proportions  to  her 
otherwise  slim  figure.  Her  face  be- 
came flushed  with  the  happiness  of 
manual  labor.  And  I  watched  her  with 
ecstasy  as  she  handled  the  huge  old 
range,  dexterously  shutting  a  draft 
here,  opening  one  there,  until  the  stove 
glowed  in  pride  and  a  red  heat  of  antici- 
pated pleasure.  Mother  allowed  none 
of  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  when  she 
descended  to  make  pies.  That  was  what 
made  the  day  one  long  day  of  satisfac- 


716 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


tion — revealing  mother  to  me  intimate- 
ly, personally,  as  I  saw  her  upstairs. 

You  who  have  never  had  far-away 
artist  mothers  can  never  know  the  long 
lonesome  days  that  glide  into  each 
other  endlessly.  You  can  never  know 
how  ravenously  I  watched  and  listened 
and  smelled  during  these  fragrant,  spicy 
hours. 

After  the  fire-building  came  great 
bowls  from  the  pantry;  and  together 
mother  and  I  searched  the  dark,  damp 
cellar  for  apples  and  jars  of  fruit.  I 
clung  to  her  hand  and  felt  well-nigh  to 
bursting  as  I  thought  how  brave  my 
pretty  mother  must  be;  for,  while  I  was 
peering  furtively  at  the  dark  places 
for  spiders  and  black,  crawly  things, 
mother  walked  lightly  and  assuredly, 
clasping  her  hand  firmly  over  mine 
when  she  felt  me  start.  How  I  loved  her 
for  that! 

When  we  came  back  laden  with 
apples  and  jars  of  fruit,  I  always 
climbed  up  on  cook's  huge,  old  chair 
right  next  to  the  tables  —  something  I 
never  dared  to  do  on  other  days,  even 
when  cook  was  in  her  most  engaging 
mood.  I  watched  mother  empty  jars 
swiftly;  plums  and  pears  and  peaches 
splashing  gayly  into  saucepans.  It 
seemed  to  me  mother's  hands  never 
looked  daintier  or  more  beautiful  than 
when  she  took  a  pinch  of  this  brown 
spice  or  a  pinch  of  that  yellow,  softer 
stuff  from  the  spice-jars.  She  hesitated 
and  studied  about  each  pinch.  One 
would  think  she  was  hesitating  over  the 
browns  in  one  of  her  great  pictures. 

Soon  the  saucepans  were  bubbling 
merrily  on  the  stove,  sending  out  cin- 
namons and  spices  from  Araby,  and 
mother  was  in  the  most  delicious  part  of 
the  pie-making  —  mixing  the  crust!  I 
never  asked  to  help  roll.  I  did  not  want 
to  miss  one  fraction  of  a  minute  watch- 
ing the  delightful  process  in  mother's 
hands. 

Gradually  the  whole  room,  the  whole 


world,  seemed  to  be  a  rolling  pie-crust. 
Back  and  forth  it  rolled,  twisting  grace- 
fully, squeezing  out  from  under  the 
rolling-pin,  farther  and  farther  across 
the  table.  The  whole  room  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  become  quiet,  watch- 
ing mother.  The  fire  crackled  less 
noisily,  and  the  saucepans  lowered  their 
bubbling  to  a  gentle  simmer.  They  were 
watching  mother  and  listening  to  her 
humming  snatches  of  the  '  Marseillaise ' 
and  gently  thumping  and  coaxing  end- 
less pie-crust  into  delicate  crusty  sheets. 
Once  in  a  while,  she  would  pause  and 
would  smile  happily,  dreamily  at  me.  I 
squirmed  restlessly  then,  for  I  thought 
with  a  pang  that  to-morrow  she  would 
be  my  far-away  mother  again. 

I  watched  her  pour  the  saucepans 
full  of  spicy  fruit  into  deep  cavernous 
crusts.  I  watched  her  fit  the  top  crusts 
over  the  pies,  closing  the  steaming 
fruit  into  a  prison  of  juicy  fragrance.  I 
watched  her  —  oh,  endlessly!  It  seemed 
to  me  I  never  could  watch  her  enough 
on  these  rare,  glorious  days  when  I 
really  owned  a  real  mother. 

As  the  brown  crusty  smell  of  baking 
crust  mingled  with  the  fruit  and  spices 
and  filled  the  air  with  warmth  and  fra- 
grance, my  mother  gathered  me  into 
her  arms.  She  drew  up  cook's  old  rock- 
er, and  we  traveled  back  together  to 
other  days,  when  mother  was  a  girl, 
back  to  a  tiny  house  in  Southern  France 
where  there  were  sisters  and  sisters  and 
sisters,  and  nobody  ever  got  lonely, 
and  mother's  face  grew  very  young  and 
gay;  gay,  wet  curls  fell  over  her  eyes  as 
she  told  about  the  grapes  to  pick,  and 
the  work  to  be  finished  before  a  day 
was  called  a  day;  as  she  told  me  of 
spankings  and  great  holidays.  We 
laughed  recklessly!  The  young,  pretty 
artist-mother  of  mine  was  warm  and 
tender.  How  I  loved  her,  and  how  I 
longed  for  all  days  to  be  filled  with 
large  juicy  pies  and  a  warm  regular 
mother! 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


Frank  Tannenbaum  leading  a  mob  up 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  Frank  Tannenbaum 
graduating  with  distinction  from  Columbia 
University,  have  attracted  diverse  expres- 
sions of  opinion.  We  quote  an  interesting 
editorial  from  the  New  York  Globe. 

The  shopworn  adventure  of  the  poor  boy  who 
became  rich  has  been  outdone  by  Frank  Tannen- 
baum, although  the  latter's  career  has  hardly  be- 
gun. Mr.  Tannenbaum  got  into  the  public  eye  in 
1914,  when,  by  leading  an  orderly  little  mob  into 
a  church,  he  called  attention  to  the  pitiable  con- 
dition of  the  unemployed.  The  method  he  used 
did  not  appeal  favorably  to  those  who  look  upon 
churches  as  places  of  worship,  but  it  opened  the 
eyes  of  many  people  and  the  hearts  of  a  few.  As 
for  Tannenbaum,  he  found  lodging  on  Blackwell's 
Island  for  a  year.  His  history  since  then  throws 
light  upon  America  during  one  of  the  most  event- 
ful lustrums  in  its  annals.  In  1914  most  news- 
paper readers  probably  considered  him  a  dan- 
gerous radical,  although  in  that  golden  pre-war 
age  the  man  in  the  street,  instead  of  going  into 
hysterics,  merely  smiled  in  a  superior  and  rather 
convincing  way  at  the  antics  of  the  little  band 
of  Utopians. 

Two  years  later,  Tannenbaum  was  working  in 
a  shipyard  and  trying  to  stir  his  fellow  workers  to 
greater  efforts  to  counteract  the  ravages  of  the 
German  submarines;  two  years  after  that,  he  was 
in  the  army,  and  by  his  patriotic  zeal  had  earned 
the  rank  of  sergeant;  a  year  later  he  had  resumed 
his  studies  at  Columbia  University;  and  this 
week  finds  him  graduating  with  'highest  honors 
in  history  and  economics,'  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa  key 
in  recognition  of.  a  brilliant  record  in  his  studies, 
and  a  scholarship  which  will  enable  him  to  take 
an  advanced  degree. 

There  is  another  moral  in  this  story  than  the 
mere  conversion  of  a  'radical'  to  'liberalism.' 
This  is  that  youth,  enthusiasm,  and  a  degree  of 
ignorance  sufficient  to  make  a  youngster  a  noisy 
and  irrational  objector  to  the  existing  order  may 
cover  up  the  most  admirable  qualities  and  the 
highest  abilities.  Probably  Mr.  Tannenbaum  has 
found  out  that  if  the  world  is  to  be  made  better, 
it  must  be  done  by  prolonged  hard  work  and 
painstaking  preparation;  but  probably  he  does 
not  regret  that,  before  this  was  quite  so  clear  to 
him,  he  flung  his  gauntlet  blindly  in  the  face  of 
what  he  thought  injustice  and  a  cruel  indifference 
to  human  suffering. 


George  Herbert  Palmer,  Professor  Emer- 
itus of  Philosophy,  has  for  nearly  two  gen- 


erations been  a  famous  teacher  at  Harvard 
University.  Discussing  popular  fallacies 
about  the  Puritans,  he  writes  not  unchar- 
acteristically: 'We  should  remember  that 
something  like  ten  per  cent  of  mankind  are 
constitutionally  sour.  How  unfair  it  is  to 
pick  out  that  ten  per  cent  of  Puritans  and 
make  them  representative! '  Vicente  Blasco 
Ibanez  first  attracted  to  himself  the  atten- 
tion of  Spain  by  a  political  sonnet  which 
won  him  applause  and  imprisonment. 
More  than  thirty  years  later,  though  long 
since  famous  in  his  native  country,  he  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  world  by  his 
Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse.  Born  in 
Valencia,  of  Aragonese  parents,  he  is  now 
living  in  Paris.  Editorial  writer,  printer, 
investigator,  and  practical  philosopher,  Ar- 
thur Pound  lives  in  Flint,  Michigan,  where 
the  Buick,  Chevrolet,  and  other  familiar 
types  of  cars  are  made,  and  where  there 
is  detailed  opportunity  to  study  the  effect 
of  automotive  machinery  on  human  char- 
acter. 

*  *  * 

Wilbur  C.  Abbott  has  been  a  member  of 
the  History  Department  of  Dartmouth, 
University  of  Michigan,  University  of 
Kansas,  University  of  Chicago,  Yale,  and 
now,  Harvard.  He  is  a  professor  among 
professors  —  and  something  more.  DuBose 
Heyward,  a  poet  of  North  Carolina,  makes 
his  first  appearance  in  the  Atlantic.  William 
Beebe  is  a  household  word  in  the  Atlantic 
Dictionary.  Emma  Lawrence  (Mrs.  John 
S.  Lawrence)  is  a  Bostonian  whose  first 
story  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  two  months 

ago. 

*  *  * 

Rufus  M.  Jones,  the  author  of  many  val- 
uable studies  of  the  Quaker  faith,  is  Profes- 
sor of  Philosophy  at  Haverford  College,  and 
editor  of  the  Friends'  Review.  Edward  Car- 
rington  Venable,  a  member  of  the  Flying 
Corps  during  the  war,  lives  in  Baltimore. 
Anne  Winslow  (Mrs.  E.  E.  Winslow)  is  a 
contributor  new  to  the  Atlantic. 

717 


718 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


Lieutenant-Colonel  Charles  a  Court 
Repington  saw  early  and  brilliant  service  in 
India,  Afghanistan,  Burma,  the  Sudan,  and 
other  British  outposts  of  Empire.  Subse- 
quently he  was  Military  Attach^  at  Brus- 
sels and  The  Hague.  After  leaving  the 
army,  he  became  military  critic  of  the  Lon- 
don Times,  where  his  articles  (we  quote 
from  his  most  bitter  critic)  'are  almost 
models  of  their  kind;  clear,  sprightly,  tell- 
ing —  almost  classical  journalism.'  Leav- 
ing the  Times  under  dramatic  circum- 
stances, he  joined  the  Morning  Post.  Every 
reader  who  has  followed  the  war  is  familiar 
with  his  subsequent  record,  and  all  students 
with  his  Diaries  of  the  First  World-War. 
To  all  interested  in  Colonel  Repington's 
adventurous  and  dramatic  life,  we  recom- 
mend his  autobiography,  published  under 
the  title  of  Vestigia.  His  competence 
to  discuss  the  present  subject  will  not  be 
called  in  question.  Walter  B.  Pitkin,  who 
has  devoted  much  time  to  the  study  of  the 
Far  East,  writes  in  the  belief  that  'American 
readers  have  heard  too  much  about  the 
Open  Door  in  China  and  too  little  about  soy 
beans  in  Manchuria,  coal  in  Shensi,  cotton 
in  South  China,  and  a  hundred  other  con- 
crete matters  that  cannot  be  disposed  of 
by  fine  generalities.' 


J.  O.  P.  Bland  knows  China,  if  anybody 
does.  For  years  he  was  Secretary  to  the 
Municipality  for  the  Foreign  Settlements  in 
Shanghai,  and  representative  in  China  of 
the  British  and  Chinese  Corporation.  More 
recently,  he  has  served  as  a  distinguished 
correspondent  of  the  London  Times.  A 
world-traveler  and  carefully  trained  ob- 
server, Mr.  Bland  may  be  definitely  classed 
as  a  realist  in  his  discussions  of  political  and 
social  questions.  E.  Alexander  Powell  has 
corresponded  for  the  papers  round  the  world 
and  back  again.  A  veteran  in  the  service, 
he  has  devoted  a  great  deal  of  time  to  in- 
vestigating the  questions  centring  on  the 
western  shores  of  the  Pacific.  Herbert  Side- 
botham,  who  succeeded  to  the  post  left  va- 
cant by  Colonel  Repington,  under  dramatic 
circumstances,  as  military  critic  of  the  Lon- 
don Times,  has  just  severed  his  connection 
with  that  paper.  Hector  C.  Bywater  is  a  Brit- 


ish naval  critic,  of  recognized  attainments. 
At  the  Atlantic's  request,  he  writes  this  judi- 
cious and  important  comparison  of  the  rela- 
tive strength  of  the  American  and  Japanese 
navies.  Admiral  Sims  gives,  in  another 
column,  a  highly  interesting  estimate  of  Mr. 

Bywater's  views. 

*  *  * 

News  from  Russia  is  more  voluminous 
than  authentic.  Our  readers  will  be  inter- 
ested in  this  record  of  the  actual  experi- 
ences of  a  Russian  lady,  whose  name,  for 
prudence'  sake,  we  do  not  reveal. 

PETROGRAD. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

We  are  alive,  but  our  existence  can  hardly  be 
called  living.  We  are  buried  alive:  no  news  from 
the  outside  world,  no  new  books,  papers,  or  mag- 
azines. 'They'  have  their  own  publications,  in 
which  they  can  lie  to  their  hearts'  content.  I 
never  read  them. 

We  suffered  from  hunger  and  cold,  especially  in 
the  winters  of  1919  and  1920.  I  had  the  scurvy, 
but  am  better  now.  This  last  winter  we  suffered 
less,  but  our  life  is  still  hard  to  bear.  We  subsist 
on  rations  which  are  distributed  to  us,  and  con- 
sist of  black  bread  of  inferior  quality,  smoked 
herring  which  I  cannot  swallow,  frozen  potatoes, 
and  sometimes  meat;  also  a  little  butter  and  a 
few  apples;  no  genuine  tea,  coffee,  or  cocoa.  We 
depend  mostly  on  porridge  (cereal)  and  a  few 
other  things  such  as  we  can  buy;  for  although  it 
is  illegal  to  trade,  almost  everyone  'speculates.' 
We  cannot  keep  servants,  and  do  our  own  work. 
I  don't  find  that  so  very  hard,  but  it  is  hard 
to  witness  Russia's  complete  annihilation;  that 
is  painful,  indeed.  A  country  without  trade  is 
dead. 

You  would  not  recognize  Petrograd  —  it  is  de- 
populated. The  former  millions  have  shrunk  into 
hundreds!  No  traffic  in  the  streets,  no  izvosh- 
zhiks;  most  of  the  horses  have  been  killed;  only  a 
few  wretched  conveyances,  which  are  so  crowded 
that  an  old  woman  like  myself  dare  not  venture 
to  use  them. 

We  live  in  a  wild  country,  among  savages  who 
rule  by  terror.  Lies,  devastation,  famine,  con- 
tagious diseases,  and  privations  of  all  kinds  are 
common. 

They  are  not  organizers,  but  destroyers.  The 
greater  part  of  the  forests  have  been  cut  down, 
but  still  we  have  no  wood  to  keep  us  warm.  A 
great  many  wooden  houses  have  been  demolished, 
and  hardly  a  summer  home  remains  standing.  It 
will  be  a  desert  soon.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
the  misery  we  have  suffered.  One  has  to  live  in 
the  midst  of  it  to  understand.  The  despotism  of 
the  Tsars  was  nothing  in  comparison.  We  cannot 
move,  we  cannot  go  anywhere  without  leave,  and 
to  obtain  leave  is  well-nigh  impossible.  One  must 
negotiate  for  weeks,  and  even  months;  and  at  pres- 
ent the  railways  can  hardly  be  said  either  to  be 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


719 


safe  for  travel  or  to  function  satisfactorily.  (Les 
chemins  de  fer  sont  presque  annihiles;  Us  sont  de- 
puis  longtemps  dans  une  position  catastrophique.) 

It  is  three  years  since  we  have  been  able  to  buy 
any  wearing  apparel  or  footwear.  Nothing  is  ob- 
tainable, not  even  pins  and  needles.  I  am  old  and 
need  but  little,  and  what  I  have  may  last  me 
until  I  die,  but  the  young  people  are  almost  des- 
titute —  dans  une  position  incroyable.  Every- 
thing has  been  stolen  from  our  country-house, 
even  our  library  —  and  we  had  been  collecting 
books  for  fifty  years!  The  trees  in  the  park  on 
the  estate  have  been  all  cut  down;  everything  has 
been  desolated  (saccagi);  but  we  only  share  the 
general  fate. 

Wells  could  not  have  been  allowed  to  see  much, 
as  he  was  'conducted'  most  of  the  time,  and  saw 
only  what  they  chose  to  show  him.  He  may  have 
heard  the  truth,  however,  from  Pavlof  [the  well- 
known  professor  of  physiology,  who  received  the 
Nobel  Prize]. 

\Ve  are  in  almost  total  ignorance  as  to  what 
happened  in  the  years  1918,  1919,  and  1920. 

Although  the  salary  of  as  Professor  is 

fifty  thousand  rubles  a  month,  the  money  has  no 
value  and  prices  are  monstrous.  An  egg  costs  a 
thousand  rubles,  a  pound  of  bread  three  thousand, 
a  pound  of  butter  seventeen  thousand,  and  a 
pound  of  meat  ten  thousand  and  more. 

Cherish  no  illusions  about  our  higher  schools, 
universities,  or  polytechnic  institutions:  they  are 
not  flourishing,  they  are  only  shadows  of  their 
former  selves.  There  are  few  students,  and  those 
who  atttend  cannot  study  with  any  degree  of 
comfort.  The  buildings  are  not  heated,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  study  in  a  temperature  of  six  de- 
grees below  zero  [Reaumur}.  There  is  neither  wa- 
ter nor  gas  in  the  laboratories. 

It  is  the  same  everywhere.  In  such  conditions 
you  would  not  think  that  life  was  possible! 
*  *  * 

One  used  to  believe  that  the  names  of 
the  great  and  celebrated  should  not  suffer 
abbreviation.  According  to  the  foll6wing 
letter,  however,  the  Plague  of  Abbreviation 
is  no  respecter  of  rank. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Your  article  on  the  Plague  of  Abbreviation 
called  to  mind  some  correspondence  with  a 
brother  clergyman,  who  always  signed  himself 
'yours  in  the  faith  of  O.B.L.'  It  took  me  a  good 
while  to  find  out  what  O.B.L.  really  meant. 
Yours  truly, 

FRANK  DTOANT. 

It  took  us  a  good  while,  too. 

*  *  * 

Old  Attardics  are  carefully  kept.  Note 
this  curious  instance. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

While  walking  in  the  Adirondack  Mountains, 
I  came  across  an  old  log-cabin  and  went  in  to  in- 


vestigate. I  found  in  a  crevice  a  magazine.  Judge 
my  surprise  when  I  discovered  it  to  be  an  Atlantic 
Monthly  published  in  1867,  two  years  after  the 
Civil  War.  Although  the  cabin  is  almost  a  ruin, 
the  print  is  in  first-class  condition  and  also  the 
paper,  although  it  has  lam  here  for  fifty-four 
years.  I  think  it  is  a  unique  find,  and  if  you  are 
interested,  write  to 

PATRICK  H.  FOESSLER. 


'Our  Street,'  we  agree,  is  open  to  further 
discussion,  and  to  friendly  traffic  of  every 
sort.  For  this  little  thoroughfare,  not  less 
than  'Main  Street'  and  'The  Drive,'  is 
found  on  the  road-map  of  every  American 
town.  And  for  some  of  us  it  is  the  familiar 
road  toward  home. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Never  before  have  I  wished  to  usurp  the  edi- 
torial prerogative  —  but  why  could  n't  there 
have  been  more  of  'Our  Street'?  Why  could  n't 
the  Atlantic  have  sent  it  back  with  a  request  for  a 
little  more  detail,  a  little  wider  vista,  perhaps  for 
a  larger,  more  comprehensive  canvas?  For  there 
is  more  of  it,  a  great  deal  more  of  it,  in  spite  of 
Masters  and  Mencken  and  Sinclair  Lewis. 

Let  me  confess  that  for  me  'Our  Street'  is 
making  the  most  effective  assault  possible  upon 
the  so-called  realists  —  it  is  so  real,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  permanent,  like  Truth  and  Progress 
and  Human  Charity.  Its  reality  and  its  fine  per- 
manency speak  to  me  every  day  through  all  my 
windows  and  my  open  doors,  with  the  wafted 
odors  of  my  neighbor's  baking  and  the  strong 
young  voices  of  her  children.  We  are  plain  peo- 
ple, working-people  all,  with  barely  a  college  de- 
gree to  go  around.  But  there  are  no  fences  be- 
tween our  houses;  our  green  corn  and  our  new 
biscuits  find  their  way  to  more  than  one  table; 
when  one  of  us  gets  to  hear  Rachmaninoff,  he 
brings  the  programme  home  for  the  rest  to  see. 
We  exchange  paper  patterns  and  opera  records 
and  Atlantics;  for  how  could  one  have  all  these 
things  at  once?  And  quite  often  we  go  shopping 
for  a  new  dining-room  rug  and  come  home  with 
books. 

Periodically,  usually  in  the  spring,  some  of  us 
wonder  if  we  should  n't  try  to  find  a  house 
on  the  Drive  —  for  the  children's  sake,  you 
know.  But  somehow  we  never  do.  The  soil  seems 
to  suit  us,  here  on  Our  Street,  and  moving  might 
very  well  destroy  in  us  something  native  and  nat- 
ural to  that  homely  environment. 

I  have  heard,  somewhere,  the  story  of  a  Quaker 
who  overtook  a  man  traveling  with  a  van-load  of 
household  goods. 

'Is  thee  moving,  Robert?'  asked  the  Quaker. 

'Yes,  and  I'm  glad  to  get  away  from  that 
town,'  the  man  replied.  "Those  people  are  a  poor 
lot;  not  a  decent  soul  among  them.' 

'Friend,'  said  the  Quaker,  tthee  will  find  the 
same  wherever  thee  goes!' 


720 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


Very  likely  for  some  folk  heaven  itself  would 
have  its  Main  Street. 

Yours  sincerely, 

ELAINE  GOULD. 
*   *  * 

These  rumors  of  Archaeology  in  the  Back- 
yard make  us  long  unseasonably  to  spade 
the  garden. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Upon  my  return  to-day  to  the  little  khaki  tent 
on  a  big  New  Mexican  ranch  which  constitutes 
my  temporary  home,  I  had  the  exhilarating  ex- 
perience of  reading  Mr.  Moorehead's  article  in 
your  September  issue.  May  I  be  allowed  a  com- 
ment or  two? 

I,  too,  am  an  archaeologist,  and  one  of  the 
younger  school  that  went  'West,  South,  or 
abroad.'  Each  one  of  us,  when  he  reached  the 
parting  of  the  ways,  chose  that  American  culture 
which  interested  him  most,  as  the  subject  for  his 
life-work.  The  entire  New  World  is  roughly  di- 
vided into  large  geographical  areas,  each  of  which 
was  once  the  home  of  some  distinct  civilization. 
In  nearly  every  case,  these  old  civilizations  differ 
one  from  the  other  as  widely  as  ancient  Egypt 
from  Babylon  hi  its  prime.  Each  archaeologist,  in 
attacking  the  many  and  varied  problems  in  his 
own  area,  soon  becomes  a  specialist,  and,  as  such, 
becomes  incompetent  to  judge  of  the  detailed 
problems  of  other  areas.  However,  all  of  us  have 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  general  problems  of 
American  archaeology  to  appreciate  those  of  an- 
other area.  When  all  is  said  and  done,  we  are  one 
in  our  desire  to  extend  the  history  of  the  Amer- 
ican Indian  backward  in  the  realm  of  time. 

Mr.  Moorehead  has  mentioned  public  interest 
in  archaeology.  I  quite  agree  with  him  that  this 
interest  should  start  at  home.  If,  however,  the 
antiquities  of  one  area  of  our  country  have  re- 
ceived a  modicum  of  attention  in  excess  of  an- 
other, the  men  working  in  that  area  are  to  be 
congratulated.  Even  at  its  best,  the  interest  our 
public  takes  in  the  history  and  archaeology  of  its 
own  country  is  discouragingly  small.  It  is  our 
great  dream  that  some  day  the  public  as  a  whole 
will  awaken  to  the  great  fund  of  romance  and  his- 
tory that  now  lies  hidden  in  the  ruins,  not  only  in 
one  area,  but  in  all  parts  of  the  country.  The 
slogan  '  See  American  First '  should  be  changed  to 
'Know  America  First,'  in  all  that  the  change  of 
the  verb  implies.  A  better  knowledge  of  Indian 
history,  and  also  of  the  remnants  of  that  race  still 
living,  would  certainly  do  much  more  good  than 
harm. 

These  few  sentences  are  not  to  be  construed  as 
a  criticism  in  any  way.  They  are  simply  in  the 
form  of  a  footnote.  I  congratulate  my  friend,  Mr. 
Moorehead,  and  also  the  Atlantic,  upon  this  arti- 
cle, which  gives  promise  of  a  better,  saner  interest 
on  the  part  of  the  public  in  our  work,  because  it 
is  a  serious  article,  put  before  the  right  kind  of  a 
public. 

Sincerely  yours, 

CARL,  E.  GTJTHE. 


Here  is  a  note  which  will  appeal  to  bib- 
liophiles—  and  bibliophilistines,  too. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

I  had  an  experience  in  one  of  our  bookstores 
that  may  interest  Mr.  Newton.  I  inquired  for 
Frank  Stockton's  The  Lady,  or  the  Tiger?  The 
salesman  replied,  'I  am  sorry,  madam,  but  we 
have  neither.' 

Yours  sincerely, 

EDNA  L.  TAYLOR. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


The  following  inquiry  suggests  that  the 
corporate  octopus  may  still  need  an  addi- 
tional tentacle  or  two. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Will  you  please  advise  me  concerning  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  having  a  poem  accepted  by  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  Company?  Do  you  buy  them 
from  companies  or  from  individuals?  If  from  in- 
dividuals, would  you  ignore  the  work  of  an  un- 
known writer? 

Very  truly  yours, 

By  way  of  defining  the  policy  of  the  mag- 
azine, we  may  state  that,  if  any  excellent 
company  poems  should  ever  come  our  way, 
we  should  doubtless  accept  them  without  in- 
quiring too  curiously  into  their  authorship. 

*  *  * 

This  question  is  a  poser,  but  we  think  the 
Apex  wins. 
DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Here 's  a  new  situation,  and  I  want  you  to  an- 
swer this  all-important  question. 

This  morning's  mail  brought  the  new  Atlantic, 
which  I  am  always  anxious  to  peruse.  The  fam- 
ily washing  had  to  be  done.  The  ancient  axiom 
'Duty  before  pleasure'  again  held  sway,  but  I 
changed  it. 

Descending  into  the  laundry,  laden  with  the 
washing,  surmounted  by  the  Atlantic,  I  started 
my  labors  and  then,  while  the  Apex  Electric 
Washing-Machine  chug-chugged  the  clothes  to 
snowy  whiteness,  I  laughed  over  A.  Edward 
Newton's  'Twenty-five  Hours  a  Day.' 

Here  is  the  question:  Would  the  above  situa- 
tion be  a  better  'Ad'  for  the  Atlantic  than  for  the 
Apex  Electric  Washing-Machine  Co.? 

You  tell! 

Sincerely, 

HELEN  DORCAS  MAGEE. 

*  *  * 

Will  any  Atlantic  reader  in  possession  of 
letters  from  the  distinguished  painter,  Ab- 
bott H.  Thayer,  be  so  good  as  to  communi- 
cate with  Mrs.  Abbott  H.  Thayer,  Monad- 
nock,  New  Hampshire.  All  originals  will  be 
carefully  returned. 


THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 


DECEMBER,  1921 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


BY  A.   CLUTTON-BROCK 


I  AM,  I  confess,  astonished  at  the 
lack  of  curiosity  which  even  psycholo- 
gists, and  they  more  than  most  men, 
discover  about  the  most  familiar,  yet 
most  surprising,  facts  of  the  human 
mind.  They  have  their  formulae,  as 
that  the  human  mind  is  unconsciously 
always  subject  to  the  sexual  instinct; 
and  these  formulae,  while  they  make 
psychology  easier  for  those  who  accept 
them,  utterly  fail  to  explain  the  most 
familiar,  yet  most  surprising  facts. 

There  is,  for  instance,  self-esteem, 
—  egotism,  —  we  have  no  precise  scien- 
tific name  for  it;  if  we  go  by  our  own 
experience,  it  seems  to  be  far  more  pow- 
erful and  constant  than  the  sexual  in- 
stinct, far  more  difficult  to  control,  and 
far  more  troublesome.  The  sexual  in- 
stinct gets  much  of  its  power  from 
this  egotism,  or  self-esteem,  and  would 
be  manageable  without  it;  but  self- 
esteem  is,  for  many  of  us,  unmanageable. 
Often  we  suppress  it,  but  still  it  is  our 
chief  obstacle  to  happiness  or  any  kind 
of  excellence;  and,  however  strong  or 
persistent  it  may  be  in  us,  we  never 
value  it.  In  others  we  dislike  it  intense- 
ly, and  no  less  intensely  in  ourselves 
when  we  become  aware  of  it;  and,  if  a 
man  can  lose  it  in  a  passion  for  some- 
thing else,  then  we  admire  that  self- 

VOL.  1S8  —  NO.  6 
A 


surrender  above  all  things.  In  spite  of 
the  psychologists,  we  know  that  the 
sexual  instinct  is  not  the  tyrant  or  the 
chief  source  of  those  delusions  to  which 
we  are  all  subject.  It  is  because  we  are 
in  love  with  ourselves,  not  because  we 
are  hi  love  with  other  people,  that 
we  make  such  a  mess  of  our  lives. 

Now,  what  we  ask  of  psychology,  if 
it  is  to  be  a  true  science,  is  that  it  shall 
help  us  to  manage  ourselves  so  that  we 
may  achieve  our  deepest,  most  perma- 
nent desires.  Between  us  and  those  de- 
sires there  is  always  this  obstacle  of 
self-esteem,  and  if  psychology  will  help 
us  to  get  rid  of  that,  then,  indeed,  we 
will  take  it  seriously,  more  seriously 
than  politics,  or  machinery,  or  drains, 
or  any  other  science.  For  all  of  these, 
however  necessary,  are  subsidiary  to 
the  management  of  the  self;  and  all 
would  be  a  thousand  times  better  man- 
aged by  a  race  of  beings  who  knew  how 
to  manage  themselves.  There  is  not  a 
science,  or  an  art,  that  is  not  hampered 
by  the  self-esteem  of  those  who  practise 
it;  for  it  blinds  us  both  to  truth  and  to 
beauty,  and  most  of  us  are  far  more  un- 
conscious of  its  workings  than  we  are 
of  the  workings  of  our  sexual  instinct. 
The  Greeks  were  right  when  they  said, 
'  Know  thyself ' ;  but  we  have  not  tried 


722 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


to  follow  their  advice.  The  self,  in  spite 
of  all  our  attempts  to  analyze  it  away  in 
physical  terms,  remains  unknown,  un- 
controlled, and  seldom  the  object  of 
scientific  curiosity  or  observation.  •  V 

In  the  past,  the  great  masters  of  re- 
ligion were  well  aware  of  self-esteem; 
and  our  deepest  and  most  practical 
psychology  comes  from  them,  though 
we  do  not  call  it  psychology.  For  them 
the  problem  was  to  turn  self-esteem 
into  esteem  for  something  else;  and  to 
that  all  other  human  problems  were 
subsidiary.  By  God  they  meant  that 
in  which  man  can  utterly  forget  himself; 
and  they  believed  in  God  because  the 
self  can  sometimes  utterly  forget  and 
lose  itself  in  something  which  cannot  be 
seen  or  touched  but  which  does  cause 
self-forgetfulness.  They  were  sure  that 
the  self  could  not  so  forget  itself  except 
in  something  more  real  than  itself. 
'With  thy  calling  and  shouting,'  says 
St.  Augustine,  'my  deafness  is  broken; 
with  thy  glittering  and  shining,  my 
blindness  is  put  to  flight.  At  the  scent 
of  thee  I  draw  in  my  breath  and  I  pant 
for  thee;  I  have  tasted  and  I  hunger  and 
thirst;  thou  hast  touched  me  and  I  am 
on  fire  for  thy  peace.'  Augustine  had, 
no  doubt,  an  exorbitant  self,  which  tor- 
mented him;  and  he  was  far  more  aware 
of  his  self-esteem  and  its  workings  than 
most  men  are,  even  to-day.  He  was 
concerned  with  a  real,  psychological 
fact,  and  his  Confessions  are  still  inter- 
esting to  us  because  of  that  concern. 
And  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  itself  is 
also  practical  and  psychological,  con- 
cerned with  the  satisfaction  of  the  self  in 
something  else,  so  that  we  are  still  inter- 
ested in  it,  however  little  we  may  obey 
it.  But  still,  from  this  supreme  object 
of  self-control,  we  turn  to  other  tasks 
and  sciences,  at  best  only  subsidiary. 

We  might  begin  by  asking,  if  once 
our  curiosity  were  aroused  —  Why  are 
we  born  with  this  exorbitant  self?  It 
seems  to  have  no  biological  purpose;  it 


does  not  help  us  in  the  struggle  for  life, 
any  more  than  in  the  arts  and  sciences, 
or  in  conduct,  to  be  always  esteeming, 
admiring,  and  relishing  the  self.  The 
products  of  our  egotism,  open  or  sup- 
pressed, are  useless  and  unvalued;  the 
very  word  vanity  expresses  our  opinion 
of  them.  But  what  a  vast  part  of  our- 
selves is  just  vanity  —  far  vaster  than 
the  part  that  is  instinct  or  appetite. 
The  demands  of  appetites  cease,  for  the 
time,  with  their  satisfaction,  but  the 
demands  of  vanity  never.  Consider, 
for  instance,  how  your  whole  opinion  of 
any  man  is  affected  by  the  fact  that  he 
has  wounded  or  flattered  your  vanity.  If 
he  does  either  unconsciously,  the  effect 
on  your  opinion  of  him,  on  your  whole 
feeling  toward  him,  is  all  the  greater; 
for  your  vanity  knows  that  unconscious 
homage  or  contempt  is  the  most  sincere. 
The  greatest  villain  in  literature,  lago, 
acts  from  vanity.  He  did  not  know  it; 
we  may  not  know  it  as  we  read  the  play; 
but  Shakespeare  knew  it  by  instinct;  he 
saw  the  possibilities  of  his  own  vanity 
in  that  of  lago,  saw  that  it  was  cruel  as 
the  grave,  and  developed  it  in  his  trag- 
edy of  vanity.  Those  satanic  criminals 
who  seduce  and  murder  woman  after 
woman  are  not  sex-maniacs,  but  vanity- 
maniacs,  and  their  conquests  feed  their 
vanity  more  than  their  lust.  They  are 
imprisoned  in  the  self,  enslaved  to  it. 
And  the  great  masters  of  religion,  in- 
tensely aware  of  this  tyrannical  self  in 
themselves,  fear  to  be  enslaved  to  it  and 
cry  to  God  for  freedom.  That  is  why 
they  are  almost  morbidly,  as  it  seems  to 
us,  concerned  with  sin.  Sin  means  to' 
them  this  exorbitant  self,  this  vanity 
that  may  draw  a  man  into  any  mon- 
strous and  purposeless  villainy.  They 
will  not  allow  the  analysis  of  sin  into 
other  and  more  harmless  things,  or  the 
analysis  of  righteousness  into  other 
things  less  lovely.  For  them  there  is  one 
problem  —  to  be  free  of  the  self  and  of 
vanity,  to  be  aware  of  that  which  glit- 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


723 


ters  and  shines,  which  shouts  and  calls  to 
the  self  to  forget  itself  and  be  at  peace. 
Sin  is  the  blindness,  deafness,  captivity 
of  the  self  when  it  is  turned  in  upon 
the  self;  righteousness  is  its  peace  and 
happiness  when  it  is  aware  of  that  su- 
perior reality  they  call  God. 

You  may  think  them  wrong  in  theory, 
but  in  practice  they  are  right;  they  are 
concerned  with  the  real  human  difficul- 
ty, and  aiming  at  that  which  all  human 
beings  do  most  deeply  and  constantly  de- 
sire. The  riddle  of  life  is  this  riddle  of 
the  exorbitant  self,  which  somehow  or 
other  must  be  satisfied,  but  can  be  sat- 
isfied only  when  it  forgets  itself  in  a 
superior  reality.  I  say  satisfied,  because 
suppression  or  self-sacrifice,  as  it  is 
commonly  understood,  is  no  solution 
of  the  problem.  You  can  almost  kill  the 
self  by  lack  of  interest;  but  if  you  do 
that,  you  will  not  satisfy  it  and,  in 
some  indirect  way,  its  egotism  will  still 
persist  and  work  mischief  in  you. 

Ascetics  are  often  the  worst  egotists 
of  all,  thinking  about  nothing  but  then- 
own  souls,  which  means  their  own 
selves,  living  a  life  of  inner  conquest 
and  adventure,  which  is  all  artificial 
because  internal.  Their  interest,  be- 
cause they  refuse  it  to  external  reality, 
is  the  more  intensely  concentrated  on 
themselves;  their  very  God,  to  whom 
they  incessantly  pray,  is  but  an  idol 
made  and  set  up  within  the  temple  of 
the  self  and  has  no  likeness  to  the  real 
God,  if  there  be  one.  Or  it  is  like  a  me- 
dium, or  the  leading  articles  of  a  news- 
paper, telling  them  what  they  wish  to 
be  told,  and  persuading  them  that  it  is 
true  because  it  seems  to  come  from  out- 
side, whereas  all  the  time  it  is  really 
only  the  voice  of  the  self  echoed  back. 
By  those  methods  we  can  attain  to  no 
freedom  because  we  attain  to  no  self- 
knowledge  or  control  or  satisfaction. 

If  one  is  concerned  purely  with  psy- 
chology, freed  from  all  biological  or  oth- 
er assumptions,  one  may  conjecture  that 


the  self  comes  into  life  with  all  kinds  of 
capacities  or  faculties  itching  to  be  ex- 
ercised, and  that  the  problem  of  life,  for 
some  reason  a  very  hard  one,  is  to  find  a 
scope  for  their  exercise.  We  are  born 
with  all  these  faculties  and  capacities, 
but  we  are  not  born  with  a  technique 
that  will  enable  us  to  exercise  them.  And, 
if  we  never  acquire  it,  then  the  self  re- 
mains exorbitant,  because  they  all,  as  it 
were,  fester  and  seethe  within  it.  It  is  as 
exorbitant  as  when  we  have  an  abscess 
at  the  root  of  a  tooth  and  can  think  of 
nothing  else.  Any  thwarting  of  a  facul- 
ty, capacity,  or  appetite  produces  this 
exorbitance  and  tyranny  of  the  self,  but, 
since  the  satisfaction  of  faculties  and  ca- 
pacities is,  for  most  people,  much  hard- 
er than  the  satisfaction  of  appetites,  the 
exorbitance  of  the  self  is  more  often 
caused  by  the  thwarting  of  the  former 
than  of  the  latter.  The  problem  of  the 
satisfaction  of  appetities  is  compara- 
tively simple,  for  it  does  not  even  need  a 
technique  of  the  mind.  We  can  eat  with- 
out learning  to  eat;  we  can  make  love, 
even,  without  learning  to  make  love ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  turning  the  mind  out- 
ward and  away  from  itself,  then  it  is  the 
mind  itself  that  has  to  learn,  has  to  real- 
ize and  discover  its  external  interests  by 
means  of  a  technique  painfully  acquired. 
Civilization  means  the  acquirement 
of  all  the  techniques  needed  for  the  full 
exercise  of  faculties  and  capacities,  and, 
thereby,  the  release  of  the  self  from 
its  own  tyranny.  Where  men  are  vain- 
est, there  they  are  least  civilized;  and  no 
amount  of  mechanical  efficiency  or  com- 
plication will  deliver  them  from  the  sup- 
pression of  faculties  and  the  tyranny  of 
the  self,  or  will  give  them  civilization. 
But  at  present  we  are  not  aware  how  we 
are  kept  back  in  barbarism  by  the  sup- 
pression of  our  faculties  and  the  tyran- 
ny of  our  exorbitant  selves.  We  shall  dis- 
cover that  clearly  and  fully  only  when 
psychology  becomes  really  psychology; 
when  it  concerns  itself  with  the  practi- 


724 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


cal  problems  which  most  need  solving; 
when  it  no  longer  tries  to  satisfy  us  with 
dogmas  and  formulae  taken  from  other 


sciences. 


n 


And  now  I  come  to  the  practical  part 
of  this  article.  I,  like  everyone  else,  am 
aware  that  we  are  kept  back  in  barbar- 
ism and  cheated  of  civilization  by  war; 
but  behind  war  there  is  something  in  the 
mind  of  man  that  consents  to  war,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  both  conscience 
and  self-interest  are  against  it;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  a  real,  a  practical  science 
of  psychology  would  concern  itself  with 
this  something,  just  as  the  science  of 
medicine  concerns  itself  with  pestilence. 
And  a  real,  a  practical  science  of  psychol- 
ogy would  not  be  content  to  talk  about 
the  herd-instinct,  which  is  not  a  psycho- 
logical, but  a  biological  hypothesis,  and 
only  a  hypothesis.  It  would  not  say, 
'  Man  is  a  herd  animal ;  therefore  it  is  nat- 
ural for  herds  of  men  to  fight  each  oth- 
er.' In  the  first  place,  it  would  remember 
that  herds  of  animals  do  not  necessarily 
fight  other  herds;  in  the  second,  that  we 
do  not  know  that  man,  in  his  remote  ani- 
mal past,  was  a  herd  animal;  and,  in  the 
third  place,  that,  as  psychology,  it  is  con- 
cerned with  the  mind  of  man  as  it  is, 
not  with  what  other  sciences  may  con- 
jecture about  the  past  history  of  man. 

Now,  if  psychology  asks  itself  what  it 
is  in  the  present  mind  of  man,  of  the 
peoples  we  call  civilized,  that  consents 
to  war,  it  will  at  once  have  its  attention 
drawn  to  the  fact  that  wars  occur  be- 
tween nations,  and  that  men  have  a  cu- 
rious habit  of  thinking  of  nations  apart 
from  the  individuals  who  compose  them ; 
and  of  believing  all  good  of  their  own  na- 
tion and  all  evil  of  any  other  which  may, 
at  the  moment,  be  opposed  to  it.  This  is 
commonplace,  of  course;  but,  having 
stated  the  commonplace,  I  wish  to  dis- 
cover the  reason  of  it.  And  I  cannot  con- 
tent myself  with  the  formula  that  man  is 


a  herd  animal,  not  only  because  it  is  not 
proved,  but  also  because  there  is  no  prom- 
ise of  a  remedy  in  it.    There  is  some- 
thing in  me,  in  all  men,  which  rebels 
against  this  blind  belief  that  all  is  good 
in  my  nation,  and  evil  in  some  other; 
and  what  I  desire  is  something  to  con- 
firm and  strengthen  this  rebellion.  When 
we  can  explain  the  baser,  sillier  part  of 
ourselves,  then  it  begins  to  lose  its  pow- 
er over  us;  but  the  hypothesis  of  the 
herd-instinct  is  not  an  explanation  —  it 
says,  merely,  that  we  are  fools  in  the 
very  nature  of  things,  which  is  not  help- 
ful or  altogether  true.   We  are  fools,  no 
doubt,  but  we  wish  not  to  be  fools;  it  is 
possible  for  us  to  perceive  our  folly,  to 
discern  the  causes  of  it,  and  by  that  very 
discernment  to  detach  ourselves  from  it, 
to  make  it  no  longer  a  part  of  our  minds, 
but  something  from  which  they  have  suf- 
fered and  begin  to  recover.    Then  it  is 
as  if  we  had  stimulated  our  own  men- 
tal phagocytes  against  bacilli  that  have 
infected  the  mind  from  outside;  we  no 
longer  submit  ourselves  to  the  disease 
as  if  it  were  health;  but,  knowing  it  to 
be  disease,  we  begin  to  recover  from  it. 
The  habit  of  believing  all  good  of  our 
own  nation  and  all  evil  of  another  is  a 
kind  of  national  egotism,  having  all  the 
symptoms  and  absurdities  and  dangers 
of  personal  egotism,  or  self-esteem;  yet 
it  does  not  seem  to  us  to  be  egotism,  be- 
cause the  object  of  our  esteem  appears 
to  be,  not  ourselves,  but  the  nation.  Most 
of  us  have  no  conviction  of  sin  about  it, 
such  as  we  have  about  our  own  egotism; 
nor  does  boasting  of  our  country  seem 
to  us  vulgar,  like  boasting  of  ourselves. 
Yet  we  do  boast  about  it  because  it  is 
our  country,  and  we  feel  a  warm  convic- 
tion of  its  virtues  which  we  do  not  feel 
about  the  virtues  of  any  other  country. 
But,  when  we  boast  and  are  warmed  by 
this  conviction,  we  separate  ourselves 
from  the  idea  of  the  country,  so  that  our 
boasting  and  warmth  may  not  seem  to 
us  egotistical ;  we  persuade  ourselves  that 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


725 


our  feeling  for  our  country  is  noble  and 
disinterested,  although  the  peculiar  de- 
light we  take  in  admiring  it  could  not  be 
if  it  were  not  our  country.  Thus  we  get 
the  best  of  both  worlds,  the  pleasures  of 
egotism  without  any  sense  of  its  vulgar- 
ity, the  mental  intoxication  without  the 
mental  headaches. 

But  I  will  give  an  example  of  the  pro- 
cess which,  I  hope,  will  convince  better 
than  any  description  of  it.  Most  Eng- 
lishmen and,  no  doubt,  most  Americans, 
would  sooner  die  than  boast  of  their  own 
goods.  Yet,  if  someone  says  —  some 
Englishman  in  an  English  newspaper 
—  that  the  English  are  a  handsome 
race,  unlike  the  Germans,  who  are  plain, 
an  Englishman,  reading  it,  will  say  to 
himself, '  That  is  true,'  and  will  be  grat- 
ified by  his  conviction  that  it  is  true.  He 
will  not  rush  into  the  street  uttering  the 
syllogism : '  The  English  are  a  handsome 
race ;  I  am  an  Englishman ;  therefore  I  am 
handsome';  but,  unconsciously  and  un- 
expressed, the  syllogism  will  complete  it- 
self in  his  mind;  and,  though  he  says 
nothing  of  his  good  looks  even  to  himself, 
he  will  feel  handsomer.  Then,  if  he  sees 
a  plain  German,  he  will  say  to  himself, 
or  will  feel  without  saying  it,  *  That  poor 
German  belongs  to  a  plain  race,  where- 
as I  belong  to  a  handsome  one.'  Amer- 
icans may  be  different,  but  I  doubt  it. 

So,  if  we  read  the  accounts  of  our  great 
feats  of  arms  in  the  past,  we  ourselves 
feel  braver  and  more  victorious.  We 
teach  children  in  our  schools  about  these 
feats,  and  that  they  are  characteristic  of 
Englishmen,  or  Americans,  or  Portu- 
guese, as  the  case  may  be;  and  we  never 
warn  them,  because  we  never  warn  our- 
selves, that  there  is  egotism  in  their  pride 
and  in  their  belief  that  such  braveries 
are  peculiarly  characteristic  of  their 
own  country.  Yet  every  country  feels  the 
same  pride  and  delight  in  its  own  pecu- 
liar virtues  and  its  own  preeminence; 
and  it  is  not  possible  that  every  country 
should  be  superior  to  all  others. 


Further,  we  see  the  absurdity  of  the 
claims  of  any  other  country  clearly 
enough,  and  the  vulgarity  of  its  boast- 
ing. Look  at  the  comic  papers  of  anoth- 
er country  and  their  patriotic  cartoons; 
as  Americans,  look  at  Punch,  and  espe- 
cially at  the  cartoons  in  which  it  express- 
es its  sense  of  the  peculiar  virtues,  the 
sturdy  wisdom,  the  bluff  honesty,  of 
John  Bull,  or  the  lofty  aims  and  ideal 
beauty  of  Britannia;  or  those  other,  less 
frequent,  cartoons,  in  which  it  criticizes 
or  patronizes  the  behavior  of  Jonathan 
and  the  ideals  of  Columbia.  Does  it  not 
seem  to  you  incredible,  as  Americans, 
that  any  Englishmen  should  be  so  stu- 
pid as  to  be  tickled  by  such  gross  flattery, 
or  so  ignorant  as  to  be  deceived  by  such 
glaring  misrepresentations?  Have  you 
never  itched  to  write  something  sarcas- 
tic to  the  editor  of  Punch,  something 
that  would  convince  even  him  that  he 
was  talking  nonsense?  Well,  English- 
men have  just  the  same  feelings  about 
the  cartoons  in  American  papers;  and 
just  the  same  blindness  about  their  own. 
Disraeli  said  that  everyone  likes  flat- 
tery, but  with  royalty  you  lay  it  on  with 
a  trowel;  and  nations  are  like  royalty, 
only  more  so:  they  will  swallow  any- 
thing about  themselves  while  wonder- 
ing at  the  credulity  of  other  nations. 

What  is  the  cause  of  this  blindness? 
You  and  I,  as  individuals,  have  learned 
at  least  to  conceal  our  self-esteem;  we 
are  made  uneasy  by  gross  flattery;  we 
are  like  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who, 
when  grossly  flattered  by  Samuel  War- 
ren, said  to  him :  '  I  am  glad  there  is  no- 
body here  to  hear  you  say  that.' 

'Why,  your  Grace?'  asked  Warren. 

'Because,'  answered  the  duke,  'they 
might  think  I  was  damned  fool  enough 
to  believe  you.' 

But  when  our  country  is  flattered,  and 
by  one  of  our  countrymen,  we  do  not 
feel  this  uneasiness;  at  least,  such  flat- 
tery is  a  matter  of  course  in  the  newspa- 
pers and  at  public  meetings  in  all  coun- 


726 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


tries;  there  is  such  a  large  and  constant 
supply  of  it,  that  there  must  be  an  equal- 
ly large  and  constant  demand.  Yet  no 
one  can  doubt  that  it  is  absurd  and  dan- 
gerous, if  not  in  his  own  country,  in 
others.  Believe,  if  you  will,  that  all  the 
praises  of  your  own  country  are  deserv- 
ed, and  all  the  more,  because  of  that  be- 
lief, you  will  see  that  the  praises  of  other 
countries  are  not  deserved.  If  America 
is  superior  to  all  other  countries  in  all 
essential  virtues,  then,  clearly,  all  the 
other  countries  cannot  be  superior,  and 
there  must  be  some  cause  for  their  blind 
belief  in  their  superiority.  Englishmen, 
for  instance,  however  bad  their  manners, 
do  not  proclaim,  or  even  believe,  that 
they  are  individually  superior  to  all  oth- 
er men  —  indeed,  you  hold  that  the  bad 
manners  of  Englishmen  come  from  their 
belief,  not  in  their  individual  superiori- 
ty, but  in  the  superiority  of  England;  if 
they  could  be  rid  of  that,  they  might  be 
almost  as  well-mannered  as  yourselves. 
It  is  a  national  vanity,  a  national  blind- 
ness, that  makes  fools  of  them. 

But  what  is  the  cause  of  a  folly  so  emp- 
ty of  either  moral,  or  aesthetic,  or  even 
biological  value,  so  dangerous  indeed, 
not  only  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  even 
to  themselves?  For  the  danger  of  this 
folly,  its  biological  uselessness,  has  been 
proved  to  us  in  the  most  signal  and  fear- 
ful manner  lately  by  the  Germans. 
They  cultivated  national  vanity  until  it 
became  madness ;  and  we  are  all  aware  of 
the  results.  But,  if  we  suppose  that  they 
behaved  so  because  they  were  Germans 
and  therefore  born  mad  or  wicked,  we 
shall  learn  nothing  from  their  disaster. 
They  were,  like  ourselves,  human  beings. 
There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes 
England,  goes  America  even ;  and  whence 
comes  this  madness  from  which  the 
Grace  of  God  may  not  always  save  us? 
Because  it  exists  everywhere,  and  is  not 
only  tolerated  but  encouraged,  it  must 
satisfy  some  need  of  the  mind,  however 
dangerously  and  perversely.  Where 


there  is  a  great  demand  for  dangerous 
drugs,  it  is  not  enough  to  talk  indig- 
nantly of  the  drug-habit.  That  habit  is 
but  a  symptom  of  some  deeper  evil, 
something  wrong  with  the  lives  of  the 
drug-takers,  for  which  the  drug  is  their 
mistaken  remedy;  and  the  right  rem- 
edy must  be  found  if  the  habit  is  to  be 
extirpated. 

National  egotism,  I  believe,  is  a  kind 
of  mental  drug,  which  we  take  because 
of  some  unsatisfied  need  of  our  minds; 
and  we  shall  not  cure  ourselves  of  it  un- 
til we  discover  what  causes  our  craving 
for  national  flattery  and  also  our  dis- 
like and  contempt  of  other  countries. 
Somewhere,  as  in  the  case  of  all  drug- 
taking,  there  is  suppression  of  some  kind ; 
and  the  suppression,  I  suggest,  is  of  in- 
dividual egotism.  We  are  trained  by 
the  manners  and  conventions  of  what 
we  call  our  civilization  to  suppress  our 
egotism;  good  manners  consist,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  suppression  of  it.  How- 
ever much  we  should  like  to  talk  of 
ourselves,  our  own  achievements  and 
deserts,  we  do  not  wish  to  hear  others 
talking  about  theirs.  The  open  egotist  is 
shunned  as  a  bore  by  all  of  us;  and  only 
the  man  who,  for  some  reason,  is  unable 
to  suppress  his  egotism,  remains  an  open 
egotist  and  a  bore,  persists  in  the  I — I — 
I  of  childhood,  and  provokes  the  impa- 
tience caused  by  the  persistence  of  all 
childish  habits  in  the  grown-up. 

But  this  suppression  of  egotism  is  not 
necessarily  the  destruction  of  it,  any 
more  than  the  suppression  of  the  sexual 
instinct  is  the  destruction  of  that.  And, 
in  fact,  our  modern  society  is  full  of  peo- 
ple whose  egotism  is  all  the  more  exor- 
bitant and  unconsciously  troublesome 
to  themselves,  because  it  is  suppressed. 
Their  hunger  for  praise  is  starved,  but 
not  removed;  for  they  dare  not  even 
praise  themselves.  Ask  yourself,  for  in- 
stance, whether  you  have  ever  been 
praised  as  much  as  you  would  like  to 
be?  Are  you  not  aware  of  a  profound 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


727 


desert  in  yourself  which  no  one,  even  in 
your  own  family  has  ever  fully  recog- 
nized? True,  you  have  your  faults,  but, 
unlike  the  faults  of  so  many  other  people, 
they  are  the  defects  of  your  qualities. 
And  then  there  is  in  you  a  sensitiveness, 
a  delicacy  of  perception,  a  baffled  crea- 
tive faculty  even,  in  fact,  an  unrealized 
genius,  which  might  any  day  realize  itself 
to  the  surprise  of  a  stupid  world.  Of 
all  this  you  never  speak;  and  in  that 
you  are  like  everyone  else  in  the  stupid 
world;  for  all  mankind  shares  with  you, 
dumbly,  this  sense  of  their  own  profound 
desert  and  unexpressed  genius;  and  if, 
by  some  ring  of  Solomon  or  other  talis- 
man, we  were  suddenly  forced  to  speak 
out  the  truth,  we  should  all  proclaim  our 
genius  without  listening  to  each  other. 
I,  for  my  part,  believe  in  it,  believe 
that  it  does  exist,  not  only  in  myself,  but 
in  all  men,  and  the  men  of  acknowledged 
genius  are  those  who  have  found  a  tech- 
nique for  realizing  it.  I  say  realizing, 
because,  until  it  is  expressed  in  some  kind 
of  action,  it  does  not  fully  exist;  and  the 
egos  of  most  of  us  are  exorbitant,  how- 
ever much  we  may  suppress  their  out- 
ward manifestations,  because  they  do 
not  succeed  in  getting  themselves  born. 
The  word  in  us  is  never  made  flesh;  we 
stammer  and  bluster  with  it,  we  seethe 
and  simmer  within;  and,  though  we 
may  submit  to  a  life  of  routine  and  sup- 
pression, the  submission  is  not  of  the 
whole  self:  it  is  imposed  on  us  by  the 
struggle  for  life  and  for  business  pur- 
poses: and,  unknown  to  ourselves,  the 
exorbitant,  because  unexpressed,  unsat- 
isfied ego  finds  a  vent  somehow  and 
somewhere. 

m 

Self-esteem  is  the  consolation  we  of- 
fer to  the  self  because  it  cannot,  by  full 
expression,  win  esteem  from  others. 
Each  one  of  us  is  to  the  self  like  a  fond 
mother  to  her  least  gifted  son :  we  make 
up  to  it  for  the  indifference  of  the  world; 


but  not  consciously,  for  in  conscious  self- 
esteem  there  is  no  consolation.  If  I  said 
to  myself,  'No  one  else  esteems  me; 
therefore  I  will  practise  self-esteem,  — 
the  very  statement  would  make  the  prac- 
tice impossible.  It  must  be  done  uncon- 
sciously and  indirectly,  if  it  is  to  be  done 
at  all  and  to  give  us  any  satisfaction. 
Most  of  us  have  now  enough  psychology 
to  detect  ourselves  in  the  practice  of 
self-esteem,  unless  it  is  very  cunningly 
disguised:  and,  what  is  more,  we  are 
quick  to  detect  each  other.  It  is,  in- 
deed, a  convention  of  our  society,  and 
a  point  of  good  manners,  to  conceal  our 
self-seteem  from  others,  and  even  from 
ourselves,  by  a  number  of  instinctive 
devices.  One  of  the  chief  of  these  is  our 
humor,  much  of  which  consists  of  self- 
depreciation,  expressed  or  implied;  and 
we  delight  in  it  in  spite  of  the  subtle 
warning  of  Doctor  Johnson,  who  said, 
*  Never  believe  a  man  when  he  runs 
himself  down;  he  only  does  it  to  show 
how  much  he  has  to  spare.' 

By  all  these  devices  we  persuade  our- 
selves that  we  have  got  rid  of  the  exorbi- 
tant ego,  that  we  live  in  a  happy,  free, 
civilized,  de-egotized  world.  We  are  not 
troubled  by  the  contrast  between  our  per- 
sonal modesty  and  our  national  boast- 
ing, because  we  are  not  aware  of  the 
connection  between  them.  But  the  con- 
nection, I  believe,  exists;  the  national 
boasting  proves  that  we  have  not  got  rid 
of  our  self-esteem,  but  only  pooled  it,  so 
that  we  may  still  enjoy  and  express  it,  if 
only  in  an  indirect  and  not  fully  satisfy- 
ing manner.  The  pooling  is  a  pis-aller, 
like  the  floating  of  a  limited  company 
when  you  have  not  enough  capital  to 
finance  some  enterprise  of  your  own; 
but  it  is  the  best  we  can  do  with  an  ego- 
tism that  is  only  suppressed  and  dis- 
guised, not  transmuted. 

If  I  have  an  exorbitant  opinion  of 
myself,  it  is  continually  criticized  and 
thwarted  by  external  criticism;  I  learn, 
therefore,  not  to  express  it,  and  even 


728 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


that  I  have  it;  but  all  the  while  I  am 
seeking,  unconsciously,  for  some  means 
by  which  I  can  give  it  satisfaction.  It 
becomes  impossible  for  me  to  believe 
that  I  am  a  wonder  in  the  face  of  sur- 
rounding incredulity;  so  I  seek  for  some- 
thing, seeming  not  to  be  myself,  that  I 
can  believe  to  be  a  wonder,  without 
arousing  criticism  or  incredulity;  in  fact, 
something  which  others  also  believe  to 
be  a  wonder,  because  it  seems  to  them 
not  to  be  themselves. 

There  are  many  such  things,  but  the 
largest,  the  most  convincing,  and  the 
most  generally  believed  in,  is  Our  Coun- 
try. A  man  may,  to  some  extent,  pool 
his  self-esteem  in  his  family;  but  the 
moment  he  goes  out  into  the  world,  he 
is  subject  to  external  criticism  and  in- 
credulity. Or  he  may  pool  it  in  his 
town;  but,  as  I  have  heard,  the  Boston- 
ian-born  is  subject  to  the  criticism  and 
incredulity  of  the  inhabitants  of  other 
towns.  What,  therefore,  we  need,  and 
what  we  get,  is  a  something  which  at 
the  same  time  distinguishes  us  from  a 
great  part  of  the  human  race,  and  yet  is 
shared  by  nearly  all  those  with  whom 
we  come  in  contact.  That  we  find  in  our 
country;  and  in  our  country  we  do  most 
successfully  and  unconsciously  pool  our 
self-esteem.  True,  there  are  other  coun- 
tries also  pooling  their  self-esteem  in  the 
same  way,  and  apt  to  criticize  us  and  to 
question  our  preeminence;  but  they  are 
far  away  and  we  can  think  of  them 
as  an  absurd,  degenerate  horde  or  rab- 
ble; we  can  look  at  their  newspapers 
and  cartoons  in  our  own  atmosphere, 
and  laugh  at  them  securely.  They  have, 
indeed,  a  useful  function  in  the  height- 
ening of  our  own  pooled  self-esteem;  for 
we  are  able,  from  a  distance,  to  com- 
pare ourselves,  en  masse,  with  them, 
and  to  feel  how  fortunate  we  are,  with  a 
kind  of  hereditary  merit,  to  be  born  dif- 
ferent from  them  — 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main,  — 


then  also  it  was  the  command  of  Heav- 
en that  we  should  in  due  course  be  born 
Britons,  and  share  in  the  glory  of  the 
mariners  of  England  who  guard  our  na- 
tive seas;  and  there  is  not  one  of  us  who, 
crossing  from  Dover  to  Calais  for  the 
first  time,  does  not  feel  that  he  is  more 
at  home  on  his  native  seas  than  any  sea- 
sick Frenchman. 

All  this  is  amusing  enough  to  Ameri- 
cans in  an  Englishman,  or  to  English- 
men in  an  American;  but  it  is  also  very 
dangerous.  In  fact,  it  is  the  chief  danger 
that  threatens  our  civilization,  that 
prevents  it  from  being  civilized,  and  so, 
secure.  We  are  all  aware  of  private  vices, 
even  of  individual  self-esteem  and  its 
dangers;  but  this  great  common  vice, 
this  pooled  self-esteem,  we  still  consid- 
er a  virtue  and  encourage  it  by  all 
means  in  our  power.  And  this  we  do  be- 
cause we  are  not  aware  of  its  true  nature 
and  causes.  We  think  that  it  is  disin- 
terested, when  it  is  only  the  starved  ego, 
consoling  itself  with  a  pis-aller;  we  sup- 
pose that  it  is  necessary  to  the  nation- 
al existence,  when  the  Germans  have 
just  proved  to  us  that  it  may  ruin  a  most 
prosperous  nation.  Still  we  confuse  it 
with  real  patriotism,  which  is  love  of 
something  not  ourselves,  of  our  own 
people  and  city  and  our  native  fields, 
and  which,  being  love,  does  not  in  the 
least  insist  that  that  which  is  loved  is 
superior  to  other  things,  or  people,  un- 
loved because  unknown.  We  know  that 
where  there  is  real  affection,  there  is  not 
this  rivalry  or  enmity;  no  man,  because 
he  loves  his  wife,  makes  domestically 
patriotic  songs  about  her,  proclaiming 
that  she  is  superior  to  all  other  wives; 
nor  does  he  hate  or  despise  the  wives  of 
other  men.  In  true  love  there  is  no  self- 
esteem,  pooled  or  latent,  but  rather  it  in- 
creases the  capacity  for  love;  it  makes 
the  loving  husband  see  the  good  in  all 
women;  and  he  would  as  soon  boast  of 
his  own  wife  as  a  religious  man  would 
boast  of  his  God. 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


729 


So  the  true  love  of  country  may  be 
clearly  distinguished  from  the  patriot- 
ism that  is  pooled  self-esteem,  by  many 
symptoms.  For  the  patriotism  that  is 
pooled  self-esteem,  though  it  make  a  man 
boast  of  his  country,  does  not  make 
him  love  his  countrymen.  Germans, 
for  instance,  before  the  war,  showed 
no  great  love  of  other  Germans,  how- 
ever much  they  might  sing  'Deutsch- 
land  iiber  Alles';  and  in  England,  the 
extreme  Jingoes,  or  nationalists,  are  al- 
ways reviling  their  countrymen  for  not 
making  themselves  enough  of  a  nui- 
sance to  the  rest  of  the  world.  To  them 
the  British  Empire  is  an  abstraction, 
something  to  be  boasted  about  and  in- 
trigued for;  but  real,  living  Englishmen 
are,  for  the  most  part,  unworthy  of  it. 
Their  patriotism,  because  it  is  pooled 
self-esteem,  manifests  itself  in  hatred 
rather  than  in  love;  just  because  it  can- 
not declare  itself  for  what  it  is,  because 
it  is  suppressed  and  diverted,  its  symp- 
toms are  always  negative  rather  than 
positive.  For,  being  suppressed  and  di- 
verted, it  can  never  find  full  satisfaction 
like  the  positive  passion  of  love.  So  it 
turns  from  one  object  of  hate  to  another, 
and  from  one  destructive  aim  to  another. 
Germany  was  the  enemy  and  Germany 
is  vanquished;  another  enemy  must  be 
found,  another  danger  scented ;  and  there 
are  always  enough  patriots  in  every 
country,  suffering  from  pooled  self-es- 
teem, to  hail  each  other  as  enemies,  and 
to  play  the  game  of  mutual  provocation. 

So  no  league  of  nations,  no  polite 
speeches  of  kings  and  presidents,  prime 
ministers  and  ambassadors,  will  keep  us 
from  hating  each  other  and  feeling  good 
when  we  do  so,  unless  we  can  attain  to 
enough  self-knowledge  to  understand 
why  it  is  that  we  hate  each  other,  and  to 
see  that  this  mutual  hate  and  boasting 
are  but  a  suppressed  and  far  more  dan- 
gerous form  of  that  vanity  which  we 
have  learned,  at  least,  not  to  betray  in 
our  personal  relations.  In  fact,  the  only 


thing  that  can  end  war  is  psychology 
applied  to  its  proper  purpose  of  self- 
knowledge  and  self-control.  If  once  it 
can  convince  us  that,  when  we  boast  of 
our  country,  we  are  suffering  from  pool- 
ed self-esteem,  then  we  shall  think  it  as 
vulgar  and  dangerous  to  boast  of  our 
country  as  to  boast  of  ourselves.  And, 
further,  we  shall  be  ashamed  of  such 
boasting,  as  a  symptom  of  failure  in 
ourselves.  For  pooled  self-esteem  is  self- 
esteem  afraid  to  declare  itself,  and  it 
exists  because  the  self  has  not  found 
a  scope  for  the  exercise  of  its  own 
faculties. 

Why  did  the  Germans  suffer  so  much 
from  pooled  self-esteem  before  the  war? 
Because  they  were  a  suppressed  and 
thwarted  people.  The  ordinary  Ger- 
man was  wounded  in  his  personal  self- 
esteem  by  all  the  social  conventions  of 
his  country;  he  was  born  and  bred  to  a 
lifeof  submission  ;and,  though  conscious- 
ly he  consented  to  it,  unconsciously  his 
self-esteem  sought  a  vent  and  found  it 
in  the  belief  that,  being  a  German,  he 
was  in  all  things  superior  to  those  who 
were  not  Germans.  The  more  submis- 
sive he  was  as  a  human  being,  the  more 
arrogant  he  became  as  a  German;  and, 
with  unconscious  cunning,  his  rulers 
reconciled  him  to  a  life  of  inferiority  by 
encouraging  him  in  his  collective  pride. 
So,  even  while  he  behaved  as  if  he  were 
the  member  of  an  inferior,  almost  con- 
quered, race,  to  his  military  caste,  he  told 
himself  that  this  was  the  price  he  gladly 
paid  for  national  preeminence. 

Before  and  during  the  war  the  Ger- 
mans were  always  saying  that  they  had 
found  a  new  way  of  freedom  through  dis- 
cipline and  obedience;  unlike  the  vulgar, 
anarchical,  democracies  of  the  West, 
they  stooped  to  conquer;  and,  since  they 
did  it  willingly,  it  was  freedom,  not  ser- 
vitude. But  their  psychology  was  as 
primitive  as  it  was  dangerous.  That 
willingness  of  theirs  was  but  making  the 
best  of  a  bad  job.  If  only  they  had  known 


730 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


it,  they  were  not  content  with  their  sub- 
mission; no  people  so  intelligent  in  some 
things,  so  industrious  and  so  self-con- 
scious, could  be  content.  There  was  in 
them  a  dangerous,  unsatisfied  stock  of 
self-esteem,  which,  since  they  dared  not 
express  it  in  their  ordinary  behavior, 
found  expression  at  last  in  a  collective 
national  madness.  It  seems  to  us  now 
that  the  German  people  suffered  from 
persecution  mania;  but  that  mania  was 
the  vent  by  which  every  German  eased 
his  sense  of  individual  wrong  and  sooth- 
ed his  wounded  personal  pride.  By  a 
kind  of  substitution,  he  took  revenge 
for  the  sins  of  his  own  Junkers  upon  all 
rival  nations;  and  hence  the  outbreak 
which  seemed  to  us  incredible  even 
while  it  was  happening. 

I  speak  of  this  now  only  because  it  is 
a  lesson  to  all  of  us,  Americans  and  Eng- 
lish. We  too  are  thwarted,  not  so  sys- 
tematically as  the  Germans,  but  still 
constantly,  in  our  self-esteem;  and  we 
too  are  constantly  tempted  to  console 
ourselves  by  pooling  it.  In  all  industrial 
societies,  the  vast  majority  never  find  a 
scope  for  the  full  exercise  of  their  facul- 
ties, and  are  aware  of  their  inferiority 
to  the  successful  few.  This  inferiority 
may  not  be  expressed  politically  or  in 
social  conventions;  in  America,  and 
even  in  England,  the  successful  may 
have  the  wit  not  to  insist  in  any  open  or 
offensive  manner  upon  their  success ;  but, 
all  the  same,  it  gives  them  a  power,  free- 
dom, and  celebrity  which  others  lack. 
And  this  difference  is  felt  far  more  than 
in  the  past,  because  now  the  poor  live 
more  in  cities  and  know  better  what  the 
rich  are  doing.  Unconsciously,  they  are 
wounded  in  their  self-esteem  by  all  that 
they  read  in  the  papers  of  the  doings  of 
the  rich;  they  have  become  spectators 
of  an  endless  feast,  which  they  do  not 
share,  with  the  result  that  they  pool  their 
wounded  self-esteem  either  in  revolu- 
tionary exasperation  or  in  national 
pride.  But,  since  national  pride  seems 


far  less  dangerous  to  the  rich  and  suc- 
cessful than  revolutionary  exasperation, 
with  the  profound,  unconscious  cunning 
of  instinct,  they  encourage  national 
pride  by  all  means  in  their  power. 

There,  I  think,  they  are  wrong.  I  be- 
lieve that  national  pride,  and  the  hatred 
of  other  nations,  is  a  more  dangerous 
vent  for  pooled  self-esteem  even  than 
revolutionary  exasperation;  for,  sooner 
or  later,  it  will,  as  in  Russia,  produce  a 
revolutionary  exasperation  all  the  more 
desperate  because  it  has  been  deferred 
and  deceived.  If  we  have  another  world 
war,  —  and  we  shall  have  one  unless  we 
discover  and  prevent  the  causes  of  war 
in  our  own  minds,  —  there  will  be  rev- 
olutionary exasperation  everywhere; 
and  it  will  be  vain  to  tell  starving  mobs 
that  it  is  all  the  fault  of  the  enemy.  The 
chauvinism  of  the  disinherited  mob  is 
but  a  drug,  which  increases  the  evil  it 
pretends  to  heal.  Behind  revolutionary 
exasperation,  and  behind  chauvinism, 
there  is  the  same  evil  at  work,  namely, 
the  thwarting  of  faculties,  the  sense  of 
inferiority,  the  disappointed  ego;  and 
we  must  clearly  understand  the  disease 
if  we  are  to  find  the  remedy. 

The  remedy,  of  course,  is  a  society  in 
which  faculties  will  no  longer  be  sup- 
pressed, in  which  men  will  cure  them- 
selves of  their  self-esteem,  not  by  pool- 
ing it,  but  by  caring  for  something  not 
themselves  more  than  for  themselves. 
To  dream  of  such  a  society  is  as  easy 
as  to  accomplish  it  is  difficult;  but  we 
shall  have  taken  the  first  step  toward 
the  accomplishment  of  it  when  we  see 
clearly  that  we  have  no  alternative 
except  a  relapse  into  barbarism.  Sup- 
pression, good  manners,  discipline,  will 
never  rid  us  of  our  self-esteem;  still  it 
will  find  a  vent  in  some  collective,  and 
so  more  dangerous,  form,  unless  we  can, 
as  the  psychologists  say,  sublimate  it 
into  a  passion  for  something  not  our- 
selves. If  we  believe  that  our  country  is 
not  ourselves,  we  deceive  ourselves;  we 


POOLED  SELF-ESTEEM 


731 


may  give  our  lives  for  it,  but  it  is  still 
the  idol  in  which  we  pool  our  self-esteem; 
and  the  only  way  to  escape  from  the 
worship  of  idols  is  to  find  the  true  God. 

I  am  not  now  talking  religion;  I  am 
talking  psychology,  though  I  am  forced 
to  use  religious  terms.  The  true  God  is 
to  be  found  by  every  man  only  through 
the  discovery  of  his  deepest,  most  per- 
manent desires;  and  these  he  can  discov- 
er only  through  the  exercise  of  his  high- 
est faculties.  So  that  is  the  problem  for 
all  of  us,  and,  as  we  now  know,  it  is  a 
collective  problem,  one  which  we  can 
solve  only  all  together.  So  long  as  other 
men  are  thwarted  in  the  exercise  of  their 
highest  faculties,  you  are  thwarted  also; 
you  are  kept  always  from  happiness  by 
the  unhappiness  of  others. 

You  may  be  rich,  brilliant,  and  a  lover 
of  peace;  but,  so  long  as  the  mass  of  men 
can  do  nothing  with  their  self-esteem 
but  pool  it,  you  will  live  in  a  world  of 
wars  and  rumors  of  wars.  You  may 
be  an  artist,  a  philosopher,  a  man  of 
science;  but,  so  long  as  the  mass  of  men 
are  set  by  division  of  labor  to  tasks 
in  which  they  cannot  satisfy  the  higher 
demands  of  the  self,  any  demagogue 
may  tempt  them  to  destroy  all  that  you 
value.  Until  they  also  enjoy  and  so 
value  it,  it  is  not  secure  for  you  or  for 
the  world. 

In  the  past  religion  has  failed  because 
the  problem  of  release  from  self-esteem 


has  been  for  it  a  private  and  personal 
one.  That  is  where  psychology  can  now 
come  to  its  aid.  When  once  we  under- 
stand that  our  self-esteem,  if  suppressed, 
is  pooled,  not  destroyed,  and  that  we  can 
escape  from  it  only  by  the  exercise  of 
our  higher  faculties,  we  shall  see  also 
that  the  problem  of  release  is  collective. 
We  are,  indeed,  all  members  one  of  an- 
other, as  the  masters  of  religion  have  al- 
ways said;  but  only  now  is  it  possible 
for  us  to  see  the  full  truth  of  their  saying. 
In  the  past  there  often  seemed  to  be 
some  incompatibility  between  religion 
and  civilization;  but  now  we  are  learn- 
ing that  they  are  one,  and  have  the  same 
enemy.  Once  men  sought  for  God  alone, 
and  in  the  wilderness;  now  we  may  be 
sure  that  they  will  not  find  Him  unless 
they  search  all  together.  Salvation  itself 
is  not  a  private  making  of  our  peace  with 
God :  it  is  a  common  making  of  our  peace 
with  each  other;  and  that  we  shall  nev- 
er do  until,  by  self-knowledge,  we  re- 
move the  causes  of  war  from  our  own 
minds. 

All  that  I  have  said  in  this  article  is 
vague,  loose,  and  amateurish;  and  I  have 
fallen  into  religious  language  now  and 
again  because  there  was  no  other  that  I 
could  use.  But  the  science  that  we  all 
need,  if  we  are  all  together  to  be  saved, 
does  not  yet  exist.  I  have  written  to  point 
out  our  bitter  need  of  it,  and  in  the  hope 
that  the  demand  will  produce  the  supply. 


CONSOLATION 


BY  ALBION  FELLOWS  BACON 


THE  door-bell  rang  in  the  night.  It 
was  toward  morning,  and  cold.  We  sat 
up  and  listened. 

It  rang  again. 

The  children  were  asleep  across  the 
hall.  Their  father  went  downstairs 
quietly  and  opened  the  door. 

Leaning  over  the  rail,  I  heard  him 
talking  to  a  messenger.  Then  he  came 
back  upstairs,  shaking  violently,  as 
with  a  heavy  chill,  and  handed  me  a 
telegram. 

It  read,  'Margaret  is  very  ill.  Come 
at  once.' 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  terror 
and  bewilderment.  She  had  gone  away, 
a  few  days  before,  so  radiant,  and 
seemingly  in  perfect  health.  We  had 
letters  telling  of  her  happy  visit,  and 
the  plans  for  the  wedding  at  which  she 
was  to  be  bridesmaid.  In  her  letters 
there  was  no  hint  of  illness  or  weak- 
ness. It  seemed  impossible  that  in  such 
a  short  time  she  could  be  seriously  ill. 
Had  there  been  an  accident?  Could 
there  be  a  mistake? 

I  wondered  and  reasoned,  unable  to 
accept  the  message,  but  weighed  down 
with  dread  forebodings.  Her  father 
could  say  nothing,  but  he  looked  gray 
and  broken,  as  if  the  telegram  had 
brought  news  of  her  death.  He  told 
me,  afterward,  that  he  was  convinced 
that  was  what  it  meant. 

'Let  us  pray  for  her  to  be  well,'  I 
said,  after  we  had  turned  the  heart- 
breaking puzzle  over  and  over.  'That 
is  all  we  can  do.  We  have  always  pray- 

732 


ed,  and  the  children  always  get  well. 
Perhaps  we  may  get  another  telegram 
by  morning,  saying  she  is  better.' 

And  so  I  actually  hoped;  and,  at  last, 
praying,  fell  asleep.  But  her  father 
could  not  sleep.  I  think  he  lay  awake 
till  morning,  when,  in  the  chill,  early 
gray  dawn,  we  made  his  preparations, 
and  he  left  to  take  the  first  train. 

Later,  I  woke  the  children  and  told 
them  what  had  happened.  They  were 
distressed  with  vague  fears,  watching 
me  with  anxious  little  faces. 

I  went  about  in  a  strange,  unhappy 
daze,  feeling  a  cold  hand  clutching  my 
heart,  imagining  her  in  pain,  in  fever, 
wondering  what  the  physicians  were 
doing  for  her,  longing,  in  an  agony  of 
desire  and  grief,  to  be  with  her.  I  was 
hoping  every  minute  for  a  telegram 
that  would  say  she  was  better. 

After  some  hours  a  telegram  came. 
It  announced  her  death. 

Holding  it  with  trembling  fingers,  I 
reread  it  with  blurred  vision,  doubting 
my  sight.  It  brought  no  conviction, 
simply  more  bewilderment.  It  was 
impossible.  It  was  unthinkable.  She 
to  die!  I  did  not  believe  it.  I  had  never 
known  anyone  so  vividly  alive.  Her 
lithe,  slender  body,  her  face,  alight  and 
radiant  with  thought,  seemed  to  be 
only  an  expression  of  her  spirit.  '  Spirit, 
fire,  and  dew '  —  so  I  had  often  thought 
of  her. 

I  sat  and  stared  at  the  telegram, 
stupidly,  as  one  might  look  at  a  heavy 
club  that  had  smitten  one  on  the  head. 


CONSOLATION 


733 


I  know  now  that  the  effect  it  had  was 
that  of  a  physical  blow.  I  could  not 
think  coherently,  but  one  idea  kept 
rising  insistently.  There  was  some 
mistake.  It  might  be  a  trance.  I  sent 
a  hasty  telegram  by  telephone,  and 
then  another,  more  explicit  and  urgent. 
I  waited  in  a  state  of  suspended  life. 
At  last  the  answer  came  back:  — 

'There  was  no  mistake.  Five  phy- 
sicians were  called.' 

There  was  no  mistake.  Then  — 

I  could  not  frame  the  thought.  It 
was  like  another,  heavier  blow.  My 
brain  reeled.  Thought  seemed  to  stag- 
ger, to  faint,  to  rouse  and  fall,  exactly  as 
it  does  when  recovering  from  an  an- 
ajsthetic  or  a  blow.  I  recalled  the  feel- 
ing of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  stabs  of 
pain,  dulled  and  then  sharp,  as  con- 
sciousness returns. 

That  impression  of  the  anaesthetic 
persisted  for  days — the  feeling  of  dull 
stupor,  with  sudden  sharp  stabs  of 
pain,  as  realization  came  at  times.  It  is 
a  merciful  result  of  such  a  blow  that  the 
stupor  prevails. 

Then,  all  at  once,  a  clear  thought 
came  to  me:  'Now  she  is  with  God. 
Now  she  knows  what  we  two  have  so 
often  wondered  about.' 

I  was  overpowered  by  the  wonder, 
the  beauty,  and  the  glory  of  that 
thought.  I  rose  and  stood  by  the  inner 
door.  Suddenly,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
Margaret  was  with  me.  She  seemed  to 
take  my  hand  and  draw  me  up,  a  step 
higher,  while  she  stood  close  to  me,  a 
little  higher,  still  holding  my  hand. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if,  while  we  stood 
thus  together,  a  great  brilliant  sun 
rose  from  the  horizon,  with  rays  spread- 
ing to  the  zenith,  while  an  ineffable 
glory  spread  over  the  world. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  stood.  It 
was  so  wonderful  that  I  found  myself 
smiling,  though  I  stood  there,  at  last, 
alone. 

'She  is  not  dead,'  I  said  to  myself. 


'  She  is  more  vitally,  strongly  alive  than 
ever  before,  and  she  is  with  God.  She 
is  happy.' 

The  beauty  and  glory  of  that  experi- 
ence stayed  with  me.  It  left  an  exalta- 
tion that  lasted  for  months.  It  left,  too, 
a  deep  conviction  that  Margaret  was 
in  a  realm  of  love  and  happiness  and 
beauty,  infinitely  transcending  ours. 

Because  I  am  not  a  spiritualist,  and 
would  not  seek  or  credit  any  of  their 
'communications,'  I  want  to  make  it 
plain  that  there  was  no  appearance,  no 
voice,  no  touch,  no  thrill  of  contact. 
There  was  no  illusion.  The  experience 
did  not  seem  in  the  least  supernatural, 
but  most  natural.  It  seemed  to  be  of 
the  texture  of  thought,  as  if  I  had  a 
strong  thought  of  her  being  with  me. 
It  was  a  manifestation  of  her  love,  I  feel 
sure.  It  gave  me  unspeakable  comfort 
and  assurance. 

n 

'When  she  comes  home,'  I  thought,  with  throb- 
bing heart, 

That  danced  a  measure  to  my  mind's  refrain. 
Again  from  out  the  door  I  leaned  and  looked, 
Where  she  should  come  along  the  leafy  lane. 
And  then  she  came  —  I  heard  the  measured 

sound 

Of  slow,  oncoming  feet,  whose  heavy  tread 
Seemed  trampling  out  my  life.  I  saw  her  face. 
Then  through  my  brain  a  sudden  numbness 

spread. 

The  earth  seemed  spun  away,  the  sun  was  gone, 
And  time,  and  place,  and  thought.  There  was  no 

thing 

In  all  the  universe,  save  one  who  lay 
So  still  and  cold  and  white,  unanswering, 
Save  by  a  graven  smile,  my  broken  moan. 
She  had  come  home,  yet  there  I  knelt  alone. 

Years  ago  I  had  written  that  poem, 
after  reading  Riley's  'When  she  comes 
Home.'  Was  it  a  prophecy? 

It  was  some  days  before  they  brought 
her  home  from  that  distant  state.  It 
seemed  like  months.  I  must  not  dwell 
on  the  agony  of  those  days,  or  anything 
they  held  for  all  of  us. 

And  then  she  came — I  heard  the  measured  sound 
Of  slow,  oncoming  feet  — 


734 


CONSOLATION 


I  had  looked  forward,  with  a  great 
eagerness,  to  seeing  her  again.  I  went 
into  the  room.  There,  amid  a  bower  of 
flowers,  dressed  in  glistening,  delicate 
white,  lay  a  beautiful  girl.  'So  still  and 
cold  and  white,  unanswering'  — 

I  felt  a  distinct  shock  of  disappoint- 
ment. This  was  not  Margaret.  There 
was  some  mistake,  after  all.  But  the 
clear-cut,  cameo  features  were  the 
same,  the  hair,  the  hands.  I  touched 
them.  Who  can  forget  that  icy  cold! 
It  was  marble.  It  was  not  Margaret. 

I  stood,  disappointed  and  puzzled. 
She  was  not  lying  there.  I  was  sure  of 
it.  She  was  alive,  and  was  both  with  me 
and  in  heaven.  The  flood  of  triumph- 
ant conviction  swept  over  me  again. 
I  looked  about  the  room,  in  a  kind  of 
wonder  at  the  funeral  flowers  —  for 
her,  who  was  not  dead!  There  were 
pallid  white  roses.  But  among  them 
were  some  splendid  rich  red  roses,  full 
of  life  and  vigor.  Yes,  they  were  suit- 
able. And  there  were  her  favorite  pink 
ones.  Then  my  eye  caught  a  great 
wreath  of  sweet  peas,  white,  rose-pink, 
and  lavender.  It  seemed  to  express  my 
thought  of  her  present  life  and  sur- 
roundings. I  caught  it  up  and  laid  it  over 
the  feet  of  the  beautiful,  still  figure. 

Later  in  the  day  someone  came  and 
spoke  to  me  about  a  dress  —  a  black 
dress.  The  thought  filled  me  with  hor- 
ror. Black!  They  wear  black  for  the 
dead.  She  was  not  dead.  To  wear  black 
would  seem  to  proclaim  her  dead.  I 
showed  them  the  wreath.  'If  it  were 
possible,  I  should  like  to  wear  white, 
embroidered  with  rose  and  lavender, 
and  threads  of  gold,  like  light,'  I  said. 
'That  is  the  glorious  way  I  think  of 
her.'  But  I  felt  that  no  one  could 
understand. 

They  spoke  of  cards,  black-edged, 
and  of  kerchiefs,  black-edged.  It  seem- 
ed childish  to  me,  even  though  one 


were  dead.  How  wide  should  the  border 
be,  to  express  one's  grief?  It  would  be 
all  black,  would  it  not?  But  it  would 
seem  to  say  that  she  was  dead.  I  could 
not  bear  it,  and  ordered  only  white. 

Another  day  passed  while  the  beau- 
tiful form  lay  among  the  flowers.  I 
need  not  tell  anyone  who  has  experi- 
enced it,  what  those  days  were  to  the 
grief-stricken  household. 

Then  the  time  came  when  we  stood 
on  the  hillside,  while  light  snow-flakes 
fell,  beside  the  open  grave.  It  almost 
seemed  true,  then,  what  they  all  said. 
Dazed,  in  bewilderment  and  dumb 
pain,  I  saw  the  blanket  of  roses  laid 
over  the  grave.  But  as  we  turned  heav- 
ily away,  I  knew  that  Margaret  was 
with  us. 

As  we  entered  the  door  of  the  home 
there  came  that  piercing,  crushing 
thought  that  she  would  never  come 
back,  as  she  had  before.  But  she  was 
alive.  She  was  'just  away,'  as  she  had 
been  on  the  visit,  as  her  sister  had  been 
at  school.  Farther?  No,  nearer,  very 
near.  I  was  sure  of  it.  And  we  would  be 
going  to  her. 

From  that  time  I  have  looked  for- 
ward to  that  meeting,  and  I  can  hardly 
wait. 

in 

It  was  a  comfort,  that  first  night,  to 
feel  that  she  was  with  my  father  and 
those  others  we  loved.  There  comes  to 
us  all  at  such  times,  at  first,  —  and  es- 
pecially at  night, — an  overwhelming, 
instinctive  fear  of  the  loneliness  and 
darkness  and  cold.  It  is  as  if  those  who 
have  gone  from  us  had  set  forth  alone, 
in  a  tiny  boat,  upon  a  misty  sea.  Are 
they  frightened?  Are  they  lonely?  Are 
they  cold?  We  can  think  and  feel  only 
in  terms  of  the  senses,  and  we  tor- 
ture ourselves  with  these  unreasoning 
thoughts.  We  try  to  reach  out  human 
hands  of  helpfulness  to  them;  and  then 


CONSOLATION 


735 


we  realize  with  relief  that  others,  like 
them,  can  touch  and  help  them,  when 
we  cannot. 

The  thought  makes  the  flesh  seem 
unreal.  It  makes  God  seem  more  real. 
We  are  turned  back  on  the  thought  of 
God,  and  of  his  promises.  The  Twenty- 
third  Psalm  is  a  refuge.  We  sink  into 
the  comfort  of  the  thought,  'Under- 
neath are  the  Everlasting  Arms.'  We 
hold  to  the  promise  of  Christ,  'Lo,  I 
am  with  you  always.'  It  is  unspeak- 
ably comforting  to  realize  that  'If  I 
take  the  wings  of  the  morning  and 
dwell  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea, 
even  there  shall  thy  hand  lead  me,  and 
thy  right  hand  shall  hold  me.' 

Why,  they  could  not  be  away  from 
Him  anywhere  in  the  universe.  They 
could  not  grope  a  single  step  in  dark- 
ness or  bewilderment. 

Then  I  began  to  realize  that  we  are 
just  as  entirely  dependent  on  God  in  the 
flesh,  as  we  are  after  we  leave  it.  How 
helpless  are  mortals,  before  the  power 
of  the  aroused  elements,  in  flood  or 
fire,  earthquake  or  hurricane!  How 
helpless  in  pestilence!  How  little  hu- 
man hands  can  do  to  protect  us!  And 
we  are  as  helpless  to  provide  for  our 
needs,  if  provision  is  not  made  first  by 
Nature. 

I  realize  how  God's  care  anticipates 
our  human  needs,  provides  light  for  the 
eye,  sound  for  the  ear,  adjusts  our 
physical  frame  to  the  pressure  of  the 
atmosphere,  maintains  the  thefmo- 
equilibrium  of  the  body  these  and 
thousands  of  other  provisions.  And 
does  He  not  provide  as  generously  for 
our  souls,  even  while  they  are  impris- 
oned hi  the  flesh?  In  how  many  ways 
does  He  minister  to  the  soul  —  through 
the  eye,  the  ear,  the  intellect,  and  by 
spiritual  communion. 

The  study,  not  only  of  the  human 
body  and  mind,  but  also  of  physical  na- 
ture, convinces  one  of  open  heart  of  the 
care  of  God. 


'Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field.' 
'Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air.  .  .  . 
Your  heavenly  Father  feedeth  them.' 

Many  a  time,  since  then,  have  I 
stood,  as  the  golden  sunset  deepened 
into  twilight,  and  listened  to  the  robins 
singing  their  happy  vespers  among  the 
orchard  trees.  As  it  sank  to  a  soft  twit- 
ter, blending  with  the  contented  hum 
of  insects,  and  the  far-off,  peaceful 
sounds  of  flock  and  herd,  there  has 
swept  over  me  an  overwhelming  con- 
sciousness of  the  care  of  the  All-Father 
for  his  creatures. 

Something  of  this  came  to  me  that 
first  night,  and  I  prayed  for  her  who  had 
gone  out  into  what  seemed  at  first  to  be 
the  great  Darkness.  It  was  not  that 
she  needed  my  prayers,  for  her  faith 
was  as  deep  as  mine;  but  that  seemed 
the  only  way  I  could  bear  her  company. 
Gradually  the  darkness  became  lumi- 
nous, and  the  horror  of  cold  and  loneli- 
ness melted  away  in  the  warm  con- 
sciousness of  the  love  and  light  of  God. 

The  next  day  a  friend  brought  me  a 
copy  of  the  beautiful  prayer  that  his 
church  uses.  It  was  so  comforting  that 
I  want  to  give  it  to  others. 

'O  God,  the  God  of  the  spirits  of  all 
flesh,  in  whose  embrace  all  creatures 
live,  in  whatsoever  world  or  condition 
they  be;  I  beseech  Thee  for  her  whose 
name  and  dwelling-place  and  every 
need  Thou  knowest. 

'Lord,  vouchsafe  her  light  and  rest, 
peace  and  refreshment,  joy  and  conso- 
lation, in  Paradise,  in  the  companion- 
ship of  saints,  in  the  presence  of  Christ, 
in  the  ample  folds  of  thy  great  love. 
Grant  that  her  life  (so  troubled  here) 
may  unfold  itself  in  thy  sight  and  find 
a  sweet  employment  in  the  spacious 
fields  of  eternity.  If  she  hath  ever  been 
hurt  or  maimed  by  any  unhappy  word 
or  deed  of  mine,  I  pray  Thee,  of  thy 
great  pity,  to  heal  and  restore  her,  that 
she  may  serve  Thee  without  hindrance. 

'Tell  her,  0  gracious  Lord,  if  it  may 


736 


CONSOLATION 


be,  how  much  I  love  her  and  miss  her 
and  long  to  see  her  again;  and,  if  there 
be  ways  in  which  she  may  come,  vouch- 
safe her  to  me  as  a  guide  and  guard, 
and  grant  us  a  sense  of  her  nearness,  in 
such  degree  as  thy  laws  permit. 

'If  in  aught  I  can  minister  to  her 
peace,  be  pleased,  of  thy  love,  to  let 
this  be;  and  mercifully  keep  me  from 
every  act  which  may  deprive  me  of  the 
sight  of  her  as  soon  as  our  trial  time  is 
over,  or  mar  the  fullness  of  our  joy  when 
the  end  of  the  days  hath  come. 

'  Pardon,  O  gracious  Lord  and  Father, 
whatsoever  is  amiss  in  this  my  prayer, 
and  let  thy  will  be  done;  for  my  will  is 
blind  and  erring,  but  thine  is  able  to  do 
exceeding  abundantly  above  all  that 
we  ask  or  think;  through  Jesus  Christ 
our  Lord.  Amen.' 

'Light  and  rest,  peace  and  refresh- 
ment, joy  and  consolation.'  What 
could  I  pray  for  her  that  she  would  not 
have?  I  prayed  God  to  give  her  all 
these,  and  some  special,  shining  joy, 
because  of  her  mother's  prayer.  I  pray- 
ed for  Him  to  give  her  my  love,  and  to 
tell  her  how  deeply  we  missed  her;  for, 
though  I  lifted  my  thought  to  her  con- 
stantly, I  felt  that  she  was  more  sure  to 
receive  the  message  in  that  way.  I 
prayed,  too,  that  I  might  have  com- 
munion with  her,  and  that  my  thought 
might  go  to  her.  I  feel  now  that  it  does. 
And  then  I  taught  the  children  to  pray, 
'Please,  God,  give  her  our  love.'  But 
most  of  all  I  prayed  that  she  might  be 
kept  as  close  to  Christ  as  possible. 
That  means  all  safety,  all  care,  all  be- 
atitude. 

IV 

The  pink  roses  left  in  the  home 
breathed  of  her.  While  they  lasted 
they  gave  me  a  kind  of  faint  happiness. 
When  they  were  gone,  I  brought  more 
to  put  by  her  picture  and  in  her  room. 
She  seemed  to  be  there,  in  a  way.  But 


when  I  went  back  to  the  cemetery,  I 
felt  that  she  was  not  there.  There  was 
no  satisfaction  in  going,  or  in  taking 
flowers.  It  seemed  better  to  put  them 
in  her  room,  as  if  she  would  know. 

Her  room,  all  rose-pink  and  white, 
had  been  closed.  Some  weeks  later,  I 
took  it  for  mine,  seeming  to  be  nearer 
to  her.  Standing  before  her  mirror,  I 
thought  how  often  there. had  'glowed 
the  clear  perfection  of  her  face.'  It 
seemed  as  if  she  must  enter  through  that 
mirrored  door,  and  smile  over  my 
shoulder.  The  feeling  persisted  that 
she  would  be  returning  at  any  time. 

Our  lives  and  our  thoughts  had  been 
much  interwoven,  and  we  had  much  in 
common.  It  seemed  to  me  that  now,  in 
a  peculiar  way,  I  had  come  to  see  with 
her  eyes.  As  I  unfolded  the  delicate 
gowns  she  wore,  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing, 'How  coarse  and  common  these 
must  seem  to  her,  compared  to  the 
glorious  raiment  she  can  choose  and 
fashion  now.'  Suddenly,  I  had  a 
thought,  almost  a  feeling,  of  filmy  gar- 
ments, not  woven,  but  of  the  texture 
of  a  flower-petal.  How  coarse  the  finest 
fabric  is,  compared  to  that! 

Putting  away  her  trinkets,  I  thought 
what  childish  toys  they  must  seem  to 
her  now,  compared  with  the  wonders  of 
heaven.  But  I  laid  my  treasures  away 
with  reverent  care,  for  they  were  all 
I  had,  and  inexpressibly  dear.  The 
thought  was  satisfying  rather  than  dis- 
quieting, for  it  left  a  stronger  impres- 
sion of  her  exalted  state,  and  made  me 
seem  more  attuned  to  her  spirit. 

I  felt  this,  too,  when  I  noticed  sud- 
denly the  unusual  effect  of  sad  or 
minor  strains  on  my  ear.  I  used  to  love 
them,  and  they  are  generally  supposed 
to  be  peculiarly  acceptable  to  those  in 
sorrow.  Now  they  smote  on  my  ear  as 
gratingly  as  a  discord.  I  realized  that 
this  was  not  the  kind  of  music  that 
Margaret  was  hearing.  It  should  be 
happy  and  triumphant. 


CONSOLATION 


737 


I  saw  the  grime  and  dirt  of  the  city 
with  new  vision,  and  with  an  over- 
powering thought  of  the  immaculate 
purity  of  those  streets,  '  like  unto  mol- 
ten glass,'  and  of  the  incorruptible 
beauty  of  that  fair  country,  that  real 
'Place'  that  Christ  promised  to  pre- 
pare for  us.  It  was  good  to  think  of  her 
there. 

When  someone  laid  before  me  that 
beautiful  sonnet  of  Richard  Watson 
Gilder,  'Call  me  not  Dead,'  it  came  to 
me  with  new  meaning:  — 

Call  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 
Into  the  company  of  the  ever-living 
High  and  most  glorious  poets.  Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.  Say :  '  He  at  last  hath  won 
Rest  and  release,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces; 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 
To-morrow   (who  can  say?)   Shakespeare  may 

pass, 

And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well; 
Or  Milton;  or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly 

hill. 

I  had  thought  of  her  meeting  others. 
Perhaps  she,  too,  had  met  Keats  and 
others  of  those  beautiful  spirits  gone 
from  us,  whose  books  she  had  loved  to 
read,  those  masters  of  music  and  paint- 
ing that  she  enjoyed  most.  It  was  a 
comfort  to  know  that  she  had  always 
delighted  in  new  places  and  in  making 
new  friends.  I  pictured  her  amid  groups 
and  companies,  amid  love  and  light  and 
harmonies  of  wonderful  music.  I  could 
see  her  conversing,  with  her  bright 
sparkle  and  vivacity,  with  these  new 
friends.  How  she  would  enjoy  them; 
and,  I  could  not  help  thinking,  how 
they  would  enjoy  her! 

Then  I  began  to  think  of  her,  with  a 
most  persistent  imagining,  as  moving  in 
some  free,  swift,  happy  motion,  almost 


as  if  swept  along  by  light  clouds,  or  by 
electric  currents.  Not  with  the  old 
idea  of  wings!  As  I  saw  her,  in  thought, 
she  was  always  smiling,  almost  always 
laughing,  with  that  light,  joyous  laugh 
of  hers.  And  whenever  I  lifted  my 
eyes,  it  seemed  that,  framed  among  the 
trees,  wreathed  in  rainbow  colors,  there 
was  a  vanishing  vision  of  her  smiling 
face. 

It  took  nothing  from  my  comfort  to 
think  that  memory  and  imagination 
each  had  its  part  in  this  strong  new 
visualizing.  Accustomed  to  analyze 
thought,  I  was  aware  of  a  new,  strong 
element,  which  I  believed  to  be  divine. 

Many  things  about  the  home  have 
helped  to  make  her,  not  a  memory,  but 
a  living  part  of  our  daily  lives.  She 
seems  immanent  in  all  beauty,  as  a  liv- 
ing part  of  it  —  in  sunset  or  moonlight, 
in  garden  walks  or  woodland  paths. 
And  in  all  holy  communion,  being  near- 
er to  God,  I  feel  nearer  to  her  who  is 
with  God. 

Most  of  all,  the  thought  of  her  comes 
at  sunrise,  in  the  beauty  of  the  quiet 
dawn,  with  the  words  of  her  best-loved 
hymn.  The  air  is  Mendelssohn's,  but 
there  always  awakens  at  the  same  time 
the  unearthly  music  of  Grieg's  'Morn- 
ing,' which  she  often  played.  It,  too, 
has  in  it  the  faint,  growing  light  of  the 
dawn  and  the  stir  of  awakening  birds. 

Still,  still  with  Thee,  when  purple  morning  break- 

eth, 

When  the  bird  waketh,  and  the  shadows  flee; 
Fairer  than  morning,  lovelier  than  daylight, 
Dawns   the  sweet  consciousness  —  I  am  with 

Thee. 

So  shall  it  be  at  last,  in  that  bright  morning 
When  the  soul  waketh,  and  life's  shadows  flee; 
O  in  that  hour,  fairer  than  daylight  dawning, 
Shall   rise   the  glorious   thought  —  I   am   with 
Thee. 

To  that  dawning  I  lift  my  eyes. 


VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 


SHELL-SHOCKED  — AND  AFTER 


BY  AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER 


HEADQUARTERS, DIVISION, 

,  FRANCE, 

November  1,  1918. 


COLONEL  

General  Staff,  — 

You  will  proceed  to  Ceuilly  Woods  at 
once,  ascertain  the  conditions  existing  upon 
that  front,  and  report  the  result  of  your  ob- 
servations by  the  quickest  available  means. 
By  command  of 

MAJOR  GENERAL , 

Colonel,  General  Staff, 
Chief  of  Staff. 

I  received  the  above  order  within 
half  an  hour  after  reporting  for  duty  as 

liaison  officer  for  the th  Division, 

A.E.F.  Brief,  to  the  point,  apparently 
simple  of  execution,  it  was  the  cause  of 
months  of  the  most  perfect  and  un- 
mitigated hell  to  me. 

My  automobile,  a  beautiful  Cadillac 
limousine,  was  waiting  on  the  street, 
below  the  general's  office.  I  climbed 
aboard,  directing  my  chauffeur  to  drive 
toward  the  front  —  we  were  then  about 
ten  miles  behind  the  infantry  lines.  On 
the  way,  I  stopped  to  pick  up  two  Sal- 
vation Army  girls,  walking  laboriously 
through  the  mud  to  their  advanced  sta- 
tion. About  three  miles  back  of  the 
lines,  we  came  to  the  field  artillery,  and 
were  met  in  the  road  by  a  sentinel,  who 
told  me  that  that  was  the  limit  for  auto- 
mobiles. I  sent  the  car  back  to  Division 
Headquarters,  grabbed  a  side-car,  and 
went  on.  It  was  an  active  sector,  and 
things  became  interesting  very  soon. 
We  went  on,  however,  until  we  reached 

738 


a  camouflaged  road.  I  got  out,  told  the 
driver  to  wait  for  me  at  a  town  I  showed 
him  on  my  map,  and  went  on  afoot, 
gathering  up  a  lieutenant  liaison  officer 
familiar  with  that  section  of  the  front. 

We  walked  along  the  road  a  bit,  leav- 
ing it  at  an  opening  in  the  camouflage, 
through  which  ran  an  abandoned  Boche 
narrow-gauge  railroad.  We  followed 
this  railroad,  picking  our  way  carefully, 
while  listening  intently  to  the  occasion- 
al Boche  shells  that  came  over,  in  order 
to  drop  on  our  bellies  in  case  our  ears 
told  us  the  shells  were  close.  At  inter- 
vals we  were  jolted  by  our  own  artillery 
fire,  as  the  seventy-fives  searched  for 
some  irritating  battery  of  the  enemy. 

Soon  we  reached  the  reserves  of  our 
infantry.  I  stopped  at  the  P.C.  of  a 
regiment,  asked  the  colonel  about  con- 
ditions, and  went  on,  still  up  the  aban- 
doned Boche  railroad.  We  were  in  the 
woods,  and  the  railroad  was  the  easiest 
road  to  travel.  Shells  came  thicker,  and 
now  and  than  we  would  drop  as  fast  as 
our  legs  would  wilt,  wait  an  instant  for 
the  crash,  get  up  and  go  on.  Soon  the 
shelling  became  heavier,  and  one  time  I 
dropped  and  heard  a  man  laugh  at  me. 
I  got  up  and  looked  back  at  him.  He 
was  without  a  helmet,  a  dirty,  noncha- 
lant boy,  not  as  bluffed  as  I  had  been 
by  the  shelling. 

I  looked  to  the  front  again,  and  just 
as  I  did  so,  I  heard  the  most  terrifying 
thing  I  had  ever  heard  in  my  life — the 
loud,  malicious  scream  of  a  big  shell.  I 
believe  that  there  can  be  nothing  more 


SHELI^SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


739 


utterly  terrifying  than  that  sound.  It  is 
wicked,  awful;  it  makes  one  feel  cold 
and  sick  when  it  is  loud.  These  shells 
carry  with  them  a  warning  of  death  in 
an  awful  form,  from  which  there  is  no 
escape  unless  God  is  good  to  you  and 
you  are  quick  enough  to  get  close  to  the 
ground  before  the  spray  of  splintered 
steel  flies  in  all  directions.  This  shell 
was  louder  than  any  I  had  ever  heard 
—  it  seemed  to  be  right  in  front  of  my 
face;  it  called  its  message  with  a  flutter- 
ing, whimpering  scream  that  froze  me, 
nauseated  me,  weakened  my  legs,  made 
me  breathe  a  most  devout,  heartfelt 
prayer:  'O  my  God,  don't  let  that  hit 
me!' 

I  dropped.  I  crumpled  up.  I  simply 
collapsed  on  the  ground.  But  I  did  not 
get  there  fast  enough.  As  I  was  falling, 
the  whole  world  blew  up.  It  is  inde- 
scribable, that  crash  of  sound,  so  loud 
one  cannot  hear  it.  It  stuns,  it  seems  to 
hit  you  all  over  at  once  —  things  seem 
to  stop  going  altogether.  Perhaps  I  was 
knocked  out;  I  don't  know.  I  remember 
getting  to  my  feet,  my  head  throbbing, 
my  ears  banging,  my  legs  wobbling  a 
bit  as  I  tried  to  get  my  balance  and  stay 
up.  I  put  my  hand  to  my  head  in  a 
dazed  way,  to  wipe  away  from  my  mind 
the  fogginess  that  seemed  to  surround  it. 

Another  crash  came  and  knocked  me 
down.  Again  I  got  up.  The  blue  layers 
of  smoke  were  lying  all  about  me,  layer 
on  layer,  quiet  and  still,  with  the  trees 
showing  in  between.  I  turned  around, 
and  still  I  saw  those  horizontal  layers  of 
blue  smoke.  I  could  n't  think,  or  move 
away  from  where  I  stood. 

Then,  as  if  it  had  just  happened,  I 
heard  a  man  screaming.  He  was  hold- 
ing his  body  with  both  hands,  kneeling 
on  the  ground,  and  screaming  in  agony. 
Another  and  another  were  lying  quietly 
on  the  track.  Then  my  eyes  rested  on 
what  was  left  of  the  boy  who  had  laugh- 
ed at  me,  the  blood  pumping  out  of  his 
body  like  red  water  from  an  overturned 


bucket.  Then  I  realized  that  the  shell- 
ing was  still  going  on  —  heavy,  contin- 
uous crashes,  following  closely  one  after 
another,  many  at  a  time,  a  perfect  din 
of  sound.  I  fell  to  the  ground,  and  roll- 
ed over  and  over,  off  the  track  into  the 
woods  on  the  side,  into  a  shell-hole,  and 
lay  there.  My  head  hurt,  my  face  hurt, 
my  ears  and  eyes  —  I  hurt  all  over.  I 
put  my  hand  to  my  face  where  it  seem- 
ed to  burn,  and  found  it  was  covered 
with  blood.  I  thought  how  messy  it 
would  make  my  trench-coat,  and  won- 
dered whether  a  dry  cleaner  could  get 
blood  out  of  a  fur  collar.  I  lay  there  in 
that  hole  until  the  barrage  lifted  a  bit 
—  it  was  a  six-inch  barrage:  the  Boche 
was  covering  our  approaches,  which  he 
knew  all  too  well,  since  we  had  just 
pushed  him  out  of  that  same  area  the 
day  before.  He  knew  that  track  very 
well,  and  exactly  where  it  was. 

I  went  on  to  the  front,  slowly  feeling 
my  way,  until  I  got  to  the  lines.  There 
were  no  trenches,  our  men  were  lying  on 
their  bellies  in  the  grass,  hugging  the 
ground  until  they  went  forward  a  few 
yards  more,  only  to  hug  the  ground 
again.  At  a  field-telephone,  a  bit  later, 
I  telephoned  back  what  information  I 
had,  and  started  to  return.  It  took  me 
all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  get  back  to  a 
dressing-station,  where  I  was  sewed  up. 
That  night  I  investigated  the  rest  of 
that  immediate  sector,  found  my  side- 
car, and  went  back  to  the  division, 
hugging  the  right  of  the  road,  with  no 
lights  of  any  kind,  meeting  ammunition- 
trains  lumbering  up  on  the  other  side, 
big  spectres  in  the  night,  noisily  making 
their  way  to  the  lines  with  their  load  of 
the  iron  ration.  At  times  a  shell  would 
whinney  and  flutter  —  and  crash  to  our 
right  or  left.  It  was  a  wild  ride.  Early 
in  the  morning  we  reached  headquar- 
ters, and  I  breakfasted  with  the  general 
and  his  staff.  Jokes  were  cracked  at  my 
hurt  face,  and  I  was  congratulated  on 
having  won  a  wound-stripe. 


740 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


n 

The  Armistice  came  along  in  a  few 
days,  and  I  was  assigned  to  command 
a  field-artillery  regiment  that  was  to 
march  into  Germany.  I  was  glad,  as  I 
wanted  to  make  that  historic  trip.  But 
I  wished  to  high  heaven  that  my  head 
would  quit  aching.  We  got  ready  for 
the  march  in,  gathering  horses  here  and 
there,  resting  our  men,  sprucing  up  all 
we  could  under  the  circumstances,  hat- 
ing the  quiet  and  inactivity  of  it  all, 
wishing  we  could  go  home  for  a  week  or 
so,  talking  about  the  past  already.  And 
still  I  wished  to  high  heaven  that  my 
head  would  stop  its  ache,  its  throb,  its 
feeling  as  if  it  were  in  a  vise. 

Then  our  orders  came,  and  in  we 
went.  Through  miles  of  horribly  dev- 
astated France,  past  miles  on  miles  of 
barbed-wire  entanglements,  over  roads 
full  of  shell-holes,  past  utterly  ruined 
towns.  And  then  into  beautiful  Luxem- 
burg, with  fields  of  grain,  wonderful 
forests;  through  quaint  towns,  and  then 
to  Luxemburg  City,  where,  as  I  rode  at 
the  head  of  my  regiment,  the  children 
ran  along  and  threw  flowers  under  my 
horse's  feet  —  flags  waving  from  the 
windows,  people  cheering,  until  my 
heart  came  into  my  throat  and  tears  to 
my  eyes,  and  I  realized  that  never  in 
my  life  again  would  I  feel  as  I  did  then. 
And  always  my  head  ached  and  throb- 
bed, always  I  wished  to  high  heaven  it 
would  some  time  stop. 

The  regimental  surgeon  began  to 
dope  me.  Every  night  he  would  stick 
something  into  me,  or  give  me  some- 
thing to  drink,  feel  my  pulse,  chat  a 
while.  Next  morning  he  would  stop  in 
and  ask  how  I  slept,  and  sometimes  how 
I  ate.  I  did  n't  sleep,  I  could  n't  eat. 
And  always  the  ache.  And  then  that 
dream!  It  would  wake  me  up  in  a 
sweat.  Every  now  and  then  I  would 
hear  that  fluttering,  whimpering  squeal, 
—  and  then  I  would  see  myself  lying  on 


the  ground  with  my  face  gone  —  and 
the  blood  pumping  itself  out  of  the 
pieces  of  the  boy  who  had  laughed  at 
me.  I  would  wake  up  and  not  sleep  any 
more.  Then  breakfast  and  no  appetite 
—  and  always  that  damnable  ache,  and 
throb,  and  the  vise  would  squeeze  my 
head. 

Food  became  more  scarce,  transpor- 
tation was  not  adequate,  the  Boche  was 
moving  fast,  and  we  must  keep  up  to 
him.  My  horses  had  been  gassed  from 
grazing  in  gassed  areas  back  of  the 
front;  they  had  not  had  sufficient  nour- 
ishment, and  were  weak.  My  men  were 
very  weary.  One  time  we  were  told  that 
the  next  day's  march  was  forty-two 
miles.  It  almost  broke  my  heart  to 
make  the  regiment  turn  out  at  4  A.M., 
and  march  those  forty-two  long  miles. 
Horses  died,  men  were  evacuated  to  the 
hospitals,  and  between  nine  and  ten 
that  night  we  staggered  into  our  billets, 
almost  all  in.  And  the  hill  we  climb- 
ed that  day  —  what  a  pull  for  those 
horses!  I  love  horses,  and  as  I  rode  up 
that  hill,  I  thought  of  how  little  these 
drafted  men  knew  of  driving  a  six-line 
team  up  a  hill  with  a  jack-knife  turn  at 
the  top.  So  I  stopped,  spread  the  regi- 
ment out  so  that  there  was  road-room 
between  the  carriages,  and  personally 
drove  every  gun-carriage  around  that 
turn.  There  were  only  three  men  in  the 
regiment  who  knew  how  to  keep  six 
horses  in  draft  around  a  turn  like  that. 
The  two  majors  knew,  one  a  West  Point- 
er, the  other  an  old-type  field-artillery 
first  sergeant.  I  was  the  other  one.  It 
took  six  hours  to  get  the  two  miles  of 
regiment  over  the  top  of  that  hill.  They 
got  there,  though. 

Across  the  river  into  Germany!  How 
I  do  remember  that  day.  From  the 
laughter,  the  waving  flags,  the  hap- 
py children  strewing  flowers  in  Luxem- 
burg, into  Germany — silent,  sullen  Ger- 
many. The  women  turned  their  backs, 
the  children  clung  to  their  mothers' 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


741 


skirts,  and  stared,  or  scampered  into  the 
house,  looking  backward  as  they  ran. 
How  quiet  it  all  was!  How  sullenly 
antagonistic!  My  men  joked  and  kid- 
ded each  other  about  the  way  the  girls 
turned  their  backs,  and  comments  were 
made  on  how  that  would  all  change 
when  the  Q.M.  furnished  us  with  new 
uniforms.  It  did  change,  too,  almost 
overnight,  as  if  it  had  been  ordered 
from  the  German  Great  Headquar- 
ters. Then  we  were  treated  well,  almost 
as  guests.  The  sullenness  vanished,  to 
be  replaced  by  a  welcoming  hand  and 
offers  of  food  and  shelter  if  we  did  not 
have  enough.  My  orderly  came  to  me 
and  said, '  Colonel,  we  ' ve  been  fighting 
the  wrong  people! '  It  shocked  me  for  a 
moment  and  made  me  think,  and  has 
made  me  think  a  good  deal  since  — 
that  remark.  I  began  to  learn  how  many 
of  my  men  spoke  German,  how  many 
had  been  born  hi  Germany,  or  were  of 
German  parentage. 

I  was  made  military  governor  of  an 
area,  was  treated  well  by  my  host,  the 
mayor  of  the  town  where  I  made  my 
headquarters.  I  remember  how  deli- 
cious his  Frau's  outing-flannel  sheets  felt 
to  me  at  night,  after  the  variety  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  at  the  front.  But  I 
could  not  sleep  well  at  all,  nor  could  I 
eat  well.  The  doctor  began  to  talk  of 
my  taking  a  rest,  a  few  days  in  the  hos- 
pital, and  so  forth,  to  ease  up  a  bit. 
And  there  was  more  dope  in  my  arm, 
or  something  to  drink.  But  the  throb 
in  my  head  kept  on  —  and  so  did  the 
dream.  For  about  three  months  that 
continued;  my  nerves  were  getting  bad, 
I  was  becoming  more  and  more  irri- 
table. I  was  ill,  but  did  not  quite  know 
it.  I  was  sent  to  the  hospital,  was  trans- 
ferred to  another,  fainted  once,  was  put 
to  bed.  And  then  things  began  to  fade 
away  at  times.  They  were  kind  to  me 
there,  very  kind.  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber the  kindness  of  those  nurses  and 
doctors. 


The  next  thing  I  remember  I  ^was  at 
Saint-Nazaire,  waiting  in  the  hospital 
for  a  transport  to  take  me  home,  with  a 
lot  of  wounded  and  sick  men.  They 
told  me  afterward  that  I  acted  all -right; 
but  the  five  weeks  intervening  between 
the  hospital  in  Germany  and  Saint- 
Nazaire  are  a  blank  —  I  simply  remem- 
ber nothing  at  all. 

The  trip  across  was  fine  —  did  me 
lots  of  good.  I  was  looking  forward 
with  a  great  deal  of  happiness  to  meet- 
ing some  dear  friends  on  this  side,  and 
subconsciously  waiting  for  the  kind 
welcome  they  would  give  me,  and  the 
rest  and  peace  that  I  would  have.  A 
wireless  came  to  me  from  a  girl  who  had 
written  to  me  a  good  deal.  If  only  my 
head  would  have  let  up  a  bit,  —  and  the 
nausea  have  stopped,  —  I  could  have 
been  quite  happy. 

in 

We  were  met  in  New  York  by  a  re- 
ception committee,  and  handed  news- 
papers. Officers  came  to .  me,  saying 
that  the  men  were  angry  at  something 
and  wanted  my  opinion.  I  happened  to 
be  the  senior  officer  on  board  and,  al- 
though on  sick-report,  was,  neverthe- 
less, asked  about  this  thing  that  bother- 
ed the  men.  After  hearing  it  out,  I  put 
it  up  to  the  men  themselves,  and  they 
voted  to  a  man  that  they  did  not  want 
to  be  received  by  a  committee  headed 
by  a  New  York  newspaper  man  whom 
they  considered  worse  than  a  Boche. 
The  Boche  at  least  would  fight  —  this 
man  stayed  home  and  did  all  he  could 
to  mess  up  our  work  apparently.  So  I 
told  the  committee  that  the  men  want- 
ed no  reception  from  them,  and  they  de- 
parted. How  odd  it  seemed  to  me  that 
we  should  be  met  by  a  pro-German  at 
such  a  time!  As  I  look  back,  I  remem- 
ber this  as  the  first  of  the  disappoint- 
ments which  my  country  had  in  store 
for  its  men  from  overseas. 


742 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


I  was  feeling  a  bit  rocky,  and  dodged 
the  good  people  who  met  us.  The  sur- 
geon, who  had  been  sleeping  in  the 
same  room  with  me  on  the  way  across, 
took  hie  to  a  receiving  hospital  in  New 
York  City.  A  friend  of  mine,  an  officer 
who  had  been  shell-shocked,  was  miss- 
ing, and  I  asked  for  him.  The  surgeon 
said  that  he  had  jumped  overboard. 
Then  it  dawned  upon  me  why  the  doc- 
tor had  slept  in  my  room. 

I  want  to  give  all  credit  to  the  won- 
derful staff  of  the  hospital.  The  nurses 
and  doctors  were  all  one  could  want. 
They  were  kindness  itself,  thought- 
ful, and  most  considerate.  At  times  in 
the  months  to  follow  there  were  other 
bright  lights  of  happiness  that  shine 
forth  as  I  look  back;  but,  in  the  main, 
the  year  that  followed  was  dominated 
by  misery,  physical  pain,  and  mental 
anguish.  If  I  knew  that  I  was  doomed 
to  go  through  that  period  again,  I  would 
not  face  it. 

For  some  reason  I  shrank  from  meet- 
ing my  friends  —  and  the  girl.  But 
after  a  bit  I  was  allowed  to  go  out,  and 
I  called  on  her.  She  was  apparently 
glad  to  see  me,  and  for  a  while  I  enjoyed 
her  company;  but  some  intuition  made 
me  feel  uncomfortable  —  why,  I  could 
not  tell.  Gradually  this  began  to  be- 
come clearer  to  me,  however,  as  I  came 
to  realize  how  far  apart  we  were,  how 
different  her  sheltered  life  had  been  on 
this  side,  and  how  utterly  impossible  it 
was  for  her  to  appreciate  how  I  felt.  I 
closed  up  like  an  oyster,  finding  it  out 
of  the  question  to  tell  what  wanted  to 
be  told.  I  tried  to  a  few  times,  only  to 
catch  the  look  of  conscious  interest  — 
and  again  shut  up. 

This  was  my  second  disappointment. 
It  surprised  me  —  it  hurt  me.  The 
longer  I  remained  in  this  country,  the 
more  it  hurt,  until,  finally,  I  became 
callous  to  the  fact;  for  I  realized, 
much  against  my  will,  that  my  friends, 
my  country,  spoke  a  different  language! 


That  thought  rang  through  my  brain 
in  the  long  months  that  followed!  Back 
in  my  own  country,  back  among  my 
friends,  among  scenes  that  I  loved,  that 
meant  everything  to  me,  and  yet  not 
back  at  all.  I  know  that  I  am  but  re- 
peating a  thing  that  has  been  told  many 
times,  but  the  big  fact  remains,  that  the 
quick  abandonment  of  interest  in  our 
overseas  men  by  Americans  in  general 
is  an  indictment  against  us  as  a  nation, 
not  soon  to  be  forgotten  by  the  men  in 
uniform  from  the  other  side.  This  fact 
burns  in  the  minds  of  the  thousands  of 
men  who  at  this  very  moment  are  liv- 
ing their  broken  lives  in  almshouses, 
jails,  insane  asylums,  and  hospitals,  or 
wandering,  hopeless,  about  the  streets. 
I  wanted  relaxation,  rest,  anything  to 
take  my  mind  away  from  myself.  I 
wanted  to  see  musical  comedies,  read 
light  books;  I  wanted  to  laugh  and  play. 
These  were  difficult  things  to  obtain, 
however.  My  best  friends  wanted  to  see 
heavier  plays  —  they  wanted  to  see 
Nazimova  writhe  and  squirm  about  the 
stage;  they  wanted  to  hear  Heifetz  play 
exquisite  music,  over  which  they  raved. 
Exquisite  music,  yes,  but  not  the  sort 
to  feed  to  a  man  who  was  in  dire  need  of 
something  vastly  different. 

I  had  friends  who  were  intellectual, 
who  were  interested  in  things  of  real 
worth;  but  they  could  not  discuss  them 
in  the  human  terms  that  interested  me. 

In  New  York  drawing-rooms  I  met 
musicians  of  international  repute,  men 
of  letters,  of  travel,  who  were  interest- 
ing to  most  people  and  would  have  been 
to  me,  normally;  but  I  was  only  bored. 
Back  my  mind  wandered  to  France;  and 
now  and  then  that  old  dream  came 
back,  and  I  saw  the  red  blood  streaming 
from  the  ripped,  torn  body  of  the  boy 
who  had  laughed  at  me.  I  became  more 
nervous  as  sleep  kept  away,  and  food 
lost  its  interest. 

A  party  of  us  drove  up  the  Hudson 
and  spent  a  few  hours  at  my  old  Alma 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


743 


Mater,  to  me  the  most  beautiful  spot 
in  America,  from  which  have  come  so 
many  of  our  most  famous  men:  the 
school,  founded  by  George  Washington, 
which  gave  us  Grant,  Lee,  Sheridan, 
Sherman,  Taylor,  Pershing,  and  many 
others  of  international  fame  in  civil  as 
well  as  military  life.  There  is  something 
about  that  school  that  holds  its  gradu- 
ates with  a  loyalty  that  exceeds  any- 
thing I  have  seen. 

The  Corps!  Bare-headed,  salute  it! 

With  eyes  up,  thanking  our  God 
That  we  of  the  Corps  are  treading 

Where  they  of  the  Corps  have  trod. 
We  sons  of  to-day  salute  you, 

You  sons  of  its  earlier  day; 
We  follow  close  order  behind  you. 

WTiere  you  have  pointed  the  way. 
The  long  gray  line  of  us  stretches 

Through  the  years  of  a  century  told, 
And  the  last  man  feels  to  his  marrow 

The  grip  of  your  far-off  hold. 

It  was  good  to  be  back,  but  those 
with  whom  I  was  did  not  understand. 
They  had  no  realization  of  the  value  of 
such  a  school  to  the  nation.  Somebody 
remarked  that  West  Point  was  a  place 
where  men  were  taught  to  kill  Germans 
who  had  done  us  no  harm.  That  grated 
on  me,  and  I  replied  that,  if  I  knew  any- 
one who  was  pro-German  at  the  time,  I 
would  most  certainly  report  him  to  the 
authorities. 

'Would  you  report  me?'  asked  an 
American  woman  in  the  party. 

'I  most  certainly  would,'  I  answered. 

'Well,'  she  replied,  'you  know  my 

friend  Fritz is  a  German,  and  I 

have  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  for 
Germany.' 

My  comments  were  a  bit  sharp,  I  am 
afraid,  and  were  apparently  distasteful 
to  another  member  of  the  party,  who 
said  that  I  was  a  coward  if  I  were  will- 
ing to  report  to  the  Secret  Service  such  a 
friend  as  the  other  woman  was  to  me. 
Things  grew  disagreeable,  but  we  drove 
back  to  New  York  in  peace,  though  I 
was  worried  and  tired  out.  I  retired  that 


night  exhausted  in  mind  and  body,  and 
could  not  sleep,  though  the  doctor  gave 
me  an  opiate.  That  element  of  pro- 
Germanism  at  that  time  was  extremely 
distasteful  to  me — I  had  seen  too  much, 
had  felt  too  much,  to  be  kindly  dis- 
posed. Besides,  it  was  a  distinct  shock 
to  learn  that  my  own  friends  felt  so 
friendly  toward  those  people  with  re- 
spect to  whom  I  felt  quite  the  oppo- 
site, because  of  things  I  had  seen  and 
been  through  myself.  I  learned  later 
that  that  feeling  was  very  prevalent 
among  people  calling  themselves  good 
Americans. 

After  a  bit  I  was  assigned  to  duty 
with  the  General  Staff  in  Washington. 
My  duties  began  at  once  —  getting 
ready  for  another  war.  Another  war!  I 
used  to  sit  at  my  desk  in  the 'War  De- 
partment, thinking  it  over.  Another 
war  —  God,  what  a  thought!  How  un- 
der high  heaven  it  could  be  that  we 
should  prepare  for  another  war  was  be- 
yond my  powers  of  comprehension.  I 
could  not  keep  my  mind  on  my  work, 
I  thought  of  other  things,  fumbled  with 
my  papers,  dreamed  and  took  walks 
during  office-hours,  trying  to  get  my 
mind  clear  and  get  away  from  that 
damnable  ache  in  my  head.  I  would  go 
to  sleep  at  my  desk,  making  up  for  the 
night  before.  To  the  Department  I  was 
practically  useless. 

Occasionally  I  went  to  New  York, 
but  had  best  have  stayed  away.  I  met 
an  editor  of  a  newspaper  which  had  as 
its  object  the  uplift  of  people;  but  I 
never  got  to  know  exactly  what  he 
wanted  —  he  seemed  a  bit  vague  him- 
self on  that  score.  I  listened  to  many 
conversations  on  the  subject  of  the  im- 
provement of  the  condition  of  this  and 
that.  Then  came  Germany  and  the 
indemnity,  and  how  awful  it  all  was  to 
make  poor  Germany  pay.  I  went  to 
hear  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  and  was 
disgusted  with  his  ideas.  I  heard  him  ad- 
dress a  meeting  in  Madison  Square,  at- 


744 


SHELL-SHOCKED  — AND  AFTER 


tended  by  hundreds  of  men  and  women. 
As  I  looked  around,  I  saw  not  one  face 
that  I  took  to  be  American;  and  as  this 
American  preacher  remarked  that  the 
Bolsheviki  must  succeed,  he  was  cheer- 
ed to  the  echo,  hats  were  thrown  in  the 
air  —  the  crowd  went  mad.  I  told  my 
companions  that  I  would  not  stay  in 
such  a  place  in  an  American  uniform  — 
and  left.  They  came,  too,  not  because 
they  did  not  sympathize  with  the  speak- 
er, but  because  they  would  not  stay 
alone,  without  the  protecting  influence 
of  that  same  uniform. 

The  drive  home  started  in  silence, 
but  became  a  nightmare  memory  to  me. 
Two  women,  one  an  American,  one 
a  foreigner  of  aristocratic  birth,  began 
to  talk  —  and  such  talk!  Again  were 
my  eyes  opened  very  wide,  and  I  was 
stunned  and  shocked  by  the  opinions 
expressed.  I  was  told  that  America 
should  never  have  entered  the  war  at 
all;  that  we  should  have  accepted  things 
peacefully;  that,  even  if  the  Germans 
came  over  here,  they  would  make 
themselves  so  hated  that  they  would 
soon  depart  whence  they  came!  I  was 
informed  that  I  should  be  ashamed  of 
myself  for  ever  going  to  the  front;  that 
my  decorations  were  a  disgrace  to  wear, 
as  being  tokens  given  to  me  for  killing 
Germans!  It  was  a  disgrace  to  be  a 
soldier  at  all,  killing  helpless  women  and 
children!  I  was  a  liar  when  I  said  that 
American  troops  were  not  accustom- 
ed to  doing  such  things.  And  this  too 
from  well-bred  women  —  intellectuals, 
so-called. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
my  association  with  these  people,  of 
whom  I  had  been  very  fond  before  I 
sailed  overseas.  I  reported  them  to  the 
Secret  Service  in  Washington,  and  be- 
lieve that  their  pernicious  activities 
ceased.  The  foreigner  had  taken  refuge 
on  our  shores  from  the  violence  and 
anarchy  which  reigned  in  her  own  coun- 
try; had  for  three  years  accepted  all 


that  we  had  to  give  —  our  safety,  hos- 
pitality, music  and  art,  the  associations 
which  meant  most  to  her.  And  yet,  in 
conversation  with  me  one  evening, 
holding  her  aristocratic  arms  aloft,  she 
loudly  proclaimed  that  REVOLUTION 
was  what  was  needed  to  cure  my  coun- 
try's ills!  Some  things  are  beyond  com- 
prehension, beyond  the  power  of  hu- 
man understanding. 

IV 

Back  in  Washington,  we  still  worked 
on  war,  preparing  for  the  next  one.  I 
did  my  best,  but  one  day  things  broke. 
I  was  sitting  at  my  desk,  and  suddenly 
realized  that  there  was  something  radi- 
cally wrong.  I  got  to  my  feet,  laughing 
and  feeling  silly.  I  saw  little  white 
circles  chasing  each  other  in  front  of  my 
eyes.  They  came  slowly  into  view  from 
nowhere  and  tumbled  from  left  to  right, 
scurrying  along  one  after  another;  and 
as  I  looked  after  them,  they  hurried  on, 
always  from  left  to  right.  I  turned  my 
head  —  and  still  they  rolled  over  and 
over,  those  soft,  round  things  that  came 
out  of  nothing  and  fled  away  just  as  I 
turned  my  head  to  see  where  they  were 
hurrying.  I  grew  tense,  and  laughed. 
Then  I  began  to  play  with  them  as  they 
rolled  along  from  left  to  right,  always 
just  a  little  ahead  of  me.  I  grabbed  at 
them  —  and  laughed  and  giggled  in  my 
play.  I  turned  my  head,  but  they  rolled 
on,  always  just  a  bit  ahead.  I  turned 
around  myself,  grabbing  at  those  dam- 
nably elusive  things  that  seemed  to 
mock  me  in  this  game.  And  as  I  jump- 
ed for  them,  I  laughed  and  chuckled 
delightedly. 

In  the  middle  of  it  all  I  stopped  — 
there  came  a  noise  outside  that  brought 
me  up  sharp.  I  stopped  and  listened — 
everything  was  very  still  for  an  instant. 
Then  a  car-bell  rang  on  the  street  be- 
low; then  came  steps  in  the  hall  out- 
side, and  the  subdued  voices  of  officers 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


745 


in  the  next  room  in  a  conference.  I  felt 
a  chill  of  fear  grip  me.  I  locked  myself 
in,  sat  down,  and  held  on  to  my  desk  as 
things  got  gray  and  the  ache  in  my 
head  gave  way  to  a  hum,  a  low  chanting 
hum,  like  the  one  that  comes  when 
one  is  just  going  under  an  anesthetic. 
It  required  all  my  will-power  to  keep 
conscious  then.  Many  times  afterward 
I  used  my  will  to  keep  control  of  my- 
self; but  I  remember  that  as  the  first 
time,  and  it  left  me  tired  physically,  hot 
all  over,  and  shaking  with  an  intangible 
fear  of  a  thing  not  understood. 

Then  a  thought  came  to  me,  slowly, 
in  a  vague  sort  of  way  —  I  was  losing 
my  mind!  Dear  God,  I  was  losing  my 
mind!  I  grabbed  my  head  in  my  hands, 
closed  my  eyes  to  keep  away  those 
fooling,  fluffy,  flying  things  that  came 
out  of  nowhere  and  tumbled  off  into 
nowhere  again.  Things  became  quiet, 
I  got  control,  picked  up  my  cap,  un- 
locked the  door,  and  started  to  leave 
the  office.  My  secretary  met  me  at  the 
door  and  laughingly  asked  me  why  I 
had  locked  her  out  —  that  she  had  been 
knocking.  I  said  I  would  not  be  back 
that  afternoon. 

I  went  as  straight  as  I  could  go  to  the 
attending  surgeon,  an  old  friend.  In  the 
seclusion  of  his  office  I  told  him  my 
story,  and  went  all  to  pieces  and  sobbed 
like  a  woman.  Pretty  soon  we  were  in 
my  car,  and  he  was  driving  me  to  the 
Walter  Reed  Hospital,  talking  to  me 
quietly  on  the  way.  Then  followed 
those  interminable  examinations,  day 
after  day,  —  blood-tests,  eye-tests,  ear- 
tests,  balance-tests,  every  test  apparent- 
ly that  could  be  devised.  I  was  thank- 
ful for  my  shoulder-straps,  which  gave 
me  a  room  to  myself. 

There  came  interviews  with  a  famous 
nerve  specialist,  a  man  whose  grasp  of 
human  nature  was  wonderful ;  but  he  did 
not  know  the  answer.  He  advised  one 
thing  and  then  another;  he  was  kind- 
ness itself,  and  his  understanding  was 


remarkable.  A  man  nationally  famous, 
he  had  given  up  his  practice  to  help  the 
army  in  its  time  of  need  —  but  he  had 
not  been  'over  there,'  and  he  did  not 
know.  It  was  this  man,  whose  opinion  I 
valued  so  highly,  whose  keen  percep- 
tion was  always  a  source  of  wonder  to 
me,  whose  training  was  all  along  the 
line  that  would  lead  to  a  real  under- 
standing of  my  case,  who  first  showed 
me  how  utterly  alone  I  was  to  be  in  the 
year  that  followed. 

I  had  been  more  or  less  alone  before, 
because  everyone  seemed  to  be  so  in- 
capable of  seeing  things  as  I  saw  them, 
but  my  previous  feeling  was  but  little, 
compared  to  what  followed.  I  wish  that 
I  could  properly  describe  that  feeling  of 
utter  loneliness  in  the  world.  I  wish  I 
could  in  some  way  convey  to  those  who 
had  their  men  on  the  other  side  how 
perfectly  damnable  that  solitude  is  to 
some  of  those  men.  I  wish  more  still 
that  I  could  in  some  way  get  it  into  the 
minds  of  all  Americans  who  have  not 
been  through  it,  how  dreadfully  alone  a 
shell-shocked  man  can  be,  even  though 
surrounded  by  those  who  love  him  most. 

After  some  weeks  I  was  given  more 
liberty  and  would  drive  out  to  see 
friends  —  but  with  what  result?  Al- 
ways I  met  with  the  same  thing,  that 
lack  of  interest,  —  either  assumed  or 
real,  I  do  not  know,  —  and  would  go 
back  to  the  hospital  and  lie  on  my  bed 
and  lose  all  control  of  myself,  and  cry 
like  a  baby.  Sleep  did  not  come  when  I 
seemed  most  to  need  it,  and  food  was 
positively  repulsive  a  great  deal  of  the 
time. 

There  is  no  use  in  going  into  the  de- 
tails of  what  followed  in  the  hospital, 
except  that  one  day  three  doctors  came 
in  to  see  me.  They  seemed  to  have 
something  on  their  minds,  but  took 
some  time  to  get  it  off.  Finally,  with 
the  greatest  consideration,  calmly  and 
with  expressions  of  regret,  I  was  in- 
formed that  it  was  their  opinion  that  I 


746 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


had  best  get  my  affairs  in  shape  as  I 
would  probably  not  live  for  more  than  a 
month,  or  at  best  would  be  permanently 
insane. 

Angry?  When  I  had  heard  them  out, 
I  was  more  than  that.  I  seemed  to  have 
an  insane  desire  to  hurt  those  men.  I 
called  them  all  the  names  I  could  think 
of;  damned  them  with  as  much  abuse  as 
I  could  command.  I  wanted  to  break 
the  furniture,  to  smash  anything  that 
came  near  me.  They  must  have  thought 
me  crazy;  perhaps  I  was,  but  it  was  the 
craziness  of  a  wild  rage  at  anybody  who 
was  such  a  fool  as  to  think  I  was  ready 
to  die.  Die?  Why,  I  would  not  have 
died  to  please  those  doctors  —  and  I 
did  n't. 

The  thought  has  come  to  me  since, 
that  perhaps  those  specialists  told  me 
that  with  a  purpose.  I  don't  know  —  I 
have  never  asked;  but  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  perhaps  they  told  me  that  to 
bring  out  all  the  fight  there  was  in  me. 
If  that  was  their  object,  I  will  grant 
them  a  hundred  per  cent  of  success. 
That  interview  was  the  turning-point 
in  my  illness.  From  that  minute  I  was 
obsessed  with  the  idea  that  I  would  not 
die  —  I  was  damned  if  I  would  die! 
The  whole  object  of  my  life  was  to 
show  those  men  what  fools  they  were  to 
think  that  I  was  going  to  die.  I  remem- 
ber how  I  screamed  at  them  in  that 
room,  and  how  they  stood  there  listen- 
ing to  me,  watching  me,  and  saying 
nothing.  I  screamed  and  cursed  those 
men  until  I  cried,  and  slung  myself 
down  on  my  bed,  and  wore  myself  out 
trying  to  control  the  hysterical  sobs 
that  seemed  to  shake  me  all  to  pieces. 

I  locked  my  nurse  out,  but  she  got 
in  and  was  good  to  me  and  gave  me 
an  opiate.  She  was  a  sweet  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  great  man,  giving  her 
time  and  earnest  effort  to  doing  good. 
I  knew  her  brother,  who,  himself  a 
shell-shock  case,  had  killed  himself  af- 
ter returning  from  overseas. 


At  my  own  request  I  was  soon  al- 
lowed to  leave  the  hospital  on  a  long 
sick  leave,  to  do  whatever  I  wished. 
Apparently  the  doctors  had  done  all 
they  could  —  it  was  up  to  me. 

I  was  mad  all  through,  fighting  mad. 
I  was  simply  possessed  with  the  idea 
that  I  would  not  die,  that  I  would  show 
those  doctors  what  fools  they  were.  In 
the  year  that  followed,  I  exhausted 
everything  I  could  think  of  that  would 
help  me  to  get  well,  to  get  back  to  where 
I  had  been  two  years  before.  My  con- 
stant thought  was  that  I  was  going  to 
win  in  some  way.  It  would  be  tedious 
to  tell  it,  except  in  the  most  general 
way,  but  I  want  to  remind  anyone  who 
may  read  this  that  that  period  of  con- 
tinual, continuous  scrap  lasted  for  a 
year,  and  in  that  time  there  was  but 
one  person  who  spoke  my  language. 
With  this  one  exception,  I  was  as  alone 
as  if  I  had  been  in  a  deserted  world. 

I  went  to  one  friend  after  another, 
searching  for  help,  suggestions  that 
would  assist  me;  but  it  was  like  search- 
ing for  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  rainbow's 
end  —  it  simply  was  not  there.  There 
were  those  who  were  sympathetic  in 
thought  and  in  deed,  but  apparently 
they  did  not  know  how  to  do  anything 
practical. 

The  one  person  who  knew  was  the 
military  attache  at  the  French  Em- 
bassy, a  young  captain  of  the  French 
Army.  We  were  chatting  in  his  apart- 
ments one  day,  talking  over  the  past, 
when  it  dawned  upon  us  both  that  we 
had  been  through  the  same  terrible 
thing.  It  was  like  finding  some  precious 
possession,  long  mourned  as  lost,  for  us 
to  find  each  other.  We  clung  to  each 
other  like  blind  men  left  alone.  He 
spoke  English  —  I  spoke  French  —  we 
both  spoke  the  language  of  the  Front, 
and  we  both  spoke  the  language  that 
needs  no  words,  which  exists  between 


SHELL-SHOCKED  — AND  AFTER 


747 


two  men  who  have  experienced  shell- 
fire  and  suffered  the  misery  of  exhaust- 
ed, shattered  nerves  known  to  the 
world  as  shell-shock.  In  the  Somme  of- 
fensive with  the  battery,  he  had  been 
filling  a  sand-bag,  when  a  shell  of  large 
calibre  struck  within  a  few  feet  of  him. 
He  had  been  peppered  with  splinters, 
but  not  badly  hurt.  He  had  been 
caught  running  back  and  forth  behind 
the  front,  muttering  to  himself,  and 
had  been  for  months  in  hospital  until 
his  mind  began  to  clear.  Being  of  a 
prominent  family  in  France,  he  had 
been  sent  to  the  United  States  to  get 
him  away  from  the  war,  and  was  going 
through  the  same  thing  I  was,  fighting 
it  out  alone.  What  long  talks  we  had! 
We  drove  about  in  the  country,  lay  on 
the  grass  in  the  woods,  and  talked'and 
talked,  searching  together  for  the  spark 
in  the  empty  dark  that  would  be  a  hint 
of  the  life  to  come. 

I  went  to  an  old  friend,  a  teacher  who 
kept  a  school  for  the  daughters  of 
rich  parents.  She  was  a  graduate  of 
Vassar,  and  I  thought  she  could  help 
me.  And  the  disappointment  that  fol- 
lowed! I  thought  that  she  was  human, 
but  she  was  n't.  She  had  developed 
into  the  same  sort  that  I  have  found 
elsewhere  since  then  —  the  type  of  neu- 
rotic weaklings  who  hide  away  from 
reality  and  live  in  a  comfortable  fog 
of  voluntary  ignorance.  While  the  war 
was  in  progress,  she  had  refused  to  read 
about  it,  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
all  too  horrible.  She  had  purchased 
Liberty  Bonds,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
tell  her  clientele  how  patriotic  she  was. 
She  had '  closed  her  door  on  the  war,'  as 
she  dramatically  told  me. 

'Close  your  door  on  the  war?'  I 
said;  'how  can  you  close  your  door  on 
the  biggest  event  since  the  coming  of 
Christ?' 

She  was  shocked,  horrified  at  my  blas- 
phemy. She  folded  her  hands,  closed 
her  eyes,  and  said  that  I  must  seek 


solitude,  weeks  of  solitude  —  and  read 
Pilgrim's  Progress! 

It  is  so  useless  to  go  through  the  list 
of  people  to  whom  I  went  looking  for 
help.  To  their  credit  be  it  said  that 
many  of  them  wanted  to  do  something; 
but  they  never  did  it,  because  they 
could  not,  since  they  did  not  have  the 
understanding  to  do  it.  So  I  left  them, 
one  after  another,  and  went  my  way  — 
alone,  always  alone. 

My  head  continued  to  ache  and 
throb,  I  continued  to  be  nauseated,  I 
still  could  not  sleep.  An  insane  desire 
to  kill  myself,  as  four  other  friends  had 
done,  took  possession  of  me.  I  would 
toy  with  my  automatic,  and  think  how 
best  to  do  it.  I  would  lock  myself  in 
my  room  when  attacks  came  that  I  had 
to  fight,  attacks  that  made  me  tense  all 
over,  that  made  me  want  to  scream, 
break  the  furniture,  pull  my  clothes  to 
pieces.  I  would  lean  against  the  wall, 
tears  running  down  my  face,  and  scratch 
at  the  plaster,  and  sob  and  gag,  and  end 
by  throwing  myself  on  my  bed,  utterly 
exhausted  by  the  effort  to  regain  con- 
trol. I  would  lock  my  windows  before 
retiring  for  the  night,  lock  my  door  and 
throw  the  key  through  the  transom,  to 
prevent  my  doing  some  insane  thing  be- 
fore morning.  I  would  go  to  sleep  late, 
and  wake  at  about  half-past  three  in 
the  morning,  and  stare  at  the  dark, 
trying  to  think  out  the  meaning  of  this 
thing. 

I  read  New  Thought,  studied  Chris- 
tian Science,  read  the  Bible,  became  a 
regular  attendant  at  church.  I  got  a 
copy  of  that  great  piece  of  logical 
thought,  Burke's '  Conciliation  with  the 
American  Colonies,'  and  read  it  care- 
fully, searching  it  for  his  great  ideas  on 
how  to  cure  an  ill  by  removing  the  cause. 
What  was  the  cause  of  this  thing?  That 
was  what  I  searched  for  in  my  own  case. 
The  thing  to  do  was  to  remove  the  cause 
—  but  what  was  the  cause? 

My  mother  came  and  stayed  with 


748 


SHELL-SHOCKED— AND  AFTER 


me.  Never  in  my  life  before  had  I 
known  what  a  mother  could  be.  I  be- 
lieve that  very  few  men  really  appreci- 
ate their  mothers.  I  know  I  never  ap- 
preciated mine  until  then.  I  have  never 
seen  such  utter  unselfishness,  such  ob- 
liviousness  to  her  own  desires,  her  own 
interests,  as  in  my  mother's  loving 
thought,  her  anxiety  to  help  her  son. 

But  it  was  too  much  —  I  could  not 
stand  her  anxiety.  I  could  not  have  her 
coming  to  my  room  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  sitting  with  me  hour  after 
hour,  listening  to  my  raving.  So  I  got  a 
nurse  and  traveled  for  months  on  end. 
I  took  a  ship  and  sailed  off  on  a  cruise 
through  the  Southern  Seas.  I  stopped 
at  an  island  in  the  south,  took  a  house 
near  the  sea,  and  spent  a  month  or 
more  there.  It  was  wonderful  in  that 
quiet  and  peace.  I  lay  in  a  hammock, 
looking  out  over  the  beautiful  blue 
Caribbean,  listening  to  the  pounding  of 
the  waves  on  the  rocks,  with  the  limpid 
azure  of  the  sky,  and  its  fleecy,  scatter- 
ed clouds  overhead. 

I  breathed  in  the  balm  of  the  fronded 
palms  in  the  hush  of  the  moonlit  nights, 
until  a  wonderful  thing  came  to  me. 
The  shadows  broke,  the  night  of  that 
hideous  fight  was  gone,  and  the  first 
faint  dawn  of  another  day  of  my  life 
came  to  me,  in  the  knowledge  that  I 
was  whining.  Then  the  light  came 
truly  bursting  in  upon  my  conscious- 
ness. I  was  winning!  I  was  getting  well 
again!  I  was  sleeping  better  —  I  could 
eat  —  the  pains  in  my  head  were  lessen- 
ing —  my  periods  of  depression  were 
coming  at  lengthening  intervals.  I  was 
getting  well! 

The  knowledge  that  I  was  coming 
back  came  to  me  suddenly,  all  at  once, 
and  gave  me  a  strength  that  I  thought 
I  could  never  have  again.  But  once  it 
came,  the  months  that  were  to  come 
were  easy  indeed,  compared  with  the 
ones  that  had  gone  before.  It  was  still  a 
struggle,  it  still  required  all  my  will- 


power to  keep  going;  but  I  knew  that  I 
could  win.  Before  that  time  I  had  been 
trying  to  find  out  if  that  were  a  possible 
thing. 

Nearly  two  years  after  I  received  the 
order  that  sent  me  into  the  shelled  area 
of  the  Front,  I  left  the  army  and  return- 
ed to  civil  life.  I  got  a  job  that  took  me 
again  away  from  my  country  for  several 
months.  I  was  not  yet  really  well,  but 
this  change  helped  a  great  deal,  and 
rapidly  I  returned  to  normal  again. 
Periods  of  ache  and  pain  became  very 
short,  and  few  and  far  between.  I  be- 
lieve the  last  one  has  come  and  gone.  It 
was  several  months  ago  that  I  was 
writing  on  a  typewriter,  smoking  my 
pipe.  The  pipe  suddenly  rattled  in  my 
teeth,  my  fingers  became  tense,  my 
muscles  tightened.  I  grabbed  my  pipe 
out  of  my  mouth,  stood  up,  forced  my 
fingers  out  straight  against  my  desk, 
took  my  hat,  and  walked  and  walked 
out  into  the  country  for  a  few  miles, 
fighting  for  myself  again.  Finally  I 
lighted  my  pipe  again,  and  smoked. 
There  was  no  more  rattle  then,  my 
fingers  were  again  all  right.  Once  more 
I  had  won.  That  was  the  last  time. 
Since  then  I  have  never  had  an  indica- 
tion that  I  had  a  nerve  in  my  body  any- 
where. That  was  the  last  dying  gasp  of 
the  thing  that  had  held  me  in  its  grip 
for  so  long,  ii 

My  work  brought  me  back  to  the 
United  States.  I  began  to  read  the 
papers  Articles  caught  my  eye  —  ex- 
soldiers  not  cared  for,  ex-soldiers  out  of 
work,  in  insane  asylums,  in  jails,  walk- 
ing the  streets.  I  looked  into  the  mat- 
ter and  found  that  there  were  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  these  men  in  strait- 
ened circumstances,  in  poverty.  There 
were  more  thousands,  who  needed  hos- 
pital attention,  who  were  not  getting  it. 
There  was  trouble  in  Washington  over 
the  means  to  care  for  these  men.  Gov- 
ernmental bureaus  overlapped,  passed 


SHELL-SHOCKED  —  AND  AFTER 


749 


the  buck  to  each  other  —  and  still  noth- 
ing seemed  to  be  accomplished.  What 
was  the  matter  with  my  country?  Was 
it  really  ungrateful?  Was  it  true  that 
the  public  had  tired  of  this  responsibil- 
ity? Statements  were  made  to  me  that 
magazines  would  no  longer  accept 
war-stories,  and  that  publishers  would 
no  longer  print  anything  pertaining  to 
the  war,  or  the  men  who  had  fought  in  it. 
I  found  that  these  statements  could 
be  easily  disproved,  but,  nevertheless,  it 
was  disheartening,  when  I  kept  learn- 
ing for  myself  how  these  men  were 
suffering. 

I  was  walking  down  Broadway,  and 
my  walking-stick  accidentally  struck 
against  a  man.  I  apologized  perfunctor- 
ily, but  upon  looking  at  him,  I  saw  a 
poorly  dressed  man  who  looked  familiar. 
Then  he  spoke.  'Colonel,'  he  said,  'can 
you  do  me  a  favor?' 

I  was  astonished  —  did  not  know 
hun.  But  he  knew  me  —  he  had  been 
in  my  regiment  overseas.  He  wanted 
money  —  two  hundred  dollars  to  start 
a  cigar-stand.  We  went  to  the  bank  and 
he  left  me  happy.  Some  day  I  shall 
hear  from  that  man,  who  drove  a  lead 
pair  on  the  march  into  silent,  sullen 
Germany.  He  will  win  some  day.  All 
he  needed  was  a  little  help,  practical 


help  to  start  again;  not  emotional  senti- 
mentality, but  help  —  practical,  sub- 
stantial help. 

How  many  others  there  are  just  like 
him,  who  need  just  a  little  help.  Are  we 
going  to  give  it?  I  believe  we  shall,  if  we 
but  realize  the  truth;  if  we  will  but  see, 
and  not  'close  our  door  on  the  war.' 

There  has  come  a  thought  to  me  that 
I  wish  the  American  people  would  pon- 
der over  when  they  grow  tired  of  the 
war,  which  they  felt  so  very,  very  little. 
When  they  damn  the  men  who  bother 
them  for  jobs,  who  pester  them  for  help, 
they  should  search  their  own  hearts 
first. 

Judge  not! 

The  workings  of  his  heart  and  of  his  mind 

Thou  canst  not  see. 

What  in  our  dull  brain  may  seem  a  stain, 

In  God's  pure  light  may  only  be  a  scar, 

Brought  from  some  well-fought  field, 

Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and  yield. 

Shall  we  help  back  those  thousands 
of  humble  men  who  trod  the  rocky 
pathway  of  the  Front  in  France?  Shall 
we  give  them  the  little  boost  that  they 
need,  to  come  back?  And  what  of  those 
other  men  who  have  suffered,  whose 
minds  are  gone?  Shall  we  be  but  ghosts 
for  those  unburied  dead  —  who  did 
not  die? 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


A  STORY  OF  THE   CHINESE  COURT 


BY  L.  ADAMS  BECK 


IN  the  city  of  Chang-an  music  filled 
the  palaces,  and  the  festivities  of  the 
Emperor  were  measured  by  its  beat. 
Night,  and  the  full  moon  swimming  like 
a  gold-fish  in  the  garden  lakes,  gave  the 
signal  for  the  Feather  Jacket  and  Rain- 
bow Skirt  dances.  Morning,  with  the 
rising  sun,  summoned  the  court  again  to 
the  feast  and  wine-cup  in  the  floating 
gardens. 

The  Emperor  Chung  Tsu  favored  this 
city  before  all  others.  The  Yen  Tower 
soaring  heavenward,  the  Drum  Towers, 
the  Pearl  Pagoda,  were  the  only  fit  sur- 
roundings of  his  magnificence;  and  in 
the  Pavilion  of  Tranquil  Learning  were 
held  those  discussions  which  enlighten- 
ed the  world  and  spread  the  fame  of  the 
Jade  Emperor  far  and  wide.  In  all  re- 
spects he  adorned  the  Dragon  Throne 
—  in  all  but  one;  for  Nature,  bestow- 
ing so  much,  withheld  one  gift,  and  the 
Imperial  heart,  as  precious  as  jade,  was 
also  as  hard,  and  he  eschewed  utterly 
the  company  of  the  Hidden  Palace 
Flowers. 

Yet  the  Inner  Chambers  were  filled 
with  ladies  chosen  from  all  parts  of  the 
Celestial  Empire  —  ladies  of  the  most 
exquisite  and  torturing  beauty,  moons 
of  loveliness,  moving  coquettishly  on 
little  feet,  with  all  the  grace  of  willow 
branches  in  a  light  breeze.  They  were 
sprinkled  with  perfumes,  adorned  with 
jewels,  robed  in  silks  woven  with  gold 
and  embroidered  with  designs  of  flowers 
and  birds.  Their  faces  were  painted  and 

750 


their  eyebrows  formed  into  slender  and 
perfect  arches  whence  the  soul  of  man 
might  well  slip  to  perdition,  and  a 
breath  of  sweet  odor  followed  each 
wherever  she  moved.  Every  one  might 
have  been  the  Empress  of  some  lesser 
kingdom;  but  though  rumors  reached 
the  Son  of  Heaven  from  time  to  time  of 
their  charms,  —  especially  when  some 
new  blossom  was  added  to  the  Impe- 
rial bouquet,  —  he  had  dismissed  them 
from  his  august  thoughts,  and  they 
languished  in  a  neglect  so  complete  that 
the  Great  Cold 'Palaces  of  the  Moon 
were  not  more  empty  than  their  hearts. 
They  remained  under  the  supervision  of 
the  Princess  of  Han,  August  Aunt  of 
the  Emperor,  knowing  that  their  Lord 
considered  the  company  of  sleeve-dogs 
and  macaws  more  pleasant  than  their 
own.  Nor  had  he  as  yet  chosen  an  Em- 
press, and  it  was  evident  that  without 
some  miracle,  such  as  the  intervention 
of  the  Municipal  God,  no  heir  to  the 
throne  could  be  hoped  for. 

Yet  the  Emperor  one  day  remem- 
bered his  imprisoned  beauties,  and  it 
crossed  the  Imperial  thoughts  that  even 
these  inferior  creatures  might  afford 
such  interest  as  may  be  found  in  the 
gambols  of  trained  fleas  or  other  in- 
sects of  no  natural  attainments. 

Accordingly,  he  commanded  that  the 
subject  last  discussed  in  his  presence 
should  be  transferred  to  the  Inner 
Chambers,  and  it  was  his  Order  that  the 
ladies  should  also  discuss  it,  and  their 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


751 


opinions  be  engraved  on  ivory,  bound 
together  with  red  silk  and  tassels,  and 
thus  presented  at  the  Dragon  feet.  The 
subject  chosen  was  the  following:  — 

Describe  the  Qualities  of  the 
Ideal  Man 

Now  when  this  command  was  laid 
before  the  August  Aunt,  the  guardian 
of  the  Inner  Chambers,  she  was  much 
perturbed  in  mind,  for  such  a  thing  was 
unheard  of  in  all  the  annals  of  the  Em- 
pire. Recovering  herself,  she  ventured 
to  say  that  the  discussion  of  such  a 
question  might  raise  very  disquieting 
thoughts  in  the  minds  of  the  ladies,  who 
could  not  be  supposed  to  have  any  opin- 
ions at  all  on  such  a  subject.  Nor  was 
it  desirable  that  they  should  have.  To 
every  woman  her  husband  and  no  other 
is  and  must  be  the  Ideal  Man.  So  it  was 
always  in  the  past;  so  it  must  ever  be. 
There  are  certain  things  which  it  is 
dangerous  to  question  or  discuss,  and 
how  can  ladies  who  have  never  spoken 
with  any  other  man  than  a  parent  or  a 
brother  judge  such  matters? 

'How,  indeed,'  asked  this  lady  of  ex- 
alted merit,  'can  the  bat  form  an  idea 
of  the  sunlight,  or  the  carp  of  the  mo- 
tion of  wings?  If  his  Celestial  Majesty 
had  commanded  a  discussion  on  the 
Superior  Woman  and  the  virtues  which 
should  adorn  her,  some  sentiments  not 
wholly  unworthy  might  have  been  of- 
fered. But  this  is  a  calamity.  They 
come  unexpectedly,  springing  up  like 
mushrooms,  and  this  one  is  probably 
due  to  the  lack  of  virtue  of  the  inelegant 
and  unintellectual  person  who  is  now 
speaking.' 

This  she  uttered  in  the  presence  of 
the  principal  beauties  of  the  Inner 
Chambers.  They  sat  or  reclined  about 
her  in  attitudes  of  perfect  loveliness. 
Two,  embroidering  silver  pheasants, 
paused  with  their  needles  suspended 
above  the  stretched  silk,  to  hear  the 
August  Aunt.  One,  threading  beads  of 


jewel  jade,  permitted  them  to  slip  from 
the  string  and  so  distended  the  rose  of 
her  mouth  in  surprise  that  the  small 
pearl-shells  were  visible  within.  The 
Lady  Tortoise,  caressing  a  scarlet  and 
azure  macaw,  in  her  agitation  so  twitch- 
ed the  feathers  that  the  bird,  shrieking, 
bit  her  finger.  The  Lady  Golden  Bells 
blushed  deeply  at  the  thought  of  what 
was  required  of  them;  and  the  little 
Lady  Summer  Dress,  youngest  of  all 
the  assembled  beauties,  was  so  alarmed 
at  the  prospect  that  she  began  to  sob 
aloud,  until  she  met  the  eye  of  the  Au- 
gust Aunt  and  abruptly  ceased. 

'It  is  not,  however,  to  be  supposed,' 
said  the  August  Aunt,  opening  her 
snuff-bottle  of  painted  crystal,  'that 
the  minds  of  our  deplorable  and  un- 
attractive sex  are  wholly  incapable  of 
forming  opinions.  But  speech  is  a 
grave  matter  for  women,  naturally  slow- 
witted  and  feeble-minded  as  they  are. 
This  unenlightened  person  recalls  the 
Odes  as  saying:  — 

'A  flaw  in  a  piece  of  white  jade 
May  be  ground  away, 
But  when  a  woman  has  spoken  foolishly 
Nothing  can  be  done  — 

a  consideration  which  should  make 
every  lady  here  and  throughout  the 
world  think  anxiously  before  speech.' 

So  anxiously  did  the  assembled  beau- 
ties think,  that  all  remained  mute  as 
fish  in  a  pool,  and  the  August  Aunt 
continued:  — 

'Let  Tsu-ssu  be  summoned.  It  is  my 
intention  to  suggest  to  the  Dragon 
Emperor  that  the  virtues  of  women 
be  the  subject  of  our  discourse,  and  I 
will  myself  open  and  conclude  the  dis- 
cussion.' 

Tsu-ssu  was  not  long  in  kotowing  be- 
fore the  August  Aunt,  who  dispatched 
her  message  with  the  proper  ceremonial 
due  to  its  Imperial  destination;  and 
meanwhile,  in  much  agitation,  the 
beauties  could  but  twitter  and  whisper 
in  each  other's  ears,  and'  await  the 


752 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


response  like  condemned  prisoners  who 
yet  hope  for  a  reprieve. 

Scarce  an  hour  had  dripped  away  on 
the  water-clock  when  an  Imperial  Mis- 
sive bound  with  yellow  silk  arrived,  and 
the  August  Aunt,  rising,  kotowed  nine 
times  before  she  received  it  in  her  jewel- 
ed hand  with  its  delicate  and  lengthy 
nails  ensheathed  in  pure  gold  set  with 
gems  of  the  first  water.  She  then  read  it 
aloud,  the  ladies  prostrating  themselves. 

To  the  Princess  of  Han,  the  August  Aunt, 
the  Lady  of  the  Nine  Superior 
Virtues: — 

Having  deeply  reflected  on  the  wis- 
dom submitted,  We  thus  reply.  Women 
should  not  be  the  judges  of  their  own 
virtues,  since  these  exist  only  in  rela- 
tion to  men.  Let  Our  Command  there- 
fore be  executed,  and  tablets  presented 
before  us  seven  days  hence,  with  the 
name  of  each  lady  appended  to  her 
tablet. 

It  was  indeed  pitiable  to  see  the  anx- 
iety of  the  ladies!  A  sacrifice  to  Kwan- 
Yin,  the  Goddess  of  Mercy,  of  a  jewel 
from  each,  with  intercession  for  aid, 
was  proposed  by  the  Lustrous  Lady; 
but  the  majority '  shook  their  heads 
sadly.  The  August  Aunt,  tossing  her 
head,  declared  that,  as  the  Son  of  Heav- 
en had  made  no  comment  on  her  pro- 
posal of  opening  and  closing  the  discus- 
sion, she  should  take  no  part  other 
than  safeguarding  the  interests  of  pro- 
priety. This  much  increased  the  alarm, 
and,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  the  swan-like 
beauties,  Deep  Snow  and  Winter  Moon, 
implored  her  aid  and  compassion.  But, 
rising  indignantly,  the  August  Aunt 
sought  her  own  apartments,  and  for  the 
first  time  the  inmates  of  the  Pepper 
Chamber  saw  with  regret  the  golden 
dragons  embroidered  on  her  back. 

It  was  then  that  the  Round-Faced 
Beauty  ventured  a  remark. "  This  maid- 
en, having  been  born  in  the  far-off  prov- 


ince of  Ssuch-uan,  was  considered  a  rus- 
tic by  the  distinguished  elegance  of  the 
Palace  and,  therefore,  had  never  spok- 
en unless  decorum  required.  Still,  even 
her  detractors  were  compelled  to  admit 
the  charms  that  had  gained  her  her 
name.  Her  face  had  the  flawless  outline 
of  the  pearl,  and  like  the  blossom  of  the 
plum  was  the  purity  of  her  complexion, 
upon  which  the  darkness  of  her  eye- 
brows resembled  two  silk-moths  alight- 
ed to  flutter  above  the  brilliance  of  her 
eyes  —  eyes  which  even  the  August 
Aunt  had  commended  after  a  banquet 
of  unsurpassed  variety.  Her  hair  had 
been  compared  to  the  crow's  plumage; 
her  waist  was  like  a  roll  of  silk,  and  her 
discretion  in  habiting  herself  was  such 
that  even  the  Lustrous  Lady  and  the 
Lady  Tortoise  drew  instruction  from 
the  splendors  of  her  robes.  It  created, 
however,  a  general  astonishment  when 
she  spoke. 

*  Paragons  of  beauty,  what  is  this  dull 
and  opaque-witted  person  that  she 
should  speak?' 

'What,  indeed!'  said  the  Celestial 
Sister.  'This  entirely  undistinguished 
person  cannot  even  imagine!' 

A  distressing  pause  followed,  during 
which  many  whispered  anxiously^  The 
Lustrous  Lady  broke  it. 

'It  is  true  that  the  highly  ornamen- 
tal Round-Faced  Beauty  is  but  lately 
come,  yet  even  the  intelligent  Ant  may 
assist  the  Dragon;  and  in  the  presence 
of  alarm,  what  is  decorum?  With  a 
tiger  behind  one,  who  can  recall  the 
Book  of  Rites  and  act  with  befitting 
elegance?' 

'The  high-born  will  at  all  times  re- 
member the  Rites!'  retorted  the  Celes- 
tial Sister.  'Have  we  not  heard  the 
August  Aunt  observe:  "Those  who  un- 
derstand do  not  speak.  Those  who 
speak  do  not  understand"?' 

The  Round-Faced  Beauty  collected 
her  courage. 

'Doubtless  this  is  wisdom;  yet  if  the 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


753 


wise  do  not  speak,  who  should  instruct 
us?  The  August  Aunt  herself  would  be 
silent.' 

All  were  confounded  by  this  dilem- 
ma, and  the  little  Lady  Summer-Dress, 
still  weeping,  entreated  that  the  Round- 
raced  Beauty  might  be  heard.  The 
Heavenly  Blossoms  then  prepared  to 
listen  and  assumed  attitudes  of  atten- 
tion, which  so  disconcerted  the  Round- 
Faced  Beauty  that  she  blushed  like  a 
spring  tulip  in  speaking. 

'Beautiful  ladies,  our  Lord,  who  is 
unknown  to  us  all,  has  issued  an  august 
command.  It  cannot  be  disputed,  for 
the  whisper  of  disobedience  is  heard 
as  thunder  in  the  Imperial  Presence. 
Should  we  not  aid  each  other?  If  any 
lady  has  formed  a  dream  in  her  soul  of 
the  Ideal  Man,  might  not  such  a  pic- 
ture aid  us  all?  Let  us  not  be  "say- 
nothing-do-nothing,"  but  act!' 

They  hung  their  heads  and  smiled, 
but  none  would  allow  that  she  had  form- 
ed such  an  image.  The  little  Lady  Tor- 
toise, laughing  behind  her  fan  of  sandal- 
wood,  said  roguishly:  'The  Ideal  Man 
should  be  handsome,  liberal  in  giving, 
and  assuredly  he  should  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  his  wives.  But  this  we  cannot 
say  to  the  Divine  Emperor.' 

A  sigh  rustled  through  the  Pepper 
Chamber.  The  Celestial  Sister  looked 
angrily  at  the  speaker.  'This  is  the  talk 
of  children,'  she  said.  'Does  no  one  re- 
member Kung-fu-tse's  [Confucius]  de- 
scription of  the  Superior  Man?' 

Unfortunately  none  did  —  not  even 
the  Celestial  Sister  herself. 

'  Is  it  not  probable,'  asked  the  Round- 
Faced  Beauty,  'that  the  Divine  Empe- 
ror remembers  it  himself  and  wishes  — ' 

But  the  Celestial  Sister,  yawning  audi- 
bly, summoned  the  attendants  to  bring 
rose-leaves  in  honey,  and  would  hear 
no  more.  . 

The  Round-Faced  Beauty  therefore 
wandered  forth  among  the  mossy  rocks 
and  drooping  willows  of  the  Imperial 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 
B 


Garden,  deeply  considering  the  matter. 
She  ascended  the  bow-curved  bridge  of 
marble  which  crossed  the  Pool  of  Clear 
Weather,  and  from  the  top  idly  observ- 
ed the  reflection  of  her  rose-and-gold 
coat  in  the  water  while,  with  her  taper 
fingers,  she  crumbled  cake  for  the  for- 
tunate gold-fish  that  dwelt  in  it.  And, 
so  doing,  she  remarked  one  fish,  four- 
tailed  among  the  six- tailed,  and  in  no 
way  distinguished  by  elegance,  which 
secured  by  far  the  largest  share  of  the 
crumbs  dropped  into  the  pool.  Bending 
lower,  she  observed  this  singular  fish  and 
its  methods. 

The  others  crowded  about  the  spot 
where  the  crumbs  fell,  all  herded  to- 
gether. In  their  eagerness  and  stupidity 
they  remained  like  a  cloud  of  gold  in 
one  spot,  slowly  waving  their  tails.  But 
this  fish,  concealing  itself  behind  a  min- 
iature rock,  waited,  looking  upward, 
until  the  crumbs  were  falling,  and  then, 
rushing  forth  with  the  speed  of  an 
arrow,  scattered  the  stupid  mass  of  fish, 
and  bore  off  the  crumbs  to  its  shelter, 
where  it  instantly  devoured  them. 

'This  is  notable,'  said  the  Round- 
Faced  Beauty.  'Observation enlightens 
the  mind.  To  be  apart  —  to  be  dis- 
tinguished —  secures  notice!'  And  she 
plunged  into  thought  again,  wandering, 
herself  a  flower,  among  the  gorgeous 
tree  paeonias. 

On  the  following  day  the  August 
Aunt  commanded  that  a  writer  among 
the  palace  attendants  should,  with 
brush  and  ink,  be  summoned  to  tran- 
scribe the  wisdom  of  the  ladies.  She 
requested  that  each  would  give  three 
days  to  thought,  relating  the  following 
anecdote.  'There  was  a  man  who,  tak- 
ing a  piece  of  ivory,  carved  it  into  a 
mulberry  leaf,  spending  three  years  on 
the  task.  When  finished  it  could  not  be 
told  from  the  original,  and  was  a  gift 
suitable  for  the  Brother  of  the  Sun  and 
Moon.  Do  likewise!' 

'But  yet,  O  Augustness!'  said  the 


754 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


Celestial  Sister, '  if  the  Lord  of  Heaven 
took  as  long  with  each  leaf,  there  would 
be  few  leaves  on  the  trees,  and  if — ' 

The  August  Aunt  immediately  com- 
manded silence  and  retired.  On  the 
third  day  she  seated  herself  in  her  chair 
of  carved  ebony,  while  the  attendant 
placed  himself  by  her  feet  and  prepared 
to  record  her  words. 

'This  insignificant  person  has  de- 
cided,' began  her  Augustness,  looking 
round  and  unscrewing  the  amber  top  of 
her  snuff-bottle,  Ho  take  an  unintelli- 
gent part  in  these  proceedings.  An  ex- 
ample should  be  set.  Attendant,  write! ' 

She  then  dictated  as  follows:  'The 
Ideal  Man  is  he  who  now  decorates  the 
Imperial  Throne,  or  he  who  in  all  hu- 
mility ventures  to  resemble  the  incom- 
parable Emperor.  Though  he  may  not 
hope  to  attain,  his  endeavor  is  his  merit. 
No  further  description  is  needed.'  With 
complacence  she  inhaled  the  perfumed 
snuff,  as  the  writer  appended  the  elegant 
characters  of  her  Imperial  name. 

If  it  be  permissible  to  say  that  the 
faces  of  the  beauties  lengthened  visibly, 
it  should  now  be  said.  For  it  had  been 
the  intention  of  every  lady  to  make  an 
allusion  to  the  Celestial  Emperor  and 
depict  him  as  the  Ideal  Man.  Nor  had 
they  expected  that  the  August  Aunt 
would  take  any  part  in  the  matter. 

'Oh,  but  it  was  the  intention  of  this 
commonplace  and  undignified  person  to 
say  this  very  thing!'  cried  the  Lustrous 
Lady,  with  tears  in  the  jewels  of  her 
eyes.  'I  thought  no  other  high-minded 
and  distinguished  lady  would  for  a  mo- 
ment think  of  it!' 

'And  it  was  my  intention  also!' 
fluttered  the  little  Lady  Tortoise,  wring- 
ing her  hands!  'What  now  shall  this 
most  unlucky  and  unendurable  person 
do?  For  three  nights  has  sleep  forsaken 
my  unattractive  eyelids,  and,  tossing 
and  turning  on  a  couch  deprived  of  all 
comfort,  I  could  only  repeat,  "The  Ideal 
Man  is  the  Divine  Dragon  Emperor! " ' 


'May  one  of  entirely  contemptible 
attainments  make  a  suggestion  in  this 
assemblage  of  scintillating  wit  and 
beauty?'  inquired  the  Celestial  Sister. 
'My  superficial  opinion  is  that  it  would 
be  well  to  prepare  a  single  paper  to 
which  all  names  should  be  appended, 
stating  that  His  Majesty  in  his  Dragon 
Divinity  comprises  all  ideals  in  his 
sacred  Person.' 

'Let  those  words  be  recorded,'  said 
the  August  Aunt. '  What  else  should  any 
lady  of  discretion  and  propriety  say?  In 
this  Palace  of  Virtuous  Peace,  where 
all  is  consecrated  to  the  Son  of  Heaven, 
though  he  deigns  not  to  enter  it,  what 
other  thought  dare  be  breathed?  Has 
any  lady  ventured  to  step  outside  such 
a  limit?  If  so,  let  her  declare  herself!' 

All  shook  their  heads,  and  the  August 
Aunt  proceeded :  '  Let  the  writer  record 
this  as  the  opinion  of  every  lady  of  the 
Imperial  Household,  and  let  each  name 
be  separately  appended.' 

Had  any  desired  to  object,  none  dared 
to  confront  the  August  Aunt ;  but  appar- 
ently no  beauty  so  desired,  for  after  three 
nights'  sleepless  meditation,  no  other 
thought  than  this  had  occurred  to  any. 

Accordingly,  the  writer  moved  from 
lady  to  lady  and,  under  the  supervision 
of  the  August  Aunt,  transcribed  the 
following:  'The  Ideal  Man  is  the  earth- 
ly likeness  of  the  Divine  Emperor.  How 
should  it  be  otherwise?'  And  under 
this  sentence  wrote  the  name  of  each 
lovely  one  in  succession.  The  papers 
were  then  placed  in  the  hanging  sleeves 
of  the  August  Aunt  for  safety. 

By  the  decree  of  Fate,  the  father  of 
the  Round-Faced  Beauty  had,  before 
he  became  an  ancestral  spirit,  been  a 
scholar  of  distinction,  having  graduated 
at  the  age  of  seventy-two  with  a  com- 
position commended  by  the  Grand 
Examiner.  Having  no  gold  and  silver 
to  give  his  daughter,  he  had  formed  her 
mind,  and  had  presented  her  with  the 
sole  jewel  of  his  family  —  a  pearl  as 


THE  ROUND-FACED   BEAUTY 


755 


large  as  a  bean.  Such  was  her  sole  dow- 
er, but  the  accomplished  Ant  may  excel 
the  indolent  Prince. 

Yet,  before  the  thought  in  her  mind, 
she  hesitated  and  trembled,  recalling 
the  lesson  of  the  gold-fish;  and  it  was 
with  anxiety  that  paled  her  roseate  lips 
that,  on  a  certain  day,  she  had  sought 
the  Willow  Bridge  Pavilion.  There  had 
awaited  her  a  palace  attendant  skilled 
with  the  brush,  and  there  in  secrecy  and 
dire  affright,  hearing  the  footstep  of  the 
August  Aunt  in  every  rustle  of  leafage, 
and  her  voice  in  the  call  of  every  crow, 
did  the  Round-Faced  Beauty  dictate 
the  following  composition:  — 

'Though  the  sky  rain  pearls,  it  can- 
not equal  the  beneficence  of  the  Son  of 
Heaven.  Though  the  sky  rain  jade,  it 
cannot  equal  his  magnificence.  He  has 
commanded  his  slave  to  describe  the 
qualities  of  the  Ideal  Man.  How  should 
I,  a  mere  woman,  do  this?  I,  who  have 
not  seen  the  Divine  Emperor,  how 
should  I  know  what  is  virtue?  I,  who 
have  not  seen  the  glory  of  his  counte- 
nance, how  should  I  know  what  is 
beauty?  Report  speaks  of  his  excel- 
lences, but  I  who  live  in  the  dark  know- 
not.  But  to  the  Ideal  Woman,  the  very 
vices  of  her  husband  are  virtues.  Should 
he  exalt  another,  this  is  a  mark  of  his 
superior  taste.  Should  he  dismiss  his 
slave,  this  is  justice.  To  the  Ideal 
Woman  there  is  but  one  Ideal  Man  — 
and  that  is  her  lord.  From  the  day  she 
crosses  his  threshold,  to  the  day  when 
they  clothe  her  in  the  garments  of  Im- 
mortality, this  is  her  sole  opinion.  Yet 
would  that  she  might  receive  instruc- 
tion of  what  only  are  beauty  and  virtue 
in  his  adorable  presence. ' 

This  being  written,  she  presented  her 
one  pearl  to  the  attendant  and  fled,  not 
looking  behind  her,  as  quickly  as  her 
delicate  feet  would  permit.  On  the 
seventh  day  the  compositions,  engraved 
on  ivory  and  bound  with  red  silk  and 
tassels,  were  presented  to  the  Emperor, 


and  for  seven  days  more  he  forgot  their 
existence.  On  the  eighth  the  High 
Chamberlain  ventured  to  recall  them  to 
the  Imperial  memory,  and  the  Emperor 
glancing  slightly  at  one  after  another, 
threw  them  aside,  yawning  as  he  did  so. 
Finally,  one  arrested  his  eyes,  and  read- 
ing it  more  than  once,  he  laid  it  before 
him  and  meditated.  An  hour  passed 
in  this  way  while  the  forgotten  Lord 
Chamberlain  continued  to  kneel.  The 
Son  of  Heaven,  then  raising  his  head, 
pronounced  these  words:  'In  the  so- 
ciety of  the  Ideal  Woman,  she  to  whom 
jealousy  is  unknown,  tranquillity  might 
possibly  be  obtained.  Let  prayer  be 
made  before  the  Ancestors  with  the  cus- 
tomary offerings,  for  this  is  a  matter  de- 
serving attention.' 

A  few  days  passed,  and  an  Imperial 
attendant,  escorted  by  two  mandarins 
of  the  peacock-feather  and  crystal-but- 
ton rank,  desired  an  audience  of  the 
August  Aunt,  and,  speaking  before  the 
curtain,  informed  her  that  his  Imperial 
Majesty  would  pay  a  visit  that  evening 
to  the  Hall  of  Tranquil  Longevity.  Such 
was  her  agitation  at  this  honor  that  she 
immediately  swooned;  but,  reviving, 
summoned  all  the  attendants  and  gave 
orders  for  a  banquet  and  musicians. 

Lanterns  painted  with  pheasants  and 
exquisite  landscapes  were  hung  on  all 
the  pavilions.  Tapestries  of  rose,  dec- 
orated with  the  Five-Clawed  Dragons, 
adorned  the  chambers;  and  upon  the 
High  Seat  was  placed  a  robe  of  yellow 
satin  embroidered  with  pearls.  All  was 
hurry  and  excitement.  The  Blossoms  of 
the  Palace  were  so  exquisitely  decked 
that  one  grain  more  of  powder  would 
have  made  them  too  lily-like,  and  one 
touch  more  of  rouge,  too  rose-cheeked. 
It  was  indeed  perfection,  and,  like  lotuses 
upon  a  lake,  or  Asian  birds,  gorgeous  of 
plumage,  they  stood  ranged  hi  the  outer 
chamber  while  the  Celestial  Emperor 
took  his  seat. 

The  Round-Faced  Beauty  wore  no 


756 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


jewels,  having  bartered  her  pearl  for 
her  opportunity;  but  her  long  coat  of 
jade-green,  embroidered  with  golden 
willows,  and  her  trousers  of  palest  rose 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.  In  her  hair 
two  golden  pseonias  were  fastened  with 
pins  of  kingfisher  work.  The  Son  of 
Heaven  was  seated  upon  the  throne  as 
the  ladies  approached,  marshaled  by  the 
August  Aunt.  He  was  attired  in  the 
Yellow  Robe  with  the  Flying  Dragons, 
and  upon  the  Imperial  Head  was  the 
Cap,  ornamented  with  one  hundred  and 
forty-four  priceless  gems.  From  it  hung 
the  twelve  pendants  of  strings  of  pearls, 
partly  concealing  the  august  eyes  of 
the  Jade  Emperor.  No  greater  splendor 
can  strike  awe  into  the  soul  of  man. 

At  his  command  the  August  Aunt 
took  her  seat  upon  a  lesser  chair  at  the 
Celestial  Feet.  Her  mien  was  majestic, 
and  struck  awe  into  the  assembled 
beauties,  whose  names  she  spoke  aloud 
as  each  approached  and  prostrated  her- 
self. She  then  pronounced  these  words: 
'Beautiful  ones,  the  Emperor,  having 
considered  the  opinions  submitted  by 
you  on  the  subject  of  the  Superior  Man, 
is  pleased  to  express  his  august  com- 
mendation. Dismiss,  therefore,  anxiety 
from  your  minds,  and  prepare  to  assist 
at  the  humble  concert  of  music  we  have 
prepared  for  his  Divine  pleasure.' 

Slightly  raising  himself  in  his  chair, 
the  Son  of  Heaven  looked  down  upon 
that  Garden  of  Beauty,  holding  in  his 
hand  an  ivory  tablet  bound  with  red 
silk. 

'Lovely  ladies,'  he  began,  in  a  voice 
that  assuaged  fear,  'who  among  you 
was  it  that  laid  before  our  feet  a  com- 
position beginning  thus — "Though  the 
sky  rain  pearls"?' 

The  August  Aunt  immediately  rose. 
'Imperial  Majesty,  none!  These  eyes 
supervised  every  composition.  No  im- 
propriety was  permitted.' 

The  Son  of  Heaven  resumed:  'Let 
that  Lady  stand  forth.' 


The  words  were  few,  but  sufficient. 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  the  Round- 
Faced  Beauty  separated  herself  from 
her  companions  and  prostrated  herself, 
amid  the  breathless  amazement  of  the 
Blossoms  of  the  Palace.  He  looked  down 
upon  her  as  she  knelt,  pale  as  a  lady 
carved  in  ivory,  but  lovely  as  the  lotus 
of  Chang-su.  He  turned  to  the  August 
Aunt.  'Princess  of  Han,  my  Imperial 
Aunt,  I  would  speak  with  this  lady 
alone.' 

Decorum  itself  and  the  custom  of 
Palaces  could  not  conceal  the  indigna- 
tion of  the  August  Aunt  as  she  rose  and 
retired,  driving  the  ladies  before  her  as 
a  shepherd  drives  his  sheep. 

The  Hall  of  Tranquil  Longevity  be- 
ing now  empty,  the  Jade  Emperor 
extended  his  hand  and  beckoned  the 
Round-Faced  Beauty  to  approach. 
This  she  did,  hanging  her  head  like  a 
flower  surcharged  with  dew  and  sway- 
ing gracefully  as  a  wind-bell,  and  knelt 
on  the  lowest  step  of  the  Seat  of  State. 

'Loveliest  One,'  said  the  Emperor,  'I 
have  read  your  composition.  I  would 
know  the  truth.  Did  any  aid  you  as  you 
spoke  it?  Was  it  the  thought  of  your 
own  heart?' 

'None  aided,  Divine,'  said  she,  al- 
most fainting  with  fear.  'It  was  indeed 
the  thought  of  this  illiterate  slave,  con- 
sumed with  an  unwarranted  but  uncon- 
trollable passion.' 

'And  have  you  in  truth  desired  to  see 
your  Lord  ? ' 

'As  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon  desires 
the  light,  so  was  it  with  this  low  per- 
son.' 

'And  having  seen?' 

'Augustness,  the  dull  eyes  of  this 
slave  are  blinded  with  beauty.' 

She  laid  her  head  before  his  feet. 

'Yet  you  have  depicted,  not  the  ideal 
Man,  but  the  Ideal  Woman.  This  was 
not  the  Celestial  command.  How  was 
this?' 

'Because,  O  versatile  and  auspicious 


THE  ROUND-FACED  BEAUTY 


757 


Emperor,  the  blind  cannot  behold  the 
sunlight,  and  it  is  only  the  Ideal  Woman 
who  is  worthy  to  comprehend  and  wor- 
ship the  Ideal  Man.  For  this  alone  is 
she  created.' 

A  smile  began  to  illumine  the  Imperial 
Countenance.  'And  how,  O  Round- 
Faced  Beauty,  did  you  evade  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  August  Aunt? ' 

She  hung  her  head  lower,  speaking 
almost  hi  a  whisper.  'With  her  one 
pearl  did  this  person  buy  the  secrecy  of 
the  writer;  and  when  the  August  Aunt 
slept,  did  I  conceal  the  paper  in  her 
sleeve  with  the  rest,  and  her  own  Im- 
perial hand  gave  it  to  the  engraver  of 
ivory.' 

She  veiled  her  face  with  two  jade- 
white  hands  that  trembled  excessively. 
On  hearing  this  statement  the  Celestial 
Emperor  broke  at  once  into  a  very  great 
laughter,  and  he  laughed  loud  and  long 
as  a  tiller  of  wheat.  The  Round-Faced 
Beauty  heard  it  demurely  until,  catch- 
ing the  Imperial  eye,  decorum  was  for- 
gotten and  she  too  laughed  uncontrol- 
lably. So  they  continued,  and  finally 
the  Emperor  leaned  back,  drying  the 
tears  in  his  eyes  with  his  august  sleeve, 
and  the  lady,  resuming  her  gravity,  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands,  yet  regarded  him 
through  her  fingers. 

When  the  August  Aunt  returned  at 
the  end  of  an  hour  with  the  ladies,  sur- 
rounded by  the  attendants  with  their 
instruments  of  music,  the  Round-Faced 


Beauty  was  seated  in  the  chair  that  she 
herself  had  occupied,  and  on  the  white- 
ness of  her  brow  was  hung  the  chain  of 
pearls,  which  had  formed  the  frontal 
of  the  Cap  of  the  Emperor. 

It  is  recorded  that,  advancing  from 
honor  to  honor,  the  Round-Faced 
Beauty  was  eventually  chosen  Empress 
and  became  the  mother  of  the  Imperial 
Prince.  The  celestial  purity  of  her  mind 
and  the  absence  of  all  flaws  of  jealousy 
and  anger  warranted  this  distinction. 
But  it  is  also  recorded  that,  after  her 
elevation,  no  other  lady  was  ever  exalt- 
ed in  the  Imperial  favor  or  received 
the  slightest  notice  from  the  Emperor. 
For  the  Empress,  now  well  acquainted 
with  the  Ideal  Man,  judged  it  better 
that  his  experiences  of  the  Ideal  Woman 
should  be  drawn  from  herself  alone. 
And  as  she  decreed,  so  it  was  done. 
Doubtless  Her  Majesty  did  well. 

It  is  known  that  the  Emperor  de- 
parted to  the  Ancestral  Spirits  at  an 
early  age,  seeking,  as  the  August  Aunt 
observed,  that  repose  which  on  earth 
could  never  more  be  his.  But  no  one 
has  asserted  that  this  lady's  disposition 
was  free  from  the  ordinary  blemishes  of 
humanity. 

As  for  the  Celestial  Empress  (who 
survives  in  history  as  one  of  the  most 
astute  rulers  who  ever  adorned  the 
Dragon  Throne),  she  continued  to  rule 
her  son  and  the  Empire,  surrounded  by 
the  respectful  admiration  of  all. 


CRISIS 

BY  MARGARET  WTODEMER 

I  THINK  there  are  two  aprons  at  home  that  I  can  hem; 

I  can  put  a  frill  of  lace  for  edge  to  one  of  them ; 

I  will  have  blue  ribbon  to  tie  it,  and  to  sew 

Just  above  the  pocket  in  a  flaring  bow; 

And  I  can  sit  quite  quiet,  as  if  nothing  had  been 

Except  the  needle's  in  and  out  and  out  and  in  — 

(Every  sorrow  ends  —  every  horror  ends  — 

Every  terror  ends  that  we  have  to  face  or  do  — 

These  hours  will  end,  too.) 

Back  where  I  live  there  still  are  green  things  to  see  — 
Lilacs  and  a  rose-bush  and  a  tall  old  apple  tree; 
Everything  is  quiet  there  —  everything  will  stay 
Steady  till  I  come  to  it  as  when  I  went  away. 
I  must  remember  them,  think  hard  of  them,  my  flowers, 
And  village  folks  not  caring,  and  the  yellow  morning  hours 
(Everything  ends  that  begins  beneath  the  sun  — 
There  will  be  kind  hours  after  these  hours  are  done  — 
How  slow,  how  slow  they  run!) 

All  of  it  will  surely  stop  to-night  at  least  by  ten, 
And  I  may  be  too  numb  to  feel  a  while  before  then  — 
And  maybe,  if  I  seem  too  tired  or  too  like  to  weep, 
They'll  give  me  something  merciful  to  let  me  get  to  sleep, 
And  drop  inert  and  shut  my  eyes  and  count,  as  I  lie  still, 
Sheep  slipping  through  a  gap  and  running  down  a  hill  — 
(Lord,  once  you  saw  it  through,  the  waiting  and  the  fright, 
And  being  brave  for  them  to  see,  as  if  it  all  was  right  — 
Send  me  quick  —  send  quick  to-night!) 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  JURY 


BY  ANNE  C.  E.   ALLINSON 


MY  friend  and  I  were  discussing  the 
story  called  'The  Jury,'  published  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  for  October.  It  will 
be  remembered  that  the  author  leaves 
with  a  group  of  women  the  problem  of 
whether  their  old  friend,  Violet,  shall  be 
freely  and  fully  received  by  them  if  she 
accepts  the  invitation  of  her  husband, 
Harry,  to  return  to  him  and  to  their 
children,  after  spending  several  'crim- 
son years'  with  Cyril. 

My  friend  is  a  business  woman,  train- 
ed in  the  office  and  the  market-place. 
I  am  a  professional  woman,  trained  in 
schools  and  universities.  She  chose  not 
to  marry.  I  chose  to  marry.  We  have 
become  friends  somewhat  far  along  the 
road,  after  passing  various  sorts  of  mile- 
stones. Diverse  discipline,  work,  experi- 
ences, and  acquaintances  have  shaped 
our  characters  and  opinions.  Yet  these 
opinions,  on  matters  connected  with 
'life,'  practically  always  coincide. 

So  it  proved  to  be  when  we  imagined 
ourselves  parts  of  the  jury  in  the  case 
of  Violet  versus  Society.  We  began  by 
swiftly  agreeing  that  we  had  the  right 
to  decide  in  favor  of  a  woman  once 
our  friend  without  feeling  too  sombrely 
that  this  decision  would  be  equivalent 
to  a  public  statement  of  our  own  princi- 
ples. Friendship,  once  assumed,  entails 
certain  obligations;  and  we  claimed  the 
right  to  stand  by  a  friend  without  there- 
by being  understood  to  regard  either 
her  action  or  her  character  as  models  for 
other  women.  In  this  matter  of  Violet 
it  seemed  to  us  clear  that,  if  her  hus- 
band and  daughters  wanted  her  to  come 
back,  and  if  she  wanted  to  come,  it  was 


not  for  us  to  create  obstacles  or  to  omit 
the  ordinary  interchanges  of  social  life 
with  a  family  that  had  united  in  a  de- 
sire to  '  begin  again.' 

To  be  sure,  we  felt  that  Tina  Met- 
calfe  was  visionary  in  thinking  that 
things  socially  could  really  be  as  they 
were  before,  and  that  Harry  was  tragi- 
cally mistaken  in  thinking  that  his  or 
his  children's  happiness  would  bloom 
again  under  the  given  conditions.  Vio- 
let was  to  return  as  arrogantly  as  she 
went,  still  maintaining  that  her  right 
to  a  happy  life  had  been  superior  to 
theirs.  We  smiled  somewhat  cynically 
over  her  concern  for  the  social  status  of 
her  daughters,  whose  every  other  need 
she  had  so  readily  disregarded.  The 
crimson  years  had  evidently  not  modi- 
fied her  cold  egotism.  We  anticipated 
no  great  success  for  her  in  reassuming 
the  roles  of  wife  and  mother,  friend  and 
hostess.  But  that  was  not  our  affair. 
As  far  as  we  were  concerned,  Tina 
might  cable  as  unanimous  a  'come'  as 
she  chose. 

The  thing  that  alienated  us  was  Vio- 
let's own  willingness  to  come.  We  were 
both  shocked  by  the  cowardice  of  a 
woman  who  could  not  abide  by  either 
choice,  by  either  marriage  or  free  love. 
Violet  was  as  unsatisfactory  as  Helena 
in  the  recent  novel  called  Invisible  Tides, 
Both  'heroines,'  without  even  a  decent 
regret,  abandoned  their  husbands  as 
long  as  men  more  agreeable  to  them 
lived.  Then,  when  death  intervened 
(in  time  to  save  the  men  from  disillu- 
sionment), instead  of  standing  alone, 
as  many  an  unmarried  or  widowed 

759 


760 


A   VOICE   FROM  THE   JURY 


woman  stands  alone,"  they  made  use  of 
the  love  and  chivalry  of  their  former 
victims  to  return  to  the  comfortable 
safeties  of  a  conventional  life.  By  this 
materialistic  meanness  Violet  stripped 
from  her  life  any  pretense  of  bravery. 

We  went  on  to  discuss  her  earlier 
vagrancy,  her  original  action  which,  at 
least,  had  rejected  conventions  for  the 
sake  of  an  emotion.  But  we  could  not 
be  stampeded  by  any  such  show  of 
'idealism.'  The  emotion  had  been  one 
which  is  glorious  only  when  it  submits 
to  be  secondary.  And  with  the  rejec- 
tion of  certain  unessentials  went  the 
rejection  of  priceless  treasures  that  a 
woman  of  large  mind  and  large  heart 
would  refuse  to  sacrifice  to  an  isolating 
passion.  Passion  harnessed  to  all  the 
other  powers  of  a  generous  nature  is  a 
mighty  dynamo.  Divorced  from  them 
it  shrivels  despicably.  No,  my  friend 
and  I  knew  that  Violet,  hiding  herself 
with  Cyril,  had  revealed  the  cheapness 
of  her  fibre.  She  had  shown  it,  too,  in 
the  easy  frivolity  with  which  she  dis- 
regarded obligations  still  scrupulously 
observed  by  the  other  members  of  a 
common  undertaking.  Accustomed  to 
taking  seriously  business  and  profes- 
sional contracts,  we  were  disgusted  by 
the  way  she  tossed  aside  her  spoken 
contract  with  Harry  —  whose  only 
fault  was  that  she  liked  Cyril  better 
—  and  shattered  brutally  the  tacit 
contract  made  with  her  children  when 
she  forced  life  upon  them. 

In  our  conversation  we  had  not  yet 
reached  the  profounder  expression  of 
our  ethical  judgment.  There  was,  of 
course,  a  stark  question  of  public  right 
and  wrong,  which  must  perplex  even 
Harry  in  relation  to  his  daughters.  But 
ultimately  we  judged  Violet's  action, 
not  as  it  broke  a  law  of  church  or  state, 
but  as  it  offended  against  moral  princi- 


ples which  support  more  external  pro- 
hibitions. The  love  of  man  and  woman 
is  not  a  thing  apart,  a  fleshly  accident 
set  loose  from  the  domain  of  spiritual 
law.  Two  human  wills  can  unite  to 
preserve  married  love  by  observing  the 
laws  which  ensure  the  health  of  all  love. 
Of  these,  the  first  and  the  last  are  that 
love  dies  in  self-seeking  and  is  renewed 
in  every  act  of  self-forgetfulness.  'It's 
not  an  exhortation,  but  an  axiom,'  I 
said  to  my  friend  as  we  touched  upon 
the  subject. 

But  we  were  growing  tired  of  Violet, 
and  the  world  about  us  was  very  beau- 
tiful. The  October  sun  was  laying  a 
sheet  of  pure  flame  behind  the  trunks 
of  the  maple  trees  on  the  edge  of  the 
wide  pasture.  There  were  ardent 
touches  of  red  on  the  sumach  between 
the  straight  green  savins.  The  young 
moon  was  silvering  above  the  red  and 
gold  of  the  sunset.  In  the  silence,  my 
friend's  thoughts  roamed  I  know  not 
where.  My  own  circled  and  alighted  on 
the  magnificent  lover  in  Meredith's 
Tragic  Comedians.  The  silver  moon 
invited  him  and  Clotilde,  on  the  pas- 
sion-swept night  of  their  first  meeting, 
to  go  quite  mad.  But  his  brilliant  mind 
refused  to  be  eclipsed  —  '  the  handsome 
face  of  the  orb  that  lights  us  would  be 
well  enough  were  it  only  a  gallop  be- 
tween us  two.  Dearest,  the  orb  that 
lights  us  two  for  a  lifetime  must  be 
taken  all  round,  and  I  have  been  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  moon.  I  know  the 
other  face  of  it  —  a  visage  scored  with 
regrets,  dead  dreams,  burned  passions, 
bald  illusions,  and  the  like,  the  like,  the 
like!  —  sunless,  waterless,  without  a 
flower.' 

How  stupid  to  mistake  this  evening's 
moon  for  to-morrow's  sun!  How  stupid 
to  mistake  the  crimson  slash  on  the 
sumach  for  the  whole  broad  upland! 


CUNJUR  AND   'SUASION 


PLANTATION   CHRONICLES 


BY  ELEANOR  C.  GIBBS 


TOOMBER  KAMID!  What  a  name! 
Well,  she  was  a  woman,  a  negro  woman, 
tall,  black,  brawny.  About  her  there 
was  something  that  attracted  me  by  its 
singularity;  yet  with  this  attraction 
there  was  a  something  indescribable 
that  was  almost  awe-inspiring  to  a 
child  like  me.  When  I  asked  her  where 
she  got  such  a  queer  name,  she  told  me 
that  it  was  her  grandmammy's  grand- 
mammy's  name.  Her  grandmammy, 
she  said,  was  a  Mollie  Gloskie  (Mada- 
gascar) negro;  and  she  had  been  told 
that  her  grandmammy  remembered  all 
about  being  in  Africa,  and  had  told  of 
many  strange  customs  there,  where 
children  never  wore  clothes  until  they 
were  as  tall  as  their  mothers.  Then 
they  were  sent  to  the  straw-fields  to 
make  long  aprons  for  themselves.  She 
said  the  mothers  had  to  do  something 
to  help  them  to  know  their  own  children 
from  the  children  of  other  negroes,  so 
they  took  a  sharp  knife,  made  of  a  shell, 
and  scratched  up  and  down  the  child- 
ren's faces,  and  up  and  down  their 
arms  and  legs.  As  I  listened  to  her,  I 
saw  that  she  was  trying  to  describe 
tattooing.  She  told,  too,  of  the  rings 
she  used  to  wear  —  gold  rings,  she  said: 
two  in  her  nose,  and  four  or  five  around 
her  ears,  where  holes  had  been  pierced 
for  them. 

She  said  she  had  been  told  that  her 
grandmammy's  grandmammy  was  a 


queen  in  Africa.  But  one  day  a  big  ship 
came  sailing  up,  and  the  captain  had 
pretty  red  calico  and  gold  bracelets 
and  looking-glasses  in  the  ship.  She 
and  a  crowd  of  other  negroes  'scrouged ' 
along  and  went  on  the  ship,  and  the 
captain  gave  them  some  good  fire- 
water, and  they  got  sleepy  and  went  to 
sleep;  and  when  they  woke  up,  they 
were  'way  off,  'way  out  in  the  sea,  and 
the  'maremaids'  were  swimming  all 
around  them. 

When  I  expressed  doubts  about  the 
*  maremaids,'  she  said, '  Dey  sho  is  mare- 
maids,  kaze  my  own  mammy  seed  'em 
in  de  'Tomac  ribber.  I  hyeard  her  tell 
'bout  de  maremaids  times  'pon  top  uv 
times.  She  sho  did  see  'em  wid  her  eyes 
—  in  de  'Tomac  ribber.  You  doan' 
know  'bout  maremaids,  but  niggers 
knows  'bout  'em  kaze  dey  seed  'em  dey- 
selves.  Now  Gord  knows  dat  's  de 
trufe.' 

All  these  stories  were  as  fascinating 
to  me  as  '  Cinderella'  and  '  Jack  and  the 
Beanstalk'  were  to  other  children.  I 
listened  with  eager  interest  to  stories 
of  the  negroes  in  Africa  who  were  'cun- 
jur  niggers.'  'All  uv  em  wuz  cunjur 
niggers.  Dey  knowed  how  to  walk  on 
behind  anybody  an'  pick  up  de  tracks 
and  put  'em  in  a  cunjur  bag  with  pois- 
onous spiders  and  toad-frogs  and  tree- 
frogs  and  devils'  horses  —  great  big 
old  grasshoppers  wid  red-an'-black 

761 


762 


CUNJUR  AND    'SUASION 


wings.  Den  doodle-bugs  and  grub- 
worms  and  measuring  worms  would 
be  put  in,  and  cats'  fur,  and  a  piece 
of  leather-wing  bat's  wing,  and  thou- 
sand-legged worms,  and  lizards'  tails, 
and  scorapins.' 

When  the  cunjur  bag  was  completed, 
it  was  buried  under  the  eaves  of  the 
house  where  the  victim  of  the  cunjurer 
lived.  The '  tarrifyin'  pains'  would  soon 
make  themselves  manifest,  and  in  the 
veins,  the  stomach,  and  the  bowels  of 
the  unfortunate  cunjured  person  these 
'varmints  an'  insecks'  would  hold  high 
carnival.  The  victim  was  doomed.  No 
doctor  could  relieve  him.  Only  by  pro- 
pitiating the  cunjurer  was  there  any 
hope.  This  could  sometimes  be  done 
by  giving  presents  to  the  cunjurer. 
The  poor  cunjured  wretch  was  avoided 
by  all  his  acquaintances.  People  did 
not  like  to  walk  on  the  side  of  the  road 
where  the  doomed  one  lived.  When  the 
'cunjur'  was  getting  off,  the  'varmints 
an'  insecks'  would  sometimes  be  heard 
jumping  out  and  falling  down  flop  on 
the  ground. 

Filled  with  interest  and  curiosity,  I 
asked  Toomber  if  she  could  tell  me 
anything  about  conjuring. 

'Yes,'  she  replied,  'cunjurin'  sho  is 
true  fac'.  I  bin  had  de  cunjur  on  me, 
an'  I  knows  'bout  it.  I  sho  do.  One 
Sunday,  when  I  gwine  'long  ter  meetin', 
I  seed  a  cunjur  'oman  pickin'  up  my 
tracks.  Dat  was  Sunday;  den  on  Mon- 
day dat  'oman  done  put  de  cunjur  on  me. 
I  knowed  she  gwine  do  dat,  kaze  I  seed 
her  at  her  devilment,  stoopin'  down  on 
de  san'  an'  pickin'  my  tracks  right  out- 
en  de  san',  an'  puttin'  'em  in  her  pocket. 
I  peeped  roun'  de  corner  uv  my  eye  an' 
seed  her.  I  knowed  she  gwine  do  devil- 
ment. I  knowed  she  a  dang'ous  'oman. 
'Fore  Gord,  ef  you  ever  git  de  cunjur 
on  you,  you  sho'  will  know  'bout  cun- 
jur. Dat  'oman  pick  up  my  tracks  on 
Sunday,  an  Monday  'bout  daybreak  de 
cunjur  'peared.  I  could  n'  git  out  de 


bed,  kaze  de  misery  was  in  my  laig,  an' 
my  foots,  an'  my  side,  an'  my  head.  I 
des  sot  propped  up  on  de  side  uv  de  bed 
an'  I  moan  an'  groan.  I  skeered  ter  tell 
'bout  what  dat  dang'ous  'oman  done 
ter  me,  kaze  hit  mought  make  de  cun- 
jur worse  an'  worse.  Den  I  crope  out  de 
bed,  an'  tuck  a  knife  an'  dug  up  some 
poke-root  an'  biled  it  an'  rubbed  my 
swol'd-up  laig  wid  dat,  an'  rubbed  hit 
wid  karosene.  But  de  cunjur  did  n' 
leave  my  cistern.  My  cistern  wuz  all 
discomfused.  Hit  so  full  of  cunjur  I 
did  n'  know  what  ter  do. 

'Dat  night  ole  squint-eye  Sary  Jane 
come  ter  see  my  misery,  an'  she  say 
I  mus'  fix  up  a  big  plate  full  uv  good 
vittles,  an'  put  two  dimes  in  de  plate, 
an'  sen'  de  plate  to  de  cunjur  'oman  wid 
my  love  an'  complimen's.  Gord  knows 
I  did  n'  want  dat  dang'ous  'oman  ter 
hab  dat  plate  full  uv  good  vittles,  but  I 
so  skyeurd  uv  dat  'oman  I  was  mos' 
crazy.  De  cunjur  kep  a-goin'  on,  an'  I 
kep'  sayin',  "O  Gord!  O  Gord!  O  Gord! 
I 'ze  cunjured  mighty  bad.  De  misery 's 
wuckin'  all  th'oo  my  cistern.  O  Gord! 

0  Gord!"  Squint-eye  Sary  Jane  say 
she'll  tote  de  plate  ter  de  cunjur  'oman 
ef  I  can  han'  out  a  nice  ashcake  to  her, 
kaze  her  belly  wuz  a  growlin'  an'  groan- 
in'  for  vittles.    Cunjur  kin  strike  you 
mighty  bad  when  your  belly  is  moanin'. 

1  han'  out  some  taters  an'  some  cushaw 
an'  some  lye  hominy  to  Sary  Jane,  an' 
she  smack'd  her  mouf  an  grin'  her  toofs. 
Den  she  toted  dat  plate  uv  vittles  ter  de 
dang'ous  'oman  an'  gin  her  de  money. 
Den  de  misery  got  ter  'swagin'  down. 
Den  Sary  Jane  say  she  pertects  herse'f 
'ginst  cunjur.  She  totes  de  lef  hin'  foot 
uv  a  grabeyard  rabbit  in  her  pocket  day 
in  an'  day  out.    I  gwine  get  me  one. 
Den  cunjur '1  lemme  'lone.    I  sho  is 
gwine  ter  pertec'  myse'f  f'om  cunjur.  I 
got  'nuf  uv  cunjur. 

'  Dem  Cincinnati  niggers  is  gittin'  so 
dey  likes  ter  hear  'bout  cunjur  an' 
witches  an'  grabeyard  rabbits.  Dem 


CUNJUR  AND    'SUASION 


763 


niggers  is  mighty  ign'an'.  Dey  doan' 
know  nuthin'  'bout  de  bref  uv  heaven. 
I  flings  my  wooden  winder-shutters 
open  an'  de  bref  uv  heaven  goes  a 
sweepin'  th'oo  my  cabin.  Dey  got  glass 
winders  all  shut  up  tight,  an'  ain'  got  no 
great  big  fireplace.  I  feels  like  I  wuz 
sufflicate  when  I  goes  in  de  chu'ch  dar. 
I  wants  to  be  back  on  de  plantation 
whar  I  kin  git  de  bref  uv  heaven.  I 
gwine  back  dar  soon's  ole  Mistiss  comes 
ridin'  back  Tom  Culpeper  Cote  House. 

'I  doan'  want  ter  stay  in  Cincinnati 
an'  be  a  free  nigger.  I  doan'  want  two 
things  —  I'ze  sot  'ginst  bein'  a  free 
nigger  or  bein'  po'  white  trash.  Niggers 
'spises  po'  white  trash  an  po'  white 
trash  'spises  niggers.  I  bin  uster  qual- 
ity white  folks.  Dey  sets  heap  uv  sto' 
by  niggers,  an'  niggers  sets  sto'  by  dem. 
Dey  sho  do  like  one  anurr.  I  gwine 
back  to  Kanawha  County  an'  live  out 
all  my  born  days  wid  quality  folks. 

'Dem  dar  Cincinnati  niggers  got  so 
now  dey  lis'ns  when  my  tongue  'gins  ter 
run.  One  uv  dem  little  Ohio  niggers 
wuz  layin'  up  on  de  bed  groanin'  wid  de 
headache.  She  tol'  me  she  dunno  what 
make  her  head  ache  so.  I  say,  "Chile, 
I'll  tell  you.  Sho's  you  born,  you  bin 
th'owed  a  stran'  uv  yo'  hyar  out  de  win- 
der, an'  a  bird  done  tuck  hit  up  in  a 
tree.  Cose  den  eb'ry  time  de  win*  blows 
yo'  head  'bleeged  to  ache.  You  all  so 
ign'an'  up  here,  you  'bleeged  ter  be 
painified."  I  tell  you  I  knows  a  heap.  I 
knows  when  bad  luck  is  comin'  'long, 
lickity-split,  lickity-split.  Scritch-owl 
tells  me  'bout  dat.  He  dess  scritches 
an'  scritches  when  he  knows  bad  luck's 
comin'.  Dat  he  do.  One  time  a  ole 
scritch-owl  sot  on  de  ridge-pole  uv  my 
cabin  un'  mos'  split  his  th'oat  scritchin'. 
Isettin'  down  in  de  cabin,  waitin'  for 
my  old  man  ter  come  home  wid  de  ox- 
team.  De  scritch-owl  kep'  on  scritchin'. 
I  th'owed  my  apurn  up  ober  my  face 
an'  sot  dar  an'  shivered  an'  trimbled. 
De  scritch-owl  done  got  in  good  chune 


den,  an'  he  kep'  on  scritchin'.  My  ole 
man  nuvar  did  come  home.  He  done 
drownded  in  de  creek,  cedar  creek,  one 
mile  Tom  de  cabin. 

'I  bin  livin'  nigh  on  to  a  hunderd 
years,  an'  I  done  fin'  out  how  knowin' 
scritch-owls  is.  Dey's  knowin'  in  AT- 
bama  an'  dey's  knowin'  in  de  Mis'- 
sippy  bottoms.  Whippoorwills  is  bad- 
luck  birds,  too,  but  scritch-owls  kin 
beat  whippoorwills.  When  I  hears  a 
scritch-owl  I  runs  ter  de  fire,  an'  sticks 
a  shovel  in  de  fire.  Sometimes  dat 
'pears  ter  do  some  good.  Sometimes  hit 
doan'  do  no  good.  I  tries  all  de  ways  I 
hears  tell  'bout  ter  shoo  bad  luck  off. 
Ef  a  chunk  uv  fire  rolls  down,  I  puckers 
up  my  mouf  in  a  hurry  an'  spits  down, 
spang  on  hit.  Den  when  I  spittin'  I 
wishes  a  good-luck  wish.  Dat's  a  good 
way  to  do.  Des  say,  "Stay  dere,  ole 
chunk,  an'  hev  'memb'ance  ter  bring 
good  luck!"  I  spits  three  times,  spang! 
spang!  spang!  Den  I  sets  down  an' 
sings  a  little. 

'I  likes  ter  sing.  All  de  plantation 
niggers  likes  ter  sing.  Dem  Cincinnati 
niggers  so  smart  dey  say  dey  sings  out- 
en  a  book,  do,  re,  mi,  like  white  folks.  I 
say,  Gord  teached  de  plantation  niggers 
an'  de  mockin'  birds  how  ter  sing.  I 
spec'  de  debble  teached  de  jay  birds.  I 
dunno  'bout  dat. 

'I  sho  does  wish  ole  Mistiss  would 
git  up  on  her  prancin'  sorrel  horse  an' 
ride  back  home.  I  tired  bein'  chamber- 
maid on  de  steamboat.  Dey  got  cuyous 
vittles  on  dat  steamboat,  an'  I  'ze  tired 
eatin'  dem  things  whar  I  ain'  bin  uster 
eatin'  on  de  plantation.  I  wants  some 
possum,  I  does,  possum  wid  sweet 
'taters  all  ranged  roun'  hit,  wid  good 
possum  gravy.  Plantation  niggers 
knows  what  good  vittles  is  soon's  dey 
sets  dey  eyes  on  hit.  'Pear  like  I  cyarn' 
go  back  ter  de  plantation  now;  but  I 
know  whar  I  kin  go  when  de  right  time 
comes:  I  kin  sho'  go  ter  de  promis'  Ian' 
up  de  right  road  ter  glory.  I  '11  go  when 


764 


CUNJUR  AND   'SUASION 


Marse  Jesus  calls.  When  de  angels 
comes,  I  sho  will  wrastle  wid  'em,  an' 
dey'll  be  a  flutterin'  an'  a  flyin'  roun' 
worser  'n  a  chicken  wid  his  head  cut  off. 
I  ain'  'feard  uv  angels.  I  des  'feared  uv 
cunjur  an'  hants.  I  gwine  ter  glory,  dat 
whar  I  gwine ! ' 

Then  her  wild  voice  rang  out,  — 

'Some  uv  dese  mornin's  bright  an'  fair 
I'll  hitch  on  my  wings  an'  try  de  air!' 

II 

*O  Gord !  O  Gord !  Lord  'a'  massey  on 
me!  Poor  me!  Dat's  bad  as  a  scritch- 
owl,  dess  as  bad.  I  looked  out  my  doah 
an*  seed  a  hog,  a  ole  razor-back  red  sow, 
des  a-runnin'  up  an'  down  de  pastur' 
wid  a  shuck  in  her  mouf.  I  knowed  she 
tellin'  me  den  'bout  bad  luck.  Poor  me! 
I  knowed  bad  luck  was  comin',  kaze 
las'  night  I  dreamt  'bout  muddy  water. 
Den  to-day  I  drapped  ter  sleep  in  my 
split-bottom  chair  an'  dreamt  'bout 
snakes.  Dat  a  mighty  bad  sign.  Secret 
enemies  gwine  ter  'pear  when  you 
dreams  'bout  snakes.  Poor  me!  Poor 
me!  I  'members  de  fus  time  I  dreamt 
'bout  hog  runnin'  roun'  wid  shuck  in 
his  mouf.  I  wuz  livin'  'way  down  in 
Mis'sippy  den,  on  Marse  Jeems's  lower 
plantation.  Dey  did  n'  hab  de  same 
ways  down  dar  dat  dey  got  on  dis  plan- 
tation. Dey  gin  out  a  tas'  [task]  ter 
ebry  nigger  on  de  place.  Not  a  hard  big 
tas',  des  a  tas'  'bout  de  right  size.  Atter 
dat  tas'  done  did,  all  you  got  ter  do  is 
ter  work  'long,  an'  all  you  makes  Marse 
Jeems  's  gwine  buy  fom  you. 

'I  wuz  a  sassy  little  gal  when  I  live 
down  in  Mis'sippy  on  Marse  Jeems's 
place.  Marse  Jeems  nuvar  did  speak 
discontempshus  ter  me  but  one  time.  I 
done  hyeard  'im  tell  Mistiss  dat  I  got 
gifty-gab.  I  so  uppity  I  traipsed  up  ter 
de  house,  an'  pick  up  de  bunch  uv  pea- 
cock feathers  ter  keep  off  de  flies.  I 
waved  dem  peacock  feathers  an'  I 
waved  'em.  Den  I  say,  "  Marse  Jeems, 


please,  suh,  splainify  'bout  what  you 
say  I  got  —  'bout  gifty-gab."  Marse 
Jeems  th'owed  back  his  head  an'  laffed 
an'  laffed.  Den  I  say  agin,  "Marse 
Jeems,  suh,  please  splainify  'bout  gifty- 
gab."  Den  he  say,  "  When  you  fus'  be- 
gin comin'  up  ter  de  house  ter  set  on  de 
bottom  step  an'  play  wid  my  chillern,  I 
tuck  noticemen1  dat  you  nuvar  stop 
talkin',  talkin'.  You  kep'  up  yo'  clack 
all  de  time.  When  folks  doan'  nuvar 
stop  talkin'  I  'clares  dat  dey  sho  got 
gifty-gab.  Talk,  talk,  talk."  Den 
Marse  Jeems  th'owed  back  his  head 
agin.  He  sho  did.  I  ain'  stop  gifty-gab 
yit.  I  spec'  I'll  keep  up  gifty-gab  'tel 
dey  hauls  me  ter  de  grabeyard.  I  doan' 
see  no  use  uv  havin'  a  tongue  ef  hit 
gwine  ter  be  closed  up  'tween  yo  teef, 
day  in  an'  day  out.  My  mammy  say  I 
talks  in  my  sleep.  I  dunno,  I  ain'  nuvar 
"mained  wake  ter  see  'bout  dat.  Dey 
say  de  gifty-gab  runs  day  an'  night. 

'  I  did  n'  like  ter  stay  down  on  Marse 
Jeems's  plantation.  Too  many  ole  alli- 
gators down  dar.  My  mammy  tell  me 
ter  stay  up  on  de  hilL  She  say  she 
hyeard  dat  alligators  would  bite  off  lit- 
tle nigger  chillern's  laigs.  Dey  nuvar 
bit  my  laigs.  I  got  many  laigs  now  as  I 
uver  had  in  all  my  born  days.  Dat's 
de  trufe  —  dat's  Gord's  trufe. 

'  Marse  Jeems  wa'n't  like  ole  Marster 
hyeah  on  dis  plantation.  Marster 's  a 
dignity  man.  Sometimes  Marse  Jeems 
wuz  a  dignity  man  —  des'  sometimes. 
Den  sometimes  he  so  chock  full  of  fun 
an'  devilment,  de  dignity  des'  banished. 
I  mos'  laffed  tell  my  ribs  rattle  when  I 
'members  how  Marse  Jeems  punish 
Nepchune.  Dat  nigger  wuz  de  lazies' 
nigger  on  Marse  Jeems's  plantation 
down  in  Mis'sippy.  But  he  sorter  smart 
nigger,  an'  he  fooled  Marse  Jeems  tel 
he  'sidered  Nepchune  a  induschus  nig- 
ger. Den  Marse  Jeems  'pinted  Nep- 
chune for  foreman.  He  tol'  'im  ter  go 
an'  look  at  de  difTunt  fiel's  an'  lay  off 
de  ivuck  for  hisse'f  an'  for  de  gang. 


CUNJUR  AND   'SUASION 


765 


'Nepchune  sho  did  lay  off  de  wuck 
for  hisse'f.  All  he  laid  off  for  hisse'f  was 
ter  do  nothin'  an'  res'  in  de  shade.  He 
knowed  how  ter  do.  One  day  Marse 
Jeems  an'  Nepchune  wuz  out  in  de 
House  gyarden.  Marse  Jeems  'splained 
ter  Nepchune  'bout  plantin'  de  seed, 
radish-seed,  and  turnip-seed,  an'  all 
sorts  uv  little  pinhead  seed  like  mus- 
tard-seed. Nepchune  say  he  got  de  un- 
derstannin'  'bout  how  ter  do.  When  he 
went  up  ter  de  house  an'  toF  Marse 
Jeems  he  done  plant  all  de  seed,  Marse 
Jeems  say  Nepchune  bin  mighty  smart, 
an'  he  gin  'im  a  present.  He  gin  'im  a 
whole  plug  uv  'bacco. 

'Nex'  day  Marse  Jeems  wuz  walkin' 
in  de  gyarden,  an'  unbeknownst  he 
kicked  up  a  brick  layin'  out  dar. 
Gord  'a'  massey!  Marse  Jeems  foun' 
all  de  papers  uv  little  pinhead  seeds 
onder  dat  brick.  Marse  Jeems  a  mighty 
cussin'  man  when  he  wuz  mad.  I  hyear 
'im  say,  "Dat  infernal  rascal!  I'll  pun- 
ish im  sho  as  I  a  born  man.  I  sho  gwine 
punish  Nepchune." 

'I  kep  on  studyin'  'bout  what  Marse 
Jeems  gwine  ter  do  ter  Nepchune.  I 
foun'  out.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Marse  Jeems's  place  most  jined  on  ter 
Merid'an.  One  day  a  Merid'an  man 
corned  ter  de  plantation  an'  'swaded 
Marse  Jeems  ter  buy  a  great,  big,  long 
red  hammock.  Dat  man  swung  dat 
hammock  up  on  Marse  Jeems's  gal- 
lery an'  lef .  Marse  Jeems  kep'  on 
studyin'  'bout  how  Nepchune  plant 
dem  seed.  I  knowed  what  wuz  in  his 
min'.  He  studyin'  an'  studyin'  'bout 
punishin'  Nepchune.  I  sho  thought  he 
gwine  whip  Nepchune  bad.  Dat  I  did. 
No,  suh,  Marse  Jeems  mighty  notion- 
ate  man.  He  got  heap  uv  devilment 
'bout  'im,  an'  heap  uv  fun.  He  call 
Nepchune  up  ter  de  gallery  an'  say:  — 

* "  Nepchune,  I  mighty  sorry  you  had 
to  work  so  hard  plantin'  de  gyarden. 
I  knows  you  tired  mos'  ter  def,  poor 
nigger.  I  gwine  give  you  some  res'. 


Yo'  Marse  Jeems  ain'  gwine  ter  let 
you  work  yo'se'f  'tel  yo'  tongue  mos' 
hangin'  out  yo'  mouf.  He  sho  ain'  gwine 
ter  do  dat.  Come  hyeah,  Nepchune, 
an'  teck  a  liT  res'.  Poor  fellow,  yo' 
Marse  Jeems  sorry  for  you,  he  sorry 
for  induschus  nigger  like  you,  Nep- 
chune. You  needs  a  res',  nigger. 
Come  hyeah." 

'Nepchune  stepped  up  on  de  gallery, 
an'  Marse  Jeems  say,  "Now,  Nepchune, 
git  up  in  dis  big  red  hammock  an' 
stretch  yo'se'f  out  long  as  you  kin." 

'Nepchune  sorter  swunk  back.  Den 
Marse  Jeems  say,  "Is  you  work  so  hard 
you  got  deaf?  Poor  devil,  you  sho  needs 
a  good  res'. 

'Nepchune  'bleeged  ter  git  in  de  ham- 
mock an'  stretch  out.  He  'peared 
mighty  sorrowful  like.  Marse  Jeems 
mighty  dignity  dat  day;  talk  mighty 
onnateral,  so  gently  an'  sweetified,  Nep- 
chune did  n'  know  what  wuz  de  'casion 
uv  dat  soft-soap  talkin'  to  a  nigger. 
When  Nepchune  done  stretch  out  good, 
kaze  he  skyeard  not  to  do  dat,  Marse 
Jeems  sot  hisse'f  down  by  de  red  ham- 
mock. He  done  tied  a  twine  string  ter 
de  hammock.  He  sot  in  a  big  split-bot- 
tom chair  an'  pull  dat  string,  an'  made 
it  swing  an'  swing. 

'Presen'ly  Nepchune  say,  "Marse 
Jeems,  I'ze  mightily  res'  up;  I  wants 
ter  go  out  in  de  fiel',  suh." 

'"No,  no,  Nepchune.  No,  no,  poor 
fellow.  I  gwine  ter  let  you  hab  a  good 
ole  res'." 

'Den  Marse  Jeems  swinged  Nep- 
chune an'  swinged  'im,  an'  swinged  'im. 
Eb'ry  now  an'  den  some  uv  de  niggers 
corned  up  ter  de  house,  'tendin'  dey 
'bleeged  ter  come  on  business.  Dey 
kep'  on  comin',  an'  laffin',  an'  savin', 
"Nepchune,  you  sho  gittin'  a  good  res'. 
Dat  you  is."  Nepchune  nuvar  'sponded 
nuthin'.  Marse  Jeems  kep'  on  swingin' 
dat  nigger,  an'  lookin'  like  he  walkin' 
'hind  a  hearse  ter  de  grabeyard  down 
by  de  ribber.  I  wuz  des'  shakin'  my 


766 


CUNJUR   AND    'SUASION 


ribs  lookin'  at  Nepchune  restin'  in  de 
long  red  hammock.  Tear  like  Marse 
Jeems  could  n'  git  tired  swingin'  Nep- 
chune. He  swinged  an'  he  swinged. 

'  Tear  like  all  de  niggers  on  de  plan- 
tation got  business  in  de  house-yard  dat 
day.  Mos'ly  dey  did  n'  say  nuthin'. 
Sometimes  dey  step  up  close  ter  de 
gallery  an'  look  devilish  an'  call  out, 
"Nepchune,  is  you  gittin'  a  good  res'? 
You  ain'  nuvar  be  tired  again,  I  'spec'." 

'Nepchune  nuvar  said  nuthin'.  He 
did  n'  even  grin.  Mos'ly  Nepchune  wuz 
a  mighty  grinnin'  nigger.  He  did  n' 
'pear  so  grinny  de  day  he  wuz  restin'  in 
de  hammock.  He  des'  'peared  discom- 
fused,  mightily  discomfused  wid  all  de 
niggers  laffin'  at  'im.  I  seed  Nepchune 
wuz  mad.  But  Marse  Jeems  —  Marse 
Jeems  got  mealy-moufed  an  sweet- 
spoken  more  an'  more,  more  an'  more. 
He  sho  did  hab  a  injoicin'  time  seein' 
dat  induschus  nigger  restin'  in  de  red 
hammock.  Dat  wuz  a  good  fun  day  on 
Marse  Jeems's  plantation.  Tear  like 
Marse  Jeems  mighty  induschus,  pullin' 
dat  twine  string  an'  swingin'  Nepchune. 

'Mos'  all  de  niggers  on  de  place,  tend- 
in'  dis  an'  tendin'  dat,  traipsed  'long 
th'ough  de  house-yard  while  Nepchune 
wuz  gittin'  his  res'.  Tear  like  dey 
could  n'  keep  deyse'ves  'way  fom  seein' 
dat  sight.  Nepchune  mos'  daid  he  so 
mad  wid  dem  niggers.  Dey  so  con- 
sarned  'bout  poor,  tired  Nepchune. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Tear  like  de 
sun  could  n'  set.  Pear  like  hit  got 
hitched  in  a  crotch  uv  de  tree  while 
Marse  Jeems  wuz  swingin'  de  poor  tired 
nigger.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Dat 
nigger  would  n'  nuvar  git  tired  agin. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

'Atter  while  de  sun  did  drap.  Den  I 
hyeah  Marse  Jeems  say,  "Nepchune, 
nex'  time  you  gits  tired,  I  gwine  gib 
you  a  long  res'  agin.  I  gwine  dig  a  hole 
six  foot  deep  for  you  to  res'  in.  Den 
when  you  res'n'  dar,  you  won't  hear 
when  Gabriel  blows  his  horn." 


'All  de  niggers  done  flock  roun'  de 
gallery  den,  an'  Marse  Jeems  call  out, 
"Boys,  is  any  of  you  tired?"  Dey  all 
'spond,  "No,  Marse  Jeems,  we  doan' 
need  no  res'.  We  ain'  tired."  Den 
Marse  Jeems  say,  "Hurrah  for  you, 
boys,  hurrah!"3 

Ill 

'I  doan'  know  but  five  Injin  words. 
Dey's  Choctaw  Injin  words.  Marse 
Jeems's  plantation  wuz  close  to  whar 
dem  Choctaw  Injins  lived  in  Mis'sippy. 
Dem  Injins  say  dey 's  de  frienlies'  Injins 
uv  all  de  Injins.  Dey  sho  did  count 
mighty  cuyous.  "Onarby,  tosharby, 
tuckaloo,  toochany":  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five.  Dey  helt  dey  fingers  out 
when  dey  count  dem  words.  Dem  Choc- 
taw Injins  sho  did  meek  pretty  wilier 
baskets.  Dey  dug  up  some  sort  uv 
roots,  or  sumpin,'  an'  dyed  de  wilier. 
Red  wilier,  yaller  wilier,  black  wilier, 
all  sorts  of  culled  wilier.  Den  dey 
made  de  baskets:  little  baskets  for  de 
gal  chillern  at  Marse  Jeems's  house  ter 
put  hick'y  nuts  in;  baskets  for  Marse 
Jeems's  wife  ter  tote  her  keys  in;  great 
big  roun'  baskets  ter  hoi'  de  fold-up 
work  whar  gwine  ter  be  sewed  on;  cuy- 
ous baskets,  one  on  each  side  runnin' 
down  ter  a  p'int :  forks  goes  down  in  one 
side,  knifes  in  t'  other.  Den  dey  made  a 
monst'ous  big  basket  to  put  dey  pus- 
cooses  [pappooses]  in.  Dem  baskets  got 
a  long  strop  ter  go  roun'  de  haid.  Dem 
little  puscooses  looked  comf'able  wid 
dey  heads  stickin'  out  dem  baskets. 

'Eb'ry  year,  'bout  time  chinkapins 
an'  ches'nuts  an'  muscadines  gits  ripe, 
dem  Injins  sho  ter  come.  De  Injin  men 
come  ridin'  on  Injin  ponies.  Dey  sho 
ter  be  tottin'  some  blow-guns.  I  doan' 
know  whar  dey  git  dem  big  ole  canes. 
Dey  gits  'em  somewhar,  an'  tecks  out 
all  de  pith.  Den  dey  mecks  Injins  ar- 
rers,  sharp  at  one  eend,  an'  feathers  on 
t'  other  eend.  Jes'  blow  in  one  dem  blow- 


CUNJITR  AND   'SUASION 


767 


guns  an'  dem  arrers  goes  flyin'  out. 
You  can  kill  a  jay  bird  dat  way,  or  a 
sparrer.  'Cose  nobody  am'  gwine  kill 
a  robin  dat  way.  Dey  wait  for  de  robin 
ter  fly  up  in  a  Chiny  tree  an'  git  drunk. 
Eb'ry  chile  on  de  plantation  thinks  he 
'bleeged  ter  hab  a  blow-gun  when  dem 
Choctaw  Injins  comes  ridin'  in.  Jay 
birds  better  watch  out  den.  Folks  say 
Choctaw  Injins  ain'  smart  as  Cher'kee 
Injins.  I  doan' know 'bout  dat.  Deysho 
mecks  pretty  baskets  an'  blow-guns. 
But  dey  doan'  know  nuthin'  'bout  al- 
phabits  like  Cher'kee  Injins  does. 

'Marse  Jeems  wuz  a  mighty  smart 
man.  I  sot  my  min'  an*  cotch  heaps  uv 
smartness  f'om  Marse  Jeems  on  his 
lower  plantation  down  in  Mis'sippy. 
Dat  I  did.  I  'stonish  de  Al'bama  nig- 
gers wid  my  smartness  when  I  went 
back  to  de  Black  Belt.  Dat  sho  is  a 
Black  Belt.  Dat  ole  prairie  mud's 
black  as  a  tar-ball  —  an'  sticky!  Gord 
knows  hit's  sticky!  Des'  walk  'long  a 
little  way  an'  de  mud  sticks  so  fast  to 
de  soles  uv  yo'  foots  you  cyarn'  sca'cely 
lif  em  up.  I  likes  sandy  town  myse'f, 
like  Livi'ston  an'  Selma. 

'Bless  Gord!  I  knows  I  is  got  gifty- 
gab,  like  Marse  Jeems  say.  I  mos'  for- 
got how  skyeard  I  wuz  'bout  bad  luck. 
Mighty  bad  luck  for  bird  ter  come  flyin' 
in  yo'  house.  Bird  come  flyin'  in  my 
house  one  day.  I  druv  dat  bird  out. 
Nex'  mornin'  dar  wuz  dat  same  bird 
flatted  'ginst  my  winder-shutter.  I  so 
'stressed  I  des  th'owed  myse'f  down  on 
de  flo'  an'  put  my  apurn  up  over  my 
haid.  I  tryin'  ter  fool  dat  bird.  But  I 
could  n'  fool  'im.  He  knowed  me,  an' 
dat  very  day  de  bad  luck  struck  me.  I 
fell  down  an'  broke  my  laig,  my  poor 
old  laig  wid  de  rheumatiz  pain  mos' 
killin'  me.  I  could  n'  skyear  de  bad 
luck  away.  Hit  done^come,  an'  'pear 
like  hit  gwine  ter  stay.  Poor  me! 

'Here  I  is  gifty-gabbin'  an'  forgittin' 
all  de  teachmen's  my  mammy  toF  me 
'bout  huccome  niggers  han's,  an'  down 


side  uv  dey  han's,  is  white,  an'  de  bot- 
toms uv  dey  foots.  Mammy  say  Gord 
A'mighty  made  all  de  folks  white  when 
he  fus'  started  out  ter  make  'em.  Den 
he  got  plum  tired  lookin'  at  all  dem 
white  folks.  Den  he  'cided  he  'd  paint 
'em  diff 'unt  colors.  He  made  some  red 
folks  like  Injins,  an'  some  yaller  folks, 
an'  some  brown  folks.  Den  he  studied 
'bout  what  he  gwine  do  nex'.  He  'cided 
he  'd  meek  some  black  folks.  Den  he  toF 
some  de  white  folks  ter  git  down  on 
all  fours,  kaze  he  gwine  paint  'em  black. 
He  paint  dem  folks  black  while  dey 
down  on  all  fours.  'Cose  de  bottom  uv 
dey  han's  an'  dey  foots  did  n'  git  painted 
black.  Dat 's  de  trufe,  sho 's  I  'ze  a  born 
nigger.  My  mammy  had  heaps  uv 
knowin's.  White  folks  doan'  know  how 
much  knowin's  niggers  got. 

'  One  day  I  wuz  out  in  de  pastur'  git- 
tin'  poke-weed.  I  hyeard  ole  crook- 
hand  Sal  singin'  an'  singin'.  I  cotch  de 
words.  Dey  wuz  hitched  on  ter  a  chune. 
Mighty  easy  ter  ketch  de  words  ef  dey 's 
hitched  on  ter  a  chune.  She  kep'  on  a- 
singin' :  — 

'Yonder  go  de  bell  cow. 
Ketch  her  by  de  tail. 
Turn  her  in  de  pastur', 
Milk  hit  in  de  pail. 
Milk  hit  in  de  pail, 
An'  strain  hit  in  de  gourd. 
Set  hit  in  de  cornder, 
And  kiver  wid  a  board. 

'I  sung  dat  over  in  my  min'  'tel  I 
cotched  hit  good. 

'Dat  wuz  de  day  a  nigger  man  corned 
ter  Marse  Jeems's  place  Pom  Merid'an. 
He  think  he  mighty  smart  kaze  he  bin 
livin'  in  Merid'an.  He  seed  me,  an'  wave 
his  ole  black  paw  at  me.  Den  he  hol- 
lered out,  "Howdy,  sweetie!"  He  all 
dress  up  mighty  fine  in  white  clo'es. 
Fus'  I  would  n'  look  at  'im.  Den  he 
holler  out  agin,  "Howdy,  sweetie.  How 
is  you  to-day?"  I  say," I  worse  off  on 
'casion  uv  seein'  you.  Sho's  I  born, 
Vou  look  des'  like  a  black  snake  in  a 
bowl  uv  cream."  Dat  smarty-jack 


768 


CUNJUR  AND    'SUASION 


nigger  f  om  Merid'an  'pear  like  he  dis- 
comfused  den.  He  riz  up  agin'  an'  hol- 
lered out,  "You  look  mighty  peart  to- 
day, sweetie! "  Den  I  'spond, " Keep  yo' 
sweetnin'  for  yo'se'f,  ole  black  snake." 
I  sho  did  discomfuse  dat  nigger.  But 
he  kep'  on  wavin'  his  black  paw  at 
me.  He  did  n'  come  back  f 'om  Merid'an 
no  more  ter  call  me  sweetie. 

'One  nice  white  lady  corned  f'om 
Merid'an  one  time  ter  see  Marse  Jeerns's 
wife.  She  corned  f'om  de  Norf  an'  she 
mighty  ign'an'  lady.  She  seed  me  set- 
tin'  on  de  tip-top  uv  de  high  ten-rail 
fence,  staked  an'  ridered,  an'  she  say 
she  so  'feared  I  gwine  fall  down.  I  say 
I  doan*  see  no  use  in  tumblin'  down.  I 
mighty  com'fable  up  hyeah.  Den  I 
'menced  callin'  out,  "Cur  rench!  Cur 
rench!  Cur  rench! "  She  ax  me  what  for 
I  keep  sayin'  "Cur  rench"  so  much.  I 
tell  her  she  ain'  got  un'erstannin'  ter 
know  what  I  talkin'  'bout.  De  cows 
an'  de  bulls  got  un'erstannin'.  Look  at 
'em.  Marse  Jeems  say  cows  got  jog- 
raphy  an'  'rithmetic  in  dey  haids.  Ef 
dey  long  way  f'om  de  cuppen  [cow-pen] 
dey  starts  home  soon.  Ef  dey  short 
way  off,  dar  dey  lays  'tel  dey  see  me 
puttin'  down  de  bars.  Dey  got  heap  uv 
sense. 

'One  time,  I  wuz  a  little  gal  den, 
I  layin'  down  on  de  flo'  kickin'  up  my 
heels  an'  cryin'.  Mammy  say,  "Wha* 
de  matter  wid  you,  chile?"  I  tol'  her 
my  haid  wuz  splittin'  open  wid  head- 
ache. She  'spond,  "Chile,  I  spec'  you 
got  de  hollow  horn  like  de  ole  red  bull 
got."  Den  I  got  ter  laffin'  an'  laffin'. 
Den  de  headache  des  upped  an'  went 
off  somewhat. 

'When  I  corned  back  from  Marse 
Jeems's  place,  I  met  ole  black  Jubiter. 
I  bin  gone  seb'ral  years.  When  I  went 
dar,  de  wool  on  my  haid  wuz  black. 
Wool  on  my  mammy's  haid  bin  white 
'long  time.  Ole  black  Jubiter  hollered 
out  to  me,  "Hi!  hi!  hi!  Is  you  come 
back  ter  Al'bama?  I  mos'  did  n'  know 


you.   You  heap  more  like  yo'  mammy 
dan  yo'se'f.    Dat's  a  sho  fac'." 

'I  stannin'  by  de  car  track  den.  I 
axed  Jubiter  ef  de  trains  wuz  regilar  in 
runnin'.  He  'spond,  "Dey's  mighty 
regilar  in  bein'  onregilar."  He  sho  did 
tell  de  trufe  dat  time  —  dat  one  time. 
Mos'ly  Jubiter  wuz  a  big  lie-teller.  He 
'joyed  tellin'  lies.  He  had  'joymen' 
f'om  sunup  ter  sundown  dat  way. 

'I  bin  havin'  'joymen'  all  dis  day  des 
studyin'  'bout  buckwheat  cakes.  'Fore 
Christmus  come,  on  Marse  Jeems's 
plantation,  'peared  like  ebrybody  was 
busy  makin'  bags.  Bags  'pon  top  uv 
bags  wuz  piled  up  on  de  shelves  in  de 
house.  I  knowed  what  dem  bags  was 
for.  Ebry  Christmus  dem  bags  wuz' 
piled  up  dar.  'Bleeged  ter  hab  a  high- 
up  pile  uv  bags  for  de  'casion.  Den  de 
Mistiss  had  a  pile  uv  dimes  an'  pica- 
yunes in  her  trunk.  She  knowed  what 
she  gwine  do  wid  all  dat  silver  money. 
I  knowed,  too,  kaze  I  bin  on  Marse 
Jeems's  place  'fore  dat  time.  I  knowed 
dem  wuz  Chris'mus  bags  for  buckwheat. 
Niggers  nuvar  seed  buckwheat  but  one 
time  eb'ry  year.  Dat  wuz  Christmus 
mornin'.  All  de  niggers  got  up  'fore  sun- 
rise dat  day.  Eb'rybody  had  big  fire  in 
dey  big  fireplace  by  time  de  sun  riz. 
Den  all  uv  'em  went  flockin'  up  ter  de 
house,  ter  jump  out  sudden,  an'  holler 
out,  "Christmus  gif!  Christmus  gif! 
Christmus  gif,  marster!  Christmus  gif, 
mistiss."  Dem  niggers  got  Christmus 
gif's,  eb'rybody  down  ter  de  suckin' 
babies.  Eb'rybody  wuz  laffin'  an' 
whoopin'  an'  hurrahin'.  Eb'rybody  got 
Christmus  in  dey  bones. 

4  Den  eb'ry  nigger  gits  a  bag,  an'  back 
dey  troops  ter  dey  cabin.  Dey  snatches 
up  dey  sifters  an'  'mence  siftin',  siftin', 
siftin'.  Dey  knowed  dimes  an'  pica- 
yunes wuz  in  dem  buckwheat  bags. 
Dey  'termined  ter  sif  out  de  money. 
All  de  chillern  des'  scrouges  one  anurr, 
an'  gits  up  close  ter  de  sifter  ter  see 
if  dey  kin  git  a  dime  or  a  picayune  wid  a 


CUNJUR  AND    'SUASION 


769 


hole  in  it.  Dey  likes  ter  hang  picayunes 
an'  dimes  roun'  dey  neck,  an'  strut 
roun'  proud  as  a  ole  peacock.  Dat 
what  dey  wants  ter  do  on  Christmus 
mornin'  on  Marse  Jeems's  plantation. 

'Some  uv  de  marsters  in  Mis'sippy 
does  dat  away  like  Marse  Jeems.  Some 
doan'  do  dat  away.  Dey  fix  up  some 
sorter  way  for  Christmus  fun.  Marse 
Jeems  got  a  big  ole  barrel  uv  whiskey 
in  his  smoke-house.  He  sho  gits  a  bar- 
rel uv  dat  once  eb'ry  year  Torn  Mobile. 
He  got  a  'mission  merchan'  in  Mobile 
ter  sell  his  cotton.  Dat  'mission  mer- 
chan' buys  de  sugar  an'  de  flour  an'  de 
whiskey  an'  de  rice  an'  all  sort  o'  gro- 
ceries down  in  Mobile.  He  puts  'em  on 
de  steamboat  an  dey 's  fotch  up  ter  de 
lanolin'  at  Moscow.  Den  de  wagons 
goes  down  dar  an'  hauls  'em  up.  Dat 's 
de  time  we  sees  oranges  an'  lemons. 
Dat 's  de  onlies'  time.  We 's  mos'  crazy 
when  de  wagons  comes  back.  Eb'ry- 
body  on  de  place  'pears  ter  be  plum 
crazy  den.  All  de  chillern  in  special, 
white  chillern  an'  nigger  chillern.  All 
dey  moufs  is  wuterin'  an'  drippin'. 
Eb'rybody  is  hollerin'  out,  "Yonder 
comes  de  wagons!" 

'  When  dey  does  come,  Gord  A'mighty ! 
eb'rybody  sho  is  crazy  den.  De  men 
lif  s  out  a  great  big  hogshead  of  rice. 
Dey  knocks  out  de  head  an'  'mences 
divin'  down  in  de  rice  an'  pullin'  out 
tin  buckets  an'  tin  pans  an'  sifters,  an' 
I  dunno  what,  all  packed  in  de  rice. 
Sometimes  out  comes  a  tin  plate  wid 
letters  all  roun'  de  edge,  big  a,  little  a, 
big  b,  little  b.  We  knows  de  house-'oman 
—  one  uv  de  house-'omans  —  gwinegit 
dat  tin  plate.  Certain  sho,  she  gwine  git 
dat.  Dey  keeps  a-divin'  down  an'  divin' 
down  in  dat  rice,  an'  pres'n'ly  out  comes 
some  doll-heads.  All  de  chillern  'gins 
ter  dance  an'  laf  an'  holler.  Dey  knows 
Mistiss  gwine  cut  out  doll-bodies  an' 
stuff  'em  wid  cotton.  Den  up  in  de 
seamster's  room  de  seamsters  gwine 
ter  sew  de  doll-heads  on  de  doll-bodies. 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 


'All  de  chillern  stannin'  roun'  eb'ry- 
whar  dances  roun'  an'  hurrahs  an'  hol- 
lers, 'tel  Marse  Jeems  step  out  an'  say, 
"Too  much  noise!  Too  much  noise!  Ef 
you  cyarn'  be  quiet,  you  mus'  go  back 
ter  yo'  cabins."  Hit  gits  so  quiet  den 
'pears  like  somebody's  dyin'.  But  in  a 
minute  dey  gins  ter  'spond,  "Yes,  suh, 
Marse  Jeems,  yes,  suh!  We  gwine  be 
still  as  a  church  mouse.  Yes,  suh, 
Marse  Jeems,  yes,  suh!" 

'I  gits  ter  studyin'  'bout  dem  days 
sometimes  'tel  hit  'pears  like  dem  days 
is  right  here  agin.  'T  wuz  a  injoicin' 
time  eb'ry  year  when  de  wagons  come 
back  Tom  Moscow.  Sometimes  Marse 
Jeems  would  han'  out  some  drams  ter 
de  niggers.  De  house-servants  done 
had  egg-nog  when  dey  runned  up 
Christmus  gifing.  Marse  Jeems  had  a 
bung-hole  in  de  whiskey  barrel,  an'  he'd 
teck  a  mighty  cuyous  vial,  solid  heavy 
at  de  bottom,  an'  let  it  down  th'ough 
de  bung-hole  an'  draw  up  de  whiskey. 
Dat  vial  too  little  ter  draw  much  whis- 
key. Nobody  did  n'  get  none  but  spe- 
cial house-niggers.  Dey  did  n'  git  much. 

'All  de  whiskey  Marse  Jeems  ever 
drunk  was  one  mint  julep  once  a  day. 
I  hyeard  him  say  one  day,  "Mint  is  de 
grass  dat  grows  on  de  graves  uv  all 
good  Virginians."  Dat's  what  I  hyeard 
Marse  Jeems  say.  Dat  what  he  to]'  his 
comp'ny  settin'  up  dar  on  de  gallery. 
Once  eb'ry  day  Marse  Jeems  tuck  one 
mint  julep.  All  his  chillern  runned  to 
him  den,  an'  he  gin  each  one  a  teaspoon- 
ful  of  dat  good  julep. 

'Somehow  I  keeps  on  studyin'  an' 
studyin'  'bout  dem  ole  days.  Tears  like 
I  kin  set  down  in  Jerushy's  cabin  an' 
see  de  fiddler  fiddlin'.  He  sot  up  on  a 
high  stool  on  top  uv  a  table.  He  de  one 
dat  called  out  de  figgirs  uv  de  dance. 
'Fore  dat,  one  o'  de  niggers  would  step 
out  an'  cut  de  pigeon  wing,  an'  one 
would  give  a  double  shuffle.  All  de  nig- 
gers would  clap  an'  rap  den,  an'  some- 
body would  holler  cut,  "Play  'Chicken 


770 


CUNJUR  AND   'SUASION 


in  de  bread  tray,'  play  'Ole  Firginny 
nuvar  tire,'  play  'Susanna  gal.'" 

'De  fiddler  did  n'  pay  no  'tention  ter 
all  dem  callin's-out.  He  de  one  gwine 
call  out.  Den  he'd  stan'  up  a  minute 
an'  holler,  "Time's  a-flyin'.  Choose 
yo'  pardners!  Bow  perlitely!  Dat  de 
way!  S'lute  yo'  pardners!  Swing  cor- 
ners! Cyarn'  yo'  hear  de  fiddle  talkin'? 
Hail,  Columbia!  Halleloo!  Hoi'  yo' 
han's  up  highfilutin'!  Look  permiskus! 
Dat'sdeway!  Dat'sdeway!  Keep  on 
dancin'!"  An'  dey  sho  did  dance  an' 
promenade,  tel  de  bref  mos'  gin  out. 

'Den  de  fiddler  sho  ter  put  his  fiddle 
down  an'  call  out,  "I  knows  what  you 
wants.  You  wants  some  banjo  music." 
When  de  banjo  started  up,  de  niggers 
'peared  plum  'stracted.  Dat 's  de  music 
for  niggers.  Dey  kin  fling  a  souple  toe 
when  de  banjo  talkin'  ter  'em.  But  I 
got  rheumatiz  in  my  laig,  an'  I  doan' 
dance  dese  days.  I'd  be  skyeard  ter 
dance  too,  kaze  I  mought  cross  my 
foots,  an'  den  de  debble'd  cotch  me.  I 
'members  de  song:  "He!  Hi!  Mr.  Deb- 
bie! I  knows  you'ze  at  de  doah.  I 
knows  you'ze  grabblin'  grabble  wid 
yo'  ole  sharp  toe." 

'Here  I  is  studyin'  so  much  'bout  de 
debble  I  mos'  los'  'membrance  uv  all  de 
good  Christmus  vittles.  Up  at  de  house 
de  table  sho'  did  look  scrumshus; 
a  whole  roas'  pig  at  one  eend  uf  de 
'hogany  table,  wid  a  lemon  in  his  mouf 
an'  red  ribbon  on  his  tail.  Dey  had  tur- 
keys too  'pon  top  uv  turkeys,  tame  tur- 
keys an'  wil'  turkeys,  an'  roas'  ducks, 
an'  fried  chickens,  an'  baked  hams,  an' 
mutton  saddles,  an'  venison,  an'  —  O 
Gord  'a'  massey !  dey  had  so  much  good 
vittles  dat  I  ain'  got  de  'membrance  uv 
one  half  uv  all  dat.  Eb'rybody  sho  did 
git  a  fill-up  wid  good  vittles.  Den  come 
de  de'sert:  drop-cakes,  an'  hole-in-de- 
middle  cakes,  an'  snowball  cakes,  an' 
jelly,  an'  ice-cream,  an'  apples,  an' 
blackberry  cordial,  an'  pork  wine.  All 
de  house-niggers  got  so  much  leavin's 


on  de  white  folks'  plates  dat  dey  was 
stuffed  full  as  a  egg. 

'Eb'rybody  down  on  Marse  Jeems's 
plantation  say  dey'd  like  ter  have 
Christmus  all  de  year,  'stid  uv  des'  one 
week.  All  dat  Christmus  day  you 
could  n'  sca'cely  hear  yo'se'f  talk. 
Eb'rybody  wuz  tryin'  to  see  how  much 
noise  dey  could  meek.  De  white  folks, 
up  an'  down  de  plantation,  wuz  firm' 
off  Christmus  guns  f 'om  sunup  ter  sun- 
down. Dey'd  teck  a  big  hick'nut  tree 
wid  a  nachul  hollow  in  hit,  or  dey'd 
meek  a  hollow.  Den  dey'd  fill  dat  hol- 
low plum-full  uv  gunpowder  an'  plug 
hit  up.  When  de  match  wuz  tetched  ter 
de  powder,  you  sho  did  hear  noise. 
Sometimes  dey  'd  fill  up  bottles  an'  can- 
isters wid  gunpowder  an'  put  'em  onder 
barrels  an'  hogsheads  an'  set  a  match 
to  'em.  Eb'rybody  'd  holler,  an'  hurrah, 
an'  whoop  eb'ry  time  de  'sploshun  come. 
Dat  de  way  't  wuz  all  day  long. 

'  I  nuvar  did  go  down  ter  de  cow-house 
Christmus  night,  but  I  hear  tell  'bout 
what  gwine-ons  dey  wuz  down  dar. 
Out  in  de  fiel's,  an'  down  in  de  cow- 
house, an'  out  in  de  stables,  all  de  cat- 
tle knowed  when  midnight  come.  Des' 
like  roosters  knows  when  ter  crow. 
When  midnight  come,  all  de  cattle  fell 
down  on  dey  knees  wid  dey  faces  turned 
ter  de  eas'.  Dar  dey  'mained,  clean  till 
daylight.  I  sorry  I  did  n'  go  down  dar 
ter  de  cow-house  an'  see  de  cattle  pray- 
in',  an'  prayin',  an'  prayin'.  Beastes 
got  a  heap  uv  sense.  Dat  dey  is.  I 
b'leeve  all  de  beastes  is  gwine  ter 
heab'n.  I  sho  do.  Hit  sho  'd  be  mighty 
lonely  up  dar  bedout  any  beastes. 

'Folks  doan'  know  how  ter  hab  good 
Christmus  times  now  like  dey  knowed 
on  Marse  Jeems's  plantation  down  in 
Mis'sippy.  Dem  sho  wuz  good  ole 
Christmus  times,  mun!  Dey  doan' 
know  'bout  good  Christmus  times  up 
hyeah  in  Livi'ston.  Dey  ain'  nuvar  live 
down  in  Mis'sippy  on  Marse  Jeems's 
plantation.' 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE   CHINESE  CHARACTER 


THERE  is  a  theory  among  Occiden- 
tals that  the  Chinaman  is  inscrutable, 
full  of  secret  thoughts,  and  impossible 
for  us  to  understand.  It  may  be  that  a 
greater  experience  of  China  would  have 
brought  me  to  share  this  opinion;  but  I 
could  see  nothing  to  support  it  during 
the  time  when  I  was  working  in  that 
country.  I  talked  to  the  Chinese  as  I 
should  have  talked  to  English  people, 
and  they  answered  me  much  as  English 
people  would  have  answered  a  Chinese 
whom  they  considered  educated  and 
not  wholly  unintelligent.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  myth  of  the  'subtle  Orien- 
tal': I  am  convinced  that  in  a  game  of 
mutual  deception  an  Englishman  or 
American  can  beat  a  Chinese  nine  times 
out  of  ten.  But  as  many  comparative- 
ly poor  Chinese  have  dealings  with 
rich  white  men,  the  game  is  often  played 
only  on  one  side.  Then,  no  doubt,  the 
white  man  is  deceived  and  swindled; 
but  not  more  than  a  Chinese  mandarin 
would  be  in  London. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things 
about  the  Chinese  is  their  power  of  se- 
curing the  affection  of  foreigners.  Al- 
most all  Europeans  like  China,  both 
those  wrho  come  only  as  tourists  and 
those  who  live  there  for  many  years. 
In  spite  of  the  Anglo-Japanese  alliance, 
I  cannot  recall  a  single  Englishman  in 
the  Far  East  who  liked  the  Japanese 
as  much  as  the  Chinese.  Those  who 
have  lived  long  among  them  tend  to 
acquire  their  outlook  and  their  stand- 
ards. New  arrivals  are  struck  by  ob- 


vious evils:  the  beggars,  the  terrible 
poverty,  the  prevalence  of  disease,  the 
anarchy  and  corruption  in  politics. 
Every  energetic  Westerner  feels  at  first 
a  strong  desire  to  reform  these  evils, 
and  of  course  they  ought  to  be  reformed. 

But  the  Chinese,  even  those  who  are 
the  victims  of  preventable  misfortunes, 
show  a  vast  passive  indifference  to  the 
excitement  of  the  foreigners;  they  wait 
for  it  to  go  off,  like  the  effervescence 
of  soda-water.  And  gradually  strange 
doubts  creep  into  the  mind  of  the  be- 
wildered traveler:  after  a  period  of  in- 
dignation, he  begins  to  doubt  all  the 
maxims  that  he  has  hitherto  accepted 
without  question.  Is  it  really  wise  to  be 
always  guarding  against  future  mis- 
fortune? Is  it  prudent  to  lose  all  en- 
joyment of  the  present  through  think- 
ing of  the  disasters  that  may  come  at 
some  future  date?  Should  our  lives  be 
passed  in  building  a  mansion  that  we 
shall  never  have  leisure  to  inhabit? 

The  Chinaman  answers  these  ques- 
tions in  the  negative,  and  therefore  has 
to  put  up  with  poverty,  disease,  and 
anarchy.  But,  to  compensate  for  these 
evils,  he  has  retained,  as  industrial 
nations  have  not,  the  capacity  for 
civilized  enjoyment,  for  leisure  and 
laughter,  for  pleasure  in  sunshine  and 
philosophical  discourse.  The  China- 
man, of  all  classes,  is  more  laughter- 
loving  than  any  other  race  with  which  I 
am  acquainted;  he  finds  amusement 
in  everything,  and  a  dispute  can  always 
be  softened  by  a  joke. 

771 


772 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE  CHINESE  CHARACTER 


I  remember  one  hot  day,  when  a 
party  of  us  were  crossing  the  hills  in 
chairs.  The  way  was  rough  and  very 
steep,  the  work  for  the  coolies  very  se- 
vere. At  the  highest  point  of  our  jour- 
ney, we  stopped  for  ten  minutes  to  let 
the  men  rest.  Instantly  they  all  sat 
in  a  row,  brought  out  their  pipes,  and 
began  to  laugh  among  themselves  as  if 
they  had  not  a  care  in  the  world.  In 
any  country  that  had  learned  the  vir- 
tue of  forethought,  they  would  have 
devoted  the  moments  to  complaining 
of  the  heat,  in  order  to  increase  their 
tip.  We,  being  Europeans,  spent  the 
time  worrying  whether  the  automobile 
would  be  waiting  for  us  at  the  right 
place.  Well-to-do  Chinese  would  have 
started  a  discussion  as  to  whether  the 
universe  moves  in  cycles  or  progresses 
by  a  rectilinear  motion;  or  they  might 
have  set  to  work  to  consider  whether 
the  truly  virtuous  man  shows  complete 
self-abnegation,  or  may,  on  occasion, 
consider  his  own  interest. 

One  comes  across  white  men  occa- 
sionally who  suffer  under  the  delusion 
that  China  is  not  a  civilized  country. 
Such  men  have  quite  forgotten  what 
constitutes  civilization.  It  is  true  that 
there  are  no  trams  in  Peking,  and  that 
the  electric  light  is  poor.  It  is  true  that 
there  are  places  full  of  beauty,  which 
Europeans  itch  to  make  hideous  by 
digging  up  coal.  It  is  true  that  the  edu- 
cated Chinaman  is  better  at  writing 
poetry  than  at  remembering  the  sort 
of  facts  which  can  be  looked  up  in 
Whitaker's  Almanac.  A  European,  in 
recommending  a  place  of  residence, 
will  tell  you  that  it  has  a  good  train-ser- 
vice; the  best  quality  he  can  conceive 
in  any  place  is  that  it  should  be  easy  to 
get  away  from.  But  a  Chinaman  will 
tell  you  nothing  about  the  trains;  if 
you  ask,  he  will  tell  you  wrong.  What 
he  tells  you  is  that  there  is  a  palace  built 
by  an  ancient  emperor,  and  a  retreat  in 
a  lake  for  scholars  weary  of  the  world, 


founded  by  a  famous  poet  of  the  Tang 
dynasty.  It  is  this  outlook  that  strikes 
the  Westerner  as  barbaric. 

The  Chinese,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  have  an  imperturbable  quiet 
dignity,  which  is  usually  not  destroyed, 
even  by  a  European  education.  They 
are  not  self-assertive,  either  individ- 
ually or  nationally;  their  pride  is  too 
profound  for  self-assertion.  They  admit 
China's  military  weakness  in  compar- 
ison with  foreign  powers,  but  they  do 
not  consider  efficiency  in  homicide 
the  most  important  quality  in  a  man 
or  a  nation.  I  think  that  at  bottom, 
they  almost  all  believe  that  China  is 
the  greatest  nation  in  the  world,  and 
has  the  finest  civilization.  A  Western- 
er cannot  be  expected  to  accept  this 
view,  because  it  is  based  on  traditions 
utterly  different  from  his  own.  But 
gradually  one  comes  to  feel  that  it  is, 
at  any  rate,  not  an  absurd  view;  that 
it  is,  in  fact,  the  logical  outcome  of  a 
self-consistent  standard  of  values.  The 
typical  Westerner  wishes  to  be  the 
cause  of  as  many  changes  as  possible  in 
his  environment;  the  typical  Chinaman 
wishes  to  enjoy  as  much  and  as  delicate- 
ly as  possible.  This  difference  is  at  the 
bottom  of  most  of  the  contrast  between 
China  and  the  English-speaking  world. 

We  in  the  West  make  a  fetish  of 
'  progress,'  which  is  the  ethical  camou- 
flage of  the  desire  to  be  the  cause  of 
changes.  If  we  are  asked,  for  instance, 
whether  machinery  has  really  improved 
the  world,  the  question  strikes  us  as  fool- 
ish: it  has  brought  great  changes,  and 
therefore  great  *  progress.'  What  we 
believe  to  be  a  love  of  progress  is  really, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  a  love  of  power, 
an  enjoyment  of  the  feeling  that  by 
our  fiat  we  can  make  things  different. 
For  the  sake  of  this  pleasure,  a  young 
American  will  work  so  hard  that,  by  the 
time  he  has  acquired  his  millions,  he 
has  become  a  victim  of  dyspepsia,  com- 
pelled to  live  on  toast  and  water,  and  to 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE  CHINESE  CHARACTER 


773 


be  a  mere  spectator  of  the  feasts  that 
he  offers  to  his  guests.  But  he  consoles 
himself  with  the  thought  that  he  can 
control  politics,  and  provoke  or  pre- 
vent wars  as  may  suit  his  investments. 
It  is  this  temperament  that  makes 
Western  nations  'progressive.' 

n 

There  are,  of  course,  ambitious  men 
in  China,  but  they  are  less  common 
than  among  ourselves.  And  their  am- 
bition takes  a  different  form  —  not  a 
better  form,  but  one  produced  by  the 
preference  of  enjoyment  to  power.  It 
is  a  natural  result  of  this  preference 
that  avarice  is  a  widespread  failing  of 
the  Chinese.  Money  brings  the  means 
of  enjoyment,  therefore  money  is  pas- 
sionately desired.  With  us,  money  is  de- 
sired chiefly  as  a  means  to  power;  politi- 
cians, who  can  acquire  power  without 
much  money,  are  often  content  to  re- 
main poor.  In  China,  the  tuchuns  (mili- 
tary governors),  who  have  the  real 
power,  almost  always  use  it  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  amassing  a  fortune.  Their 
object  is  to  escape  to  Japan  at  a  suitable 
moment,  with  sufficient  plunder  to  en- 
able them  to  enjoy  life  quietly  for  the 
rest  of  their  days.  The  fact  that  hi  es- 
caping they  lose  power  does  not  trouble 
them  in  the  least.  It  is,  of  course,  ob- 
vious that  such  politicians,  who  spread 
only  devastation  in  the  provinces  com- 
mitted to  their  care,  are  far  less  harmful 
to  the  world  than  our  own,  who  ruin 
whole  continents  in  order  to  win  an 
election  campaign. 

The  corruption  and  anarchy  in  Chi- 
nese politics  do  much  less  harm  than 
one  would  be  inclined  to  expect.  But 
for  the  predatory  desires  of  the  Great 
Powers, — especially  Japan, — the  harm 
would  be  much  less  than  is  done  by 
our  own  'efficient'  governments.  Nine 
tenths  of  the  activities  of  a  modern 
government  are  harmful;  therefore,  the 


worse  they  are  performed,  the  better. 
In  China,  where  the  government  is  lazy, 
corrupt,  and  stupid,  there  is  a  degree 
of  individual  liberty  which  has  been 
wholly  lost  in  the  rest  of  the  world. 

The  laws  are  just  as  bad  as  elsewhere: 
occasionally,  under  foreign  pressure,  a 
man  is  imprisoned  for  Bolshevist  prop- 
aganda, just  as  he  might  be  in  England 
or  America.  But  this  is  quite  exception- 
al; as  a  rule,  in  practice,  there  is  very 
little  interference  with  free  speech  and  a 
free  press.  The  individual  does  not  feel 
obliged  to  follow  the  herd,  as  he  has  in 
Europe  since  1914,  and  in  America 
since  1917.  Men  still  think  for  them- 
selves, and  are  not  afraid  to  announce 
the  conclusions  at  which  they  arrive. 
Individualism  has  perished  in  the  West, 
but  in  China  it  survives,  for  good  as 
well  as  for  evil.  Self-respect  and  person- 
al dignity  are  possible  for  every  coolie 
hi  China,  to  a  degree  which  is,  among 
ourselves,  possible  only  for  a  few  lead- 
ing financiers. 

The  business  of  'saving  face,'  which 
often  strikes  foreigners  in  China  as 
ludicrous,  is  only  the  carrying  out  of 
respect  for  personal  dignity  in  the 
sphere  of  social  manners.  Everybody 
has  'face,'  even  the  humblest  beggar; 
there  are  humiliations  that  you  must 
not  inflict  upon  him,  if  you  are  not  to 
outrage  the  Chinese  ethical  code.  If 
you  speak  to  a  Chinaman  in  a  way 
that  transgresses  the  code,  he  will  laugh, 
because  your  words  must  be  taken  as 
spoken  in  jest  if  they  are  not  to  consti- 
tute an  offense. 

Once  I  thought  that  the  students  to 
whom  I  was  lecturing  were  not  as  in- 
dustrious as  they  might  be,  and  I  told 
them  so  in  just  the  same  words  that  I 
should  have  used  to  English  students  in 
the  same  circumstances.  But  I  soon 
found  I  was  making  a  mistake.  They 
all  laughed  uneasily,  which  surprised 
me  until  I  saw  the  reason.  Chinese  life, 
even  among  the  most  modernized,  is 


774 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE  CHINESE  CHARACTER 


far  more  polite  than  anything  to  which 
we  are  accustomed.  This,  of  course,  in- 
terferes with  efficiency,  and  also  (what 
is  more  serious)  with  sincerity  and 
truth  in  personal  relations.  If  I  were 
Chinese,  I  should  wish  to  see  it  mitiga- 
ted. But  to  those  who  suffer  from  the 
brutalities  of  the  West,  Chinese  urbani- 
ty is  very  restful.  Whether  on  the  bal- 
ance it  is  better  or  worse  than  our 
frankness,  I  shall  not  venture  to  decide. 

.  The  Chinese  remind  one  of  the  Eng- 
lish in  their  love  of  compromise  and  in 
their  habit  of  bowing  to  public  opin- 
ion. Seldom  is  a  conflict  pushed  to 
its  ultimate  brutal  issue.  The  treat- 
ment of  the  Manchu  Emperor  may  be 
taken  as  a  case  in  point.  When  a  West- 
ern country  becomes  a  republic,  it  is 
customary  to  cut  off  the  head  of  the 
deposed  monarch,  or  at  least  to  cause 
him  to  flee  the  country.  But  the  Chinese 
have  left  the  Emperor  his  title,  his 
beautiful  palace,  his  troops  of  eunuchs, 
and  an  income  of  several  million  dol- 
lars a  year.  He  is  a  boy  of  fourteen, 
living  peaceably  in  the  Forbidden  City. 
Once,  in  the  course  of  a  civil  war,  he 
was  nominally  restored  to  power  for  a 
few  weeks;  but  he  was  deposed  again, 
without  being  in  any  way  punished  for 
the  use  to  which  he  had  been  put. 

Public  opinion  is  a  very  real  force  in 
China,  when  it  can  be  roused.  It  was, 
by  all  accounts,  mainly  responsible  for 
the  downfall  of  the  An  Fu  party  in  the 
summer  of  1920.  This  party  was  pro- 
Japanese,  and  was  accepting  loans  from 
Japan.  Hatred  of  Japan  is  the  strong- 
est and  most  widespread  of  political 
passions  in  China,  and  it  was  stirred  up 
by  the  students  in  fiery  orations.  The 
An  Fu  party  had,  at  first,  a  great  pre- 
ponderance of  military  strength;  but 
their  soldiers  walked  away  when  they 
came  to  understand  the  cause  for  which 
they  were  expected  to  fight.  In  the 
end,  the  opponents  of  the  An  Fu  party 
were  able  to  enter  Peking  and  change 


the  government  almost  without  firing  a 
shot. 

The  same  influence  of  public  opinion 
was  decisive  in  the  teachers'  strike, 
which  was  on  the  point  of  being  settled 
when  I  left  Peking.  The  Government, 
which  is  always  impecunious,  owing  to 
corruption,  had  left  its  teachers  unpaid 
for  many  months.  At  last,  they  struck 
to  enforce  payment,  and  went  on  a 
peaceful  deputation  to  the  Govern- 
ment, accompanied  by  many  students. 
There  was  a  clash  with  the  soldiers  and 
police,  and  many  teachers  and  students 
were  more  or  less  severely  wounded. 
This  led  to  a  terrific  outcry,  because  the 
love  of  education  in  China  is  profound 
and  widespread.  The  newspapers 
clamored  for  revolution.  The  Govern- 
ment had  just  spent  nine  million  dol- 
lars in  corrupt  payments  to  three 
teachers  who  had  descended  upon  the 
capital  to  extort  blackmail.  It  could 
not  find  any  colorable  pretext  for  re- 
fusing the  few  hundred  thousands  re- 
quired by  the  teachers,  and  it  capitula- 
ted in  panic.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any 
Anglo-Saxon  country  where  the  inter- 
ests of  teachers  would  have  roused  the 
same  degree  of  public  feeling. 

Nothing  astonishes  a  European  more 
in  the  Chinese  than  their  patience. 
The  educated  Chinese  are  well  aware 
of  the  foreign  menace.  They  realize 
acutely  what  the  Japanese  have  done 
in  Manchuria  and  Shantung.  They  are 
aware  that  the  English  in  Hong  Kong 
are  doing  their  utmost  to  bring  to 
naught  the  Canton  attempt  to  intro- 
duce good  government  in  the  South. 
They  know  that  all  the  great  powers, 
without  exception,  look  with  greedy 
eyes  upon  the  undeveloped  resources 
of  their  country,  especially  its  coal  and 
iron.  They  have  before  them  the  ex- 
ample of  Japan,  which,  by  developing  a 
brutal  militarism,  a  cast-iron  discipline, 
and  a  new  reactionary  religion,  has 
succeeded  in  holding  at  bay  the  brutal 


775 


lusts  of  'civilized'  industrialists.  Yet 
they  neither  copy  Japan  nor  submit 
tamely  to  foreign  domination.  They 
think,  not  in  decades,  but  in  centuries. 
They  have  been  conquered  before,  first 
by  the  Tartars  and  then  by  the  Man- 
chus.  But  in  both  cases  they  absorbed 
their  conquerors.  Chinese  civilization 
persisted,  unchanged;  and  after  a  few 
generations  the  invaders  became  more 
Chinese  than  their  subjects. 

Manchuria  is  a  rather  empty  country, 
with  abundant  room  for  colonization. 
The  Japanese  assert  that  they  need 
colonies  for  their  surplus  population, 
yet  the  Chinese  immigrants  into  Man- 
churia exceed  the  Japanese  a  hundred- 
fold. Whatever  may  be  the  temporary 
political  status  of  Manchuria,  it  will 
remain  a  part  of  Chinese  civilization, 
and  can  be  recovered  whenever  Japan 
happens  to  be  ,in  difficulties.  The 
Chinese  derive  such  strength  from  their 
four  hundred  millions,  the  toughness  of 
their  national  customs,  their  power  of 
passive  resistance,  and  their  unrivaled 
national  cohesiveness,  —  in  spite  of 
the  civil  wars,  which  merely  ruffle  the 
surface,  —  that  they  can  afford  to  de- 
spise military  methods,  and  to  wait  till 
the  feverish  energy  of  their  oppressors 
shall  have  exhausted  itself  in  interne- 
cine combats. 

China  is  much  less  a  political  entity 
than  a  civilization  —  the  only  one  that 
has  survived  from  ancient  times.  Since 
the  days  of  Confucius,  the  Egyptian, 
Babylonian,  Persian,  Macedonian,  and 
Roman  empires  have  perished;  but  Chi- 
na has  persisted  through  a  continuous 
evolution.  There  have  been  foreign  in- 
fluences —  first  Buddhism,  and  now 
Western  science.  But  Buddhism  did 
not  turn  the  Chinese  into  Indians,  and 
Western  science  will  not  turn  them  into 
Europeans.  I  have  met  men  in  China 
who  knew  as  much  of  Western  learning 
as  any  professor  among  ourselves;  yet 
they  had  not  been  thrown  off  their 


balance,  or  lost  touch  with  their  own 
people.  What  is  bad  hi  the  West  —  its 
brutality,  its  restlessness,  its  readiness 
to  oppress  the  weak,  its  preoccupation 
with  purely  material  aims  —  they  see 
to  be  bad,  and  do  not  wish  to  adopt. 
What  is  good,  especially  its  science, 
they  do  wish  to  adopt. 

The  old  indigenous  culture  of  China 
has  become  rather  dead;  its  art  and 
literature  are  not  what  they  were,  and 
Confucius  does  not  satisfy  the  spiritual 
needs  of  a  modern  man,  even  if  he  is 
Chinese.  The  Chinese  who  have  had  a 
European  or  American  education  real- 
ize that  a  new  element  is  needed  to 
vitalize  native  traditions,  and  they 
look  to  our  civilization  to  supply  it. 
But  they  do  not  wish  to  construct  a 
civilization  just  like  ours;  and  it  is  pre- 
cisely in  this  that  the  best  hope  lies.  If 
they  are  not  goaded  into  militarism, 
they  may  produce  a  genuinely  new 
civilization,  better  than  any  that  we  in 
the  West  have  been  able  to  create. 

m 

So  far,  I  have  spoken  chiefly  of  the 
good  sides  of  the  Chinese  character; 
but,  of  course,  China,  like  every  other 
nation,  has  its  bad  sides  also.  It  is  dis- 
agreeable to  me  to  speak  of  these,  as 
I  experienced  so  much  courtesy  and 
real  kindness  from  the  Chinese,  that  I 
should  prefer  to  say  only  nice  things 
about  them.  But  for  the  sake  of  China, 
as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  truth,  it  would 
be  a  mistake  to  conceal  what  is  less  ad- 
mirable. I  will  only  ask  the  reader  to 
remember  that,  in  the  balance,  I  think 
the  Chinese  one  of  the  best  nations  I 
have  come  across,  and  am  prepared  to 
draw  up  a  graver  indictment  against 
every  one  of  the  great  powers. 

Shortly  before  I  left  China,  an  emi- 
nent Chinese  writer  pressed  me  to  say 
what  I  considered  the  chief  defects  of 
the  Chinese.  With  some  reluctance,  I 


776 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE  CHINESE  CHARACTER 


mentioned  three:  avarice,  cowardice, 
and  callousness.  Strange  to  say,  my 
interlocutor,  instead  of  getting  angry, 
admitted  the  justice  of  my  criticism, 
and  proceeded  to  discuss  possible  reme- 
dies. This  is  a  sample  of  the  intellectual 
integrity  which  is  one  of  China's  great- 
est virtues. 

The  callousness  of  the  Chinese  is 
bound  to  strike  every  Anglo-Saxon. 
They  have  none  of  that  humanitarian 
impulse  which  leads  us  to  devote  one 
per  cent  of  our  energy  to  mitigating  the 
evils  wrought  by  the  other  ninety-nine 
per  cent.  For  instance,  we  have  been 
forbidding  the  Austrians  to  join  with 
Germany,  to  emigrate,  or  to  obtain  the 
raw  materials  of  industry.  Therefore 
the  Viennese  have  starved,  except  those 
whom  it  has  pleased  us  to  keep  alive, 
from  philanthropy.  The  Chinese  would 
not  have  had  the  energy  to  starve  the 
Viennese,  or  the  philanthropy  to  keep 
some  of  them  alive.  While  I  was  in 
China,  millions  were  dying  of  famine; 
men  sold  their  children  into  slavery  for 
a  few  dollars,  and  killed  them  if  this 
sum  was  unobtainable.  Much  was  done 
by  white  men  to  relieve  the  famine,  but 
very  little  by  the  Chinese,  and  that 
little  vitiated  by  corruption.  It  must 
be  said,  however,  that  the  efforts  of  the 
white  men  were  more  effective  in  sooth- 
ing their  own  consciences  than  in  helping 
the  Chinese.  So  long  as  the  present 
birth-rate  and  the  present  methods  of 
agriculture  persist,  famines  are  bound 
to  occur  periodically;  and  those  whom 
philanthropy  keeps  alive  through  one 
famine  are  only  too  likely  to  perish  in 
the  next. 

Famines  in  China  can  be  permanent- 
ly cured  only  by  better  methods  of  ag- 
riculture combined  with  emigration  or 
birth-control  on  a  large  scale.  Educa- 
ted Chinese  realize  this,  and  it  makes 
them  indifferent  to  efforts  to  keep  the 
present  victims  alive.  A  great  deal  of 
Chinese  callousness  has  a  similar  ex- 


planation, and  is  due  to  perception  of 
the  vastness  of  the  problems  involved. 
But  there  remains  a  residue  which  can- 
not be  so  explained.  If  a  dog  is  run  over 
by  an  automobile  and  seriously  hurt, 
nine  out  of  ten  passers-by  will  stop  to 
laugh  at  the  poor  brute's  howls.  The 
spectacle  of  suffering  does  not  of  itself 
rouse  any  sympathetic  pain  in  the  aver- 
age Chinaman;  in  fact,  he  seems  to  find 
it  mildly  agreeable.  Their  history,  and 
their  penal  code  before  the  revolution 
of  1911,  show  that  they  are  by  no  means 
destitute  of  the  impulse  of  active  cru- 
elty; but  of  this  I  did  not  myself  come 
across  any  instances.  And  it  must  be 
said  that  active  cruelty  is  practised  by 
all  the  great  nations,  to  an  extent  con- 
cealed from  us  only  by  our  hypocrisy. 

Cowardice  is  prima  facie  a  fault  of  the 
Chinese;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  they 
are  really  lacking  in  courage.  It  is  true 
that,  in  battles  between  rival  tuchuns, 
both  sides  run  away,  and  victory  rests 
with  the  side  that  first  discovers  the  flight 
of  the  other.  But  this  proves  only  that 
the  Chinese  soldier  is  a  rational  man. 
No  cause  of  any  importance  is  involved, 
and  the  armies  consist  of  mere  merce- 
naries. When  there  is  a  serious  issue, 
as,  for  instance,  in  the  Tai-Ping  rebel- 
lion, the  Chinese  are  said  to  fight  well, 
particularly  if  they  have  good  officers. 
Nevertheless,  I  do  not  think  that,  in 
comparison  with  the  Anglo-Saxons,  the 
French,  or  the  Germans,  the  Chinese 
can  be  considered  a  courageous  people, 
except  in  the  matter  of  passive  endur- 
ance. They  will  endure  torture,  and 
even  death,  for  motives  which  men  of 
more  pugnacious  races  would  find  in- 
sufficient —  for  example,  to  conceal  the 
hiding-place  of  stolen  plunder.  In  spite 
of  their  comparative  lack  of  active  cour- 
age, they  have  less  fear  of  death  than 
we  have,  as  is  shown  by  their  readiness 
to  commit  suicide. 

Avarice  is,  I  should  say,  the  gravest 
defect  of  the  Chinese.  Life  is  hard,  and 


SOME  TRAITS  IN  THE  CHINESE  CHARACTER 


777 


money  is  not  easily  obtained.  For  the 
sake  of  money,  all  except  a  very  few 
foreign-educated  Chinese  will  be  guilty 
of  corruption.  For  the  sake  of  a  few 
pence,  almost  any  coolie  will  run  an 
imminent  risk  of  death.  The  difficulty 
of  combating  Japan  has  arisen  mainly 
from  the  fact  that  hardly  any  Chinese 
politician  can  resist  Japanese  bribes. 
I  think  this  defect  is  probably  due  to 
the  fact  that,  for  many  ages,  an  honest 
living  has  been  hard  to  get;  in  which 
case  it  will  be  lessened  as  economic  con- 
ditions improve.  I  doubt  if  it  is  any 
worse  now  in  China  than  it  was  in  Eu- 
rope in  the  eighteenth  century.  I  have 
not  heard  of  any  Chinese  general  more 
corrupt  than  Marlborough,  or  of  any 
politician  more  corrupt  than  Cardinal 
Dubois.  It  is,  therefore,  quite  likely 
that  changed  industrial  conditions  will 
make  the  Chinese  as  honest  as  we  are 
—  which  is  not  saying  much. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  the  Chinese 
as  they  are  in  ordinary  life,  when  they 
appear  as  men  of  active  and  skeptical 
intelligence,  but  of  somewhat  sluggish 
passions.  There  is,  however,  another 
side  to  them:  they  are  capable  of  wild 
excitement,  often  of  a  collective  kind. 
I  saw  little  of  this,  myself,  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact.  The  Box- 
er rising  was  a  case  in  point,  and  one 
which  particularly  affected  Europeans. 
But  their  history  is  full  of  more  or  less 
analogous  disturbances.  It  is  this  ele- 
ment in  their  character  that  makes 
them  incalculable,  and  makes  it  im- 
possible even  to  guess  at  their  future. 
One  can  imagine  a  section  of  them  be- 
coming fanatically  Bolshevist,  or  anti- 
Japanese,  or  Christian,  or  devoted  to 


some  leader  who  would  ultimately  de- 
clare himself  Emperor.  I  suppose  it  is 
this  element  in  their  character  that 
makes  them,  in  spite  of  their  habitual 
caution,  the  most  reckless  gamblers  in 
the  world.  And  many  emperors  have 
lost  their  thrones  through  the  force  of 
romantic  love,  although  romantic  love 
is  far  more  despised  than  it  is  in  the 
West. 

To  sum  up  the  Chinese  character 
is  not  easy.  Much  of  what  strikes  the 
foreigner  is  due  merely  to  the  fact  that 
they  have  preserved  an  ancient  civili- 
zation which  is  not  industrial.  All  this 
is  likely  to  pass  away,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  Japanese,  European,  and  Amer- 
ican financiers.  Their  art  is  already 
perishing,  and  being  replaced  by  crude 
imitations  of  second-rate  European  pic- 
tures. Most  of  the  Chinese  who  have 
had  a  European  education  are  quite  in- 
capable of  seeing  any  beauty  in  native 
painting,  and  merely  observe  contempt- 
uously that  it  does  not  obey  the  laws  of 
perspective. 

The  obvious  charm  which  the  tour- 
ist finds  in  China  cannot  be  preserved; 
it  must  perish  at  the  touch  of  indus- 
trialism. But  perhaps  something  may 
be  preserved,  something  of  the  ethical 
qualities  in  which  China  is  supreme, 
and  which  the  modern  world  most  des- 
perately needs.  Among  these  qualities 
I  place  first  the  pacific  temper,  which 
seeks  to  settle  disputes  on  grounds  of 
justice  rather  than  by  force.  It  remains 
to  be  seen  whether  the  West  will  allow 
this  temper  to  persist,  or  will  force  it  to 
give  place,  in  self-defense,  to  a  frantic 
militarism  like  that  to  which  Japan  has 
been  driven. 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


BY  ELLEN  TERRY 


SOME  years  ago,  when  I  was  asked  to 
lecture  on  Shakespeare's  heroines  in  the 
light  of  the  knowledge  which  I  had 
gained  of  their  character  through  im- 
personating them  on  the  stage,  I  won- 
dered if  it  were  possible  to  find  any- 
thing to  say  that  had  not  been  said 
before.  '  If  nothing  is,  that  has  not  been 
before,  how  are  our  brains  beguiled!' 
However,  I  found  out,  when  I  applied 
myself  to  the  task,  that  even  Shake- 
speare, about  whom  hundreds  of  books 
have  been  written,  has  a  little  of  the 
unknown.  For  years  it  was  my  trade 
to  find  out,  not  what  he  had  been  to 
others,  but  what  he  was  to  me,  and  to 
make  that  visible  in  my  acting.  It  was 
easier  to  describe  what  I  saw  through 
my  own  medium,  than  through  one  for 
which  I  have  had  no  training;  but  I  am 
glad  that  I  tried,  because  it  meant  more 
study  of  the  plays,  and  so,  more  delight- 
ful experiences. 

In  the  course  of  this  study  for  my 
lectures  on  the  women  in  Shakespeare, 
I  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  letters 
in  his  plays  have  never  had  their  due. 
Little  volumes  of  the  songs  have  been 
published;  jewels  of  wit  and  wisdom 
have  been  taken  out  of  their  setting  and 
reset  in  birthday  books,  calendars,  and 
the  rest;  but,  so  far  as  I  know,  there  is 
no  separate  collection  of  the  letters. 
I  found,  when  I  read  them  aloud,  that 
they  were  wonderful  letters,  and  worth 
talking  about  on  their  merits.  'I 
should  like  to  talk  about  them  as  well  as 
the  heroines,'  I  said.  'But  there  are  so 
few,'  the  friend,  to  whom  I  suggested 
them  as  a  subject  for  a  causerie,  ob- 

778 


jected.  'I  can't  remember  any  myself 
beyond  those  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
and  As  You  Like  It."  ' That 's  splendid ! ' 
I  thought.  'If  you,  who  are  not  at  all 
ignorant,  can't  do  better  than  that, 
there  must  be  hundreds  to  whom  it  will 
be  a  surprise  to  learn  that  there  are 
thirty  letters,  and  all  good  ones!' 

There  is  all  the  more  reason  for  giv- 
ing them  our  attention  because  they 
are  the  only  letters  written  by  Shake- 
speare that  have  survived.  I  doubt 
whether,  as  a  man,  he  was  a  good  cor- 
respondent. He  crowded  his  great 
life's  work,  which  has  made  England 
more  honored  throughout  the  world 
than  the  achievements  of  her  great 
soldiers,  sailors,  and  statesmen,  into  a 
score  of  years.  He  did  not  begin  his 
career  as  a  youthful  prodigy,  and  he 
died  when  he  was  fifty-two.  What  with 
adapting  plays,  creating  them,  re- 
touching them  at  rehearsal,  writing 
sonnets,  acting,  managing  companies 
of  actors,  and  having  a  good  time  with 
his  friends,  he  could  not  have  had  much 
leisure  for  pouring  out  his  soul  in  let- 
ters. The  man  who  does  that  is,  as  a 
rule,  an  idle  man,  and  Shakespeare,  I 
feel  sure,  was  always  busy. 

People  often  say  we  have  no  author- 
ity for  talking  about  Shakespeare  as 
a  man  at  all.  What  do  we  know  for 
certain  about  his  life?  But  I  quite 
agree  with  Georg  Brandes  (my  favorite 
Shakespearean  scholar)  that,  given  the 
possession  of  forty-five  important  works 
by  any  man,  it  is  entirely  our  own  fault 
if  we  know  nothing  about  him.  But 
perhaps  these  works  are  not  by  Shake- 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


779 


speare,  but  by  £  syndicate,  or  by  some 
fellow  who  took  his  name!  Why  should 
we  pursue  these  tiresome  theories?  I 
wish  we  had  juut  one  authentic  letter 
of  Shakespeare's  to  put  a  stop  to  it. 
Otherwise,  I  should  be  glad  that  he  left 
none  behind  for  posterity  to  thumb.  I 
don't  like  reading  the  private  letters 
of  a  great  man.  Print  is  so  merciless. 
Many  things  pass  in  hand-writing, 
which  print  'shows  up.'  Print  is  so  im- 
pertinent —  flinging  open  the  door  of  a 
little  room,  where,  perhaps,  two  lovers 
are  communing,  and  saying  to  the  pub- 
lic, 'Have  a  look  at  them  —  these  great 
people  in  love!  You  see  they  are  just  as 
silly  as  little  people.'  The  Browning 
letters  —  ought  they  ever  to  have  been 
published?  The  Sonnets  from  the  Portu^ 
guese  gave  us  the  picture  of  a  great  love. 
The  letters  were  like  an  anatomical  dis- 
section of  it. 

Now  these  letters  in  Shakespeare's 
plays  were  meant  for  the  public  ear  — 
invented  to  please  it;  so  we  can  examine 
them  with  a  clear  conscience.  Yet  they 
are  true  to  life.  We  can  learn  from  them 
how  the  man  of  action  writes  a  letter, 
and  how  the  poet  writes  a  letter.  We 
can  learn  that,  when  people  are  hi  love, 
they  all  use  the  same  language.  Whether 
they  are  stupid  or  clever,  they  employ 
the  same  phrases.  'I  love  you,'  writes 
the  man  of  genius  —  and  '  I  love  you,' 
writes  the  fool.  Hamlet  begins  his  let- 
ter to  Ophelia  in  the  conventional 
rhymes  which  were  fashionable  with 
Elizabethan  gallants:  — 

'To  the  celestial  and  my  soul's  idol, 
the  most  beautified  Ophelia '  —  'In  her 
excellent  white  bosom,  these,'  and  so  on. 

'  Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire, 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move, 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar, 
But  never  doubt  I  love.' 

So  far  he  writes  hi  his  character  of 
'  the  glass  of  fashion.'  But  he  does  not 
like  the  artificial  style  and  soon  aban- 
dons it  for  simple,  earnest  prose:  — 


0  DEAR  OPHELIA,  I  am  ill  at  these  num- 
bers.   I  have  not  art  to  reckon  my  groans; 
but  that  I  love  thee  best,  O  most  best,  be- 
lieve it.    Adieu. 

Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady, 
Whilst  this  machine  is  to  him, 
HAMLET. 

Is  this  a  sincere  love-letter?  Was 
Hamlet  ever  in  love  with  Ophelia?  I 
think  he  was,  and  found  it  hard  to  put 
her  out  of  his  life.  At  the  very  moment 
when  the  revelation  of  his  mother's  in- 
fidelity had  made  him  cynical  about 
woman's  virtue,  this  girl  acts  in  a  way 
that  fills  him  with  suspicion.  She  hands 
his  letters  to  her  father,  allows  herself 
to  be  made  a  tool.  His  conclusion  is: 
'You  are  like  my  mother;  you  could  act 
as  she  did.'  But  he  loved  her  all  the  same. 

1  loved  Ophelia.    Forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love. 
Make  up  my  sum. 

Proteus,  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  is  one  of  those  professional 
lovers  who  are  never  hi  love  and  never 
out  of  it.  I  can  imagine  him  reeling 
off  love-letters  with  consummate  ease, 
not  caring  much  to  whom  they  were 
addressed  so  long  as  they  contained 
enough  beautiful  epithets  to  satisfy 
him!  Of  his  letter  to  Julia  we  hear  only 
fragments:  'Kind  Julia';  'love-wound- 
ed Proteus';  'poor  forlorn  Proteus'; 
'  passionate  Proteus '  —  more  of  Pro- 
teus than  of  Julia,  you  see!  —  for  Julia, 
like  many  another  woman,  has,  for  the 
sake  of  her  self-respect,  torn  up  the  let- 
ter that  she  is  burning  to  read!  She 
pieces  the  torn  bits  together,  but  these 
incoherent  exclamations  are  all  that  her 
pride  has  left  legible.  Proteus's  letter 
to  Silvia  we  hear  complete.  It  is  in  the 
fashionable  rhyme,  affected,  insincere, 
but  quite  pretty. 

My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly, 
And  slaves  they  are  to  me  that  send  them  fly- 
ing: 

O,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 
Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are 
lying! 


780 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them, 
While  I,  their  King,  that  hither  them  impor- 
tune, 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath 

blessed  them, 

Because  my  sen*  do  want  my  servants'  fortune. 
I  curse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  would 
be. 

Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 

How  this  letter-writer  enjoyed  play- 
ing with  words!  And  how  different  this 
skill  at  pat-ball  from  the  profound  feel- 
ing in  the  letter  from  Antonio  to  Bas- 
sanio  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice!  Hear 
how  a  man,  deeply  moved,  writes  to  the 
friend  he  loves. 

SWEET  BASSANIO,  —  My  ships  have  all 
miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my 
estate  is  very  low,  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is 
forfeit,  and  since  in  paying  it,  it  is  impossi- 
ble I  should  live,  all  debts  are  cleared  be- 
tween you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see  you 
at  my  death.  Notwithstanding,  use  your 
pleasure.  If  your  love  do  not  persuade  you 
to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 

To  my  mind,  in  this  letter  human 
love  at  its  greatest  finds  expression. 
This  love  has  all  the  tenderness  of  a 
woman's  love:  'Sweet  Bassanio!'  the 
trustfulness  of  a  child's  '  I  have  only  to 
tell  him  and  he  will  help  me';  the  gener- 
osity and  manliness  of  a  true  friend's 
'Don't  feel  that  you  owe  me  anything. 
It's  all  right,  but  I  would  like  to  see 
you  and  grasp  your  hand';  the  unself- 
ishness with  which  wives  and  mothers 
love:  'You  must  n't  think  of  coming 
all  the  same,  if  it  puts  you  out.'  Of  all 
the  letters  in  the  plays,  this  one  of 
Antonio's  is  my  favorite. 

Our  manner  of  expression  is  deter- 
mined by  the  age  in  which  we  live,  but 
hi  this  letter  it  is  the  thing  expressed 
that  seems  to  have  changed.  It  is  im- 
possible to  study  Shakespeare's  plays 
closely  without  noticing  that  to  him 
friendship  was  perhaps  the  most  sacred 
of  all  human  relations.  Valentine  offers 
to  sacrifice  Silvia  to  Proteus.  Bassanio 


says  that  his  wife  matters  less  to  him 
than  the  life  of  his  friend.  To  an  Eliza- 
bethan audience  this  exaltation  of 
friendship  did  not  seen  strange.  Two 
of  Shakespeare's  comrades,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  lived  together  'on  the 
Bankside,  not  far  from  the  playhouse,' 
and  had  the  same  'clothes  and  cloak 
between  them';  and  there  were  many 
such  all-sufficing  friendships.  That  at- 
tractive old  sinner,  John  Falstaff,  was 
cut  to  the  heart  when  his  friend  Prince 
Hal  publicly  denounced  him.  His  affec- 
tion for  young  Harry  is  a  lovable  trait 
in  his  character;  and  who  does  not  feel 
sorry  for  him,  worthless  old  waster  as 
he  is,  when  the  Prince  answers  his, 
'God  save  thee  my  sweet  boy,'  with  'I 
know  thee  not,  old  man;  fall  to  thy 
prayers'?  But  when  Falstaff  wrote  the 
following  letter,  Harry  was  still  unre- 
formed  and  friendly:  — 

Sir  John  Falstaff,  knight,  to  the  son  of 
the  King  nearest  his  father,  HABRY  PRINCE 
OF  WALES,  greeting :  — 

I  will  imitate  the  honourable  Romans  in 
brevity.  I  commend  me  to  thee,  I  commend 
thee,  and  I  leave  thee.  Be  not  too  familiar 
with  Poins;  for  he  misuses  thy  favours  so 
much,  that  he  swears  thou  art  to  marry  his 
sister  Nell.  Repent  at  idle  times  as  thou 
mayest;  and  so,  farewell. 

Thine  by  yea  and  no,  which  is  as  much  as 
to  say,  as  thou  usest  him,  JACK  FALSTAFF 
with  my  familiars,  JOHN  with  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  SIR  JOHN  with  all  Europe. 

When  we  meet  Sir  John  again  in  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  —  in  which 
play  Shakespeare  had  to  bring  him  out 
of  his  grave,  'by  request,'  because  he 
was  so  popular  in  the  theatre  that  audi- 
ences wanted  to  see  him  in  another  play, 
—  his  wit  is  not  quite  so  bright,  but  his 
epistolary  style  is  much  the  same.  You 
may  remember  that  he  writes  two  love- 
letters,  word  for  word  the  same,  to  two 
women  living  in  the  same  town,  who, 
as  he  must  have  known,  met  often 
and  exchanged  confidences.  This  alone 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


781 


shows  that  the  Falstaff  of  the  Merry 
Wives  is  not  quite  the  man  he  was  in 
Henry  IV —  does  not  carry  his  sack  as 
•  well,  perhaps! 

Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you;  for 
though  Love  use  Reason  for  his  physician,  he 
admits  him  not  for  his  counsellor.  You  are 
not  young,  no  more  am  I;  go  to  then, 
there's  sympathy.  You  are  merry,  so  am  I; 
ha,  ha!  then  there's  more  sympathy.  You 
love  sack,  and  so  do  I;  would  you  desire  bet- 
ter sympathy?  Let  it  suffice  thee,  Mistress 
Page,  —  at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  a  soldier 
can  suffice,  —  that  I  love  thee.  I  will  not 
say,  pity  me;  't  is  not  a  soldier-like  phrase; 
but  I  say,  love  me.  By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 
By  day  or  night, 
Or  any  kind  of  light, 
With  all  his  might 
For  thee  to  fight, 

JOHN  FAI^TAFF. 

This  letter  may  not  be  very  funny 
hi  print;  but  when  it  is  read  aloud  on 
the  stage,  it  provokes  much  laughter. 
Sometimes  one  thinks  that  a  joke  is  the 
thing  most  affected  by  the  time-spirit. 
Remove  it  from  its  place  in  tune,  and 
it  ceases  to  exist  as  a  joke.  Our  sense 
of  what  is  tragic  remains  the  same 
through  the  centuries;  but  our  sense  of 
humor  —  that  changes.  It  is  hard  to 
believe  that  some  Elizabethan  come- 
dies were  ever  amusing.  In  nothing 
does  Shakespeare  show  himself  'above 
the  law'  more  clearly  than  in  his  fun. 
It  is  not  always  'nice,'  but  it  is  mirth- 
provoking,  that  is,  if  it  is  not  treated 
academically.  If  a  modern  audience 
does  not  laugh  at  Shakespeare's  jokes, 
blame  the  actors!  The  letter  that 
Maria,  hi  Twelfth  Night,  palms  off  on 
Malvolio  as  Olivia's  has  all  the  materi- 
al for  making  us  laugh;  but  I  have  seen 
Malvolios  who  so  handled  the  material 
as  to  justify  the  opinion  that  Shake- 
speare's comedy  is  no  longer  comic. 
Here  again  it  is  the  situation  that  makes 
the  letter  good  fun  on  the  stage.  It  be- 
gins in  verse  of  rather  poor  quality:  — 


Jove  knows  I  love; 

But  who? 
Lips,  do  not  move; 
No  man  must  know. 
I  may  command  where  I  adore; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore. 

M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life! 

Maria  was  not  much  of  a  poet,  but 
when  she  takes  to  prose,  she  shines. 

If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my 
stars  I  am  above  thee,  but  be  not  afraid  of 
greatness.  Some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust 
upon  'em.  Thy  Fates  open  their  hands,  let 
thy  blood  and  spirit  embrace  them;  and,  to 
mure  thyself  to  what  thou  art  like  to  be, 
cast  thy  humble  slough  and  appear  fresh. 
Be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with 
servants;  let  thy  tongue  tang  arguments  of 
state;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singular- 
ity: she  thus  advises  thee  that  sighs  for 
thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yel- 
low stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever 
cross -gartered.  I  say,  remember.  Go  to, 
thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so;  if 
not,  let  me  see  thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow 
of  servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch  For- 
tune's fingers.  Farewell.  She  that  would 
alter  services  with  thee, 

THE  FORTUNATE  UNHAPPY. 

Then  follows  the  postscript;  and 
Maria  had  reserved  her  great  coup 
for  the  postscript  (the  only  one,  by 
the  way,  that  is  written  in  full  hi  the 
plays):  — 

If  thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear 
hi  thy  smiling.  Thy  smiles  become  thee 
well;  therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile, 
dear  my  sweet,  I  prithee! 

Shakespeare  was  no  Puritan.  He 
probably  enjoyed  bear-baiting,  and 
yet,  unlike  many  of  his  contemporaries, 
felt  sorry  for  the  bear.  So  after  writing 
this  scene,  in  which  Malvolio  is  baited, 
and  deluded,  and  made  to  look  a  fool, 
he  is  able  to  write  another  in  which  our 
sympathies  are  roused  with  the  victim 
of  Maria's  'sport  royal.'  Malvolio 's 
letter  to  Olivia  makes  us  see  that  the 
sport  had  its  cruel  side. 


782 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong  me,  and 
the  world  shall  know  it.  Though  you  have 
put  me  into  darkness  and  given  your  drunk- 
en cousin  rule  over  me,  yet  have  I  the  bene- 
fit of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I 
have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the 
semblance  I  put  on;  with  the  which  I  doubt 
not  but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or  you 
much  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I 
leave  my  duty  a  little  unthought  of  and 
speak  out  of  my  injury. 

THE  MADLY-USED   MALVOLIO. 

Although  written  in  circumstances 
calculated  to  make  the  best  servant  'a 
little  forget  his  duty,'  this  letter  is  full 
of  the  dignity  of  service,  and  a  just  re- 
buke to  those  who  hold  their  'inferiors' 
up  to  ridicule. 

From  a  letter  from  a  steward  in  a 
gold  chain,  preserving  his  dignity  in  an 
undignified  position,  I  turn  to  one  from 
a  groom.  A  plain  fellow  this.  I  see  him 
sitting  down,  laboriously  scratching  out 
a  few  illegible  sentences.  But  they  are 
straight  to  the  point,  and  they  have 
their  dramatic  value  in  adding  a  touch 
to  the  portrait  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  in 
Henry  VIII. 

MY  LORD,  —  The  horses  your  lordship 
sent  for,  with  all  the  care  I  had,  I  saw  well 
chosen,  ridden,  and  furnished.  They  were 
young  and  handsome,  and  of  the  best  breed 
in  the  north.  When  they  were  ready  to  set 
out  for  London,  a  man  of  my  Lord  Car- 
dinal's, by  commission  and  main  power, 
took  'em  from  me,  with  this  reason:  His 
master  would  be  served  before  a  subject,  if 
not  before  the  King;  which,  stopped  our 
mouths,  sir. 

There  is  a  tedious,  pedantic  letter  in 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  which  may  have 
amused  Shakespeare's  contemporaries 
because  it  satirizes  the  affectations  of 
their  day.  Armado's  style  in  this  letter 
is  only  a  slight  exaggeration  of  that  in 
which  people  wrote  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
They  used  six  long  words  when  one 
short  one  would  have  conveyed  their 
meaning,  and  racked  their  brains  for 


pretentious  and  extravagant  compli- 
ments. I  used  to  read  this  letter  in  one 
of  my  lectures,  and  oh,  what  a  job  it 
was  to  get  any  fun  out  of  it!  Here  is  a 
sample  of  its  humor:  — 

The  magnanimous  and  most  illustrate 
king  Cophetua  set  eye  upon  the  pernicious 
and  indubitate  beggar,  Zenelophon;  and  he 
it  was  that  might  rightly  say,  Veni,  vidi, 
vid;  which  to  annothanize  in  the  vulgar,  — 
O  base  and  obscure  vulgar!  —  videlicet, 
He  came,  saw,  and  overcame:  he  came,  one; 
saw,  two;  overcame,  three.  Who  came? 
The  king.  Why  did  he  come?  To  see.  Why 
did  he  see?  To  overcome.  To  whom  came 
he?  To  the  beggar.  What  saw  he?  The 
beggar.  Who  overcame  he?  The  beggar. 
The  conclusion  is  victory;  on  whose  side? 
The  king's.  The  captive  is  enriched;  on 
whose  side?  The  beggar's.  The  catastrophe 
is  a  nuptial;  on  whose  side?  The  king's; 
no,  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both. 

And  so  forth. 

But,  of  course,  when  the  audience  has 
seen  the  popinjay  Armado  and  knows 
that  this  high-flown  stuff  is  written 
to  an  illiterate  peasant-girl,  the  letter 
makes  a  different  impression,  especially 
if  Boyet,  who  has  to  read  it,  is  a  good 
actor!  But  if  he  is  a  wise  one,  he  will 
probably  beg  for  the  effusion  to  be 
'cut.' 

'I  say  she  never  did  invent  this  let- 
ter,' exclaims  Rosalind,  after  hearing 
the  rhymed  jingle  that  Phebe  sends  her 
under  the  impression  that  she  is  a  hand- 
some young  man.  This  lets  us  into  a 
little  secret  about  these  rhymed  letters. 
They  could  be  bought  in  many  English 
villages,  from  the  professional  letter- 
writer  of  the  parish.  And  this  was  the 
sort  of  letter  that  he  turned  out:  — 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyrie 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect! 
Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move? 
He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me; 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


783 


And  by  him  seal  up  thy  minds, 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  I  '11  study  how  to  die. 

In  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  we  find 
that  women  of  property  commanded 
the  services  of  their  stewards  when  they 
wanted  a  letter  written.  Bertram's 
mother  in  this  play  instructs  her  stew- 
ard, Rinaldo,  to  write  to  her  son  for 
her:  — 

Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife. 
Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth 
That  he  does  weigh  too  light.  My  greatest  grief. 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 

Rinaldo  evidently  obeyed  this  in- 
struction faithfully,  for  we  hear  later  on 
that  the  letter  'stings  Bertram's  na- 
ture,' and  that  on  the  reading  of  it  'he 
changed  almost  into  another  man.' 
Bertram  ends  his  letter  to  his  mother 
with  'My  duty  to  you.'  He  is  not  on 
good  terms  with  her,  but  he  does  not 
forget  to  be  externally  filial  and  polite. 
An  odious  young  man,  yet  Helena, 
whom  he  treats  so  outrageously,  is 
annoyingly  fond  of  him. 

Thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper. 
But  knows  of  him  no  more. 

My  next  letter-writer,  Leonatus  in 
Cymbeline,  plays  his  wife  a  dirty  trick. 
But  in  all  ages  a  man  whose  jealousy  is 
roused  is  forgiven  much.  Leonatus  is 
devoted  to  Imogen,  yet  he  can  make 
her  chastity  the  subject  of  a  wager  with 
a  man  who  scoffs  at  the  idea  of  any 
woman  being  chaste. 

He  writes  and  asks  her  to  welcome 
this  man  of  whom  he  has  every  reason 
to  think  ill.  He  goes  so  far  as  to  de- 
scribe lachimo  to  her  as  'one  of  the 
noblest  note,  to  whose  kindnesses  I  am 
most  infinitely  tied.  Reflect  upon  him 
accordingly,  as  you  value  your  trust  —  ' 
'So  far  I  read  aloud,'  says  Imogen; 


and  adds  that  the  rest  of  the  letter 
warms  *  the  very  middle  of  my  heart '  — 
a  letter  written  by  a  husband  who  can- 
not believe  in  her  without  proof,  and 
has  sent  a  comparative  stranger  to 
make  an  assault  on  her  virtue! 

It  is  not  surprising  that,  when  lachimo 
returns  with  his  catalogue  of  all  the 
furniture  in  Imogen's  room,  and  a 
careful  description  of  the  mole  on  her 
left  breast,  'cinque-spotted,  like  the 
crimson  drops  i'  the  bottom  of  a  cow- 
slip,' Leonatus  should  'see  red';  but 
there  is  really  no  excuse  for  his  sitting 
down  and  writing  a  base  falsehood  to 
lure  his  wife  to  her  death.  How  differ- 
ently Imogen  behaves  when  lachimo 
traduces  Leonatus  to  her!  She  is  not 
only  indignant;  she  is  reasonable  and 
sensible.  When  he  urges  her  to  be  re- 
venged, she  says  that,  if  it  were  true,  — 
but  she  will  not  let  her  heart  be  abused 
in  haste  by  her  ears,  —  revenge  would 
not  help  her.  And  what  wisdom  there 
is  in  her  reply  to  lachimo:  — 

If  thou  wert  honourable, 

Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st. 

She  sees  through  this  man,  but  na- 
turally does  not  see  through  this  letter 
from  Leonatus. 

Justice,  and  your  father's  wrath,  should 
he  take  me  in  his  dominion,  could  not  be  so 
cruel  to  me,  as  you,  0  the  dearest  of  crea- 
tures, would  even  renew  me  with  your  eyes. 
Take  notice  that  I  am  in  Cambria,  at  Mil- 
ford-Haven;  what  your  own  love  will  out  of 
this  advise  you,  follow.  So  he  wishes  you 
all  happiness,  that  remains  loyal  to  his  vow, 
and  your  increasing  in  love 

LEONATUS  POSTHUMUS. 

I  never  could  read  it  on  the  stage 
without  believing  in  its  sincerity.  A 
woman  would  have  to  be  very  suspi- 
cious to  take  it  as  'a  trap.'  Imogen's 
love  was  so  great  that  she  forgave  the 
man  who  wrote  it  to  make  her  death 
sure.  Did  Shakespeare  himself  hold  the 
opinion  that  a  woman's  love  and  a 


784 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


man's  love  have  no  common  denomina- 
tor? Leonatus  shows  his  love  by  plan- 
ning to  kill  his  wife,  when  he  is  con- 
vinced that  she  is  unfaithful.  When  he 
finds  that  he  has  been  deceived,  he  calls 
himself  'a  credulous  fool,'  and  other 
harsh  names.  But  Imogen  refrains  from 
petty  reproaches.  The  worst  she  says 
is:  — 

Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you? 
Think  that  you  are  upon  a  rock,  and  now 
Throw  me  again. 

To  love  when  all  goes  well  —  that  is 
easy.  To  love  when  the  loved  one  be- 
haves like  Leonatus  —  that  requires  a 
self-abnegation  which  is  apparently 
considered  impossible  except  to  women! 

Macbeth's  letter  to  his  wife  is  inter- 
esting, not  only  because  it  is  one  of 
those  rare  tributes  that  a  man  some- 
times pays  to  the  share  his  wife  has  had 
in  the  making  of  his  career,  but  because 
of  the  light  it  throws  on  the  visionary 
element  in  Macbeth's  character.  The 
goal  of  his  ambition  is  a  material  thing, 
—  an  earthly  crown,  —  but  he  believes 
in  the  supernatural  nature  of  his  'call.' 

They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success;  and  I 
have  learned  by  the  perfectest  report,  they 
have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge. 
When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them 
further,  they  made  themselves  air,  into 
which  they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt 
in  the  wonder  of  it,  came  missives  from  the 
King,  who  all-hailed  me '  Thane  of  Cawdor' ; 
by  which  title,  before,  these  weird  sisters 
saluted  me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming 
on  of  time,  with  'Hail,  King  that  shalt  be!' 
This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver  thee, 
my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou 
mightest  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by 
being  ignorant  of  what  greatness  is  prom- 
ised thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell. 

'My  dearest  partner  of  greatness!' 
Is  not  that  a  wonderful  revelation  of 
the  relationship  between  this  husband 
and  his  wife?  Is  not  the  whole  letter 
a  wonderful  revelation  of  the  man's 
character?  a  man  who  was  driven  by 


dreams  into  a  common  and  cruel  crime- 
We  could  not  have  a  better  example 
than  this  of  Shakespeare's  use  of  the 
letter  in  his  plays.  Dramatists  now 
condemn  them,  with  soliloquies,  as  a 
clumsy  expedient  for  letting  the  audi- 
ence 'know  things.'  But  Shakespeare 
employs  both  letters  and  soliloquies 
with  a  skill  that  strikes  one  more  when 
one  sees  his  plays  in  action  than  when 
one  reads  them.  Bellario's  letter  to  the 
Duke  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  be- 
sides being  a  model  of  what  a  letter 
should  be,  is  a  masterly  preparation  for 
Portia's  entrance  in  the  Court  scene, 
and  an  instruction  as  to  how  the  actress 
ought  to  handle  that  scene.  She  is  not 
to  behave  with  feminine  inconsequence, 
and  provoke  laughter  by  her  ignorance 
of  legal  procedure,  but  to  conduct  her- 
self like  a  trained  advocate.  The  letter 
makes  Portia's  eloquence  and  intelli- 
gence convincing  to  the  audience. 

Your  Grace  shall  understand  that  at  the 
receipt  of  your  letter  I  am  very  sick;  but  in 
the  instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in 
loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young  doc- 
tor of  Rome.  His  name  is  Balthazar.  I  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  cause  in  controversy 
between  the  Jew  and  Antonio  the  merchant. 
We  turned  o'er  many  books  together.  He  is 
furnished  with  my  opinion;  which.,  bettered 
with  his  own  learning,  the  greatness  whereof 
I  cannot  enough  commend,  comes  with  him, 
at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  Grace's 
request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his 
lack  of  years  be  no  impediment  to  let  him 
lack  a  reverend  estimation;  for  I  never 
knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head. 
I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance, 
whose  trial  shall  better  publish  his  com- 
mendation. 

What  a  lot  of  things  there  are  to 
think  over  in  this  letter!  And  what  pic- 
tures it  conjures  up!  No  Italian  painter 
could  make  us  see  more  clearly  the 
learned  Bellario  receiving  his  young 
visitor  and  instructing  her  how  to  con- 
duct her  case.  With  the  instinct  of 
genius,  the  dramatist  absorbed  the 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


785 


spirit  of  the  Renaissance  in  this  play, 
as  in  Julius  Ccesar  he  absorbed  the 
spirit  of  ancient  Rome.  If  Shakespeare 
knew  'small  Latin  and  less  Greek,'  he 
was  able  to  make  this  letter  of  warn- 
ing to  Csesar  typically  Latin  in  its 
conciseness :  — 

Caesar,  beware  of  Brutus;  take  heed  of 
Cassius;  come  not  near  Casca;  have  an  eye 
to  Cinna;  trust  not  Trebonius;  mark  well 
Metellus  Cimber;  Decius  Brutus  loves  thee 
not;  thou  hast  wronged  Caius  Ligarius. 
There  is  but  one  mind  in  all  these  men,  and 
it  is  bent  against  Caesar.  If  thou  beest  not 
immortal,  look  about  you;  security  gives 
way  to  conspiracy.  The  mighty  gods  defend 
thee!  Thy  lover, 

AKTEMODOBUS. 

The  whole  plot  of  the  play,  and  the 
guiding  motive  of  each  character,  can 
be  found  in  these  short  sentences. 

If  we  compare  this  letter  with  the 
long-winded  effusion  from  Armado  to 
the  King  in  Loves  Labour's  Lost  (which 
I  am  not  going  to  quote  here,  because 
it  is  so  terribly  long),  we  get  a  good 
idea  of  the  infinite  variety  of  style  that 
the  dramatist  had  at  his  command,  and 
of  his  insight  into  the  characteristics  of 
different  races  at  different  times.  He 
knew  that  the  Romans  were  masters  of 
brevity.  And  he  knew  that  the  affected 
Elizabethan  courtier  was  a  master  of 
verbosity.  Both  he  can  imitate  to  the 
life. 

In  Henry  IV  Hotspur  reads  a  letter, 
and  this  time  it  is  the  man  who  reads  it, 
not  the  man  who  writes  it,  on  whom 
our  attention  is  concentrated.  You  see 
a  quick-witted,  courageous  fellow,  im- 
patient of  cautious  people  who  see  both 
sides  of  a  question  and  are  afraid  of 
going  too  far.  You  see  the  'extremist,' 
with  all  his  good  points  and  his  bad 
ones. 

He  could  be  contented;  why  is  he  not, 
then?  In  respect  of  the  love  he  bears  our 
house:  he  shows  in  this,  he  loves  his  own 
barn  better  than  he  loves  our  house.  .  .  . 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 

c 


'The  purpose  you  undertake  is  dangerous'; 
—  why  that's  certain.  'T  is  dangerous  to 
take  a  cold,  to  sleep,  to  drink;  but  I  tell  you, 
my  lord  fool,  out  of  this  nettle,  danger,  we 
pluck  this  flower,  safety.  'The  purpose  you 
undertake  is  dangerous;  .  .  .  the  friends 
you  have  named  uncertain;  and  your  whole 
plot  too  light  for  the  counterpoise  of  so 
great  an  opposition.'  Say  you  so,  say  you 
so?  I  say  unto  you  again,  you  are  a  shallow, 
cowardly  hind,  and  you  lie.  What  a  lack- 
brain  is  this!  By  the  Lord,  our  plot  is  a 
good  plot  as  ever  was  laid;  our  friends  true 
and  constant:  a  good  plot,  good  friends,  and 
full  of  expectation;  an  excellent  plot,  very 
good  friends.  What  a  frosty-spirited  rogue 
is  this!  Why,  my  Lord  of  York  commends 
the  plot  and  the  general  course  of  the  action. 
'Zounds,  an  I  were  now  by  this  rascal,  I 
could  brain  him  with  his  lady's  fan. 

There  is  real '  vinegar  and  pepper '  hi 
this  outburst  of  Hotspur's.  Compare 
it  with  the  '  vinegar  and  pepper '  of  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek's  fiery  challenge  to 
Viola  in  Twelfth  Night.  Sir  Andrew  is, 
as  you  know,  a  very  devil  of  a  fellow. 
He  is  quite  sure  that  this  letter  is  bold 
enough  to  strike  terror  into  the  heart 
of  the  most  confident  enemy :  — 

Youth,  whatsoever  thou  art,  thou  art  but 
a  scurvy  fellow.  Wonder  not,  nor  admire 
not  in  thy  mind,  why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I 
will  show  thee  no  reason  for 't.  Thou  com'st 
to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my  sight  she  uses 
thee  kindly.  But  thou  liest  in  thy  throat; 
that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for. 
I  will  waylay  thee  going  home;  where  if  it 
be  thy  chance  to  kill  me,  thou  killest  me 
like  a  rogue  and  a  villain.  Fare  thee  well, 
and  God  have  mercy  upon  one  of  our  souls! 
He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine;  but  my 
hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself. 

Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy 
sworn  enemy,  ANDREW  AGUECHEEK. 

Besides  Hamlet's  letter  to  Ophelia, 
there  are  two  other  letters  from  him  in 
the  play  which  are  often  omitted  in 
acting  versions.  The  first  is  to  Hora- 
tio, and  it  has  its  bright  side  in  the 
complete  confidence  he  places  in  his 
friend:  — 


786 


THE  LETTERS  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS 


Horatio,  when  thou  shalt  have  over- 
looked this,  give  these  fellows  some  means 
to  the  King;  they  have  letters  for  him.  Ere 
we  were  two  days  old  at  sea,  a  pirate  of  very 
warlike  appointment  gave  us  chase.  Find- 
ing ourselves  too  slow  of  sail,  we  put  on  a 
compelled  valour.  In  the  grapple  I  boarded 
them.  On  the  instant  they  got  clear  of  our 
ship,  so  I  alone  became  their  prisoner. 
They  have  dealt  with  me  like  thieves  of 
mercy,  but  they  knew  what  they  did:  I  am 
to  do  a  good  turn  for  them.  Let  the  King 
have  the  letters  I  have  sent,  and  repair  thou 
to  me  with  as  much  speed  as  thou  wouldst 
fly  death.  I  have  words  to  speak  in  your 
ear  will  make  thee  dumb,  yet  are  they  much 
too  light  for  the  bore  of  the  matter.  These 
good  fellows  will  bring  thee  where  I  am. 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  hold  their 
course  for  England;  of  them  I  have  much 
to  tell  thee.  Farewell. 

He  that  thou  knowest  thine, 

HAMLET. 

The  wording  of  the  second  letter,  to 
the  King,  is  simple  and  direct  enough, 
yet  it  has  a  sinister  and  malevolent 
sound  —  its  very  civility  is  calculated 
to  terrify  the  guilty  conscience  of  the 
King:  — 

High  and  mighty,  You  shall  know  I  am 
set  naked  on  your  kingdom.  To-morrow 
shall  I  beg  leave  to  see  your  kingly  eyes, 
when  I  shall,  first  asking  your  pardon  there- 
unto, recount  the  occasions  of  my  sudden 
and  more  strange  return. 

HAMLET. 

'And  in  a  postscript  here,'  says  the 
King,  who  reads  the  letter,  'he  says, 
"alone."3 

In  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Shake- 
speare adopts  the  method  of  making 
someone  give  the  substance  of  a  let- 
ter, instead  of  reading  the  actual  words 
of  the  writer.  Twice  Octavius  Caesar 
enters  'reading  a  letter,'  and  twice 
we  have  to  trust  to  his  honor  that  he 
is  reporting  it  fairly.  The  first,  which 
brings  news  of  Antony,  is  obviously  col- 
ored by  Octavius's  jealousy  of  his  great 
'  competitor.' 


From  Alexandria 

This  is  the  news:  he  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel;  is  not  more  manlike 
Than  Cleopatra  ;  nor  the  Queen  of  Ptolemy 
More  womanly  than  he;  hardly  gave  audience,  or 
Vouchsafed  to  think  he  had  partners.  You  shall 

find  there 

A  man  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faults 
That  all  men  follow. 

You  feel  at  once  that  Octavius  reads 
this  as  a  stroke  of  diplomacy.  He  wants 
to  justify  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  for  hating  Antony,  and  he  does 
not  trouble  to  be  accurate.  Half  a 
truth  is  always  more  damning  than  a 
lie. 

Antony  was,  as  he  is  represented 
here,  a  pleasure-seeker;  he  had  that 
reckless  determination  to  enjoy  the 
moment,  which  is  not  an  uncommon  at- 
tribute of  great  rulers  and  great  artists. 
But  he  was,  as  well,  a  fine  soldier,  one 
who  was  at  his  best  in  defeat  and  mis- 
fortune. He  loved  luxury,  but  he  could 
at  times  renounce  all  comfort  for  the 
sake  of  keeping  up  the  courage  of  his 
men.  But  with  Roman  fortitude  he  had 
neither  Roman  restraint  nor  Roman 
simplicity.  He  loves  striking  an  atti- 
tude. Twice  he  challenges  Octavius  to 
single  combat,  and  in  language  so  vain- 
glorious that  Octavius  exclaims:  'He 
calls  me  boy'  (this  time  he  is  too  angry 
to  misrepresent  Antony,  and  we  may 
take  it  that  his  version  of  the  challenge 
is  true) :  — 

He  calls  me  boy;  and  chides  as  he  had  power 

To  beat  me  out  of  Egypt.    My  messenger 

He  hath  whipped  with  rods;  dares  me  to  personal 

combat, 

Caesar  to  Antony.  Let  the  old  ruffian  know 
I  have  many  other  ways  to  die. 

Timon  of  Athens's  last  message  to 
the  world  is  melancholy  reading!  Its 
fierce  and  savage  cynicism  shows  our 
gentle  Shakespeare  in  a  new  light. 
Timon  makes  his  grave  on  the  '  beached 
verge  of  the  salt  flood,'  and  erects  his 
own  tomb,  — 

Entombed  upon  the  very  hem  o'  the  sea. 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


787 


A  soldier  takes  an  impression  in  wax 
of  the  inscription  scratched  on  it,  and 
brings  it  to  Alcibiades:  — 

Here  lies  a  wretched  corse,  of  wretched  soul 

bereft. 
Seek  not  my  name:  a  plague  consume  you  wicked 

caitiffs  left! 
Here  lie  I,  Timon,  who,  alive,  all  living  men  did 

hate. 
Pass  by  and  curse  thy  fill,  but  pass  and  stay  not 

here  thy  gait. 

Alcibiades,  with  a  generosity  that 
we  should  imitate,  finds  the  noble  ele- 


ment in  this  last  effort  after  consistency 
of  a  consistent  hater  of  men:  — 

These  well  express  in  thee  thy  latter  spirits: 
Though  thou  abhorr'dst  in  us  our  human  griefs, 
Scorn'dst  our  brain's  flow  and  those  our  droplets 

which 

From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave,  on  faults  forgiven. 

Those  are  good  words  with  which  to 
bring  this  little  study  of  a  corner  of  the 
great  world  of  Shakespeare's  mind  to 
an  end! 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


BY  ARTHUR  POUND 


OPERATING  an  automatic  machine  re- 
quires no  more  than  average  manual 
dexterity  and  ordinary  intelligence.  In 
some  cases,  where  the  materials  in  pro- 
cess are  heavy,  it  requires  considerable 
strength  and,  where  several  machines 
are  grouped  in  one  man's  care,  consider- 
able agility.  If  the  operative  is  willing 
to  trust  the  company  to  figure  his  pay, 
without  checking  up  in  his  own  interest, 
no  book  knowledge  is  necessary.  Sim- 
ple arithmetic  and  ability  to  sign  one's 
name  are  the  top  intellectual  require- 
ments. Most  manufacturers,  however, 
prefer  to  have  their  employees  read, 
write,  and  understand  English,  though 
this  knowledge  is  by  no  means  neces- 
sary. Consequently,  many  companies 
provide  instruction  in  English  for  immi- 
grants. In  general,  the  ordinary  pub- 
lic-school instruction,  up  to  and  includ- 
ing the  eighth  grade,  gives  a  youth  all 


the  mental  furnishing  he  needs  to  func- 
tion efficiently  in  automatic  production. 
Considered  strictly  as  an  economic 
being,  he  could  get  along  with  less. 
When  we  come  to  the  salaried  workers, 
the  so-called  white-collar  group,  we  find 
public  education  reinforcing  the  level- 
ing tendency  in  those  branches,  just  as 
automatic  machinery  does  in  the  mills. 
Thus  far  we  have  considered  the  auto- 
matic machine  as  leveling  wages  and 
distributing  labor  between  farm  and 
factory,  home  and  the  mill.  In  much 
the  same  way,  the  spreading  use  of  auto- 
matic machinery  tends  to  level  wages  in 
all  plants  so  equipped,  though  hindered 
at  many  points  by  special  conditions 
and  special  labor  contracts.  Certain 
automatic  machines  are  widely  scatter- 
ed, and  can  be  found  in  every  industrial 
centre.  Many  others  present  family 
likenesses.  Even  the  greenest  of  green 


788 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


workers  needs  but  short  tutelage  at  his 
assigned  machine;  while  the  man  who 
knows  how  much  —  or  rather  how  little 
—  is  expected  of  him,  can  shake  down 
quickly  into  efficient  production.  As 
was  said  in  an  earlier  article,  the  per 
capita .  cost  of  labor  turnover  on  the 
1920  basis  of  pay  ranged  from  $25  to 
$100  per  man  in  the  more  efficiently  or- 
ganized automobile  plants,  this  cost  in- 
cluding the  pay  of  the  novitiate  and  his 
teacher,  the  overhead  on  machine,  and 
allowance  for  spoiled  work.  This  veri- 
fies the  evidence  presented  by  a  survey 
of  certain  large  allied  plants,  to  the  ef- 
fect that  70  per  cent  of  the  employees 
could  be  fitted  into  their  jobs  in  three 
days  or  less.  This  means  that  a  worker 
can  shift  from  one  line  of  production  to 
another  without  grave  loss  of  time.  He 
may  be  a  woodcutter  or  harvest-hand 
this  month,  and  a  producer  of  automo- 
bile parts  the  next.  If  of  a  roving  dispo- 
sition, in  a  single  year  he  may  can  salmon 
on  the  Pacific  coast,  pour  cement  on  an 
irrigation  dam  in  Idaho,  mill  flour  in 
Minnesota,  cut  pearl  buttons  in  Iowa, 
mould  iron  in  Ohio,  weave  silk  in  Jersey, 
or  make  rubber  tires  in  New  England. 
The  outcome  of  such  easy  transitions 
must  be  a  highly  efficient  distribution  of 
labor-power  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the 
other,  a  progressive  leveling  of  wages 
as  among  all  automatized  industries. 
'  The  old  trade  demarcations,'  says  Mr. 
E.  F.  Lloyd,  '  have  largely  ceased  to 
exist,  and  with  their  passing  the  old 
differences  of  pay  have  correspondingly 
declined.' 

This  leveling  tendency,  moreover,  is 
no  respecter  of  sex.  Since  women  can 
tend  many  automatic  tools  as  well  as 
men,  it  follows  that  the  wages  of  the  two 
sexes  must  draw  together.  They  may 
never  reach  uniformity,  because  many 
women  view  jobs  as  temporary  stop- 
gaps on  the  road  to  marriage,  and  this 
handicaps  them  as  yet  in  the  eyes  of 
many  employers.  This,  and  kindred 


non-economic  considerations,  may  affect 
the  result ;  but  they  cannot  stop  the  drift 
toward  equality  of  wage.  It  is  no  unusual 
thing,  even  now,  to  find  a  young  wife 
earning  as  much  as,  or  more  than,  her 
husband.  As  time  goes  on,  this  will  be- 
come too  common  to  command  notice. 

Likewise,  automatic  machinery  tends 
to  break  down  the  former  disparity  of 
wage  as  between  age  and  youth.  Child- 
ren of  twelve  can  tend  many  automatic 
machines  as  competently  as  adults. 
Youths,  in  fact,  approach  their  highest 
wage  during  the  very  years  in  which  the 
boys  of  a  generation  ago  were  earning 
less  than  living  wages  as  apprentices. 
The  years  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five 
are  the  most  gainful  for  the  '  machinate 
mammal.' 

The  leveling  proceeds  with  ruthless 
disregard  for  race  or  nationality.  While 
a  knowledge  of  the  native  tongue  may 
be  desirable,  it  is  by  no  means  essential. 
Witness  the  widespread  employment  on 
automatic  machines  of  our  newly  ar- 
rived immigrants,  their  earning  on  a 
parity  with  native-born  products  of  our 
public  schools.  Notwithstanding  that 
the  color  line  rarely  gives  the  negro  a 
chance  at  automatics,  the  black  popu- 
lations of  our  northern  industrial  cities 
increased  faster  than  the  white  popu- 
lations from  1910  to  1920.  Bringing 
black  labor  north  became  a  highly  or- 
ganized enterprise.  The  pay  of  negroes, 
generally  speaking,  maintained  a  par- 
ity with  white  labor  on  the  same  kind  of 
work;  and  while  blacks  are  not  often 
put  on  machines,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
many  blacks  can  fill  the  requirements 
of  machine  attendance.  Whether  they 
can  stand  the  steady  grind  as  well  as 
whites,  or  whether  the  color  line  is  jus- 
tifiably drawn  at  the  machine,  are  moot 
points,  reserved  for  future  discussion. 
But  the  general  effect  of  the  automa- 
tizing process  has  been  to  bring  the 
average  wages  of  the  two  races  closer 
together,  not  only  in  the  industrial 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


789 


cities,  but  to  an  even  greater  extent  in 
those  sections  where  the  black  does 
most  of  the  field-work.  Increased  cot- 
ton-picking costs  and  increased  wheat- 
growing  costs  both  resulted  from  the 
drain  that  automatic  production  put 
upon  rural  labor-supplies. 

Automatic  machines  in  offices  affect 
the  white-collar  group  in  industry  pre- 
cisely as  shop-workers  are  affected. 
With  adding  machines  and  other  mech- 
anisms, and  standardized  office  system, 
need  for  special  skill  is  decreasing  among 
office- workers.  The  old-fashioned  book- 
keeper, the  aristocrat  of  fin-de-siecle 
offices,  is  fast  becoming  as  obsolete  a 
type  as  the  old-fashioned  mechanic,  the 
one-time  aristocrat  of  the  shops.  Sten- 
ographic skill  is  subject  to  the  competi- 
tion of  the  phonograph;  the  typist  is 
entering  into  competition  with  the 
duplicating  typewriter.  Meanwhile, 
public  schools  and  business  colleges  are 
producing  an  abundance  of  persons 
sufficiently  educated  for  the  simpli- 
fied office  tasks.  In  addition,  the  higher 
social  status  enjoyed  by  such  workers 
can  be  depended  upon  to  furnish  surplus 
labor  for  such  activities  in  ordinary 
times,  with  the  result  that  we  pay  prac- 
tically the  same  rate  to  washerwomen 
and  typists;  also  to  cooks  and  stenog- 
raphers, when  board-and-lodging  costs 
are  considered.  These  influences  tend- 
ed to  bring  office-work  down  to  the 
wage-level  of  factory-work  before  the 
war;  as  office- workers  began  to  go  over 
into  the  ranks  of  factory-workers,  owing 
to  war-wage  rates  in  the  factories,  office 
wages  began  to  rise.  From  this  on, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  labor  can  flow 
from  one  group  to  the  other  more  easily 
than  ever  before,  disparity  of  wage 
between  the  two  groups  will  tend  to 
correct  itself  promptly. 

Transferring  the  vital  function  of 
production  from  the  operative  to  the  ma- 
chine involves  the  taking  away  of  skill 
from  the  rank  and  file  and  concentrat- 


ing it  in  the  directing  and  organizing 
end  of  industry.  The  heats  of  competi- 
tion, playing  through  machine  improve- 
ments, evaporate  skill  from  the  lower 
reaches  of  industry,  and  distill  it  in  the 
upper  reaches.  Fewer  producers  need 
skill;  but  those  few  require  much  longer 
training  and  more  highly  intensified 
mental  powers.  It  is  up  to  them,  not 
only  to  design,  build,  place,  and  adapt 
machines  to  involved  tasks,  but  also  to 
work  out  systems  under  which  the  pro- 
duction of  those  machines  can  be  coor- 
dinated and  the  produce  distributed. 

II 

To  fit  an  automatic  machine  for  its 
production-cycle  requires  high  skill  in 
tool-designing  and  making.  Head  and 
hand  must  work  together;  jigs  and  dies 
must  be  of  the  utmost  precision.  The 
number  of  skilled  workmen  required 
for  this  task  is  small  compared  to  the 
whole  number  of  industrial  employees; 
but  the  group  is  of  key  importance.  In 
the  past,  these  men  were  trained  under 
the  apprentice  system;  but  that  system 
being  in  decline,  industrial  executives 
are  greatly  concerned  for  the  future 
supply  of  such  craftsmen.  They  look 
to  public  education  to  guard  against  a 
famine  of  skilled  artisans;  and  such  is 
their  influence  that  they  are  not  likely 
to  look  in  vain.  The  call  of  industry 
has  been  answered  already  by  the  estab- 
lishment of  technical  high  schools  and 
colleges  in  many  industrial  cities,  as 
well  as  by  the  erection  of  private  trade- 
schools.  In  desperation  some  employ- 
ers have  established  their  own  trade - 
schools;  but  the  outlook  is  that  public 
education,  thus  challenged,  will  take  up 
the  burden  of  providing  industry  with 
skilled  mechanics.  Once  adequate  facil- 
ities are  provided,  we  may  look  with 
assurance  for  the  greater  mental  inter- 
est attaching  to  that  work  to  provide 
candidates  in  abundance,  and  so  in- 


790 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


crease  the  number  of  qualified  men  to 
the  point  where  the  pay  will  approach 
that  of  the  machine- tender — always  be- 
ing enough  more,  presumably,  to  make 
up  for  the  time  and  cost  of  training. 

The  next  layer  in  the  skill  compart- 
ment contains  technical  experts,  shop- 
organizers,  and  salesmen.  The  third 
layer  includes  the  executives.  It  is  in 
these  two  layers  that  the  thought-pro- 
cesses of  modern  industry  centre;  and 
the  demands  for  special  knowledge  are 
such  that  the  personnel  must  be  far 
better  equipped  than  their  predecessors 
in  the  old  regime.  In  the  swift  expan- 
sion of  automatized  industry  they  have 
been  forced  further  and  further  afield 
for  labor  and  materials  on  the  one  hand, 
and  for  markets  on  the  other  hand. 
They  have  been  required  to  finance, 
not  only  the  inflow  of  men  and  machines, 
but  also  the  outflow  of  goods;  a  task  so 
vast  and  compelling  that  it  has  brought 
into  being  a  distinct  adaptation  of  the 
banking  function  to  industrial  needs. 
In  a  very  real  sense  bankers  are  the 
aristocrats  of  modern  industry,  sitting 
apart  from  the  actual  processes  of  pro- 
duction and  distribution,  but  furnish- 
ing the  lifeblood  of  capital,  and  through 
that  power  exercising  a  genuine,  and 
usually  salutary,  control.  How  are  these 
thought-men  of  industry  going  to  be 
affected  by  these  leveling  forces  at 
work  in  modern  society?  Are  they  go- 
ing to  be  leveled  economically  by  the 
same  forces  which  brought  them  such 
large  rewards?  Of  late  years,  in  the  era 
of  industrial  expansion,  they  have  com- 
manded large  salaries.  What  is  likely  to 
happen  to  them  now  that  the  wheels  of 
industry  are  slowing  down? 

So  far  as  the  technical  experts  — 
chiefly  chemists  and  engineers  —  are 
concerned,  the  situation  is  fairly  clear. 
They  are  being  turned  out  in  such 
numbers  by  colleges  and  universities 
that,  except  in  sudden  bursts  of  indus- 
trial expansion,  the  supply  tends  to 


outrun  the  demand.  There  is  no  wide 
rift  between  the  pay  of  a  Bachelor  of 
Science,  just  out  of  college,  and  the  pay 
of  a  factory  operative.  A  city  engineer- 
ing department  can  hire  draughtsmen 
about  as  cheaply  as  common  laborers. 
All  institutions  of  higher  learning  are 
growing  in  attendance,  particularly  in 
the  technical  branches.  Also,  the  train- 
ing tends  to  become  more  thorough, 
hence  more  productive  of  men  fitted  to 
move  in  the  highest  circles  of  industrial 
production.  From  all  indications,  uni- 
versities and  colleges  are  as  apt  to  flood 
the  market  with  engineers  and  chemists 
as  the  mothers  of  the  country  are  to 
flood  it  with  unskilled  labor.  Public 
education,  therefore,  tends  to  level  to- 
ward the  general  average  the  pay  for 
such  service. 

Salesmanship  is  similarly  affected. 
The  personal  element  does  not  play  the 
large  part  it  did  in  disposing  of  goods. 
The  influence  of  advertising  is  to  create 
a  market  condition  in  which  the  sales- 
man becomes  more  and  more  an  'or- 
der-taker,' disposing  of  standardized, 
guaranteed  goods  at  prices  and  on  terms 
set  by  his  superiors  in  the  organization. 
As  dickering  is  thrust  out  of  the  sales 
equation,  the  personal  shrewdness  of 
the  salesman  counts  for  less  and  less. 
His  efficiency  comes  to  depend  less 
upon  native  traits  and  more  upon  what 
can  be  taught  him.  Salesmen  of  the 
old  school  were  born,  not  made;  but 
salesmen  of  the  new  school  can  be  made 
out  of  any  normally  aggressive  public- 
school  product.  Schools  for  salesman- 
ship, established  here  and  there,  are 
likely  to  succeed.  In  general,  the  pro- 
cess of  distributing  goods  tends  to  be- 
come more  scientific  and  less  personal; 
and  as  that  change  proceeds,  the  hum- 
bler members  of  the  sales-organization 
become  less  important,  and  more  candi- 
dates are  available.  The  net  result  is 
that  the  salesman's  wage  tends  toward 
the  common  wage-level.  The  retail 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


791 


sales-clerk,  male  or  female,  earns  no 
more  than  he  or  she  could  earn  in  a 
factory.  The  small  retail  grocer,  whose 
chief  function  is  that  of  taking  orders, 
complains  because  he  is  being  run  out 
of  business  by  a  chain  store,  whose 
manager  is  frankly  an  order-taker,  and 
earns,  usually,  no  more  than  the  aver- 
age wage  of  the  community.  His  em- 
ployer, safeguarded  by  the  cash  regis- 
ter and  an  office  system  imposing  a 
close  check,  finds  it  unnecessary  to  pay  a 
bonus  for  character  and  honesty.  The 
traveling  salesman  is  not  the  bold,  free 
man  of  other  days;  he  covers  more  ter- 
ritory than  the  'drummer'  of  twenty 
years  ago,  but  he  does  not  have  equal 
responsibility.  The  tendency,  all  along 
the  line,  is  for  salesmen's  wages  to  keep 
in  closer  touch  with  the  wage-level  in 
the  producing  end  of  the  business. 

Ill 

The  situation  as  respects  employers 
is  even  more  difficult  to  analyze,  be- 
cause executive  ability  is  so  largely  ap- 
plied native  force,  energy,  will-power. 
Executives,  up  to  date,  have  been 
largely  self-trained.  However,  of  late, 
the  universities  and  colleges,  recog- 
nizing that  industrial  executives  are 
the  most  powerful  figures  in  an  indus- 
trial civilization,  have  taken  steps  to 
train  men  for  these  posts.  Hence  their 
schools  of  finance  and  commerce;  hence 
their  courses  in  business  practice;  hence 
the  announcements  that  the  universi- 
ties must  train  'for  life.'  If  the  educa- 
tional system  makes  good  on  this  pro- 
gramme, it  is  evident  that  executive 
salaries  must  fall.  They  have  always 
been  higher  here  than  abroad.  Foreign 
managers  are  content  with  less  pay  and 
more  prestige.  Already  the  trend  is 
downward.  In  practically  every  indus- 
trial receivership,  the  receiver's  first 
step  has  been  to  reduce  executive  sala- 
ries. This  leveling  down  is  matched  by 


an  equally  significant  recent  leveling 
up  in  the  salaries  of  minor  executives, 
who  were  left  behind  in  the  war  raises 
for  the  rank  and  file,  by  means  of  which 
the  laborer,  in  many  cases,  came  to 
earn  more  than  the  man  from  whom  he 
took  his  orders  directly.  The  Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad,  for  example,  some 
months  ago  raised  all  its  operating 
officials  below  the  grade  of  superintend- 
ent, while  the  salaries  of  the  higher  exec- 
utives were  not  raised. 

Consideration  of  executive  salaries, 
from  this  standpoint  of  wage-leveling, 
is  complicated  by  the  fact  that  many 
executives  play  a  dual  role  in  industry. 
They  are  heavy  stockholders  as  well 
as  managers  of  other  persons'  capital. 
Some  managers,  in  fact,  own  majority 
interests  in  the  corporations  they  cap- 
tain; the  corporation,  then,  is  actually 
the  lengthened  shadow  of  the  man  — 
and  none  too  lengthened  at  that.  In 
such  cases,  managers  draw  as  salaries 
part  of  the  profits  which  otherwise 
would  be  apportioned  as  dividends, 
since  competition  for  leadership  does 
not  enter  into  the  equation.  This  prac- 
tice has  been  accelerated  by  the  excess- 
profits  tax. 

This  dual  relationship  of  the  execu- 
tive to  his  job  seems,  however,  to  be 
a  passing  phase.  As  business  institu- 
tions age  and  expand,  they  tend  to 
divide  the  functions  of  management 
and  ownership.  Personal  enthusiasm 
and  vigor  start  business  projects,  but 
they  proceed  toward  cooperation  under 
the  corporate  form,  with  increasing 
stress  upon  order  and  system.  Those 
which  survive  several  generations  usu- 
ally are  found  operating  under  other 
leadership  than  that  of  the  owners. 
Accident  of  birth  may  produce  owners ; 
but  it  cannot  be  depended  upon  to 
produce  those  leaders  who  must  be 
found  if  the  property  is  to  flourish 
under  competition.  Few  of  our  younger 
captains  of  industry  own  dominant 


792 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


holdings  in  the  corporations  they  man- 
age; some  own  no  stock  at  all.  There 
is  no  reason  why  they  should;  they 
hold  their  positions  by  reason  of  their 
personal  powers,  their  industrial  states- 
manship. They  are  better  able  to  hold 
the  balance  true  as  against  the  demands 
of  labor,  capital,  and  the  market — their 
workers,  their  stockholders  and  bond- 
holders, and  their  customers  —  than 
they  would  be  if  strong  financial  interest 
pulled  them  to  one  side. 

Homer  Ferguson,  President  of  the 
Newport  News  Shipbuilding  Com- 
pany, calls  himself  a  '  plain  hired  man,' 
owning  no  part  of  the  property  he  man- 
ages; he  has  elaborated  the  reasons 
why  that  aloofness  from  ownership 
strengthens  him  in  his  work.  He  may 
earn  less  money  in  his  present  job  than 
he  would  earn  running  a  business  of 
his  own;  on  the  other  hand,  he  has 
more  prestige,  greater  opportunity. 
Judge  Gary  dominates  United  States 
Steel,  not  by  stock-ownership  or  stock- 
jobbing, but  by  the  power  of  a  wise  and 
courageous  mind.  In  his  case,  too,  the 
chief  reward  lies  in  doing  a  big  work 
and  winning  the  applause  of  the  public, 
not  in  his  salary  check.  You  cannot 
picture  either  man,  or  any  industrial 
leader  worthy  of  rank  alongside  them, 
as  quitting  his  job  in  the  face  of  a  sal- 
ary-cut, or  as  higgling  over  the  price  of 
his  preferment  in  the  first  instance. 

In  the  future,  industrial  leaders  will 
tend  more  and  more  to  be  picked  men, 
not  owners  in  any  important  sense. 
Their  salaries  will  depend  upon  the 
number  of  qualified  men  in  the  market, 
and  the  existing  demand  for  their  serv- 
ices. The  lure  of  such  positions  and 
the  determined  efforts  being  made  to 
educate  for  business  leadership  are  sure 
to  increase  the  number  of  qualified 
candidates.  The  demand  is,  of  course, 
uncertain;  but  the  chances  are  that  it 
will  not  maintain  itself  relatively  to 
now  that  education,  both  pub- 


lic and  private,  has  set  itself  to  increase 
the  supply.  In  that  case,  the  present 
high  level  of  executive  salaries  cannot 
be  maintained.  All  indications  point 
to  the  executives  of  the  future  carrying 
their  loads  of  responsibility  less  because 
of  the  money  reward  and  more  because 
of  personal  pride  and  public  spirit. 
Business  leadership  seems  likely  to  be- 
come a  profession,  with  professional 
standards  and  standing,  as  well  as  pro- 
fessional limitations  as  to  its  pay. 

The  learned  professions,  so  called  for 
tradition's  sake,  are  easier  to  dispose  of 
because,  in  each  case,  the  leveling  tend- 
ency is  reinforced  by  an  established 
professional  ethic.  Teachers,  preachers, 
writers,  and  artists  generally,  for  cen- 
turies have  regarded  their  wages,  not 
as  pay,  but  as  their  living,  their  real 
rewards  being  service  to  their  ideals 
and  humanity,  established  social  posi- 
tion, and  the  regard  of  their  fellow  men. 
These  non-economic  lures  attract  hu- 
man nature  so  strongly  that  the  re- 
wards in  these  lines  sometimes  fall 
below  those  of  unskilled  labor.  Poets 
have  starved  in  garrets;  ministers  are 
notoriously  underpaid,  and  of  late 
years  comparison  of  the  pinched  pro- 
fessor and  the  silk-shirted  yokel  has 
led  to  'Feed  the  Prof.'  campaigns. 
Law  and  medicine,  because  they  work 
more  directly  upon  life,  have  been  more 
affected  by  the  industrial  swirl;  but 
they,  too,  are  bound  to  swim  out  of  the 
commercial  current  to  the  high  ethical 
shore.  Even  now,  though  physicians 
may  talk  about  their  business,  they 
respond  to  many  humanitarian  de- 
mands; and  there  exist  some  lawyers, 
if  not  many,  who  put  the  eternal  cry 
for  justice  ahead  of  fees.  So  the  level- 
ing influences  of  automatic  machinery 
are  bound  to  be  reinforced  and  strength- 
ened by  the  example  of  professional 
men,  no  less  than  by  the  teaching  of 
those  among  them  who  see  service  as 
the  high  goal  of  human  endeavor. 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


793 


IV 

Thus  far  we  have  considered  the 
leveling  of  labor,  as  dictated  by  the 
automatic  tool,  solely  from  the  stand- 
point of  production.  That  is  its  direct 
action.  Automatic  machinery  works 
indirectly  toward  the  same  end,  how- 
ever, through  the  market  —  through 
consumption.  As  the  total  cost  of  the 
product  is  the  total  cost  of  the  brain- 
and  hand-labor  involved,  an  immediate 
effect  of  production  through  automatic 
machines  is  to  reduce  the  cost  of  the 
units  produced.  The  economic  advan- 
tage of  such  machinery  is  so  manifest 
that  there  can  be  no  stopping  its  prog- 
ress short  of  the  point  where  productive 
power  will  so  far  outrange  the  world's 
market  ability  to  consume,  that  further 
multiplication  of  man-power  will  not 
be  worth  while.  No  one  can  foresee 
whether  that  point  is  centuries  re- 
moved or  merely  decades.  Theoreti- 
cally, the  capacity  of  the  human  race 
to  consume  goods  is  infinite;  but  actu- 
ally it  is  at  all  times  in  competition 
with  the  universal  human  demand  for 
leisure.  No  matter  how  cheap  goods 
become,  there  is  a  point  of  accumula- 
tion beyond  which  some  men  will  say, 
'Let's  knock  off  and  have  some  fun.' 
The  ranks  of  labor  developed  plenty  of 
such  cases  in  1919. 

Short  of  that  point,  however,  the 
market  repays  intensive  cultivation. 
The  cheaper  goods  become,  the  more 
of  them  can  be  sold,  provided  the  pur- 
chasing power  does  not  drop  coinci- 
dentally  with  prices.  It  follows  that, 
with  increasing  automatization  in  pro- 
duction, competition  among  sellers  of 
goods  on  the  one  hand  and  buyers  of 
labor-time  on  the  other  must  push 
prices  and  wages  toward  a  point  where 
maximum  production  and  maximum 
consumption  tend  to  concur.  Such  is 
the  diversity  of  human  nature  and  the 
insistence  of  human  desire  that  they 


may  never  reach  absolute  concurrence; 
but  the  prospects  are  that  they  will  ap- 
proach one  another  with  lessening  fluc- 
tuations. In  this  country,  mass-buying 
makes  the  market  for  most  commodi- 
ties. A  broad  division  of  the  proceeds 
of  industry  stimulates  buying  far  more 
than  a  narrow  one;  hence,  influences 
flowing  from  the  sales-end  of  industry 
will  tend  to  strengthen  that  leveling  of 
labor  which  is  predetermined  by  com- 
petition among  buyers  of  labor-power 
for  use  on  automatic  machines. 

It  must  be  borne  hi  mind  that,  under 
competition,  some  degree  of  wage- vari- 
ation always  will  exist,  from  causes 
lying  within  the  individual,  as,  for 
example,  the  varying  wages  of  opera- 
tives under  piece  rates.  '  For  while  the 
automatic  tool  works  within  a  fixed 
cycle,  it  is  not  the  precise  counterpart 
of  the  ancient  treadmill.'  Within  narrow 
and  unimportant  limits,  its  product- 
iveness varies  somewhat  with  varia- 
tions of  personal  energy  and  attentive- 
ness.  Likewise,  there  are  sure  to  be 
variations  in  different  parts  of  the 
country,  due  largely  to  uneven  supply 
of  labor-power  resulting  from  differing 
local  birth-rates  and  non-economic  hin- 
drances to  economic  shifts  of  base. 
Home  and  family  ties,  love  of  one's 
native  environment,  stock-ownership 
by  employees,  and  personal  loyalties  in 
work-relations,  probably  always  will 
influence  human  beings  considerably, 
and  deter  them  from  following  the  main 
chance  absolutely.  Barometric  pressure 
always  tends  to  uniformity,  yet  is  never 
uniform.  'The  wind  blowing  where  it 
listeth  has  its  counterpart  in  the  now 
fluid  movement  of  labor  in  search  of 
employment,  higher  pay,  or,  perhaps, 
escape  from  monotony.'  Enough  men 
and  women  can  be  depended  upon 
to  follow  the  main  chance  to  effect  a 
fairly  even  displacement  of  labor-power, 
and  to  enforce  by  economic  law  a  fairly 
even  wage-scale  over  the  entire  country. 


794 

Not  the  least  interesting  part  of  this 
leveling  tendency  is  that  it  runs  direct- 
ly toward  that  socialist  dream  —  equal- 
ity of  income.  Yet  it  proceeds  without 
any  assistance  from  the  Socialists,  solely 
as  the  result  of  capitalists  installing 
automatic  machinery.  The  tendency 
itself  is  strictly  economic,  and  con- 
ceivably might  work  out  to  its  ultimate 
conclusion  without  calling  forth  politi- 
cal action,  amending  the  institution  of 
private  property,  or  changing  the  pres- 
ent relations  between  employer  and 
employee.  Nothing  so  simple  is  to  be 
expected;  not  so  easily  does  humanity 
accept  revolutionary  changes  in  its 
methods  of  sustaining  life.  Farmer- 
labor  parties  in  the  United  States  and 
Canada,  recently  formed,  may  be  taken 
as  evidence  of  belated  appreciation  of 
the  economic  solidarity  of  town  and 
country  labor  under  the  new  conditions 
of  industry.  Woman  suffrage  gained 
influence  in  direct  proportion  as  women 
became  engaged  in  industrial  produc- 
tion. The  automatic  tool  will  be  the 
force  back  of  most  of  our  legislation  for 
the  next  fifty  years,  just  as  it  will  be 
the  mainspring  of  our  educational  pro- 
gramme, once  its  significance  is  under- 
stood by  educators  still  fumbling  for 
the  key  to  modern  life.  To  lads  who 
come  as  beardless  boys  into  their  great- 
est purchasing  power,  something  must 
be  taught,  other  than  has  been  taught, 
if  they  are  ever  to  use  their  leisure  and 
their  economic  power  aright.  The  army 
of  homeless,  wifeless  men  and  foot- 
loose women  is  growing;  the  automatic 
tool  has  cut  marriage-knots  as  well  as 
steel  bands.  Let  all  who  think  in  terms 
of  public  recreation,  domestic  relations, 


THE  IRON  MAN  AND  WAGES 


charity,  religion,  morals,  child-welfare, 
and  social  science  ponder  those  reac- 
tions of  the  automatic  tool  that  daily 
proceed  under  their  eyes. 

In  other  parts  of  the  world  classes 
are  wrestling  bloodily  for  the  control 
of  machinery.  They  are  of  breeds  to 
whom  compromise  is  difficult.  It  is  our 
boast  that  we,  as  inheritors  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tradition,  can  settle  peace- 
ably clashes  of  interest  over  which 
other  humans  fight.  But  we  shall  never 
be  able  to  settle  peaceably  and  credit- 
ably all  the  problems  arising  out  of  the 
common  use  of  the  automatic  tool  in 
industrial  production  unless  we  grasp 
the  social  and  political  possibilities  of 
its  evolution.  America  gave  the  auto- 
matic tool  its  chance.  Its  blessings  are 
evident;  but  unless  controlled  by  social 
conscience,  it  may  develop  curses  equal- 
ly potent.  America's  high  duty  is  to 
guide  the  continuing  evolution  of  the 
Iron  Man  intelligently.  For  the  eco- 
nomic forces  which  he  releases  are  of 
such  intense  reality  and  abundant 
vitality  that  they  will  break  govern- 
ments which  blindly  oppose  them  just 
as  quickly  as  they  will  undermine  so- 
cieties which  yield  too  supinely  to 
machine  dictation.  Governments  now 
stake  their  existences  upon  controlling 
men;  in  the  dawning  age,  the  acid  test 
of  sovereignty  may  be  control  of  ma- 
chines. Through  such  control  the  level- 
ing tendency,  inherent  in  automatic 
production  and  reinforced  by  popular 
education,  may  be  directed  toward  the 
goal  of  true  democracy;  whereas,  un- 
directed, it  may  push  the  human  race 
into  a  new  slavery,  or  stampede  it  into 
a  new  anarchy. 


A    PROUD   CHOICE   OF  INFLUENCES 


BY  MARGARET  WILSON  LEES 


FOR  that  is  what  it  really  was.  But 
away  back  in  another  century,  when 
Patricia  was  eight  and  I  was  six,  I  did- 
n't know  what  made  her  different  from 
the  rest  of  us,  and  I  wondered  how  she 
walked  safely  over  pitfalls  that  en- 
gulfed me. 

There  was  the  disgraceful  episode  of 
the  kiss,  to  take  one  small  instance. 
How  did  she  know  the  right  thing  to  do, 
in  time  ?  I  knew  well  enough  afterward. 
Oh  yes,  often  enough,  afterward,  I 
lived  through  the  scene  in  imagination, 
and  acted  my  part  in  it  as  it  should 
have  been  acted.  One  could  n't  turn 
the  clock  back  by  any  agony  of  wish- 
ing; one  could  only  provide  against 
catastrophe  ahead.  To  find  a  rule  that 
would  fit  every  possible  emergency?  The 
formula  at  last  arrived  at  had  nothing 
in  it  about '  a  decided  and  proud  choice,' 
or  'repelling  interference.'  It  was,  sim- 
ply, Watch  Patricia  and  do  as  she  does. 

There  was  a  party  going  on  in  the 
drawing-room  on  the  second  story;  the 
sound  of  carpet-balls  came  up  to  us  in 
our  nursery  on  the  third  story  —  a 
rumble  like  thunder  in  the  distance, 
then  the  click  of  balls  as  they  touched. 
When  there  was  a  party,  Patricia  and 
I,  being  the  eldest,  were  allowed  to 
go  down  to  the  drawing-room  and  say 
good-night  before  we  went  to  bed. 

The  nurse  looked  us  over  to  see  that 
our  dresses  did  n't  sag  at  one  shoulder, 
that  our  stockings  lay  smoothly  under 
the  crossed  elastic  of  our  slippers  — 
that  we  were  altogether  *  fit  to  be  seen.' 
Then  we  took  hands  and  went  down- 
stairs. Sally  watched  us  go,  with  eyes 


that  seemed  to  ask  an  unkind  universe 
why  they  too  might  not  have  a  glimpse 
of  the  gods  at  play;  but  Robin  contin- 
ued to  shorten  the  stirrups  of  the  saddle 
on  his  rocking-horse,  and  envied  nobody. 

We  stood  hand  in  hand  at  the  door  of 
the  long  drawing-room  and  looked  in. 
The  sight  was  different  from  anything 
one  could  find  anywhere  in  the  world 
to-day.  So  were  the  sounds.  If  we  had 
been  greeted  by  the  clack  of  tongues  that 
you  will  hear  at  your  next  afternoon 
tea,  I  do  believe  we  should  have  turned 
and  fled.  Patricia  and  I  had  never 
heard  anything  so  unlovely.  Fortunate 
ears  of  the  sixties  —  spared  so  many  of 
the  stridencies  to  come!  Can  one  im- 
agine now  a  city  with  no  harsher  bird- 
note  than  the  twitter  of  the  purple 
martens  in  the  marten-house  above  the 
brewery?  Not  a  city  sparrow  in  all  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land;  not  a 
motor-horn !  Little  wonder  if  the  voices 
in  that  drawing-room  were  soft  and 
low-pitched. 

I  tugged  at  Patricia's  hand  to  hold 
her  back.  It  was  so  very  beautiful  —  I 
wanted  time  to  look.  The  game  was 
over.  The  balls  lay  quiet  at  the  end  of 
the  room  where  a  visiting-card  was 
pinned  to  the  carpet;  the  players  were 
standing  about  in  groups,  '  having  con- 
versation,' as  I  whispered  to  Patricia  — 
a  different  matter  from  plain  talking. 
There  was  a  delightful  variety  of  bright, 
pretty  colors;  as  the  groups  broke  up 
and  formed  new  groups,  it  was  like  look- 
ing into  a  big  kaleidoscope.  The  ladies 
were  'in  low  neck  and  short  sleeves,' 
like  ourselves.  The  thermometer  out- 

795 


796 


A  PROUD  CHOICE  OF  INFLUENCES 


doors  probably  stood  somewhere  about 
zero  at  the  time,  and  the  big  house  was 
heated  solely  by  wood  stoves;  drawing- 
room  and  library,  with  folding  doors 
between,  depended  for  warmth  upon 
what  was  called  a  dumb  stove,  a  kind 
of  enlargement  of  the  stovepipe  from 
my  father's  office  below.  Sometimes, 
when  we  sat  at  our  lessons  in  the  library, 
—  low-necked  and  short-sleeved  even 
then,  —  I  would  hear  my  mother  on 
the  other  side  of  the  folding  doors  tap- 
ping on  the  dumb  stove  with  her  thim- 
ble as  a  signal  for  more  fire;  then,  study- 
ing my  arms  with  interested  curiosity, 
I  would  discover  myself  the  proud 
possessor  of  goose-flesh.  Yet  that  night 
the  bare  arms,  as  I  remember  them, 
were  warmly  smooth  and  white  against 
the  gay  dresses.  Not  mere  wisps  of 
color,  these,  like  the  evening  dresses  of 
to-day,  but  satisfying,  cushiony  eyefuls. 

I  saw  nothing  amiss  with  the  setting 
of  the  scene.  The  carpet  with  its  big 
geometrical  pattern,  the  black  horse- 
hair furniture,  the  what-not  of  sea- 
shells,  the  shade  of  wax  flowers  —  it 
was  all  as  inevitable  and  right  as  the 
blue  of  the  sky  and  the  green  of  the 
grass.  It  had  always  been  there.  Just 
now  it  was  softened  by  candlelight,  and 
glorified  by  those  radiant  beings  float- 
ing about  in  pink  and  blue  and  corn- 
color  and  mauve  and  Nile  green. 

One  in  the  new  color,  magenta,  was 
rolling  a  ball  to  illustrate  some  question 
that  had  been  raised  about  the  game 
just  over.  Her  stiff  silk  skirt  made  a 
fine  'cheese'  as  she  stooped.  By  whirl- 
ing very  fast  and  then  squatting,  a 
little  girl  could  make  a  cheese,  but  not 
one  like  this  and  not  with  that  fine  air 
of  unconcern.  When  I  was  grown  up, 
I  would  wear  skirts  that  ballooned  of 
their  own  accord.  I  saw  myself  in  half 
a  dozen  situations  that  called  for  stoop- 
ing. Most  alluring  of  the  visions  was 
one  of  my  grown-up  self  at  the  pantry 
table,  now  on  a  level  with  my  chin,  busy 


—  oh,  happy  me !  —  at  the  now  for- 
bidden task  of  skimming  the  cream 
from  a  pan  of  milk.  A  bouquet  in  its 
silver  holder  dangled  from  my  wrist.  I 
spoke  in  the  fascinating  manner  of  the 
young  lady  in  magenta,  barely  opening 
my  lips. 

Patricia  let  go  of  my  hand  and  we 
entered  the  room.  That  is  to  say, 
Patricia  entered.  Even  at  eight  she  en- 
tered a  room  —  the  whole  of  her;  no 
astral  half  left  dragging  along  uncer- 
tainly behind.  Yes,  Patricia  was  differ- 
ent from  other  children.  Something  in 
the  way  she  was  greeted  as  she  passed 
from  group  to  group  —  a  quick  look  of 
interest  and  admiration  —  confirmed 
me  in  the  belief.  I  followed  her,  pleas- 
urably  excited,  but  with  the  gone  feel- 
ing about  the  pit  of  the  stomach  that 
came  always  with  that  letting  go  of  the 
hand.  In  proportion  as  Patricia's  clasp 
was  an  assurance  that  all  was  right  with 
the  world,  the  loosing  of  it  abandoned 
one  to  a  path  of  lonely  peril. 

A  little  fuss  was  made  over  both  of  us. 
Here  were  the  friends  and  acquaintances 
of  every  day,  some  of  them  nursery 
intimates,  but  all  changed,  somehow, 
by  being  at  a  party;  our  own  mother 
looked  not  so  approachable  as  when  in 
'high  neck  and  long  sleeves.'  Here  was 
even  our  doctor.  Being  a  favorite  with 
him,  I  had  to  wait  to  be  taken  upon  his 
knee  and  have  my  cheeks  rubbed  into 
rosiness,  and  in  this  way  I  got  behind 
Patricia  in  our  progress  around  the 
room. 

When  I  caught  up  to  her,  I  saw  at 
once  that  something  had  happened. 

There  she  stood,  that  little  maiden  of 
the  sixties,  the  unmoved  centre  of  a 
teacup  tempest.  I  can  see  her  yet,  — 
her  slimness,  her  straightness,  her 
pretty  color,  her  willfully  curved  lips, 
— above  all,  her  evident  indifference  to 
the  exclamations  that  were  pelting  her 
from  every  side  like  a  flurry  of  soft 
March  snow. 


A  PROUD  CHOICE  OF  INFLUENCES 


797 


'What!  Won't  kiss  Mr.  Fitzhugh! 
O  Patricia!  Oh,  poor  Mr.  Fitzhugh!' 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Fitzhugh.  He  made 
me  think  of  our  dough-men  before  they 
were  put  into  the  oven.  I  did  n't  won- 
der that  she  would  n't  kiss  him.  His 
mouth  was  —  well,  not  the  kind  one 
wants  to  kiss.  But  he  was  lame,  and 
were  not  lame  people  good  ?  In  the  story- 
books, where  they  abounded  plenti- 
fully, they  were  all,  all  good,  and  only 
the  wicked  were  unkind  to  them. 

I  looked  at  Patricia.  Was  n't  it  wick- 
ed to  be  unkind  to  lame  people?  But 
already  she  had  lost  interest  in  Mr. 
Fitzhugh  —  her  choice  had  been  made. 
She  had  shaken  hands  with  him;  she 
had  wiped  the  impression  unobtrusively 
off  upon  her  skirt;  now  her  eyes  were 
turned  to  the  piano,  where  the  young 
lady  in  magenta  was  beginning  to  play 
'La  Cracovienne'  with  the  soft  pedal 
down.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  the  left 
hand  of  the  player,  and  from  a  certain 
hint  of  brooding  in  their  expression,  I 
knew  that  the  bass  was  all  wrong. 

'Never  mind.  Here  comes  Janie. 
She  will  give  me  a  kiss,  I  know.  A  nice 
sweet  kiss;  maybe  two,  three,  four.'  He 
made  the  sound  of  four  kisses.  'Janie 
and  I  are  good  friends.  Are  n't  we, 
Janie? ' 

'Ye-es.'  (To  myself,  'He's  lame.') 
'But  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  I  'd 
rather  just  shake  hands.'  ('I  can't  kiss 
him.') 

Another  chorus  of  'What!  Not  kiss 
Mr.  Fitzhugh!  Oh,  poor  Mr.  Fitzhugh!' 
Always,  please  remember,  in  the  soft 
voices  of  eighteen-sixty-one. 

('Can  I  kiss  him?  No,  I  can't.  But 
he 's  lame.') 

'You  too,  Janie!  Who  would  have 
believed  you  could  be  so  cruel!  Look 
at  poor  Mr.  Fitzhugh!  Only  see  how 
sad  he  looks!' 

Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
He  was  looking  sad.  And  he  was  lame. 
To  be  cruel  to  the  lame! 


('Now,  if  you  shut  your  eyes  and 
hurry  up,  perhaps  you  can  do  it.  Now, 
now.') 

It  was  done. 

It  was  hard  to  do.  Had  n't  a  little 
girl  some  reason  to  expect  approval? 
But  that  beautiful,  rainbow-colored 
group  had  led  her  on  to  her  undoing, 
only  to  turn  upon  her  now  with  looks 
and  exclamations  more  shocked  than 
before. 

'Janie!  Janie!  You  little  coquette! 
Coming  down  from  the  nursery  with 
your  kisses  all  made  up,  and  then  pre- 
tending to  be  too  coy  to  give  them! 
Pretending  you  would  n't,  when  all  the 
time  you  meant  to ! ' 

I  turned  to  Mr.  Fitzhugh.  He  was 
grinning  —  an  odious  grin. 

Down  dropped  my  head  upon  the 
sofa;  hot,  shut  eyes  pressed  close  against 
the  slippery  coolness  of  its  horsehair. 

I  could  feel  a  fluttering  of  the  air  like 
a  flock  of  butterflies  closing  in  upon  me; 
there  was  a  soft  humming,  half  pity, 
half  mocking  laughter.  Then  the  iam- 
bic of  a  lame  footstep.  At  that  I 
straightened  up  and  stood  at  bay. 

I  must  have  breathed  Patricia's 
name,  for  she  stopped  trying  to  recon- 
cile the  bass  and  treble  of  'La  Craco- 
vienne '  and  came  to  me.  I  wish  I  could 
describe  how  she  did  it.  Straight  as  the 
dart  of  a  sailboat  —  and  the  circle  clos- 
ing me  in  parted  as  naturally  as  the 
water  at  the  bow.  It  was  an  instinctive 
movement,  altogether  free  from  aggres- 
siveness, but  —  nobody  touched  me. 

'We  can't  stay  any  longer,  Janie. 
Mother  's  beckoning  to  us.' 

For  once  the  signal  was  welcome.  As 
our  parents  kissed  us  good-night,  their 
cheerfulness  impressed  me  as  a  strange 
thing.  If  they  knew  how  their  child  had 
been  disgraced ! 

I  crept  up  the  dimly  lighted  stairs 
beside  Patricia,  crushed  and  silent. 
Her  hold  of  my  hand  was  the  only  com- 
fort she  tried  to  give.  Pity  would  have 


798 

come  amiss  just  then.  I  wanted  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  pity,  my  own  or 
another's.  It  was  a  mistake.  If  I  had 
refused  to  listen  to  its  appeal,  like 
Patricia,  I  might  now  have  been  walk- 
ing with  my  head  held  up  like  hers. 

Only  once  she  spoke. 

'If  I  were  you,  I  would  n't  pay  any 
attention  to  what  young  ladies  say. 


They  're  like  that  —  in  society.    So- 
ciety 's  silly.' 

And  then  we  were  back  in  the  dear, 
safe  nursery,  where  treachery  was  un- 
known. And  Robin  had  just  finished 
shortening  .his  second  stirrup,  so  I  knew 
that  hours  and  days  could  not  have 
passed  since  we  left  him  busy  with  the 
first. 


BY  AGNES  REPPLIER 


It  is  probably  more  instructive  to  entertain  a 
sneaking  kindness  for  any  unpopular  person  than 
to  give  way  to  perfect  raptures  of  moral  indigna- 
tion against  his  abstract  vices.  —  ROBERT  Louis 

STEVENSON. 

IT  is  not  only  more  instructive  —  it 
is  more  enlivening.  The  convention- 
alities of  criticism  (moral,  not  literary, 
criticism)  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 
and  from  pen  to  pen,  until  the  itera- 
tions of  the  press  are  crystallized  in  en- 
cyclopaedias and  biographical  diction- 
aries. And  from  such  verdicts  there  is 
no  appeal.  Their  labored  impartiality, 
their  systematic  adjustments,  their  care- 
ful avoidance  of  intuition,  produce  in 
the  public  mind  a  level  sameness  of 
misunderstanding.  Many  sensible  peo- 
ple think  this  a  good  result.  Even  a 
man  who  did  his  own  thinking,  and 
maintained  his  own  intellectual  free- 
hold, like  Mr.  Bagehot,  knew  and  up- 
held the  value  of  ruts.  He  was  well 
aware  how  far  a  little  intelligence  can  be 
made  to  go,  unless  it  aspires  to  orig- 
inality. Therefore  he  grumbled  at  the 


paradoxes  which  were  somewhat  of  a 
novelty  in  his  day,  but  which  are  out- 
worn in  ours,  at  the  making  over  of 
virtue  into  vice,  and  of  vice  into  some- 
thing more  inspiriting  than  virtue.  'We 
have  palliations  of  Tiberius,  eulogies  on 
Henry  the  Eighth,  devotional  exercises 
to  Cromwell,  and  fulsome  adulations  of 
the  first  Napoleon.' 

That  was  a  half-century  ago.  To-day, 
Tiberius  is  not  so  much  out  of  favor  as 
out  of  mind;  Mr.  Froude  was  the  last 
man  really  interested  in  the  moral  sta- 
tus of  Henry  the  Eighth;  Mr.  Wells  has 
given  us  his  word  for  it  that  Napoleon 
was  a  very  ordinary  person;  and  the 
English  people  have  erected  a  statue  of 
Cromwell  close  to  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, by  way  of  reminding  him  (in 
his  appointed  place)  of  the  survival  of 
representative  government.  The  twen- 
tieth century  does  not  lean  to  extrava- 
gant partialities.  Its  trend  is  to  dispar- 
agement, to  searchlights,  to  that  lavish 
candor  which  no  man's  reputation  can 
survive. 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


799 


When  Mr.  Lytton  Strachey  reversed 
Mr.  Stevenson's  suggestion,  and  chose, 
as  subject-matter  of  a  book,  four  people 
of  whom  the  world  had  heard  little  but 
good,  who  had  been  praised  and  rev- 
erenced beyond  their  deserts,  but  for 
whom  he  cherished  a  secret  and  cold 
hostility,  he  experimented  successfully 
with  the  latent  uncharitableness  of 
men's  minds.  The  brilliancy  with  which 
the  four  essays  were  written,  the  keen- 
ness of  each  assault,  the  charm  and  per- 
suasiveness of  the  style,  delighted  even 
the  uncensorious.  The  business  of  a 
biographer,  said  the  author  in  a  very 
engaging  preface,  is  to  maintain  his  own 
freedom  of  spirit,  and  lay  bare  the  facts 
as  he  understands  them,  'dispassion- 
ately, impartially,  and  without  ulterior 
intentions.' 

It  sounds  fair  and  square;  but  the 
fact  remains  that  Mr.  Strachey  disliked 
Manning,  despised  Arnold,  had  little 
sympathy  with  Gordon,  and  no  great 
fancy  for  Florence  Nightingale.  It 
must  be  remembered  also  that  in  three 
cases  out  of  four  he  was  dealing  with 
persons  of  stubborn  character  and  com- 
pelling will,  as  far  removed  from  irre- 
proachable excellence  as  from  criminal- 
ity. Of  such,  much  criticism  may  be 
offered;  but  the  only  way  to  keep  an 
open  outlook  is  to  ask, '  What  was  their 
life's  job?'  'How  well  did  they  do  it?' 
Men  and  women  who  have  a  pressing 
job  on  hand  (Florence  Nightingale  was 
all  job)  cannot  afford  to  cultivate  the 
minor  virtues.  They  move  with  an  ir- 
resistible impulse  to  their  goal.  It  is 
a  curious  fact  that  Mr.  Strachey  is 
never  so  illuminating  as  when  he  turns 
his  back  upon  these  forceful  and  discon- 
certing personages,  and  dallies  with 
their  more  amenable  contemporaries. 
What  he  writes  about  Gordon  we  should 
be  glad  to  forget;  what  he  writes  about 
Sir  Evelyn  Baring  and  Lord  Hartington 
we  hope  to  remember  while  we  live. 

The  popularity  of  Eminent  Victorians 


inspired  a  host  of  followers.  Critics  be- 
gan to  look  about  them  for  other  vul- 
nerable reputations.  Mr.  J.  A.  Strahan, 
stepping  back  from  Victoria  to  Anne, 
made  the  happy  discovery  that  Addi- 
son  had  been  systematically  over- 
praised, and  that  every  side  of  his 
character  was  open  to  assault.  The  re- 
sult of  this  perspicuity  is  a  damning 
denunciation  of  a  man  whom  his  con- 
temporaries liked  and  esteemed,  and 
concerning  whom  we  have  been  content 
to  take  the  word  of  those  who  knew  him. 
He  may  have  been,  as  Mr.  Strahan  as- 
serts, a  sot,  a  time-server,  a  toad-eater, 
a  bad  official,  and  a  worse  friend;  but 
he  managed  to  give  a  different  impres- 
sion. The  just  man  falls  seven  times  a 
day.  Take  sufficient  account  of  all  these 
falls,  and  he  eclipses  Lucifer.  Addison's 
friends  and  neighbors  found  him  a 
modest,  honorable,  sweet-tempered  gen- 
tleman; and  Steele,  whom  he  had  af- 
fronted, wrote  these  generous  words: 
'You  can  seldom  get  him  to  the  tavern; 
but  when  once  he  is  arrived  to  his  pint, 
and  begins  to  look  about  him,  you  ad- 
mire a  thousand  things  in  him  which 
before  lay  buried.' 

This  seems  to  me  a  singularly  pleas- 
ant thing  to  say  about  anybody.  Were 
I  coveting  praise,  this  is  the  form  I'd 
like  the  praise  to  take. 

The  pressure  of  disparagement,  which 
is  one  result  of  the  cooling  of  our  blood 
after  the  fever-heat  of  war,  is  lowering 
our  enthusiasms,  thinning  our  sym- 
pathies, and  giving  us  nothing  very 
dazzling  in  the  way  of  enlightenment. 
Americans  are  less  critical  than  English- 
men, who  so  value  their  birthright  of 
free  speech  that  censure  of  public  men 
has  become  a  habit,  a  game  of  hazard 
(pulling  planks  out  of  the  ship  of  state), 
at  which  long  practice  has  made  them 
perfect.  'The  editor  of  the  Morning 
Post,'  observes  Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett 
wearily,  'begins  his  day  by  wondering 
whom  he  shall  denounce';  and  opposing 


800 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


editors,  as  nimble  at  the  fray,  match 
outcry  against  outcry,  and  malice 
against  malignity. 

I  doubt  if  any  other  than  an  English- 
man could  have  written  The  Mirrors  of 
Downing  Street,  and  I  am  sure  that, 
were  an  American  able  to  write  such  a 
book  (which  is  problematic),  it  would 
never  occur  to  him  to  think  of  it,  or  to 
brag  of  it,  as  a  duty.  We  grumble  at  our 
high  officials,  and  expect  our  full  share 
of  impossibilities;  but  as  task-masters 
we  are  not  in  it  with  the  British.  The 
difficulties  surmounted  by  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  make  the  labors  of  Hercules  look 
like  a  picnic;  and  to  begrudge  him  an 
hour  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  young 
daughter  and  a  friend,  seems  to  us  like 
begrudging  an  engine-driver  his  sleep. 
There  was  a  time  when  it  was  thought 
that  an  engine-driver  could  sleep  less, 
and  lamentable  results  ensued. 

The  public  actions  of  public  men  are 
open  to  discussion;  but  Mr.  Balfour's 
personal  selfishness,  his  parsimony,  his 
indifference  to  his  domestics,  are  not 
matters  of  general  moment.  To  gossip 
about  these  things  is  to  gossip  with 
tradesmen  and  servants.  To  deny  to 
Lord  Kitchener  'greatness  of  mind, 
greatness  of  character,  and  greatness  of 
heart,'  is  harsh  speaking  of  the  dead; 
but  to  tell  a  gaping  world  that  the 
woman  'whom  he  loved  hungrily  and 
doggedly,  and  to  whom  he  proposed 
several  times,  could  never  bring  herself 
to  marry  him,'  is  a  personality  which 
Town  Topics  would  scorn.  The  Mirrors 
of  Downing  Street  aspires  to  a  moral  pur- 
pose; but  taste  is  the  guardian  of 
morality.  Its  delicate  and  severe  dic- 
tates define  the  terms  upon  which  we 
may  improve  the  world  at  the  expense 
of  our  neighbor's  character. 

The  sneaking  kindness  recommended 
by  Mr.  Stevenson  is  much  harder  to 
come  by  than  the  'raptures  of  moral 
indignation,'  of  which  he  heard  more 
than  he  wanted,  and  which  are  rever- 


berating through  the  world  to-day.  The 
pages  of  history  are  heavy  with  moral 
indignation.  We  teach  it  in  our  schools, 
and  there  are  historians  like  Macaulay 
who  thunder  it  rapturously,  with  never 
a  moment  of  misgiving.  But  here  and 
there,  as  we  step  apprehensively  into 
historic  by-paths,  we  are  cheered  by 
patches  of  sunshine,  straight  glimpses 
into  truths  which  put  a  more  credible, 
because  a  more  merciful,  construction 
upon  men's  actions,  and  lighten  our 
burden  of  dispraise. 

I  have  often  wondered  why,  with 
Philippe  de  Commines  as  an  avenue  of 
approach,  all  writers  except  Scott 
should  deal  with  Louis  the  Eleventh  as 
with  a  moral  monstrosity.  Commines  is 
no  apologist.  He  has  a  natural  desire 
to  speak  well  of  his  master;  but  he  re- 
views every  side  of  Louis's  character 
with  dispassionate  sincerity. 

First,  as  a  Catholic:  'The  king  was 
very  liberal  to  the  Church,  and,  in  some 
respects,  more  so  than  was  necessary, 
for  he  robbed  the  poor  to  give  to  the 
rich.  But  in  this  world  no  one  can  ar- 
rive at  perfection.' 

Next,  as  a  husband:  'As  for  ladies,  he 
never  meddled  with  them  in  my  time; 
for  when  I  came  to  his  court,  he  lost  a 
son,  at  whose  death  he  was  greatly 
afflicted;  and  he  made  a  vow  to  God  in 
my  presence  never  to  have  intercourse 
with  any  other  woman  than  the  queen. 
And  though  this  was  no  more  than  he 
was  bound  to  do  by  the  canons  of  the 
Church,  yet  it  was  much  that  he  should 
have  such  self-command  as  to  persevere 
firmly  in  his  resolution,  considering  that 
the  queen  (though  an  excellent  lady  in 
other  respects)  was  not  a  princess  in 
whom  a  man  could  take  any  great 
delight.' 

Finally,  as  a  ruler:  'The  king  was 
naturally  kind  and  indulgent  to  persons 
of  mean  estate,  and  hostile  to  all  great 
men  who  had  no  need  of  him.  .  .  .  But 
this  I  say  boldly  in  his  commendation, 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


801 


that  in  my  whole  life  I  never  knew  any 
man  so  wise  in  his  misfortunes.' 

To  be  brave  in  misfortune  is  to  be 
worthy  of  manhood ;  to  be  wise  in  mis- 
fortune is  to  conquer  fate.  We  cannot 
easily  or  advantageously  regard  Louis 
with  affection;  but  when  Commines 
epitomizes  history  in  an  ejaculation, 
'Our  good  master,  Louis,  whom  God 
pardon!'  it  rests  our  souls  to  say, 
'Amen!' 

We  cannot  easily  love  Swift.  The 
great  'professional  hater'  frightens  us 
out  of  the  timid  regard  which  we  should 
like  —  in  honor  of  English  literature  — 
to  cherish  for  his  memory.  But  there  is 
a  noble  sentence  of  Thackeray's  which, 
if  it  does  not  soften  our  hearts,  cannot 
fail  to  clarify  our  minds,  to  free  us  from 
the  stupid,  clogging  misapprehension 
which  we  confuse  with  moral  distaste. 
'Through  the  storms  and  tempests  of 
his  [Swift's]  furious  mind  the  stars  of 
religion  and  love  break  out  in  the  blue, 
shining  serenely,  though  hidden  by  the 
driving  clouds  and  maddening  hurri- 
cane of  his  life.'  One  clear  and  pene- 
trating note  ('Childe  Roland  to  the 
Dark  Tower  came ')  is  wrorth  much  care- 
ful auditing  of  accounts. 

The  picture  of  John  Wilkes  drawn  by 
Sir  George  Otto  Trevelyan  in  his  Early 
History  of  Charles  James  Fox,  and  the 
picture  of  Aaron  Burr  drawn  by  Mr. 
Albert  J.  Beveridge  in  his  Life  of  John 
Marshall  are  happy  illustrations  of  un- 
popular subjects  treated  with  illuminat- 
ing kindness.  Wilkes  was  a  demagogue 
and  Burr  a  trouble-maker  (the  terms 
are  not  necessarily  synonymous),  and 
neither  of  them  is  a  man  whose  history 
is  widely  or  accurately  known.  Both 
historians  are  swayed  by  their  political 
passions.  An  historian  without  political 
passions  is  as  rare  as  a  wasp  without  a 
sting.  To  Trevelyan  all  Conservatives 
were  in  fault,  and  all  Liberals  in  the 
right.  Opposition  to  George  the  Third 
is  the  acid  test  he  applies,  to  separate 

VOL.  1&8  —  NO.  8 
D 


gold  from  dross.  Mr.  Beveridge  regards 
the  Federalists  as  the  strength  and  the 
Republicans  as  the  weakness  of  the 
young  nation.  Thomas  Jefferson  is  his 
test,  and  a  man  hated  and  hounded  by 
Jefferson  necessarily  wins  his  support. 

Nevertheless,  Wilkes  and  Burr  are 
presented  to  us  by  their  sympathizers 
in  a  cold  north  light,  which  softens  and 
conceals  nothing.  Men  of  positive 
quality,  they  look  best  when  clearly 
seen.  'Research  and  fact  are  ever  in 
collision  with  fancy  and  legend,'  ob- 
serves Mr.  Beveridge  soberly;  and  it  is 
to  research  and  fact  that  he  trusts,  to 
rescue  his  accomplished  filibuster  from 
those  unproved  charges  which  live  by 
virtue  of  then-  vagueness.  American 
school  histories,  remembering  the  duty 
of  moral  indignation,  have  played  havoc 
with  the  reputation  of  Aaron  Burr;  and 
American  school-children,  if  they  know 
him  at  all,  know  him  as  a  duelist  and  a 
traitor.  They  are  sure  about  the  duel 
(it  was  one  of  the  few  facts  firmly  es- 
tablished in  my  own  mind  after  a  severe 
struggle  with  American  history);  but 
concerning  the  treason,  they  are  at  least 
as  ill  informed  as  their  elders. 

British  children  do  better,  perhaps, 
with  John  Wilkes.  Little  Londoners 
can  gaze  at  the  obelisk  which  com- 
memorates his  mayoralty,  and  think  of 
him  as  a  catless  Whittington.  The  slo- 
gan '  WTilkes  and  Liberty '  has  an  attrac- 
tive ring  to  all  who  are  not  of  Madame 
Roland's  way  of  thinking.  No  man  ever 
gave  his  partisans  more  to  defend,  or 
his  opponents  better  chances  to  attack; 
and  friends  and  foes  rose  repeatedly 
and  fervently  to  their  opportunities.  A 
century  later,  Sir  George  Trevelyan,  a 
friend  well  worth  the  having,  reviews 
the  case  with  wise  sincerity,  undaunted 
confidence,  a  careful  art  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  high  lights,  and  a  niceness 
of  touch  which  wins  half-way  all  readers 
who  love  the  English  language.  Wilkes 
was  as  naturally  and  inevitably  in  debt 


802 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


as  was  William  Godwin,  and  Wilkes's 
debts  were  as  naturally  and  inevitably 
paid  by  someone  else  as  were  Godwin's; 
but  when  Trevelyan  alludes  softly  to 
his  '  unambitious  standard  of  solvency,' 
this  sordid  detail  becomes  unexpectedly 
pleasurable.  So  easily  are  transgressions 
pardoned,  if  they  provoke  the  shadow 
of  a  smile. 

Lord  Rosebery  's  Napoleon:  the  Last 
Phase  is  a  work  nobly  conceived  and 
admirably  executed;  but  its  impelling 
motive  is  an  austere  resolve  to  make 
what  amends  a  single  Englishman  can 
make  for  an  ungenerous  episode  in  Eng- 
lish history.  Its  sympathy  for  a  fallen 
foe  bears  no  likeness  to  the  sympathy 
which  impelled  Theodore  de  Banville, 
broken  in  health  and  hope  by  the  siege 
of  Paris,  to  write  a  lyric  in  memory  of  a 
young  Prussian  officer,  a  mere  boy, 
who  was  found  dead  on  the  field,  with  a 
blood-stained  volume  of  Pindar  in  his 
tunic.  Lord  Rosebery 's  book  is  written 
with  a  proud  sadness,  a  stern  indigna- 
tion, eminently  fitted  to  its  subject;  but 
he  is  not  so  much  kind  as  just.  Napo- 
leon is  too  vast  a  figure  to  be  approached 
with  benevolence.  It  is  true,  as  Mr. 
Wells  asserts,  that,  had  he  been  unself- 
ish and  conscientious,  he  would  never 
have  conquered  Europe;  but  only  Mr. 
Wells  is  prepared  to  say  that  a  lack  of 
these  qualities  won  him  renown.  He 
shares  the  lack  with  Wilhelm  the  Sec- 
ond, who  has  had  neither  an  Austerlitz 
nor  a  Waterloo. 

n 

There  is  a  wide  assortment  of  unpopu- 
lar characters  whose  company  it  would 
be  very  instructive  to  keep.  They  be- 
long to  all  ages,  countries,  and  creeds. 
Spain  alone  offers  us  three  splendid  ex- 
amples —  the  Duke  of  Alva,  Cardinal 
Ximenez,  and  Philip  the  Second.  Alva, 
like  the  Corsair,  possessed  one  virtue, 
which  was  a  more  valuable  virtue  than 
the  Corsair's,  but  brings  him  in  less 


credit,  because  the  object  of  his  un- 
swerving loyalty  and  devotion  was  not 
a  guileless  lady,  but  a  sovereign,  le.ss 
popular,  if  possible,  than  himself. 
Cardinal  Ximenez,  soldier,  statesman, 
scholar,  priest,  ascetic,  author,  and  edu- 
cator, was  also  Grand  Inquisitor,  and 
this  fact  alone  seems  to  linger  in  the 
minds  of  men.  That,  for  his  day,  he 
was  a  moderate,  avails  him  little.  That 
he  made  a  point  of  protecting  scholars 
and  professors  from  the  troublesome 
interference  of  the  Inquisition  ought  to 
avail  him  a  great  deal.  It  might  were  it 
better  known.  There  is  a  play  of  Sar- 
dou  's  in  which  he  is  represented  as  con- 
centrating all  the  deadly  powers  of  his 
office  against  the  knowledge  which  he 
most  esteemed.  This  is  the  way  the 
drama  educates. 

And  Philip?  It  would  be  a  big  piece 
of  work  to  win  for  Philip  even  a  partial 
recognition  of  his  moderate  merits.  The 
hand  of  history  has  dealt  heavily  with 
him,  and  romance  has  preyed  upon  his 
vitals.  In  fact,  history  and  romance  are 
undistinguishable  when  they  give  free 
play  to  the  moral  indignation  he  inspires. 
It  is  not  enough  to  accuse  him  of  the 
murder  of  the  son  whom  he  hated 
(though  not  more  heartily  than  George 
the  Second  hated  the  Prince  of  Wales) : 
they  would  have  us  understand  that  he 
probably  poisoned  the  brother  whom  he 
loved.  '  Don  John 's  ambitions  had  be- 
come troublesome,  and  he  ceased  to 
live  at  an  opportune  moment  for  Phil- 
ip's peace  of  mind,'  is  the  fashion  in 
which  Gayarre  insinuates  his  suspicions; 
and  Gayarre's  narrative  —  very  popu- 
lar in  my  youth  —  was  recommended  to 
the  American  public  by  Bancroft,  who, 
I  am  convinced,  never  read  it.  Had  he 
penetrated  to  the  eleventh  page,  where 
Philip  is  alluded  to  as  the  Christian 
Tiberius,  or  to  the  twentieth,  where  he 
is  compared  to  an  Indian  idol,  he  would 
have  known  that,  whatever  the  book 
might  be,  it  was  not  history,  and  that, 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


803 


as  an  historian,  it  ill  became  him  to  tell 
innocent  Americans  to  read  it. 

But  how  were  they  to  be  better  in- 
formed? Motley  will  not  even  allow 
that  Philip's  fanatical  devotion  to  his 
church  was  a  sincere  devotion.  He  ac- 
cuses him  of  hypocrisy,  which  is  like 
accusing  Cromwell  of  levity,  or  Burke 
of  Jacobinism.  Prescott  has  a  fashion  of 
turning  the  King 's  few  amiabilities,  as, 
for  example,  his  tenderness  for  his  third 
wife,  Isabella  of  France,  into  a  sugges- 
tion of  reproach.  '  Well  would  it  be  for 
the  memory  of  Philip,  could  the  his- 
torian find  no  heavier  sin  to  lay  to  his 
charge  than  his  treatment  of  Isabella.' 
Well  would  it  be  for  all  of  us,  could  the 
recording  angel  lay  no  heavier  charge 
to  our  account  than  our  legitimate  af- 
fections. The  Prince  of  Orange,  it  is 
true,  charged  Philip  with  murdering 
both  wife  and  son ;  but  that  was  merely 
a  political  argument.  He  would  as  soon 
have  charged  him  with  the  murder  of  his 
father,  had  the  Emperor  not  been  safely 
isolated  at  Yuste;  and  Philip,  in  return, 
banned  the  Prince  of  Orange  —  a  brave 
and  wise  ruler  —  as  'an  enemy  of  the 
human  race.' 

Twenty-four  years  ago,  an  English- 
man who  was  by  nature  distrustful  of 
popular  verdicts,  and  who  had  made 
careful  studies  of  certain  epochs  of  Span- 
ish history,  ventured  to  paint  Philip  in 
fresh  colors.  Mr.  Martin  Hume's  mon- 
ograph shows  us  a  cultivated  gentle- 
man, with  a  correct  taste  in  architec- 
ture and  art,  sober,  abstemious,  kind 
to  petitioners,  loyal  and  affectionate  to 
his  friends,  generous  to  his  soldiers  and 
sailors  —  a  man  beloved  by  his  own 
household,  and  reverenced  by  his  sub- 
jects, to  whom  he  brought  nothing 
but  misfortune.  The  book  makes  mel- 
ancholy reading  because  Philip's  polit- 
ical sins  were  also  political  blunders, 
his  mad  intolerance  was  a  distor- 
tion, rather  than  a  rejection,  of  con- 
science, and  his  inconceivable  rigidity 


left  him  helpless  to  face  the  essential  re- 
adjustments of  life.  'I  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  I  have  done,'  he  said 
with  piercing  sincerity,  'though  the 
world  should  fall  in  ruins  around  me.' 

Now  what  befell  Mr.  Hume,  who 
wrote  history  in  this  fashion,  with  no 
more  liking  for  Philip  than  for  Eliza- 
beth or  the  Prince  of  Orange,  but  with 
a  natural  desire  to  get  within  the  pur- 
lieus of  truth?  Certain  empty  honors 
were  conferred  upon  him :  a  degree  from 
Cambridge,  membership  in  a  few  socie- 
ties, the  privilege  of  having  some  letters 
printed  after  his  name.  But  the  Uni- 
versity of  Glasgow  and  the  University 
of  Liverpool  stoutly  refused  to  give  him 
the  chairs  of  history  and  Spanish.  He 
might  know  more  than  most  men  on 
these  subjects,  but  they  did  not  want 
their  students  exposed  to  new  impres- 
sions. The  good  old  way  for  them.  Mr. 
Hume,  being  a  reader,  may  have  re- 
called in  bitterness  of  spirit  the  words 
of  the  acute  and  unemotional  Sully, 
who  had  scant  regard  for  Catholicism 
(though  the  Huguenots  tried  him  sore- 
ly), and  none  at  all  for  Spain;  but  who 
said,-  in  his  balanced,  impersonal  way, 
that  Philip's  finer  qualities,  his  patience, 
piety,  fortitude,  and  single-mindedness, 
were  all  alike  'lost  on  the  vulgar.' 

Lucrezia  Borgia  is  less  available  for 
our  purpose,  because  the  imaginary 
Lucrezia,  though  not  precisely  beloved, 
is  more  popular  in  her  way  than  the  real 
Lucrezia  could  ever  hope  to  be.  '  In  the 
matter  of  pleasantness,'  says  Lucian, 
'truth  is  far  surpassed  by  falsehood'; 
and  never  has  it  been  more  agreeably 
overshadowed  than  in  this  fragment  of 
Italian  history.  We  really  could  not 
bear  to  lose  the  Lucrezia  of  romance. 
She  has  done  fatigue  duty  along  every 
line  of  iniquity.  She  has  specialized  in 
all  of  the  seven  deadly  sins.  On  Rosset- 
ti's  canvas,  in  Donizetti's  opera,  in  Vic- 
tor Hugo's  play,  in  countless  poems 
and  stories  and  novels,  she  has  erred 


804 


STRAYED  SYMPATHIES 


exhaustively  for  our  entertainment. 
The  idea  of  an  attractive  young  woman 
poisoning  her  supper  guests  is  one  which 
the  world  will  not  lightly  let  go. 

And  what  is  offered  in  return?  On- 
ly  the  dull  statements  of  people  who 
chanced  to  know  the  lady,  and  who 
considered  her  a  model  wife  and  duch- 
ess, a  little  over-anxious  about  the  edu- 
cation of  her  numerous  children,  but 
kind  to  the  poor,  generous  to  artists, 
and  pitiful  to  Jews.  'She  is  graceful, 
modest,  lovable,  decorous,  and  devout/ 
wrote  Johannes  Lucas  from  Rome  to 
Ercole,  the  old  Duke  of  Ferrara.  'She 
is  beautiful  and  good,  gentle  and  ami- 
able,' echoed  the  Chevalier  Bayard  years 
later.  Were  we  less  avid  for  thrills,  we 
might  like  to  think  of  this  young  crea- 
ture, snatched  at  twenty-one  from  the 
maelstrom  of  Rome,  where  she  had  been 
ka  pawn  in  the  game  of  politics,  and 
placed  in  a  secure  and  splendid  home. 
The  Lucrezia  of  romance  would  have 
found-  the  court  of  Ferrara  intolerably 
dull.  The  Lucrezia  of  history  took  to 
dullness  as  a  duck  to  water.  She  was  a 
sensible,  rather  than  a  brilliant  woman, 
fully  alive  to  the  duties  arid  dignities  of 
her  position,  and  well  aware  that  re- 
spectability is  a  strong  card  to  play  in 
a  vastly  disreputable  world. 

There  was  a  time  when  Robespierre 
and  Marat  made  a  high  bid  for  unpopu- 
larity. Even  those  who  clearly  under- 
stood the  rehabilitation  of  man  in  the 
French  Revolution  found  little  to  say 
for  its  chosen  instruments,  whose  pur- 
poses were  high,  but  whose  methods 
were  open  to  reproach.  Of  late,  how- 
ever, a  certain  weariness  has  been  ob- 
servable in  men's  minds  when  these  re- 
formers are  in  question,  a  reluctance  to 
expand  with  any  emotion  where  they 
are  concerned.  M.  Lauzanne  is,  indeed, 
by  way  of  thinking  that  the  elemental 
Clemenceau  closely  resembles  the  ele- 
mental Robespierre;  but  this  is  not  a  se- 
xious  valuation;  it  is  letting  picturesque- 


ness  run  away  with  reason  —  a  habit  in- 
cidental to  editorship. 

The  thoroughly  modern  point  of  view 
is  that  Robespierre  and  Marat  were  in- 
effective —  not  without  ability  in  their 
respective  lines,  but  unfitted  for  the 
parts  they  played.  Marat's  turn  of 
mind  was  scientific  (our  own  Benjamin 
Franklin  found  him  full  of  promise). 
Robespierre's  turn  of  mind  was  legal; 
he  would  have  made  an  acute  and  suc- 
cessful lawyer.  The  Revolution  came 
along  and  ruined  both  these  lives,  for 
which  we  are  expected  to  be  sorry.  M. 
Lauzanne  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  the  great  war  ruined  Clemenceau's 
life.  The  'Tiger'  was  seventy-three 
when  the  Germans  marched  into  Bel- 
gium. Had  he  been  content  to  spend 
all  his  years  teaching  in  a  girls'  school, 
he  might  (though  I  am  none  too  sure 
of  it)  have  been  a  gentler  and  a  better 
man.  But  France  was  surely  worth 
the  price  he  paid.  A  lifeboat  is  not  ex- 
pected to  have  the  graceful  lines  of  a 
gondola. 

'Almost  everybody,'  says  Stevenson, 
'can  understand  and  sympathize  with 
an  admiral,  or  a  prize-fighter';  which 
genial  sentiment  is  less  contagious  now 
than  when  it  was  jittered,  thirty  years 
ago.  A  new  type  of  admiral  has  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  troubled  conscious- 
ness of  men,  a  type  unknown  to  Nelson, 
unsuspected  by  Farragut,  unsung  by 
Newbolt.  In  robbing  the  word  of  its 
ancient  glory,  Tirpitz  has  robbed  us  of 
an  emotion  we  can  ill  afford  to  lose. 
'The  traditions  of  sailors,'  says  Mr. 
Shane  Leslie,  '  have  been  untouched  by 
the  lowering  of  ideals  which  has  invaded 
every  other  class  and  profession.'  The 
truth  of  his  words  was  brought  home  to 
readers  by  the  behavior  of  the  British 
merchant  marine,  peaceful,  poorly  paid 
men,  who  in  the  years  of  peril  went  out 
unflinchingly,  and  as  a  matter  of  course, 
to  meet  'their  duty  and  their  death.' 
Manj  and  varied  are  the  transgressions 


SOLILOQUY   FOR  A   THIRD   ACT 


805 


of  seafaring  men;  but  we  have  hitherto 
been  able  to  believe  them  sound  in  their 
nobler  parts.  We  should  like  to  cherish 
this  simple  faith,  and,  though  alienated 
from  prize-fighters  by  the  narrowness  of 
our  civic  and  social  code,  to  retain  our 
sympathy  for  admirals.  It  cannot  be 
that  their  fair  fame  will  be  forever 
smirched  by  the  tactics  of  a  man  who 
ruined  the  government  he  served. 

The  function  of  criticism  is  presum- 
ably to  clear  our  mental  horizon,  to  get 
us  within  close  range  of  the  criticized. 
It  recognizes  moral  as  well  as  intellect- 
ual issues;  but  it  differentiates  them. 
When  Emerson  said, '  Goethe  can  never 
be  dear  to  men.  His  is  not  even  the  de- 
votion to  pure  truth,  but  to  truth  for 
the  sake  of  culture,'  he  implied  that 
truth,  besides  being  a  better  thing  than 
culture,  was  also  a  more  lovable  thing, 
which  is  not  the  case.  It  takes  temerity 
to  love  Goethe;  but  there  are  always 
men — young,  keen,  speculative,  beauty- 
loving  men,  —  to  whom  he  is  inexpres- 
sibly dear  because  of  the  vistas  he  opens, 
the  thoughts  he  releases,  the  'inward 


freedom '  which  is  all  he  claimed  to  give. 
It  takes  no  less  temerity  to  love  Emer- 
son, and  he  meant  that  it  should  be  so, 
that  we  should  climb  high  to  reach  him. 
He  is  not  lovable  as  Lamb  is  lovable, 
and  he  would  not  have  wanted  to  be. 
A  man  who  all  his  life  repelled  unwel- 
come intimacies  had  no  desire  to  sur- 
render his  memory  to  the  affection  of 
every  idle  reader. 

It  is  such  a  sure  thing  to  appeal  from 
intelligence  to  conscience,  from  the  trou- 
ble involved  in  understanding  to  the 
ease  with  which  judgment  is  passed, 
that  critics  may  be  pardoned  their  fre- 
quent transcursions.  Yet  problems  of 
conduct  are  just  as  puzzling  as  prob- 
lems of  intellect.  That  is  why  Mr. 
Stevenson  pronounced  a  sneaking  kind- 
ness to  be  '  instructive.'  He  offered  it  as 
a  road  to  knowledge  rather  than  as  a 
means  of  enjoyment.  Not  that  he  was 
unaware  of  the  pleasures  which  follow 
in  its  wake.  He  knew  the  world  up  and 
down  well  enough  to  be  thankful  that 
he  had  never  lost  his  taste  for  bad 
company. 


SOLILOQUY  FOR  A  THIRD  ACT 


BY  CHKISTOPHER  MORLEY 


WHAT  is  this  sullen  curious  interval 

Between  the  happy  Thought,  the  languid  Act? 

What  is  this  dull  paralysis  of  Will 

That  lets  the  fatal  days  drift  by  like  dreams? 

Of  the  mind's  dozing  splendors  what  remains? 

What  is  this  Now  I  utter  to  you  here? 

This  Now,  for  great  men  dead,  is  golden  Future; 
For  happier  souls  to  come,  conjectured  Past. 


806  SOLILOQUY   FOR  A   THIRD   ACT 

Men  love  and  praise  the  Past  —  the  only  thing 

In  all  the  great  commodity  of  life 

That  grows  and  grows,  shining  and  heaping  up 

And  endlessly  compounds  beneath  their  hands: 

Richer  we  are  in  Time  with  every  hour, 

But  in  nought  else.  —  The  Past!  I  love  the  Past  — 

Stand  off,  O  Future,  keep  away  from  me! 

Yet  some  there  are,  great  thoughtless  active  souls, 

Can  use  the  volvant  circle  of  the  year 

Like  a  child's  hoop,  and  flog  it  gleefully 

Along  the  downward  slope  of  busy  days; 

But  some,  less  lucky. 

What  wretch  invented  Time  and  calendars 

To  torture  his  weak  wits,  to  probe  himself 

As  a  man  tongues  a  tender  concave  tooth? 

See,  all  men  bear  this  secret  cicatrix, 

This  navel  mark  where  we  were  ligatured 

To  great  Eternity;  and  so  they  have 

This  knot  of  Time-sense  in  their  angry  hearts. 

So  must  I  die,  and  pass  to  Timeless  nothing? 
It  will  not,  shall  not,  cannot,  must  not  be! 
I  '11  print  such  absolute  identity 
Upon  these  troubled  words,  that  finding  them 
In  some  old  broken  book  (long,  long  away), 
The  startled  reader  cries,  Here  was  a' Voice 
That  had  a  meaning,  and  outrode  the  years! 


SEQUELS 


BY  WILLIAM  BEEBE 


TROPICAL  midges  of  sorts  live  less 
than  a  day  —  sequoias  have  felt  their 
sap  quicken  with  the  warmth  of  three 
thousand  springs.  Somewhere  between 
these  extremes,  we  open  our  eyes,  look 
about  us  for  a  time,  and  close  them 
again.  Modern  political  geography  and 
shift  of  government  give  us  Methusa- 
listic  feelings;  but  a  glance  at  rocks  or 
stars  sends  us  shuddering  among  the 
other  motes,  which  glisten  for  a  moment 
in  the  sunlight  and  then  vanish. 

We  who  strive  for  a  little  insight  into 
evolution,  and  the  meaning  of  things  as 
they  are,  forever  long  for  a  glimpse  of 
things  as  they  were.  Here  at  my  British 
Guiana  laboratory  I  wonder  what  the 
land  was  like  before  the  dense  mat  of 
vegetation  covered  every  rock  and  grain 
of  sand;  or  how  the  rivers  looked  when 
first  their  waters  trickled  to  the  sea. 

All  our  stories  are  of  the  middles  of 
things  —  without  beginning  or  end;  we 
scientists  are  plunged  suddenly  upon  a 
cosmos  in  the  full  uproar  of  aeons  of 
precedent,  unable  to  look  ahead,  while 
to  look  backward  we  must  look  down. 

Exactly  a  year  ago  I  spent  two  hours 
in  a  clearing  hi  the  jungle  back  of  Kar- 
tabo  laboratory,  and  let  my  eyes  and 
ears  have  full  swing.1  Now,  in  August 
of  the  succeeding  year,  I  came  again  to 
this  clearing,  and  found  it  no  more  a 
clearing.  Indeed,  so  changed  was  it, 
that  for  weeks  I  had  passed  close  by 
without  a  thought  of  the  jungle  meadow 

1See  'A  Jungle  Clearing,'  in  the  Atlantic  for 
January,  1920. 


of  the  previous  year;  and  now  what 
finally  turned  me  aside  from  my  usual 
trail  was  a  sound.  Twelve  months  ago 
I  wrote:  'From  the  monotone  of  under- 
wrorld  sounds  a  strange  little  rasping 
detached  itself,  a  reiterated,  subdued 
scraping  or  picking.  It  carried  my 
mind  instantly  to  the  throbbing  theme 
of  the  Nibelungs,  onomatopoetic  of 
the  little  hammers  forever  busy  at  their 
underground  work.  I  circled  a  small 
bush  at  my  side,  and  found  that  the 
sound  came  from  one  of  the  branches 
near  the  top;  so  with  my  glasses  I  be- 
gan a  systematic  search.'  This  was  as 
far  as  I  ever  got;  for  a  flock  of  parra- 
keets  exploded  close  at  hand  and  blew 
the  lesser  sound  out  of  mind.  If  I  had 
stopped  to  guess,  I  should  probably 
have  considered  the  author  a  longicorn 
beetle  or  some  fiddling  orthopter. 

Now,  a  year  later,  I  suddenly  stopped 
twenty  yards  away;  for  at  the  end  of 
the  silvery  cadence  of  a  wood-hewer, 
I  heard  the  low,  measured,  toneless 
rhythm  which  instantly  revived  in  my 
mind  every  detail  of  the  clearing.  I  was 
headed  toward  a  distant  palm-frond, 
beneath  whose  tip  was  a  nest  of  Rufous 
Hermits;  for  I  wished  to  see  the  two 
atoms  of  hummingbirds  at  the  moment 
when  they  rolled  from  their  petit-pois 
egg-shells.  I  gave  this  up  for  the  day, 
and  turned  up  the  hill,  where,  fifty  feet 
away,  were  the  stump  and  bush  near 
which  I  had  sat  and  watched.  Three 
times  I  went  past  the  place  before  I 
could  be  certain;  and  even  at  the  last  I 

807 


808 


SEQUELS 


identified  it  only  by  the  relative  posi- 
tion of  the  giant  tauroneero  tree,  in 
which  I  had  shot  many  cotingas.  The 
stump  was  there,  a  bit  lower  and  more 
worn  at  the  crevices,  leaking  sawdust 
like  an  over-loved  doll;  but  the  low 
shrub  had  become  a  tall  sapling,  the 
weeds  —  vervain,  boneset,  velvet-leaf 
—  all  had  been  topped  and  killed  off  by 
dense-foliaged  bushes  and  shrubs,  which 
a  year  before  had  not  raised  a  leaf  above 
the  meadow-level.  The  old  vistas  were 
gone,  the  landscape  had  closed  in,  the 
wilderness  was  shutting  down.  Nature 
herself  was '  letting  in  the  jungle.'  I  felt 
like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  or  even  more 
alien,  as  if  the  passing  of  time  had  been 
accelerated  and  my  longed-for  leap  had 
been  accomplished,  beyond  the  usual 
ken  of  mankind's  earthly  lease  of  senses. 
All  these  astounding  changes  had 
come  to  pass  through  the  unceasing 
heat  and  moisture  of  a  tropical  year; 
and  under  deliberate  scientific  calcula- 
tion there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the 
alteration.  I  remembered  the  remark- 
able growth  of  one  of  the  laboratory 
bamboo  shoots  during  the  rainy  season 

—  twelve  and  a  half  feet  in  sixteen  days; 
but  that  was  a  single  stem,  like  a  blade 
of  grass,  whereas  here  the  whole  land- 
scape was  altered  —  new  birds,  new  in- 
sects, branches,  foliage,  flowers,  where, 
twelve  short  months  past,  was  open  sky 
above  low  weeds. 

In  the  hollow  root  on  the  beach,  my 
band  of  crane-flies  had  danced  for  a 
thousand  hours;  but  here  was  a  sound 
which  had  apparently  never  ceased  for 
more  than  a  year  —  perhaps  five  thou- 
sand hours  of  daylight.  It  was  a  low, 
penetrating,  abruptly  reiterated  beat, 
occurring  about  once  every  second  and 
a  half,  and  distinctly  audible  a  hundred 
feet  away.  The  'low  bush,'  from  which 
it  proceeded  last  year,  was  now  a  re- 
spectable sapling,  and  the  source  far  out 
of  reach  overhead.  I  discovered  a  round- 
ish mass  among  the  leaves;  and  the 


first  stroke  of  the  axe  sent  the  rhythm 
up  to  once  a  second,  but  did  not  alter 
the  timbre.  A  few  blows,  and  the  small 
trunk  gave  way,  and  I  fled  for  my  life. 
But  there  was  no  angry  buzzing,  and  I 
came  close.  After  a  cessation  of  ten  or 
fifteen  seconds  the  sound  began  again, 
weaker  but  steady.  The  foliage  was 
alive  with  small  Axteca  ants;  but  these 
were  tenants  of  several  small  nests  near 
by  and  at  the  catastrophe  overran 
everything. 

The  largest  structure  was  the  smooth 
carton  nest  of  a  wasp  —  a  beautiful 
species,  pale  yellowish-red  with  wine- 
colored  wings.  Only  once  did  an  indi- 
vidual make  an  attempt  to  sting,  and, 
even  when  my  head  was  within  six 
inches,  the  wasps  rested  quietly  on  the 
broken  combs.  By  careful  watching,  I 
observed  that  many  of  the  insects  jerk- 
ed the  abdomen  sharply  downward, 
hitting  the  comb,  or  shell,  of  smooth 
paper  a  forceful  blow,  and  producing  a 
very  distinct  noise.  I  could  not  at  first 
see  the  mass  of  wasps  that  were  giv- 
ing forth  the  major  rhythm,  as  they  were 
hidden  deep  in  the  nest,  but  the  fifty- 
odd  wasps  in  sight  kept  perfect  time;  or 
occasionally  an  individual  skipped  one 
or  two  beats,  coming  in  regularly  on 
every  alternate  or  every  third  beat. 
Where  they  were  two  or  three  deep,  the 
uppermost  wasps  struck  the  insects  be- 
low them  with  their  abdomens  in  per- 
fect rhythm  with  the  next  beat.  For 
half  an  hour  the  sound  continued,  then 
died  down,  and  was  not  heard  again. 
The  wasps  dispersed  during  the  night, 
and  the  nest  was  deserted. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  telegraphing 
ants,  which  I  have  often  heard  in 
Borneo  —  a  remarkable  sweeping  roll, 
caused  by  the  host  of  insects  striking 
the  leaves  with  their  heads,  and  pro- 
duced only  when  they  are  disturbed.  It 
appeared  to  be  of  the  nature  of  a  warn- 
ing signal,  giving  me  opportunity  to 
back  away  from  the  stinging  legions 


SEQUELS 


809 


that  filled  the  thicket  against  which  I 
pushed. 

The  rhythm  of  these  wasps  was  very 
different.  They  were  peaceable,  not 
even  resenting  the  devastation  of  their 
home;  but  always  and  always  must  the 
inexplicable  beat,  beat,  beat  be  kept 
up,  serving  some  purpose  quite  hidden 
from  me.  During  succeeding  months 
I  found  two  more  nests,  with  similar 
habits  of  sound-vibrations  that  led  to 
their  discovery.  From  one  small  nest, 
which  fairly  shook  with  the  strength  of 
their  beats,  I  extracted  a  single  wasp 
and  placed  him  in  a  glass-topped 
metal  box.  For  three  minutes  he  kept 
up  the  rhythmic  beat.  Then  I  began 
a  more  rapid  tattoo  on  the  bottom  of 
the  box,  and  the  changed  tempo  con- 
fused him,  so  that  he  stopped  at  once, 
and  would  not  tap  again. 

A  few  little  Mazaruni  daisies  lived 
on  here  and  there,  blossoming  bravely, 
trying  to  believe  that  the  shade  was 
lessening  and  not  daily  becoming  more 
dense.  But  their  leaves  were  losing 
heart  and  paling  in  the  scant  light.  An- 
other six  months,  and  dead  leaves  and 
moss  would  obliterate  them,  and  the 
zone  of  brilliant  flowers  and  gorgeous 
butterflies  and  birds  would  shift  many 
feet  into  the  air,  with  the  tops  of  the 
trees  as  a  new  level. 

As  long  as  I  remained  by  my  stump, 
my  visitors  were  of  the  jungle.  A 
yellow-bellied  trogon  came  quite  close, 
and  sat,  as  trogons  do,  very  straight 
and  stiff,  like  a  poorly  mounted  bird, 
watching  passing  flycatchers  and  me 
and  the  glimpses  of  sky.  At  first  he 
rolled  his  little  cuckoo-like  notes,  and 
his  brown  mate  swooped  up,  saw  me, 
shifted  a  few  feet  farther  off,  and  perch- 
ed, full  of  curiosity,  craning  her  neck 
and  looking  first  with  one  eye,  then  the 
other.  Now  the  male  began  a  content 
song.  With  all  possible  variations  of 
his  few  and  simple  tones,  on  a  low  and 
very  sweet  timbre,  he  belied  his  un- 


oscine  perch  in  the  tree  of  bird-life  and 
sang  to  himself.  Now  and  then  he  was 
drowned  out  by  the  shrilling  of  cicadas ; 
but  it  was  a  delightful  serenade,  and  he 
seemed  to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  I  did.  A 
few  days  before,  I  had  made  a  careful 
study  of  the  syrinx  of  this  bird,  whom 
we  may  call,  rather  euphoniously,  Tro- 
gonurus  curucui,  and  had  been  struck 
by  the  simplicity  of  both  muscles  and 
bones.  Now,  he  having  summoned  his 
mate  in  regular  accents,  there  followed 
this  unexpected  whisper  song.  It  re- 
called similar  melodies  sung  by  pheas- 
ants and  Himalayan  partridges,  usually 
after  they  had  gone  to  roost. 

Once  the  female  swooped  after  an 
insect;  and  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the 
sweetest  passages  of  the  male  trogon,  a 
green  grasshopper  shifted  his  position. 
He  was  only  two  inches  away  from  the 
singer,  and  all  this  time  had  been  hidden 
by  his  chlorophyll-hued  veil.  And  now 
the  trogon  fairly  fell  off  the  branch, 
seizing  the  insect  almost  before  the 
tone  died  away.  Swallowing  it  with 
considerable  difficulty,  the  harmony 
was  taken  up  again,  a  bit  throaty  for 
a  few  notes.  Then  the  pair  talked  to- 
gether hi  usual  trogon  fashion,  and  the 
sudden  shadow  of  a  passing  vulture 
drew  forth  discordant  cat-calls,  as  both 
birds  dashed  from  sight,  to  avoid  the 
fancied  hawk. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  vocal  seal  of 
the  jungle  was  uttered  by  a  quadrille 
bird.  When  the  notes  of  this  wren  are 
heard,  I  can  never  imagine  open  blaz- 
ing sunshine,  or  unobstructed  blue  sky. 
Like  the  call  of  the  wood  pewee,  the 
wren's  radiates  coolness  and  shadowy 
quiet.  No  matter  how  tropic  or  breath- 
less the  jungle,  when  the  flute-like  notes 
arise,  they  bring  a  feeling  of  freshness, 
they  start  up  a  mental  breeze,  which 
cools  one 's  thoughts ;  and  although  there 
may  be  no  water  for  miles,  yet  we  can 
fairly  hear  the  drip  of  cool  drops  falling 
from  thick  moss  to  pools  below.  First 


810 


SEQUELS 


an  octave  of  two  notes  of  purest  silver; 
then  a  varying  strain  of  eight  or  ten 
notes,  so  sweet  and  powerful,  so  indi- 
vidual and  meaningful,  that  it  might 
stand  for  some  wonderful  motif  in  a 
great  opera.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  was 
deaf  to  all  other  sounds  while  the  wren 
sang.  And  as  it  dwelt  on  the  last  note  of 
its  phrase,  a  cicada  took  it  up  on  the 
exact  tone,  and  blended  the  two  final 
notes  into  a  slow  vibration,  beginning 
gently,  and  rising  with  the  crescendo  of 
which  only  an  insect,  and  especially  a 
cicada,  is  master. 

Here  was  the  eternal,  hypnotic  tom- 
tom rhythm  of  the  East,  grafted  upon 
supreme  Western  opera.  For  a  time  my 
changed  clearing  became  merely  a 
sounding-box  for  the  most  thrilling  of 
jungle  songs.  I  called  the  wren  as  well 
as  I  could,  and  he  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  The  music  rang  out  only  a  few 
yards  away.  Then  he  became  suspi- 
cious, and  after  that  each  phrase  was 
prefaced  by  typical  wren-scolding.  He 
could  not  help  but  voice  his  emotions, 
and  the  harsh  notes  told  plainly  what 
he  thought  of  my  poor  imitation.  Then 
another  feeling  would  dominate,  and 
out  of  the  maelstrom  of  harshness,  of 
tumbled,  volcanic  vocalization,  would 
rise  the  pure  silver  stream  of  single  notes. 

HI 

The  wren  slipped  away  through  the 
masses  of  fragrant  Davilla  blossoms, 
but  his  songs  remained  and  are  with  me 
to  this  moment.  And  now  I  leaned 
back,  lost  my  balance,  and  grasping 
the  old  stump  for  support,  loosened  a 
big  piece  of  soft,  mealy  wood.  In  the 
hollow  beneath,  I  saw  a  rainbow  in  the 
heart  of  the  dead  tree. 

This  rainbow  was  caused  by  a  bug; 
and  when  we  stop  to  think  of  it,  we 
realize  how  little  there  is  in  a  name. 
For  when  we  say  bug,  —  or,  for  that 
matter,  bogy  or  bug-bear,  —  we  are 


garbling  the  sound  which  our  very, 
very  forefathers  uttered  when  they  saw 
a  spectre  or  hobgoblin.  They  called  it 
bugge,  or  even  bwg;  but  then,  they  were 
more  afraid  of  spectres  in  those  days 
than  we  are,  who  imprison  will-o'-the- 
wisps  in  Very  lights,  and  rub  fox-fire  on 
our  watch-faces.  At  any  rate,  here  was  a 
bug  who  seemed  to  ill-deserve  his  name; 
although,  if  the  Nibelungs  could  fash- 
ion the  Rheingold,  why  could  not  a  bug 
conceive  a  rainbow? 

Whenever  a  human,  and  especially 
a  house-human,  thinks  of  bugs,  she 
thinks  unpleasantly  and  in  superlatives. 
And  it  chances  that  evolution,  or  nat- 
ural selection,  or  life's  mechanism,  or 
fate,  or  a  creator,  has  wrought  them 
into  form  and  function  also  in  superla- 
tives. Cicadas  are  supreme  in  longevity 
and  noise :  one  of  our  northern  species 
sucks  in  silent  darkness  for  seventeen 
years,  and  then,  for  a  single  summer, 
breaks  all  American  long-distance  rec- 
ords for  insect's  voices.  To  another 
group,  known  as  Fulgorids,  gigantic 
heads  and  streamers  of  wax  have  been 
allotted.  Those  possessing  the  former 
rejoice  in  the  name  of  lantern  flies,  but 
they  are  at  present  unfaithful-vestal 
bugs;  indeed,  it  is  extremely  doubtful  if 
their  wicks  were  ever  trimmed  or  light- 
ed. To  see  a  big  wax-bug  flying  with 
trailing  ribbons  slowly  from  tree  to  tree 
in  the  jungle  is  to  recall  the  streaming 
trains  of  a  flock  of  peacocks  on  the  wing. 

The  Membracids  most  of  all  deserve 
the  name  of  bugges,  for  no  elf  or  hobgob- 
lin was  ever  more  bizarre.  Their  legs 
and  heads  and  bodies  are  small  and 
aphid-like;  but  aloft  there  spring  mina- 
rets and  handles  and  towers  and  thorns 
and  groups  of  hairy  balls,  out  of  all 
reason  and  sense.  Only  Stegosaurus 
and  Triceratops  bear  comparison.  An- 
other group  of  five-sided  bugs  are  the 
skunks  and  civet-cats  among  insects, 
guarding  themselves  from  danger  by  an 
aura  of  obnoxious  distillation. 


SEQUELS 


811 


Not  the  least  strange  of  all  this  as- 
semblage is  the  author  of  our  rainbow 
in  the  stump.  My  awkwardness  had 
broken  into  a  hollow,  which  opened  to 
the  light  on  the  other  side  of  the  rotten 
bole.  A  vine  had  tendriled  its  way  into 
the  crevice,  where  the  little  weaver  of 
rainbows  had  found  board  and  lodging. 
We  may  call  him  toad-hopper  or  spittle- 
bug — or,  as  Fabre  says,  'Conten tons- 
nous  de  Cicadelle,  qui  respecte  le 
tympan.'  Like  all  its  kindred,  the 
bubble-bug  finds  Nirvana  in  a  sappy 
green  stem.  It  has  neither  strong  flight 
nor  sticky  wax,  thorny  armature  nor 
gas-barrage,  so  it  proceeds  to  weave  an 
armor  of  bubbles,  a  cuirass  of  liquid 
film.  This,  in  brief,  was  the  rainbow 
which  caught  my  eye  when  I  broke 
open  the  stump.  Up  to  that  moment  no 
rainbow  had  existed  —  only  a  little 
light  sifting  through  from  the  vine-clad 
side.  But  now  a  ray  of  sun  shattered 
itself  on  the  pile  of  bubbles,  and  sprayed 
out  into  a  curved  glory. 

Bubble-bugs  blow  their  froth  only 
when  immature,  and  their  bodies  are  a 
distillery,  or  home-brew,  of  sorts.  No 
matter  what  the  color,  or  viscosity,  or 
chemical  properties  of  sap,  regardless  of 
whether  it  flows  in  liana,  shrub,  or  vine, 
the  bug's  artesian  product  is  clear, 
tasteless,  and  wholly  without  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  blown  into  bubbles. 
When  a  large  drop  has  collected,  the 
tip  of  the  abdomen  encloses  a  retort  of 
air,  inserts  this  in  the  drop,  and  forces 
it  out.  In  some  way  an  imponderable 
amount  of  oil  or  dissolved  wax  is  ex- 
truded and  mixed  with  the  drop  —  an 
invisible  shellac,  which  toughens  the 
bubble  and  gives  it  an  astounding  glu- 
tinous endurance.  As  long  as  the  abdom- 
inal air-pump  can  be  extended  into  the 
atmosphere,  so  long  does  the  pile  of  bub- 
bles grow  until  the  insect  is  deep  buried, 
and  to  penetrate  this  is  as  unpleasant 
an  achievement  for  small  marauders 
as  to  force  a  cobweb  entanglement. 


I  have  draped  a  big  pile  of  bubbles 
around  the  beak  of  an  insect-eating 
bird,  and  watched  it  shake  its  head  and 
wipe  its  beak  in  evident  disgust  at  the 
clinging  oily  films.  In  the  north  we 
have  the  bits  of  fine  white  foam  which 
we  characteristically  call  frog-spittle; 
but  these  tropic  relatives  have  bigger 
bellows,  and  their  covering  is  like  the 
interfering  mass  of  film  that  emerges 
from  the  soap-bubble  bowl  when  a  pipe 
is  thrust  beneath  the  surface  and  that 
delicious  gurgling  sound  is  produced. 

The  most  marvelous  part  of  the 
whole  thing  is  that  the  undistilled  well 
that  the  bubble-bug  taps  would  often 
overwhelm  it  in  an  instant,  either  by 
the  burning  acidity  of  its  composition, 
or  by  the  rubber  coating  of  death  into 
which  it  hardens  in  the  air.  Yet  from 
this  current  of  lava  or  vitriol  our  bug 
does  three  wonderful  things:  it  distills 
sweet  water  for  its  present  protective 
cell  of  bubbles;  it  draws  purest  nourish- 
ment for  continual  energy  to  run  its 
bellows  and  pump;  and  simultaneously 
it  fills  its  blood  and  tissues  with  a  pun- 
gent flavor,  which  in  the  future  will  be 
a  safeguard  against  the  attacks  of  birds 
and  lizards.  Little  by  little  its  wings 
swell  to  full  spread  and  strength;  mus- 
cles are  fashioned  in  its  hind-legs,  which, 
in  time,  will  shoot  it  through  great  dis- 
tances of  space;  and  pigment  of  the  most 
brilliant  yellow  and  black  forms  on  its 
wing-covers.  When,  at  last,  it  shuts 
down  its  little  still  and  creeps  forth 
through  the  filmy  veil,  it  is  immature 
no  longer,  but  a  brilliant  frog-hopper, 
sitting  on  the  most  conspicuous  leaves, 
trusting,  by  pigmental  warning,  to  ad- 
vertise its  inedibility,  and  watchful  for 
a  mate,  so  that  the  future  may  hold  no 
dearth  of  bubble-bugs. 

IV 

On  my  first  tramp  each  season  in  the 
tropical  jungle,  I  see  the  legionary  army 


812 


SEQUELS 


ants  hastening  on  their  way  to  battle, 
and  the  leaf-cutters  plodding  along, 
with  chlorophyll  hods  over  their  shoul- 
ders, exactly  as  they  did  last  year,  and 
the  year  preceding,  and  probably  a 
hundred  thousand  years  before  that. 
The  Colony  Egos  of  army  and  leaf-cut- 
ters may  quite  reasonably  be  classified, 
at  least  according  to  kingdom.  The 
former,  with  carnivorous,  voracious, 
nervous,  vitally  active  members,  seems 
an  intangible,  animal-like  organism; 
while  the  stolid,  unemotional,  weather- 
swung  Attas  resemble  the  flowing  sap 
of  the  food  on  which  they  subsist  — 
vegetable. 

Yet,  whatever  the  simile,  in  the  case 
of  both  of  these  colonies  of  ants,  the  net 
of  unconscious  precedent  is  too  closely 
drawn,  the  mesh  of  instinct  is  too  fine, 
to  hope  for  any  initiative.  This  was 
manifested  by  the  most  significant  and 
spectacular  occurrence  I  have  ever  ob- 
served in  the  world  of  insects.  Some  two 
years  or  more  ago  I  studied,  and  reported 
upon,  a  nest  of  Ecitons,  or  Army  Ants.1 
Eighteen  months  later,  apparently  the 
same  army  appeared  and  made  a  sim- 
ilar nest  of  their  own  bodies,  in  the 
identical  spot  above  the  door  of  the  out- 
house, where  I  had  found  them  before. 
Again  we  had  to  break  up  the  tempo- 
rary resting-place  of  these  nomads,  and 
killed  about  three  quarters  of  the  colony 
with  various  deadly  chemicals. 

In  spite  of  the  tremendous  slaughter, 
the  Ecitons,  in  late  afternoon,  raided 
a  small  colony  of  Wasps-of-the-Paint- 
ed-Nest.  These  little  chaps  construct 
a  round,  sub-leaf  carton-home,  as  large 
as  a  golf-ball,  which  carries  out  all  the 
requirements  of  counter-shading  and 
ruptive  markings.  The  flattened,  shad- 
owed under-surface  was  white,  and 
most  of  the  sloping  walls  dark  brown, 
down  which  extended  eight  white  lines, 
following  the  veins  of  the  leaf  overhead. 
The  side  close  to  the  stem  of  the  leaf, 
1  See  the  Atlantic  for  October,  1919. 


and  consequently  always  in  deep  shad- 
ow, was  pure  white.  The  eaves,  catch- 
ing high  lights,  were  black. 

All  this  marvelous  merging  with 
leaf-tones  went  for  naught  when  once 
an  advance  Eciton  scout  located  the 
nest.  As  the  deadly  mob  approached, 
the  wasplets  themselves  seemed  to 
realize  the  futility  of  offering  battle, 
and  the  entire  colony  of  forty-four 
gathered  in  a  forlorn  group  on  a  neigh- 
boring leaf,  while  their  little  castle  was 
rifled  —  larvae  and  pupae  torn  from 
their  cells,  and  rushed  down  the  stems 
to  the  chaos  that  was  raging  in  the 
Ecitons'  own  home.  The  wasps  could 
guard  against  optical  discovery,  but 
the  blind  Army  Ants  had  senses  which 
transcended  vision,  if  not  even  scent. 

Late  that  night,  our  lanterns  showed 
the  remnants  of  the  Eciton  army  wan- 
dering aimlessly  about,  making  near 
approach  impossible,  but  apparently 
lacking  any  definite  concerted  action. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  was 
starting  for  a  swim,  when,  at  the  foot 
of  the  laboratory  steps,  I  saw  a  swiftly 
moving,  broad  line  of  Army  Ants  on 
safari,  passing  through  the  compound 
to  the  beach.  I  traced  them  back  un- 
der the  servants'  quarters,  through  two 
clumps  of  bamboos,  to  the  out-house. 
Later,  I  followed  along  the  column 
down  to  the  river  sand,  through  a  dense 
mass  of  underbrush,  through  a  hollow 
log,  up  the  bank,  back  through  light 
jungle  —  to  the  out-house  again;  and 
on  a  large  fallen  log,  a  few  feet  be- 
yond the  spot  where  their  nest  had  been, 
the  ends  of  the  circle  actually  came  to- 
gether. It  was  the  most  astonishing 
thing,  and  I  had  to  verify  it  again  and 
again  before  I  could  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  my  eyes.  It  was  a  strong 
column,  six  lines  wide  in  many  places, 
and  the  ants  fully  believed  that  they 
were  on  their  way  to  a  new  home;  for 
most  were  carrying  eggs  or  larvae,  al- 
though many  had  food,  including  the 


SEQUELS 


813 


larvse  of  the  Painted-Nest  wasplets. 
For  an  hour  at  noon,  during  heavy 
rain,  the  column  weakened  and  almost 
disappeared;  but  when  the  sun  return- 
ed, the  lines  rejoined,  and  the  revolu- 
tion of  the  vicious  circle  continued. 

There  were  several  places  which 
made  excellent  points  of  observation, 
and  here  we  watched  and  marveled. 
Careful  measurement  of  the  great  cir- 
cle showed  a  circumference  of  twelve 
hundred  feet.  We  timed  the  laden  Eci- 
tons,  and  found  that  they  averaged  two 
to  two  and  three  quarters  inches  a 
second.  So  a  given  individual  would 
complete  the  round  in  about  two  hours 
and  a  half.  Many  guests  were  plodding 
along  with  the  ants  —  mostly  staphy- 
linids,  of  which  we  secured  five  species : 
a  brown  Histerid  beetle,  a  tiny  Chalcid, 
and  several  Phorid  flies,  one  of  which 
was  winged. 

The  fat  Histerid  beetle  was  most 
amusing,  getting  out  of  breath  every 
few  feet,  and  abruptly  stopping  to  rest, 
turning  around  in  its  tracks,  standing 
almost  on  its  head,  and  allowing  the 
swarm  of  ants  to  run  up  over  it  and 
jump  off.  Then  on  it  would  go  again, 
keeping  up  the  terrific  speed  of  two  and 
a  half  inches  a  second,  for  another  yard. 
Its  color  was  identical  with  the  Ecitons' 
armor,  and  when  it  folded  up,  nothing 
could  harm  it.  Once  a  worker  stopped 
and  antennsed  it  suspiciously;  but  aside 
from  this,  it  was  accepted  as  one  of  the 
line  of  marchers. 

All  the  afternoon  the  insane  circle 
revolved;  at  midnight,  the  hosts  were 
still  moving;  the  second  morning  many 
had  weakened  and  dropped  their  bur- 
dens and  the  general  pace  had  very  ap- 
preciably slackened.  But  still  the  blind 
grip  of  instinct  held  them.  On,  on,  on 
they  must  go!  Always  before  in  their 
nomadic  life  there  had  been  a  goal  —  a 
sanctuary  of  hollow  tree,  snug  heart  of 
bamboos;  surely  this  terrible  grind  must 
end  somehow.  In  this  crisis,  even  the 


Spirit  of  the  Army  was  helpless.  Along 
the  normal  paths  of  Eciton  life  he  could 
inspire  endless  enthusiasm,  illimitable 
energy;  but  here  his  material  units 
were  bound  upon  the  wheel  of  their 
perfection  of  instinct.  Through  sun  and 
cloud,  day  and  night,  hour  after  hour, 
there  was  found  no  Eciton  with  indi- 
vidual initiative  enough  to  turn  aside 
an  ant's  breadth  from  the  circle  that  he 
had  traversed  perhaps  fifteen  times. 

Fewer  and  fewer  now  came  along  the 
well-worn  path;  burdens  littered  the 
line  of  march,  like  the  arms  and  accou- 
trements thrown  down  by  a  retreating 
army.  At  last,  a  scanty  single  line 
struggled  past  —  tired,  hopeless,  be- 
wildered, idiotic,  and  thoughtless  to  the 
last.  Then  some  half-dead  Eciton  strag- 
gled from  the  circle  along  the  beach, 
and  threw  the  line  behind  him  into 
confusion.  The  desperation  of  total 
exhaustion  had  accomplished  what  ne- 
cessity and  opportunity  and  normal  life 
could  not.  Several  others  followed  his 
scent  instead  of  that  leading  back  to- 
ward the  out-house;  and  as  an  amreba 
gradually  flows  into  one  of  its  own  pseu- 
dopodia,  so  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  great 
Eciton  army  passed  slowly  down  the 
beach  and  on  into  the  jungle.  Would 
they  die  singly  and  in  bewildered 
groups,  or  would  the  remnant  draw  to- 
gether, and,  again  guided  by  the  super- 
mind  of  its  Mentor,  lay  the  foundation 
of  another  army,  and  again  come  to 
nest  in  my  out-house? 

Thus  was  the  ending  still  unfinished, 
the  finale  buried  in  the  future  —  and  in 
this  we  find  the  fascination  of  Nature 
and  of  Science.  Who  can  be  bored  for  a 
moment  in  the  short  existence  vouch- 
safed us  here,  with  dramatic  beginnings 
barely  hidden  in  the  dust,  with  the 
excitement  of  every  moment  of  the 
present,  and  with  all  of  cosmic  possibil- 
ity lying  just  concealed  in  the  future, 
whether  of  Betelgeuse,  of  Amoeba,  or  — 
of  ourselves?  Vogue  la  galerel 


ERANT  ENIM  PISCATORES 


BY   HAKRISON    COLLINS 


THE  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  gild- 
ed the  distant  camel-hump  of  Hieizan; 
up  the  valleys  crept  the  soft  fingers  of 
a  Japanese  night.  Spring  was  abroad 
in  the  air,  in  the  bat  fluttering  over  the 
surrounding  paddy-fields,  in  the  yel- 
low evening-primroses  already  abloom; 
everywhere  save  in  the  young  foreign 
teacher  Addison's  heart.  On  his  shoul- 
ders rested  a  terrible  responsibility;  and 
as  the  bell  for  evening  prayers  clanged 
through  the  dormitory,  the  perpendic- 
ular cleft  in  his  conscientious  forehead 
deepened,  and  he  grappled  anew  with 
his  latest  disciplinary  problem. 

How  to  present  the  matter  in  the 
most  favorable,  most  compelling  light 
—  that  was  the  question.  He  watched 
the  shadows  outside  lengthen.  Well, 
he  'd  put  it  up  to  these  Japanese  boys 
just  as  he  had  to  the  fellows  at  the  Col- 
lege 'Y'  six  months  before,  at  home. 
They  'd  understand.  Things  certainly 
could  n't  continue  to  go  on  as  at  pres- 
ent, from  difficult  bad  to  intolerable 
worse. 

Below  stairs,  stumbling  to  a  chair  be- 
yond the  ping-pong  table  and  baby- 
organ,  he  sat  down  on  a  baseball  glove, 
that  may  or  may  not  have  got  there  by 
mistake,  just  as  Yagi  San  screwed  a 
new  bulb  into  its  socket  and  flooded  the 
disorderly  room  with  light.  He  watch- 
ed the  boys  absently,  as  with  tattered 
hymnals  and  much  flapping  of  indoor 
sandals  they  drew  up  into  the  usual 
circle,  giggled,  and  subsided  into  vivid 
silence. 

There  were  ten,  in  all,  present.  First, 
to  the  left  wriggled  the  Koyama  cous- 

814 


ins,  —  Jusan  and  Eisan,  —  thirteen 
and  twelve  years  old  respectively;  Ju- 
san so  fat  that  his  eyes  were  completely 
invisible  behind  horizontal  slits;  Eisan, 
tiny,  wraithlike,  the  dormitory's  in- 
imitable mimic  (when  Addison  was  not 
present),  charter-member  of  that  uni- 
versal brotherhood  of  contemporaries 
whose  idea  of  the  last  word  in  humor 
calls  for  the  intimate  association  of  a 
chair,  a  dignified  older  person,  and  a 
tack  or  a  pin.  Hirose  San,  an  over- 
grown, somewhat  stupid-looking  boy 
of  seventeen — big-headed,  moon-faced, 
thick-lipped  —  loomed  beyond.  Then 
Kuroda  San,  baseball  fan  and  fielder, 
sat  silent  and  somewhat  bored  by  his 
friend  Ouye  San,  also  seventeen  and  fel- 
low admirer  of  Mr.  Babe  Ruth.  The 
pair,  with  their  sun-baked  hawk  coun- 
tenances, would  have  made  excellent 
American  Indians,  had  they  worn 
blankets  instead  of  kimonos.  Yagi  San, 
of  the  same  age,  —  a  pretty  boy,  pale, 
with  almost  infantile  features,  —  was 
finding  the  place  in  the  hymnal  for 
little  Fujimura  San  —  a  newcomer  from 
Osaka,  apple-cheeked,  fourteen  years 
old.  Kawazura  San,  tall,  lean,  humor- 
less, a  good  student,  carrying  his  six- 
teen years  as  a  Buddha  carries  his 
centuries,  sat  sphinx-like,  ready  to  be- 
gin, his  large  eyes  staring.  Stunted 
Inouye  San,  his  neighbor,  fifteen  years 
of  age,  at  seven  o'clock  was  already 
nodding,  half  asleep.  Last,  completing 
the  circle,  sat  good,  faithful,  handsome, 
manly  Suzuki.  (The  adjectives  were  all 
applicable,  thought  Addison.)  He  was 
nineteen  and  would  be  graduated  next 


ERANT  ENIM  PISCATORES 


815 


year.  Not  a  bad  bunch,  not  half  a  bad 
bunch,  mused  their  teacher,  while  wait- 
ing for  the  meeting  to  come  fully  to 
order  and  life. 

'  To-night  we  '11  sing  no  hymns.  I 
want  to  talk.  What  I  say  Suzuki  here 
will  translate.  All  right?' 

Suzuki  blushed  and  everybody  laugh- 
ed, Addison  loudest.  Then,  remember- 
ing his  solemn  duty,  he  resolutely  ban- 
ished his  smile  and  summoned  again  the 
difficult  frown. 

'  Fellows,'  he  began  threateningly  (his 
manner  had  been  much  admired  in 
similar  meetings  at  home),  and  thump- 
ing his  closed  hymn-book,  'awfully 
sorry,  and  all  that,  but  you  and  I  have 
got  to  go  to  the  mat  now  on  at  least  two 
counts.' 

He  glared  round  on  all  present,  and 
the  boys,  who  knew  him  in  private  life 
as  a  being  not  wholly  impossible  to 
propitiate,  and  also  as  a  corking  good 
baseball  pitcher,  registered  appropri- 
ate and  sympathetic  solemnity,  with- 
out understanding  one  word.  Sotto 
voce:  'Shoot  'em  that,  Suzuki!' 

Suzuki,  politely,  deprecatingly,  in 
Japanese:  'Honorable  everyone!  Par- 
don me,  but  the  Sensei  says  we're  go- 
ing to  the  jiu-jitsu  room  to  meet  two 
counts.' 

Interested  surprise  manifested  every- 
where, but  gravity  still  maintained, 
since  the  occasion  and  the  Sensei's  face 
seemed  to  demand  it. 

'  Number  one,'  holding  up  a  long  fore- 
finger, 'hereafter  we've  got  to  cut  out 
all  late  hours.' 

Suzuki,  hesitating:  'The  first  count 
says  we  must  operate  on  ourselves. 
That  is '  —  uncertainly  —  'so  the  Sen- 
sei says.' 

Puzzlement  on  part  of  audience;  but 
foreigners  are  funny  creatures  anyhow 
—  even  Sensei. 

Addison,  warming  up:  'That's  right, 
that's  right,  Suzuki;  give  it  to  'em 
straight,  give  it  to  'em  straight!' 


Then,  fixing  a  baleful  eye  on  trem- 
bling twelve-year-old  Eisan  Koyama, 
he  shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  — 

'MEN  —  ' 

'Males,'  courteously  murmured  the 
faithful  Suzuki. 

'MEN,  things  can't  go  on  here  as  they 
are  at  present.  The  Antis  in  school 
already  say  you  can  tell  a  Christian 
dormitory  boy  by  his  sleepy  face!' 

Suzuki:  'Males,  in  school  (in  Amer- 
ica?) there  are  kind  aunts  who  give  a 
present  to  every  Christian  boy  who  has 
a  sleepy  face.'  Then,  hurriedly,  in  the 
same  tone  of  voice,  with  unnecessary 
anxiety  lest  Addison  discover  any  lin- 
guistic blunder:  'So  he  says,  but  per- 
haps I  'm  not  getting  all  this.' 

Addison  (in  his  best  manner,  with  in- 
finite and  scathing  contempt) :  '  Such  a 
condition,  men,  turns  your  stomach 
and  fills  you  with  disgust.' 

Suzuki:  'Such  a  condition,  males, 
turns  your  stomach  over  and  fills  it 
with  dust.' 

Addison  held  up  another  accusing 
finger  beside  the  first:  'Count  two.' 

'The  second  count.' 

(Recrudescence  of  interest  on  the 
part  of  the  audience.) 

'This  count  is  of  even  greater  im- 
portance.' 

'This  count  is  of  even  higher  rank.' 

'MEN,  we  are  losing  our  vitality  in 
getting  across  our  propaganda.' 

Here,  Suzuki  was  forced  into  sur- 
render and  begged  for  further  enlighten- 
ment. A  conference  ensued,  and  he  in- 
terpreted :  — 

'In  spreading  our  propaganda  we  are 
losing  our  lives.' 

(Visible  consternation  on  every  face 
except  that  of  Inouye,  who  was  by  this 
time  asleep.) 

'Pep,  pep,  PEP!  We  must-  show 
more  pep.  To  win  out  we  Ve  got  to  get 
a  wiggle  on.  (No,  Suzuki,  afraid  you 
can't  make  that  one  —  get  a  move  on, 
I  mean.)  In  a  school  of  eight  hundred 


816 


ERANT  ENIM  PISCATORES 


boys  we  ought  to  rope  in  more  than 
fifty!'  And  so  on,  the  translation  of 
his  remarks  illustrating  anew  what  al- 
ways happens  when  enterprising  young 
Westerners  try  to  hustle  the  East. 

He  drew  for  them,  he  thought,  a 
picture  of  what  the  dormitory  was  and 
of  what  it  ought  to  be.  He  told  them, 
in  racy  Yankee,  what,  if  they  worked, 
it  surely  would  become.  He  closed  with 
a  forceful  appeal,  begging  them  thence- 
forth to  toil  like  yeomen  (though  that 
was  not  his  word),  like  fishers  tugging  at 
the  nets,  and  constrain,  constrain  mem- 
bers to  come  in. 

It  was  a  splendid  effort.  But  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  was  just  as  well  that  the 
boys  did  n't  understand  it  quite  — 
especially  the  forceful  example  at  the 
end;  because,  except  for  Fujimura  San, 
all  of  them  hailed  from  the  mountain- 
ous country  of  Tamba,  in  whose  rapid 
rivers  custom  dictated  that  gentlemen 
should  not  fish  at  all,  but  lie  in  canopied 
boats  at  pillowed  ease  and  merely 
watch  other  men  wield  the  nets. 

'Now,  fellows,'  he  said  in  his  ordina- 
ry voice,  taking  the  silence  for  appro- 
bation and  permanently  dropping  his 
frown,  'now,  fellows,  as  a  sign  of  our 
turning  over  a  new  leaf,  I  suggest  that 
we  all  go  to  the  Heian  Church  to-night 
for  the  midweek  service.  We  have  n't 
been  there  for  months.  It'll  mean  a 
fine  hike,  some  good  words  from  Mr. 
Nishio,  and  an  early  snooze.' 

What  Suzuki  made  of  this,  I  leave 
you  to  puzzle  out.  But  they  were  going 
somewhere,  that  they  knew,  and  they 
guessed  it  was  to  church. 

'  Banzai ! '  shouted  Jusan  wildly, '  Ban- 
zai! We're  going  to  church  to  meet 
some  counts!'  And  everyone  —  Ino- 
uye  San  'being  roused  —  agreed  that 
it  was  a  far  more  suitable  place  than  the 
jiu-jitsu  room  for  receiving  two  such 
prominent  persons. 

To  one  who  knew  his  Dickens  —  and 
who  in  this  dark  world  and  wide  does 


not!  —  the  Reverend  Mr.  Nishio  at 
once  recalled  and  expressed  three  illus- 
trious characters:  he  was  as  good  as 
Pickwick,  as  unctuous  as  Pecksniff,  as 
hopeful  as  Micawber  —  and  stouter 
than  any  of  the  three.  And  so,  fig- 
uratively, if  not  literally,  —  being  a 
Japanese,  —  he  welcomed  Addison  and 
his  nimble  flock  with  open  arms.  He 
smiled,  and  winked  his  Jusan-like  eyes, 
and  rubbed  his  dimpled  hands.  Indeed, 
there  was  much  bowing  and  intaking  of 
breath  on  both  sides. 

They  were  just  in  time,  it  seemed;  for, 
as  they  entered  the  main  room  of  the 
church,  a  young  lady  in  spectacles  and 
dun-colored  kimono  had  just  begun  an 
attack  on  an  asthmatic  organ.  They 
sat  in  a  row  on  the  front  bench,  and 
even  in  their  wriggling  silence  lent  the 
otherwise  middle-aged  and  demure  con- 
gregation the  vividness  of  youth.  They 
made  even  the  minister  and  organist 
feel  their  grateful  aura,  and  turned  what 
had  begun  as  a  very  drowsy  prayer- 
meeting  into  something  akin  to  life. 

'He  is  taking  Sensei's  text,'  whisper- 
ed Suzuki  to  Addison,  when  Mr.  Nishio, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  winking  and 
smiling  more  heartily  than  ever,  began 
his  little  talk.  And,  as  it  went  on, 
though  Addison  could  grasp  scarcely 
a  word,  in  the  voice,  the  gestures,  the 
rising  passion  of  the  preacher,  most  of 
all  in  the  open-eyed  attention  of  all  the 
boys,  including  even  sleepy  Inouye,  he 
realized  what  was  being  said. 

The  old,  old  story  of  Galilee  —  he 
breathed  it  all.  The  blueness  of  the 
cloudless  sky  and  untroubled  turquoise 
water  he  felt,  and  saw  the  two  rough 
fishermen  with  their  ragged  nets,  listen- 
ing rapt  to  the  words  of  the  tall,  white- 
robed  One  whose  sandals  made  purer 
the  stainless  sand :  — 

Now  as  he  walked  by  the  sea  of  Galilee, 
he  saw  Simon  and  Andrew  his  brother  cast- 
ing a  net  into  the  sea :  for  they  were  fishers. 

And  Jesus  said  unto  them,  Come  ye  after 


ERANT  ENIM  PISCATORES 


817 


me,  and  I  will  make  you  to  become  fishers  of 
men. 

And  straightway  they  forsook  their  nets, 
and  followed  him. 

Now,  as  everyone  _in  Kyoto  knows, 
at  the  junction  of  Omiya  and  Shijo 
streets,  where  one  takes  the  car  for 
cherry-famed  Arashiyama,  there  is  a 
little  store  which,  from  the  diversity  and 
seasonableness  of  its  wares,  merits  the 
name,  Jack-of-all-Shops.  In  winter,  it 
sells  fried  sweet  potatoes  to  children 
(who  gobble  them  hot  out  of  the  sack) ; 
in  summer,  vegetables;  in  fall,  persim- 
mons. At  the  time  I  am  speaking  of  — 
in  spring  —  its  specialty  was  goldfish. 

Addison  and  his  troop,  returning  from 
church  about  nine  o'clock,  shot  round 
the  corner  upon  it,  in  full  cry,  so  to 
speak. 

They  stopped  —  as  who  would  n't? 
Goldfish,  goldfish  everywhere!  In  crys- 
tal globes  on  stands,  on  shelves,  globes 
within  globes;  in  pails,  in  tubs,  in  arti- 
ficial ponds  spanned  by  tiny  bridges;  of 
all  bulks,  from  minnows  to  full-sized 
carp,  the  magic  creatures  swam,  twink- 
ling and  blazing  under  the  powerful 
electric  light. 

Beside  one  pond  in  the  centre  — 
the  largest  and  most  populous  of  all  — 
lay  displayed  miniature  bamboo  rods, 
with  black  threads  for  lines,  and  micro- 
scopic filament-like  hooks;  while  over- 
head, in  Chinese  characters,  ran  the 
explanatory  legend:  'Buy  a  pole  and 
take  home  your  own  catch.  Fish  as 
long  as  you  like  —  only  two  sen.' 

'Oh-h-h-h!'  shouted  the  younger 
contingent;  and  plunged  recklessly  be- 
tween the  rows  of  glass  globes  for  the 
sport  to  be  had  inside. 

Addison  was  not  the  last,  be  it  said  to 
his  credit,  to  cast  in  a  line.  But  fishing 
for  goldfish  with  a  hook  many  sizes 
smaller  than  a  pin  has  its  own  tech- 
nique. Goldfish  are  slippery  as  catfish, 
and  must  be  caught  gently  under  the 
belly  or  gills,  and  jerked  quickly  into  a 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 


waiting  pail  of  water  without  contact 
with  the  fingers,  if  they  are  to  be  taken 
home  alive  and  unhurt.  Time  and  time 
again  he  raised  one  to  the  surface  of  the 
water  only  to  have  it,  by  a  sudden  flirt 
of  its  lithe  body,  wriggle  away  again; 
and  on  a  dozen  occasions  he  let  one  flop 
loose  when  already  in  the  air. 

'Well,'  he  said  disgustedly  at  the 
hundredth  mishap,  'I  quit.  I'm  going 
home  —  have  some  work  to  prepare 
anyway.'  To  a  questioning  look  of 
Suzuki's:  'All  right,  fellows  —  hang 
round  a  bit,  if  you  care  to.  But  don't 
forget  —  not  too  late.' 

'Sayonara,  Sensei!'  sang  the  two 
or  three  others  who  remembered  that 
he  existed. 

Next  morning,  Addison  opened  his 
eyes,  yawned,  rose  on  one  arm,  noted 
that  the  sun  already  stood  high  in  the 
heavens,  and  conscientiously  got  out  of 
bed.  The  dormitory  was  unusually 
still.  Throwing  on  a  few  clothes,  he 
slipped  down  to  the  common  wash- 
room. There,  too,  unwonted  silence 
reigned.  Only  the  old  woman  cook 
could  be  heard  puttering  about  in  the 
adjoining  kitchen. 

He  plunged  his  face  into  a  basin  of 
cold  water  and  came  to  full  conscious- 
ness. On  the  floor  stood  a  tub,  not  a 
small  one,  bubbling  with  panting  gold- 
fish. Their  scales  shone  in  the  morning 
sun,  though  here  and  there  a  paler  up- 
turned belly  showed  where  some  weaker 
warrior  had  given  up  the  crowded  fight. 

He  poured  fresh  water  into  the  tub 
from  a  pail  standing  by,  and  watched 
it  give  new  ease  and  life. 

'  By  George,  there  must  be  a  thousand 
of  them ! '  he  cried. 

'Seven  hundred  and  fifty-three,' 
yawned  a  voice. 

He  whipped  round  to  find  Suzuki 
standing  at  his  elbow  rubbing  sleep- 
filled  eyes. 

'Seven  hundred  and  fifty-three  ex- 


818 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


actly.  Oh,  the  man  he  is  angry  —  bery, 
bery  angry.  But  we  stay  and  stay  and 
stay,  and  of  course  pay  no  attention  to 
heem.  "As  long  as  you  weesh, "  we  re- 
mind heem  that  he  hab  said.  "We 
weesh  to  stay  longer."  And  we  stay 
until  all  are  catched  —  all.  And, 
Sensei,  eef  you  go  there  to-day  you  will 
find  that  the  advertisement  which  we 
saw  to-morrow  night  is  no  longer  there. 
Twenty  leettle  sen  for  ten  leettle  poles 
and  seven  hundred  fifty-three  pretty 
leettle  feesh.  Also,  you  will  find  bery, 
bery  angry  man  —  bery  angry  man!' 

Dazed,  hurt,  and  not  a  little  angry 
himself,  Addison  sternly  climbed  the 
stairs,  Suzuki  close  behind  him. 

At  the  top  he  turned  on  the  boy 
accusingly. 

'Suzuki,  when  did  you  fellows  turn 
in  last  night?' 

'  Pardon,  dear  Sensei,  early '  —  shame- 
facedly—  'this  morning.  One  o'crock.' 


Addison  consulted  his  watch. 

'Heck,  only  ten  minutes  till  the  first 
bell!  No  breakfast,  no  preparation,  no 
anything !  O  Suzuki ! ' 

Snores  wafted  softly  down  on  them 
from  six  open  transoms. 

His  voice  trembled:  'Suzuki,  how 
could  you?' 

'Sensei,  do  not  trouble.  I  will  awoke 
them  before  your  stomach  turn  himself 
over  once!' 

The  student  touched  his  teacher's 
arm  affectionately. 

'Sensei,  do  not  trouble.  All  right. 
Everyshing  is  all  right.  I  will  awoke 
them.  Sh-h-h-h,  listen  to  them,  so 
brave,  so  innocent!  I  will  awoke  them 
at  once.  I  am  coming  to  awoke  you, 
my  boys!' 

Then  turning  away,  reverently,  with 
upraised  Nishio-like  face  and  finger  to 
lips:  'Last  night,  feeshers  in  feesh. 
To-day,  who  know,  feeshers  in  men!' 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


FROM  the  point  of  view  of  the  average 
educated  Englishman,  the  naval  situa- 
tion to-day  is  the  most  extraordinary 
imaginable.  If  he  is  a  middle-aged 
man,  he  will  remember  that,  barely  a 
generation  and  a  half  ago,  all  the  pow- 
ers combined  spent  less  upon  their 
navies  than  a  single  power  does  to-day. 
Then  England  and  France  spent  more 
than  the  rest  of  the  world  together,  and 
compared  in  capital  ships  as  three  to 
two.  Together  they  owned  more  than 


half  of  all  the  battleships  afloat,  yet  be- 
tween them  they  spent  far  less  than 
twenty  millions  sterling  a  year.  The 
most  expensive  ship  that  either  nation 
had,  built  or  building,  cost  less  than 
£700,000.  To-day,  although  we  are  at 
peace  with  all  the  world,  our  navy  is 
costing  ninety  millions  sterling  a  year, 
and  we  are  outbuilt,  not  by  one,  but 
by  two  powers. 

The  great  change  came  before  the 
war.  Two  men  are  primarily  responsi- 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


819 


ble  for  the  new  emphasis  given  to  naval 
forces  during  the  forty  years  preced- 
ing 1914  —  two  men  whose  minds  and 
characters  differed  fundamentally.  The 
American  Mahan  had  been  a  midship- 
man in  the  Civil  War,  but  had  seen  no 
other  fighting,  and  was  a  student  by  na- 
ture. The  Englishman  Fisher  saw,  so 
far  as  one  is  apt  to  remember,  no  sea- 
fighting  at  all,  his  solitary  experience  of 
warships  used  in  war  being  the  bom- 
bardment of  Alexandria.  He,  unlike 
Mahan,  was  no  student.  He  was,  in- 
deed, proud  of  his  ignorance  of  history 
and  of  his  contempt  for  the  so-called 
scientific  doctrines  of  war.  These  are 
common  failings  of  men  who  believe 
themselves  to  be  practical,  and  have  a 
native  insight  into  the  possibilities  of 
physical  science.  Fisher  was,  in  these 
respects,  preeminent.  His  faith  in  what 
the  inventors  and  manufacturers  could 
do  was  unlimited.  His  impatience  with 
the  old-fashioned  and  the  obsolescent 
was  monumental.  Like  Mahan's,  his 
memory  ran  back  to  the  Civil  War, 
and  he  was  apt  to  think  of  the  sea-war 
of  the  future  in  terms  of  big  guns  and 
thick  armor,  and  the  revolution  in  ma- 
terial of  which  he  had  seen  so  much. 
It  was  Fisher  who,  in  the  early  eighties, 
started  the  late  Mr.  Stead  in  his  jour- 
nalistic campaign  on  the  'Truth  about 
the  Navy.'  It  roused  England.  But  it 
did  more.  It  roused  the  whole  of  Europe 
to  a  sudden  realization  that  England 
was  England  only  when  her  navy  was 
supreme.  And  this  agitation  had  hardly 
got  well  under  way  when  Mahan's  first 
book  appeared.  The  world  was  now 
doubly  awakened  to  the  function  of  sea- 
power  in  history.  Here  was  Great  Brit- 
ain agitated  from  end  to  end  in  her 
effort  to  put  her  naval  house  in  order; 
and  here  was  Mahan  seemingly  giving 
away  the  secret  of  English  greatness! 

In  little  more  than  a  generation  the 
sea-aspect  of  the  world  had  changed 
completely.  Whereas  in  1885  Great 


Britain  was  spending  only  eleven  mil- 
lions and  a  half  on  her  navy,  in  1914  she 
had  voted  over  fifty  millions;  whereas 
in  1884  she  had  no  naval  competitor  but 
France,  in  1914  the  Russian,  German, 
Austrian,  and  Italian  fleets  would  have 
been  greatly  superior  to  her,  could  they 
have  combined.  Germany  alone,  which 
had  no  fleet  at  all  at  the  first  date,  had 
capital  ships  in  number  and  in  power 
equal  to  nearly  seventy-five  per  cent  of 
the  British  force.  So  much  for  Europe. 
The  war  with  Spain  had  resulted  in 
America's  having  a  very  considerable 
navy;  the  war  with  Russia  had  done  the 
same  for  Japan. 

Yet  on  the  eve  of  the  World  War, 
Great  Britain  had,  built  and  building, 
forty-four  dreadnought  battleships  and 
battle-cruisers,  the  United  States  had 
fourteen,  and  Japan  seven.  In  other 
words,  a  brief  seven  years  ago,  Great 
Britain  compared,  in  capital  ships,  with 
America  as  three  to  one,  and  with 
Japan  as  six  to  one.  She  was  rather 
more  than  twice  as  strong  as  the  two 
put  together.  Russia  and  France  were 
allies,  Italy  was  neutral,  the  Austrian 
and  Turkish  fleets  could  not  combine 
with  the  German,  and  war  was  de- 
clared before  Turkey  could  get  the  two 
battleships  building  for  her  in  England. 
With  no  rivals  outside  Europe,  and  with 
allies  in  Europe,  Great  Britain  had  a 
comfortable  superiority  over  the  neigh- 
bor that  shortly  was  to  be  her  enemy. 

But  great  as  was  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  situation  of  1914  and  that  of 
forty  years  ago,  the  contrast  between 
1914  and  1921  is  more  striking  still. 

Since  the  engagement  that  took  place 
off  the  Danish  coast  on  the  thirty-first 
of  May,  1916,  commonly  —  and  er- 
roneously —  talked  of  as  the  '  Battle  of 
Jutland,'  Great  Britain  has  laid  down 
and  completed  one  battle-cruiser  only 
—  the  Hood.  She  has  built  no  other 
capital  ships  at  all.  To  be  strictly  ac- 
curate, she  has  built  other  ships,  bigger 


820 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


than  any  battleships,  but  they  were  in- 
sane freaks,  the  offspring  of  fantastic 
and  unwarlike  notions,  whose  fabulous 
cost  and  complete  futility  would  have 
excited  angry  comment  —  except  that 
the  blunder  of  building  them  was  sub- 
merged in  other  and  more  costly,  more 
futile  blunders  still.  The  Hood,  then, 
is  the  only  ship  we  can  show  that  can  be 
said  to  embody  any  war  experience  at 
all.  At  Jutland,  it  will  be  remembered, 
the  British  battle-fleet  did  not  get  into 
action;  it  was  the  battle-cruisers  that 
forced  the  fighting  and  suffered  in  the 
fighting.  And  the  only  ship  we  have 
completed  is  a  battle-cruiser,  and  the 
only  change  we  have  made  from  the 
old  design  has  been  to  eliminate  the  de- 
fects shown  in  action  to  be  fatal  in  the 
other  ships.  Our  only  modern  warship, 
therefore,  is  not  a  vessel  of  the  most 
formidable  fighting  value,  nor  was  she 
built  after  a  full  and  mature  examina- 
tion of  war  experience. 

Indeed,  this  experience  was  not 
available  until  after  the  surrender  of 
the  German  fleet —  it  would,  perhaps,  be 
more  correct  to  say,  until  we  obtained 
from  Germany,  early  in  1919,  more  or 
less  complete  data  of  what  the  German 
fleet  had  suffered  from  the  attentions  of 
Lord  Beatty  and  his  captains.  But  this 
information  was  shared  with  the  As- 
sociated and  Allied  powers,  and  it  was 
they,  and  not  Great  Britain,  who  made 
use  of  it.  Thus,  if  the  battleship  is 
the  most  powerful  of  naval  units,  and 
if  digested  war  experience  is  the  best 
guide  to  building  the  best  battleships, 
then  it  is  the  simple  fact  that  the 
British  fleet  to-day  does  not  possess  a 
single  unit  that  incorporates  the  lessons 
of  the  war.  America  and  Japan,  on  the 
other  hand,  have  either  completed,  or 
have  due  for  completion  within  a  year 
or  two,  sixteen  battleships  and  battle- 
cruisers  apiece,  all  of  which  have  been 
put  in  hand  since  the  Hood  was  laid 
down,  and  most  of  which  have,  in  one 


way  or  another,  benefited  by  the  full- 
er knowledge  of  the  action  off  Jutland. 
And  nothing  that  Great  Britain  can  do 
can  alter  this  state  of  things,  for  the 
next  four  or  five  years  at  least.  During 
this  period  the  British  fleet  will,  in  the 
strongest  fighting  units,  compare  with 
either  the  American  or  the  Japanese 
fleet,  as  a  fraction  of  one  to  sixteen! 

II 

Now  neither  of  the  two  following 
propositions  can  be  doubted.  Battle- 
ship strength  is  the  foundation  of  all 
sea-power.  Without  it  decisive  victory 
at  sea  is  inconceivable.  These  are  doc- 
trines laid  down  by  the  Board  of  Ad- 
miralty over  which  Lord  Beatty  pre- 
sides, and  we  must  remember  that  they 
have  been  endorsed,  without  qualifica- 
tion, by  the  General  Board  of  the  Unit- 
ed States  Navy.  They  were,  of  course, 
equally  true  in  1914.  They  have  been 
true  throughout  the  history  of  naval 
war.  It  is  the  most  powerful  ships  that 
ultimately  prevail,  if  they  exist  in  ade- 
quate numbers,  and  are  employed  ac- 
cording to  right  principles. 

But  these  are  doctrines  which  have 
always  been  subject  to  qualification, 
and  it  seems  to  be  indisputable  that 
there  are  .factors  actually  existing  and 
growing  in  importance  to-day  that 
must  qualify  these  principles  still  fur- 
ther. First,  there  has  been  a  devel- 
opment of  other  forms  of  sea-force,  and 
these  make  the  effective  employment 
of  a  battle-fleet  an  infinitely  more 
difficult  matter  than  it  was  in  1914. 
There  has  been  a  continuous  progress, 
not  only  in  the  range  and  power,  but 
in  the  accuracy  of  the  torpedo.  It  is 
now  feasible  to  employ  it  from  air- 
craft as  well  as  from  seacraft,  surface 
and  submerged.  And  aircraft  and  sub- 
merged seacraft  have  gained  in  range, 
in  certainty  of  action,  and  in  speed,  to 
a  most  marvelous  degree.  Again,  the 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


821 


means  of  communication  at  sea  by  wire- 
less telegraphy  and  telephony  have 
changed  so  greatly  that  the  tactics  for 
leading  up  to  action  or  for  avoiding  it 
have  been  greatly  facilitated;  while  the 
high  perfection  to  which  the  hydro- 
phone has  been  brought  has  made  it 
possible  to  gain  news,  not  only  of  sub- 
marines, but  of  surface  craft,  at  far  great- 
er distances  than  was  once  thought 
possible,  and  with  far  greater  precision. 
These  things  not  only  expose  the  huge 
and  costly  units  of  a  battle-fleet  to  forms 
of  attack  undreamed  of  before  the 
World  War,  —  so  that  there  is  a  pre- 
cariousness  about  battleship  strength 
actually  more  real  than  the  most  san- 
guine believer  in  the  German  attrition 
theory  supposed  in  pre-war  days,  — 
but,  what  is  probably  more  important, 
they  increase  the  facility  with  which  a 
weaker  force  can  tire  out  a  superior 
force  by  the  successful  evasion  of  action. 

Again,  each  of  the  new  factors  I  have 
mentioned  is  manifestly  capable  of  in- 
creases in  efficiency.  Nor  is  it  less  mani- 
fest that  to  these  factors  new  elements 
can  at  any  moment  be  added,  as  inven- 
tion, scientific  research,  and  experiment 
bring  new  devices  and  new  weapons  in- 
to play.  Putting  these  things  together, 
two  things  become  obvious:  first,  that  a 
supreme  battle-fleet  will  need  a  degree 
of  anxious  protection  that  will  be  both 
costly  to  prepare  and  embarrassing  to 
use;  and  that,  apart  from  this,  the 
whole  problem  of  employing  a  battle- 
fleet  to  get  its  designed  and  desired  ef- 
fect will  have  been  made  incalculably 
more  complicated  and,  therefore,  more 
difficult. 

The  British  Navy  has  actually  had 
more  experience  of  the  novel  factors  in 
sea-war  than  has  any  other  power;  and 
it  is  natural  to  suppose  —  should  it 
have  to  go  to  war  again  —  that  in  this 
respect  it  must,  for  some  years,  enjoy  a 
great  advantage.  If,  then,  it  is  true 
that  there  exist  to-day  forms  of  attack 


on  battleship  strength  that  have  not 
existed  heretofore,  we  ought  to  have 
something,  at  least,  to  set  against  our 
crushing  material  inferiority  in  fight- 
ing-ships of  the  most  modern  kind.  So 
that  the  actual  threat  to  Great  Britain 
of  a  battle-fleet  more  formidable  than 
she  possesses,  viewed  as  a  material 
problem  alone,  is  very  far  from  being 
what  it  was  seven  years  ago. 

But  this,  of  course,  is  far  from  being 
the  only  technical  difference  between 
the  situation  in  1914  and  that  in  1921. 
Then  our  most  formidable  sea  rival  was 
geographically  cornered.  The  mass  of 
our  island  lay  straight  across  his  path 
to  the  open  sea.  He  was  free  to  go  into 
the  Baltic  and  free  to  go  into  the  North 
Sea.  But  the  first  liberty  was  of  little 
value  to  him  until  he  gained  the  Rus- 
sian seaports  by  land  conquest.  He 
had  nothing  to  gain  hi  the  early  stages 
by  an  action  with  the  Russian  Navy; 
for,  although  that  fleet  was  small  in 
numbers,  it  was  formidable  in  power, 
and  more  formidable  in  view  of  its 
excellent  war-trained  officer  personnel. 
And  if  he  had  little  scope  in  the  Baltic, 
he  had  apparently  less  in  the  North 
Sea.  For  here  he  could  do  nothing  with 
effect  unless  he  could  force  a  very  su- 
perior fleet  into  action  and  defeat  it 
decisively.  To  a  great  extent,  therefore, 
the  German  fleet  was  neutralized  by  the 
disadvantages  of  its  situation.  If  it 
had  been  a  superior  fleet,  the  situation 
would  not  have  been  wholly  reversed. 
It  could  have  denied  British  access  to 
the  North  Sea  until  it  was  itself  defeat- 
ed; but  if  it  could  not  force  the  Brit- 
ish fleet  to  action,  it  would  be  compelled 
to  contain  it  before  it  could  itself  pro- 
ceed to  close  our  southern  and  western 
ports. 

The  neutralization  of  an  inferior  Brit- 
ish fleet  would  have  presented  prob- 
lems to  a  superior  German  fleet  wholly 
different  from  those  which  we  had  to 
envisage.  The  point  is  simple.  When 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


the  threat  of  the  British  battle-fleet 
compelled  the  Germans  to  keep  to  their 
harbors,  or  limited  them  to  a  very  re- 
stricted area  beyond  them,  the  whole 
menace  of  German  sea-power  was  gone. 
The  seas  were  free  to  British  cruisers 
and  British  trade.  The  German  lighter 
ships,  —  von  Spec's  armored  cruisers, 
Emden,  Konigsberg,  Dresden,  and  the 
converted  merchantmen,  —  these  were 
all  mopped  up  in  a  few  months.  There 
was  nothing  between  any  British  ship 
and  her  home  ports.  But  with  the  situ- 
ation reversed  this  would  not  have  been 
so.  A  British  battleship  force  'in  be- 
ing,' unhurt,  at  Scapa  in  the  north,  and 
other  forces  at  Plymouth  in  the  south, 
could  have  issued  from  their  harbors 
and  stopped  all  German  sea-borne 
services,  and  have  harried  the  German 
cruisers  that  attempted  to  attack  our 
own  trade.  Nor  could  the  German 
fleet  have  left  the  British  fleet  on  its 
flank  and  gone  to  the  open  sea  to  pro- 
tect its  cruisers.  So  great,  in  short,  was 
the  handicap  of  the  geographical  po- 
sition, that  Germany,  to  counteract  it, 
would  have  had  to  possess  a  fleet  twice 
as  strong  as  ours,  merely  to  win  a  naval 
equality. 

The  present  naval  situation  is,  of 
course,  altogether  and  entirely  different. 
A  superior  battle-fleet,  based  on  the 
Atlantic  seaports,  seems  free  from  the 
handicap  imposed  upon  the  German 
fleet;  for,  clearly,  a  stronger  battle-fleet 
could  not  be  confined  to  its  harbors  by  a 
weaker  force;  and  at  first  sight  it  would 
seem  as  if,  with  free  access  to  the  At- 
lantic, such  a  fleet  would  constitute  the 
most  formidable  of  all  threats  to  Great 
Britain.  But  there  a  new  principle  af- 
fects the  situation. 

Modern  ships  have  certain  vast  ad- 
vantages over  the  wooden  vessels  of 
our  forefathers.  They  have  gained  in- 
calculably in  power  and  in  speed.  They 
have  gained  still  more  in  the  facility 
with  which  they  are  free  of  every  point 


of  the  compass.  But  they  have  lost  in 
sea  endurance,  and  they  are  far  more 
dependent  upon  prompt  and  frequent 
access  to  their  bases.  And,  being  vastly 
more  complicated,  they  need  something 
more  at  their  bases  than  provisions, 
ropes,  spars,  and  sails.  A  modern  naval 
base,  to  be  of  the  slightest  value  to 
a  battle-fleet,  must  be  equipped  with 
productive  facilities  of  an  engineering 
order,  ample  enough  to  constitute  a 
manufacturing  town  of  very  respectable 
proportions.  It  must  have  all  the  ad- 
vantages on  which  the  manufacturing 
town  depends  for  a  constant  supply  of 
fuel,  material,  and  labor.  So  vast,  in- 
deed, are  the  necessities  of  a  modern 
arsenal,  that  it  is  practically  impossi- 
ble for  one  to  exist  if  severed  from  the 
mainland  of  the  country  that  owns  it. 
No  country  in  the  world  has  so  many 
coaling  and  other  naval  stations  as 
has  Great  Britain;  but  outside  Great 
Britain  itself  there  is  not  one  naval 
base  that  could  support  and  supply  a 
battle-fleet  in  war.  Both  the  American 
and  the  Japanese  navies,  then,  suffer  — 
I  am  discussing  this  from  the  point  of 
view  of  their  being  a  menace  to  Great 
Britain  —  from  this  severe  disability. 

Thus,  altogether  apart  from  the  dif- 
ficulties that  have  accumulated  dur- 
ing the  past  few  years  in  employing 
a  battle-fleet  at  all,  British-sea  power 
derives  certain  advantages  from  this 
factor  of  the  distance  that  separates 
our  bases  and  the  focal  points  of  our 
trade  from  the  fleets  materially  superior 
to  ours.  In  the  light  of  these  things,  the 
fact  that  Great  Britain  no  longer  has  a 
predominant  fighting  fleet  has  a  mean- 
ing radically  different  from  mere  naval 
inferiority  to  a  European  power:  it  sug- 
gests that  the  difference  is  one,  not  of 
degree  at  all,  but  actually  of  kind. 

Yet,  when  every  allowance  has  been 
made,  it  remains  a  fact  that,  for  the 
first  time  in  modern  history,  Great 
Britain  is  not  the  putative  mistress  of 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


823 


the  seas.  The  topsy-turvydom  of  the 
World  War  has  brought  us  no  surprise 
comparable  to  this.  Time  out  of  mind, 
the  invincibility  of  the  British  fleet  has 
been  a  fundamental  doctrine  of  our 
national  policy.  What  England  owes  to 
the  sea  is  a  commonplace  of  everyday 
knowledge.  That  England,  cut  off  from 
the  sea,  must  perish  instantly  and  ut- 
terly, is  a  commonplace  of  military 
science.  That  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  Great  Britain  has  never,  so 
far  as  material  provision  could  prevent, 
been  in  danger  of  sea-defeat,  is  a  simple 
historical  fact.  And  when  I  say  'in 
danger,'  I  understate  the  fact.  I  mean 
that  never,  in  all  this  period,  was  there 
a  time  when  Great  Britain  could  not 
face  the  sea- world  in  arms:  indeed,  at 
one  period  she  actually  did  so,  and  with 
success. 

Ill 

Now,  we  shall  not  understand  why  it 
is  that  Great  Britain  no  longer  has  the 
strongest  fleet,  unless  we  understand 
why  for  so  long  she  had.  It  has  been  as- 
sumed that  our  greatness  at  sea  arose 
originally  —  and  naturally  and  inevi- 
tably —  out  of  our  greatness  as  a  sea- 
faring people,  and  to  our  owning  and 
using  a  larger  merchant-shipping  than 
did  other  nations.  And,  again,  it  has 
been  assumed  that,  as  Great  Britain 
was  by  far  the  wealthiest  country  in  the 
world,  her  maintaining  a  greater  navy 
was  a  natural  and  inevitable  function 
of  her  wealth.  But  it  is,  of  course,  sim- 
ply untrue  that  fighting  navies  derive 
from  merchant  navies  by  some  preor- 
dained and  unescapable  process;  and 
equally  untrue  that  naval  strength  is, 
or  ever  has  been,  proportionate  to  a 
country's  wealth. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  justify  these 
statements  by  any  complete  summary 
of  the  historical  facts  that  prove  them. 
But  there  are  a  few  instances  in  point 
that  will  suffice  for  my  purpose.  As  to 


the  first  proposition,  let  me  quote  from 
Mahan's  Naval  Strategy:  — 

There  is  a  further  conclusion  to  be  drawn 
from  the  war  between  Japan  and  Russia, 
which  contradicts  a  previous  general  im- 
pression that  I  myself  have  shared,  and  pos- 
sibly in  some  degree  have  contributed  to 
diffuse.  That  impression  is,  that  navies 
depend  upon  maritime  commerce  as  the 
cause  and  justification  of  their  existence. 
To  a  certain  extent,  of  course,  this  is  true; 
and,  just  because  true  to  a  certain  extent, 
the  conclusion  is  more  misleading.  Because 
partly  true,  it  is  accepted  as  unqualifiedly 
true.  Russia  has  little  maritime  commerce, 
at  least  in  her  own  bottoms;  her  merchant 
flag  is  rarely  seen;  she  has  a  very  defective 
seacoast;  can  in  no  sense  be  called  a  mari- 
time nation.  Yet  the  Russian  navy  had  the 
decisive  part  to  play  in  the  late  war;  and 
the  war  was  unsuccessful,  not  because  the 
navy  was  not  large  enough,  but  because  it 
was  improperly  handled.  Probably,  it  also 
was  intrinsically  insufficient  —  bad  in  qual- 
ity; poor  troops  as  well  as  poor  generalship. 
The  disastrous  result  does  not  contravene 
the  truth  that  Russia,  though  with  little 
maritime  shipping,  was  imperatively  in  need 
of  a  navy. 

Here,  then,  is  a  case  where  a  navy 
was  essential,  though  there  was  virtu- 
ally no  merchant-shipping  at  all  out  of 
which  it  could  germinate.  That  there 
have  been  great  merchant  marines 
without  navies  is,  of  course,  equally 
true.  Norway,  with  no  navy  at  all,  has 
a  singularly  high  ratio  of  tonnage  to 
population;  and  the  huge  leap  in  Ger- 
man merchant- tonnage  between  1890 
and  1909  is  a  not  less  striking  instance 
in  point.  For  until  1909  Germany  had 
not  even  the  rudiments  of  a  fleet  that 
could  have  been  formidable  at  sea. 

And  as  to  navies  being  functions  of 
wealth,  this  surely  is  not  in  the  least 
degree  tenable.  People  do  not  build 
fleets  and  ships  because  they  can  afford 
them  as  a  luxury.  Still  less  do  they 
build  them  as  an  investment,  trusting 
to  then-  conquests  or  their  loot  to  pay 


824 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


the  bill.  They  build  them  only  because 
they  are  a  grim  necessity.  At  least, 
this  is  certainly  the  explanation  of 
Great  Britain's  two  centuries  and  a  half 
of  sea-supremacy. 

IV 

England,  after  all,  is  one  of  the 
European  nations.  Until  quite  recently 
she  was  as  inferior  in  population  to  one 
and  another  of  her  neighbors  as  she  was 
in  area.  It  was  only  toward  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century  that  she  became 
the  wealthiest  country  in  Europe;  and 
although  always  dependent  for  a  large 
portion  of  her  wealth  on  the  freest  pos- 
sible access  to  the  sea,  it  was  not  pri- 
marily her  sea  trade,  but  the  fact  that 
she  was  the  first  of  the  world's  people  to 
become  a  manufacturing  nation,  that 
explained  why,  for  a  century  and  half, 
hers  was  the  richest  people  in  the  world. 
But,  of  course,  she  could  not  have  be- 
come so  without  free  access  to  the  sea; 
and  of  all  the  nations  that  have  ever 
been,  she  had  the  greatest  interest  in 
preserving  this  freedom.  And  she 
needed  a  free  sea,  not  only  to  develop 
her  trade,  but  for  another  purpose. 
Indeed,  her  trade  itself  arose  out  of  that 
purpose. 

The  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and 
the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth,  was 
the  age  of  the  great  sea-adventurers. 
But,  of  all  the  countries,  England  alone 
maintained  the  spirit  that  had  first  sent 
her  sons  afloat.  Sometimes  they  went 
as  colonists  —  to  get  a  freer  religious  or 
political  atmosphere  than  they  could 
get  at  home;  sometimes  they  went  in 
search  of  wealth;  sometimes,  appar- 
ently, for  the  sheer  fun  of  the  thing. 
But,  whatever  the  motive,  the  spirit  of 
sea-adventuring,  the  desire  for,  and  a 
determination  to  get,  free  use  of  the  sea, 
became  the  mark  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race.  It  is  to  this  spirit  that  the  north- 
ern continent  of  America,  from  the 


Mexican  border  to  the  North  Pole, 
owes  its  control  by  the  descendants  of 
Englishmen;  that  half  of  Africa  is  un- 
der the  flag  of  Britain;  that  India  is  a 
British  dependency;  that  Australia  is 
one  of  His  Majesty's  Dominions;  that 
China  has  been  opened  up  to  European 
trade. 

Few,  if  any,  of  the  statesmen  of 
England  visualized  the  enormous  scale 
of  national  expansion  that  Destiny  had 
in  store  for  the  British  people.  But 
they  have  never  failed  in  the  instinct 
that  this  people  had  to  be  free  to  ex- 
pand. At  every  stage  they  perceived 
that  there  was  only  one  thing  that 
could  prevent  the  English  being  mas- 
ters of  their  Fate:  it  was  that  the  sea 
should  be  closed  against  them.  They 
saw  that  there  was  but  one  contingency 
that  could  so  close  the  sea:  it  was  that 
the  other  powers  of  Europe  should  com- 
bine to  do  it.  There  never  was  a  pos- 
sibility that  such  a  combination  would 
be  a  spontaneous  and  voluntary  move- 
ment; but  it  was  a  danger,  nevertheless. 

The  ambition  to  govern  the  whole 
world  is  an  infirmity  that  has  obsessed 
the  minds  —  noble  and  otherwise  —  of 
many  emperors  and  kings.  But  the 
collapse  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the 
barbarian  invasion  of  Europe,  the  slow 
reconstruction  of  a  new  civilization  to 
replace  the  old,  the  arrest  of  the  world 
trade  that  had  existed  while  the  Roman 
Empire  still  stood  —  these  and  other 
causes  made  the  business  of  world-con- 
quest slumber,  until  Louis  the  Great 
emerged  from  his  minority  in  the 
seventeenth  century  and  found  the 
whole  power  and  wealth  of  France  con- 
centrated in  his  hands.  His  ambitions 
taught  the  English  the  lesson  they 
needed;  and  when,  a  century  and  a 
quarter  after  Louis's  failure,  his  politi- 
cal and  spiritual  heir,  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, came  into  the  same  heritage,  his 
military  genius  seemed  to  promise  suc- 
cess where  Louis  had  failed.  But  long 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


825 


pondering  on  what  she  had  escaped  un- 
der Louis  had  prepared  England  for  the 
emergency.  It  was  during  this  period 
that  the  sea-doctrine  of  Great  Britain 
had  been  formulated  and  had  become 
fundamental. 

The  '  Balance  of  Power '  had  become 
the  target  of  every  modern  carper  at 
the  old  regime.  But  the  adhesion  of 
England  to  it  arose  from  no  insane 
militarism,  nor  from  any  blind  devo- 
tion to  an  old-world  and  corrupt  diplo- 
macy. If  for  more  than  two  hundred 
years  we  stood  in  the  way  of  any  one 
power  in  Europe  dominating  the  rest, 
it  was  not  because  we  were  slaves  to  the 
pursuit  of  glory,  not  because  we  coveted 
the  wealth  of  others,  not  because  we 
reveled  in  the  shameless  chicanery  of 
intrigue,  but  simply  because  we  knew 
that  it  was  all  up  with  us  if  we  did  not. 
And  the  only  way  we  could  prevent 
France  or  any  other  country  from 
dominating  Europe  was  to  keep  the 
command  of  the  seas  in  our  hands. 

In  time  of  peace  it  is  usual  to  talk  of 
national  forces,  whether  they  are  land- 
forces  or  sea-forces,  as  implements  of 
national  'defense.'  In  war,  of  course, 
there  is  only  one  use  of  force,  and  that 
is  for  an  attack  upon  the  enemy.  If  you 
wish  to  defend  your  territory  you  will, 
if  you  are  wise,  attack  and  destroy  the 
force  that  threatens  it.  At  sea  there  are 
no  territories,  and  the  traditions  of  sea- 
war  are  not,  therefore,  confused  by  the 
military  jargon  of  offensive  and  defen- 
sive strategy.  The  function  of  a  fleet  is 
to  destroy,  or  neutralize  the  possible  ac- 
tion of,  the  enemy's  fleet.  But  its  func- 
tion begins  and  ends  with  this.  To  be 
sure,  if  either  of  these  ends  is  achieved, 
the  way  is  open  for  the  other  arm.  But 
the  work  proper  of  the  fleet  is  over  when 
the  enemy's  fleet  is  rendered  innocuous. 

Thus,  viewed  politically,  a  navy  is 
not  an  instrument  of  conquest.  It  does 
not  threaten  its  neighbors  —  except  in- 
directly —  because  it  opens  the  way  to 


military  conquest.  It  was  this  truth  that 
safeguarded  the  position  of  England  in 
Europe.  As  it  was  our  set  policy  to  pre- 
vent the  domination  of  any  single  pow- 
er, it  necessarily  followed  that,  when 
the  disposition  to  conquer  showed  itself 
in  any  one  nation,  we  were  always  sure 
of  allies,  because  it  was  we  alone  who 
could  give  effective  help  to  those  who 
were  in  danger  of  aggression.  Thus  the 
compulsion  of  national  security  drove 
us  literally  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
It  became  our  role  to  stand  for  liberty 
and  right-dealing  on  the  continent. 

In  the  very  nature  of  things,  there- 
fore, we  could  not  follow  our  destiny 
without  being  a  great  sea-power,  and 
our  greatness  at  sea  made  us  the  arbiter 
and  the  judge  among  our«  neighbors  in 
Europe.  But  this  does  not  exhaust  the 
advantages  that  sea-power  gave  us. 
From  the  earliest  times  sea-war  has 
been  the  only  form  of  war  that  has 
been  regulated  by  international  law. 
This,  of  course,  is  a  very  large  subject, 
which  I  cannot  pursue.  Let  it  suffice 
to  remind  the  reader  that  right  into 
the  nineteenth  century  the  progress  of 
armies  was  still  marked  by  unchecked 
looting  and  the  rape,  murder,  and  tor- 
ture of  the  non-combatant  population. 
But,  for  a  century  before  that,  sea-war 
had  been  governed  by  the  most  rigid 
rules ;  and  anyone  —  even  an  enemy  — 
who  suffered  in  his  property  or  in  his 
person,  had  access  to  an  Admiralty 
court,  where,  if  he  had  right  on  his  side, 
he  was  sure  of  justice.  The  thing  follow- 
ed inevitably,  of  course,  from  the  fact 
that  the  sea  is  a  common  highway,  on 
which,  except  that  they  may  not  help 
an  enemy,  neutrals  have  equal  rights 
with  the  combatants.  But  the  point 
is  that  men  fighting  at  sea,  having  first 
to  respect  the  rights  of  noncombat- 
ant  neutrals,  —  who,  of  course,  did  not 
figure  in  land-war  at  all,  —  were  then 
compelled  to  recognize  the  personal 
rights  of  a  noncombatant  enemy.  It  is, 


826 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


I  think,  an  interesting  historical  fact 
that  the  English,  necessarily  the  great 
exponents  of  maritime  law,  and  those 
best  trained  in  its  spirit,  were  almost  the 
first  to  insist  on  a  similarly  disciplined 
humanity  on  land.  It  was  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  in  the  Crimea,  and  after- 
ward in  France,  who,  by  his  practice, 
laid  the  foundation  of  all  these  rules  for 
the  protection  of  noncombatants,  which 
much  later  on  were  embodied  in  the 
agreements  of  Geneva  and  The  Hague. 

Thus  sea-war  had  a  double  influence 
on  the  national  character.  It  made  the 
English  the  protagonists  of  political 
justice  and  right  dealing,  and  it  trained 
the  nation  in  the  higher  humanity  that 
insists  that  the  horrors  of  war  shall  be 
limited  by  the  observance  of  civilized 
regulations.  Nor  was  either  influence 
limited  to  the  European  sphere.  To  my 
mind  there  is  nothing  fanciful  in  the  idea 
that  the  successive  abolitions,  first  of 
the  slave-trade  all  over  the  world,  and 
next  of  slave-owning  in  British  posses- 
sions, were  very  largely  due  to  the  com- 
pulsory education  that  the  British  people 
received  from  seamen.  I  need  hardly 
remind  American  readers  of  the  in- 
fluence of  this  example  on  the  conduct 
of  their  forebears.  And  it  is  certainly 
an  historical  fact  that  when,  after  the 
Congress  of  Vienna,  the  old  monarchies 
of  Europe  exhibited  a  deplorable  re- 
action toward  absolutism,  —  against 
which  the  popular  elements  in  the 
South  American  colonies  of  Spain  and 
Portugal  rebelled,  —  it  was  at  the  in- 
stance of  the  British  Prime  Minister 
that  President  Monroe  announced  the 
famous  doctrine  ever  since  associated 
with  his  name.  And  it  was  certainly  be- 
cause of  British  sea-power  that,  at  that 
most  critical  time,  the  doctrine  was 
respected. 

All  these  things  are  vaguely  in  the 
Englishman's  mind  when  he  looks  at 
the  present  naval  situation  and  sees 
how  lamentably  Great  Britain  has  fall- 


en from  her  great  estate.  But  he  will  be 
wholly  wrong  to  blame  his  government 
for  allowing  this  thing  to  be.  The  deep- 
er and  saner  interpretation  of  our  sea- 
supremacy,  while  it  lasted,  is  not  that 
it  corresponded  with  some  such  innate 
national  pride  as  is  echoed  in  '  Britannia 
rules  the  waves';  not  that  it  was  a  lux- 
ury which  our  old  overwhelming  wealth 
gave  us,  and  our  present  poverty  can- 
not afford;  not  that  it  was  a  natural 
outcome  of  our  merchant-shipping, 
which,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  is  as 
dominant  to-day  as  it  was  before  the 
war:  Great  Britain  maintained  a  sea- 
force  superior  to  that  of  all  other  combi- 
nations of  sea-force  for  just  so  long  as 
her  security  as  a  nation  made  it  impera- 
tive and  —  this  is  the  point  —  for  no 
longer.  If  our  navy  lasted  long  enough 
to  defeat  the  German  effort,  and  if  that 
defeat  left  us  without  an  enemy  or  a 
threat  against  us  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  then  the  British  Navy  had  done 
its  work.  Whether  America  or  Japan  or 
any  other  country  with  whom  we  had 
cooperated  to  win  had  a  larger  fleet 
than  that  which  we  had  inherited  from 
pre-war  conditions  was,  so  to  speak,  a 
matter  of  indifference.  Surprising  as 
the  man  in  the  street  has  found  the 
present  naval  situation  to  be,  it  has,  of 
course,  been  no  surprise  at  all  to  those 
who  follow  public  events  closely  and 
who  have  attempted  to  understand  the 
causes  behind  them. 

That  the  American  and  Japanese 
fleets  do  not  threaten  Great  Britain  — 
and  here  I  drop  the  technical  argument 
and  confine  myself  to  the  political  situa- 
tion —  is  certainly  clear  enough  to-day. 
We  have  no  differences  that  we  know  of 
with  either  country.  We  have  an  offen- 
sive and  defensive  alliance  with  Japan, 
against  the  world,  except  the  United 
States;  and  we  have  a  treaty  of  arbi- 
tration with  the  United  States  which, 
as  both  nations  respect  their  plighted 
word,  is  no  scrap  of  paper,  but  a  bond. 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


827 


It  has  happened  in  the  history  of 
nations  that  an  unsuspected  conflict  of 
economic  interests,  an  outburst  of  local  • 
passion,  in  which  foreign  nations  suffer, 
or  a  sudden  conflict  of  national  interest 
in  a  third  country  has  induced  such 
violent  words  and  feelings,  that  govern- 
ments have  been  powerless  to  stem 
them.  Any  tension  of  this  sort  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States  is, 
of  course,  very  improbable.  But  should 
it  arise,  the  treaty  safeguards  the  posi- 
tion. Most  of  us  think  —  and  we  are 
certainly  right  in  so  thinking  —  that 
the  real  reason  why  the  treaty  exists  is 
because  it  is  wholly  unnecessary.  There 
could,  of  course,  be  no  better  explana- 
tion of  a  written  agreement.  The  Amer- 
icans and  the  British  would  arbitrate 
in  any  event.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
treaty  is  there;  and  other  things  being 
as  they  are  now.  I  repeat,  neither  the 
American  nor  the  Japanese  fleet  seems 
to  us  a  menace  to  any  vital  interest. 

It,  therefore,  summarizes  my  argu- 
ment to  this  point  to  say  that  the  rea- 
son why  Great  Britain  maintained  a 
supreme  fleet  in  former  days  is  so  ob- 
vious, that  all  who  run  may  read.  The 
mother  nation  and  that  league  of  free 
nations  which  is  called  the  British 
Empire  would  have  been  at  the  mercy 
of  aggression  had  it  not  been  so.  It 
bears  repeating,  that  this  is  the  sole  and 
only  reason  why  our  fleet  was  main- 
tained at  its  old  relative  strength.  It  is 
not  so  maintained  to-day  —  again,  for 
one  reason  only:  the  Empirje  is  not 
threatened  by  aggression. 


A  final  point  must  be  made  clear  be- 
fore I  leave  this  part  of  the  argument. 
If  the  British  Navy,  while  it  was  su- 
preme, was  not  a  natural  outgrowth  of 
British  wealth,  while  that  also  was 
supreme,  so,  too,  the  fact  that,  in  the 
costlier  and  more  powerful  units,  the 


British  fleet  has  fallen  to  the  third 
place  is  not  in  the  least  attributable  to 
the  fact  that  our  wealth  is  not  absolute- 
ly or  relatively  what  it  was.  If  I  am 
right  in  saying  that  the  supreme  fleet 
arose  from  a  supreme  national  emer- 
gency, —  because  without  it  the  nation 
could  not  be  secure  in  its  possessions, 
or  in  its  destiny,  —  then,  certainly,  I 
am  right  in  going  further  and  say- 
ing that,  were  these  possessions  or 
this  destiny  again  threatened,  the  fleet 
would  be  made  supreme  again.  There 
is  no  conceivable  sacrifice  that  would 
limit  it.  We  have  a  heavy  war-debt, 
a  legacy  of  heavy  post-war  extrava- 
gances. But  from  the  day  when  the  late 
hostilities  began  to  the  day  they  ended, 
it  never  occurred  to  a  soul  in  these 
islands  to  say  that  we  could  not  afford 
the  sacrifices  involved.  No  one  did 
suggest,  nor  could  anyone  suggest,  that 
five  thousand  millions,  or  eight  or  ten 
thousand  millions,  was  the  limit  we 
could  spend.  So  long  as  the  war  lasted, 
the  nation  was  in  peril.  The  rate  of 
sacrifice  had  to  be  maintained  until  that 
peril  was  removed.  The  principle  on 
which  we  acted  was  the  principle  on 
which  we  should  act  again,  if,  in  time  of 
peace,  the  threat  of  war  reappeared. 

Itjs  important  that  this  truth  should 
be  fully  grasped,  for  otherwise  we  shall 
not  get  the  Conference  issues  clearly 
in  our  minds.  The  Conference  is  com- 
monly spoken  of  as  if  its  immediate  pur- 
pose were  to  bring  about  a  tripartite 
agreement  for  the  limitation  of  naval 
armaments.  In  other  criticisms  of  mine 
I  have  given  my  reasons  for  saying  that 
I  do  not  think  an  agreement  on  this 
point  is  feasible.  This  doubt  is  a  corol- 
lary of  the  theory  I  have  just  put  for- 
ward. Armaments  of  all  kinds,  whether 
naval  or  military,  either  are  a  necessity 
of  national  safety  or  they  manifest  an 
intention  to  commit  some  unprovoked 
aggression  on  others.  Or,  of  course,  they 
may  be  the  outcome  of  mere  megalo- 


828 


ENGLAND'S  NAVY  AND  DISARMAMENT 


mania  and  vanity.  If  a  nation  fears  no 
other  nations,  and  yet  maintains  great 
armies  or  fleets,  then,  unquestionably, 
that  nation's  conduct  is  inconsequent  — 
unless  it  has  itself  a  plan  of  conquest 
in  mind.  And  if  it  fears  aggression,  it 
will  assuredly  maintain  its  force  at  the 
safety  limit.  No  example  of,  and  no 
pressure  from,  other  nations  —  short  of 
successful  war  —  will  be  regarded  as 
binding,  if  that  nation  believes  that  the 
circumstances  in  which  the  agreement 
was  made  have  changed  to  its  disadvan- 
tage. The  law  of  preservation  clearly 
admits  no  exception,  and  no  nation  can 
contract  itself  out  of  its  obligations. 

Even  should  such  perfect  accord  be 
reached  as  to  make  each  of  our  three 
countries  willing  to  execute  a  contract 
by  which  none  should  build  or  maintain 
a  navy  above  a  stated  strength,  there 
would  surely  be  very  great  difficulties  in 
drawing  up  the  schedule.  Naval  force 
is  about  the  most  unsettled  thing  there 
is.  No  one  can  say  to-day  how  a  navy 
will  be  composed  ten  years  hence.  And 
even  to-day  you  really  want  a  different 
navy  for  different  wars.  It  is  to  me  very 
hard  to  picture  any  unanimity,  if  each 
country  is  to  have  so  many  battleships, 
so  many  cruisers,  so  many  destroyers, 
and  so  on.  No  type  is  of  constant  value ; 
the  ratio  of  types  will  vary  as  values 
vary;  new  types  will  come  into  being. 
Nor  is  the  money  limitation  a  much 
happier  expedient.  We  can,  after  all, 
see  and  count  ships;  but  once  there  is  an 
obligation  not  to  spend  above  a  certain 
sum,  be  sure  the  busybodies  and  spy- 
hunters  will  be  at  work  —  and  that  one 
or  the  other  of  us  is  spending  more  than 
we  avow  will  be  a  constant  rumor.  I 
may  be  wrong.  But  I  see  no  hope  of  a 
binding  treaty  that  shall  specify  either 
the  scale  and  kind  of  navy  that  is  permit- 
ted or  the  amount  that  may  be  spent. 
Let  us  not  forget  how  Stein  defeated 
Napoleon  on  the  limitation  of  Prussia's 
army  after  Jena. 


It  seems  to  me,  therefore,  that  we 
cannot  look  to  the  Washington  Con- 
ference to  result  in  an  immediate  agree- 
ment for  disarmament.  But  there  is  no 
reason  at  all  why  immediate  disarma- 
ment should  not  be  the  result  of  the  Con- 
ference. For  if  armament  is  the  out- 
come of  fear,  and  the  Conference  can 
remove  that  fear,  the  end  we  have  in 
view  is  automatically  attained.  While 
I  submit  that  it  is  no  use 'to  tell  Japan 
that  she  cannot  afford,  being  a  poor 
country,  to  spend  a  fabulous  proportion 
of  her  revenue  on  her  navy,  it  is  of  the 
utmost  use  that,  in  an  open  and  public 
Conference,  we  should  all  be  able  to  tell 
Japan  that  her  possessions  and  the 
destinies  of  her  people  are  in  no  danger. 
If  we  can  convince  her  of  this,  her  peo- 
ple will  see  to  it  that  they  are  not  taxed 
for  unnecessary  armaments. 

VI 

The  work  before  the  Conference, 
then,  is  simple.  I  do  not  mean  that  to 
succeed  in  getting  the  work  done  will 
prove  to  be  a  simple  affair.  For  it  is 
far  from  easy  for  the  spokesman  of  a 
country  to  be  perfectly  candid  in  a 
statement  of  national  aims;  and  even  if 
that  were  easy,  it  is  not  a  simple  busi- 
ness to  make  that  candor  intelligible 
and  convincing  to  others.  But,  if  the 
Conference  is  to  succeed,  it  is  precise- 
ly this  that  each  country,  through  its 
delegates,  must  do. 

The  Senate  has  paid  me  the  compli- 
ment of  including  in  the  report  of  its 
proceedings  an  article  on  the  Amer- 
ican Navy,  written  when  the  1916  pro- 
gramme was  under  discussion;  and  if  I 
refer  to  it  now,  it  is  because  I  can  appeal 
to  a  question  asked  six  years  ago  as  one 
upon  the  reply  to  which  the  success  of 
the  November  meeting  depends.  I  had 
discussed  the  composition  of  the  pro- 
posed new  American  fleet,  and  had 
pointed  out  that  the  ratio  of  battleships 


ENGLAND'S   NAVY  AND   DISARMAMENT 


829 


to  cruisers  and  destroyers  differed  ma- 
terially from  the  British  ratio  before 
the  war,  and  suggested  that  war  had 
shown  the  English  ratio  to  be  too  high. 
From  this  I  passed  on  to  the  question, 
what  the  strength  of  the  American 
fleet  should  be.  It  was  obviously  not 
a  point  to  which  I  could  suggest  the 
answer,  and  I  had  to  be  content  with 
saying  that  the  answer  was  to  be  found 
when  the  Americans  had  found  a  reply 
to  the  further  question:  from  which 
country  did  they  expect  trouble?  Now, 
if  the  proceedings  at  Washington 
could  begin  with  frank  statements  from 
Japan  and  the  United  States  and  Great 
Britain  as  to  what  their  world-poli- 
cies are,  we  should,  I  submit,  attain  a 
definite  result  with  very  little  delay. 
Either  it  will  be  found  that  each  country 
can  agree  that  the  policies  of  the  others 
are  harmless  to  it,  or  we  shall  be  faced 
by  a  certainty  of  conflict  which  no  de- 
bate can  remove. 

To  an  Englishman  it  seems  inconceiv- 
able that  this  historic  meeting  can 
break  up  without  achieving  its  desired 
end.  One  simply  cannot  believe  that 
the  United  States  of  America  really 
fears  any  people,  or  can  have  so  depart- 
ed from  the  traditions  of  its  past  history 
as  to  plan  the  conquest  of  any  territory, 
or  the  defeat  of  any  nation,  for  the  sake 
of  glory.  If  the  'open  door'  in  Asia 
is  a  principle  of  policy  as  fundamental 
as  is  the  Monroe  Doctrine  to  America, 
then  it  is  a  principle  to  which  all  Europe 


and  Japan  are  already  pledged;  for  it 
figures  among  the  provisions  of  the 
Treaty  of  Versailles.  And,  again,  it  is 
inconceivable  that  Japan  can  have  any 
avowed  policy  which  America  is  pledged 
to  thwart ;  for  the  problems  involved  in 
the  desire  of  Asiatics  to  settle  in  coun- 
tries predominantly  European  are  ob- 
viously not  such  as  to  lead  to  war. 

Measured,  then,  by  the  true  test  of  ar- 
maments, —  national  security,  —  there 
seems  no  reason  at  all  why,  after  a  can- 
did interchange  of  views,  America  and 
Japan  should  not  find  it  easy,  if  not  to 
abandon  the  completion  of  their  present 
programme,  at  least  not  to  add  to  their 
forces  for  some  years  to  come;  nor,  dur- 
ing those  years,  to  maintain  those  for- 
ces fully  armed,  manned,  and  ready  for 
action.  After  all,  should  they  so  agree, 
they  will  only  be  acting  on  a  principle 
that  Great  Britain  has  already  ac- 
cepted as  a  guide  to  conduct.  If  we 
have  built  but  one  fighting  ship  of  the 
first  class  in  the  last  six  years,  and  no 
ship  of  any  class  in  the  last  three  years, 
we  have  forborne  for  one  reason  and 
one  reason  only  —  there  is  no  enemy 
for  such  ships  to  meet.  If  Great  Britain 
can  sanely  abandon  a  doctrine  she  has 
held  sacred  for  more  than  twice  as  long 
as  America  has  held  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine sacred,  and  has  done  so  because 
the  occasion  for  maintaining  it  no  lon- 
ger exists,  then  there  is  at  least  one  oc- 
casion less  for  other  nations  to  crave 
great  strength  at  sea. 


BY  SISLEY  HUDDLESTON 


NEVER  would  I  consent  to  write 
about  France's  present-day  politicians 
without  making  it  clear  that  the  poli- 
ticians are  not  the  French  people.  For 
it  is  impossible,  with  the  utmost  indul- 
gence, for  anyone  who  has  honestly  re- 
garded them  at  work  to  refrain  from 
some  criticism  of  them.  Unfortunately, 
there  has  grown  up  a  fallacy  that,  in 
speaking  without  flattery  of  a  country's 
accidental  and  temporary  leaders,  one 
is  in  some  way  attacking  the  country. 
It  is  not  so :  for  my  part,  I  think  France 
is  relatively  sound.  The  French  people 
.have  superb  qualities;  they  deserve  all 
the  eulogies  that  have  been  or  could  be 
written  of  them,  though  naturally  they 
have  not  escaped  the  contagion  of  the 
world-sickness.  They  have  shown  a  solid 
sense,  a  rooted  stability,  a  laborious- 
ness,  that  are  beyond  praise.  If  France 
has  ever  shown  signs  of  revolutionary 
tendencies,  —  as  she  did  during  one 
period  at  least,  —  it  has  been  because 
she  was  misguided;  and  she  quickly  re- 
covered herself.  No  country  in  the 
world  is  less  likely  to  break  loose,  to 
run  into  excesses,  whether  of  Militarism 
or  of  Socialism.  Always  does  the  re- 
straining force  of  the  people  keep  the 
wilder  spirits  —  whether  those  wilder 
spirits  are  Nationalist  ministers  or 
Communist  agitators  —  in  check. 

Whenever  I  wish  to  know  the  true 
sentiments  of  ordinary  folk,  I  make  a 
little  tour  of  the  cabarets  of  Paris.  In 
the  revues  there  presented  I  am  per- 

830 


petually  surprised  at  the  healthy  reac- 
tion against  Bolshevism  on  the  one 
hand  and  against  flamboyant  and  fire- 
eating  patriotism  on  the  other  hand 
(though  it  must  be  confessed  that  every 
chansonnier  has  his  couplet  against 
England).  Anyone  who  supposes  that 
the  people  liked  the  call-up  of  Class  19 
of  the  army,  the  demobilization,  the 
remobilization,  and  the  demobilization 
again  of  young  Frenchmen;  anyone  who 
supposes  that  the  French  people  love 
to  indulge  in  flourishes  and  menaces 
.toward  Germany,  threats  of  occupa- 
tion, of  dislocation,  vauntings  of  vic- 
tory and  vainglorious  strutting,  need 
only  listen  intelligently  to  the  skits  on 
drum-beating  in  the  spirituel  shows  of 
Paris,  which  are  applauded  vociferous- 
ly. Ministers  and  Muscovites  are  good 
game:  they  are  not  angrily  railed  at, 
they  are  wittily  satirized;  they  are  for 
the  most  part  tolerated  as  inevitable 
and  not  particularly  important.  I  have 
heard  nearly  every  politician  of  note 
twitted,  with  the  full  approbation  of  the 
audience.  To  tell  the  truth,  through- 
out the  history  of  the  Republic,  Par- 
liament and  Cabinet  have  been  held 
in  little  esteem,  while  President  after 
President  has  been  mercilessly  mocked. 
There  is,  in  short,  a  curious  separation 
of  people  and  rulers;  and  the  rulers  do 
not  always  adequately  represent  the 
sentiments  of  the  people.  For  my  part, 
I  do  not  know  any  country  in  which  this 
division  is  more  marked. 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON   CONFERENCE 


831 


Nor,  oddly  enough,  do  the  journals 
which  are  read  by  everybody  reflect,  in 
their  politics,  the  spirit  of  the  people: 
they  reflect  the  particular  view  of  the 
Quai  d'Orsay  and  of  other  government 
offices,  from  which,  by  an  elaborate 
system,  they  receive  the  mot  d'ordre. 
Less  and  less  am  I  inclined  to  form  my 
appreciation  of  public  opinion  from  a 
reading  of  the  French  newspapers. 
Public  opinion,  in  the  sense  in  which  the 
term  is  now  employed,  is  merely  the 
passing  opinion  of  a  passing  minister, 
transmitted  through  '  inspired '  journal- 
ists. Many  misconceptions  attout  the 
French  may  be  avoided  if  it  is  remem- 
bered how  deliberate  is  the  present 
method  of  doping  the  journals.  As  for 
the  foreign  pressmen,  it  is  unhappily 
true  that  the  red  ribbon  which  indicates 
the  Legion  of  Honor  exercises  a  hypnotic 
effect  on  many  of  them.  I  know  some 
who  lose  no  opportunity  of  writing  com- 
fortable things,  of  placing  themselves 
at  the  disposition  of  the  propaganda 
service  which  has  been  openly  set  up  — 
and  of  submitting  their  claims  to  be 
decorated  at  due  intervals. 

The  very  word  propaganda,  since  the 
war,  has  become  obnoxious.  It  is  not, 
of  course,  a  peculiarly  French  institu- 
tion: all  governments  now  advertise, 
like  automobile  manufacturers  or  soap- 
makers,  and  have  brought  the  art  of 
suppression,  of  distortion,  of  extrava- 
gant praise,  to  a  point  where  it  slops 
over  into  the  grotesque.  American 
visitors  to  France,  of  any  degree  of  note, 
are  particularly  feted,  and  columns  of 
the  newspapers  are  devoted  to  the  tours 
of  American  associations.  It  is  probably 
the  French  rather  than  the  American 
organization  which  is  responsible  for 
this  fantastic  fanfaronnade.  I  submit 
that,  while  we  should  try  to  know  each 
other,  the  present  methods  of  propa- 
ganda do  not  help  us  to  know  each 
other.  On  the  contrary,  they  serve  to 
rouse  suspicion;  and  extravagant  lauda- 


tion and  obviously  official  representa- 
tions of  facts  provoke  only  a  smile,  or 
even  an  exclamation  of  disgust.  As  an 
organ  for  propaganda  the  press  is  be- 
coming played  out:  it  has  been  over- 
worked. 

This  is  not,  of  course,  to  suggest  that 
the  present  French  politicians  do  not 
possess  admirable  qualities.  They  are 
nearly  all  intensely  patriotic;  though 
patriotism  is  a  virtue  that  may  easily 
become  a  vice  if  pushed  to  extremes. 
They  have  considerable  parliamentary 
ability;  though  this  again  is  a  merit 
that  was  better  suited  to  the  pre-war 
days,  when  the  problems  were  not  of 
a  vast,  universal  character.  It  is  when 
one  judges  them  by  the  great  interna- 
tional standard  of  world  needs  that 
one  regrets  to  see  no  truly  big  figure 
emerging. 

But,  then,  in  what  country  does  the 
world-man  emerge?  Where  is  the  states- 
man who  sees,  what  so  many  thinkers 
now  see,  that  what  the  times  call  for  is 
someone  who  can  lift  himself  above 
frontiers,  who  can  escape  the  limiting 
moment,  whose  vision  can  embrace  the 
future  and  go  round  the  globe?  It  is 
heartbreaking,  when  superior  intellect, 
superior  emotion,  are  needed  as  never 
before,  to  subordinate  the  smaller  craft 
of  national  parliamentarianism  to  the 
bigger  task  of  announcing  and  realizing 
the  interdependence  of  the  peoples, 
that  more  than  ever  we  should  be  all 
working  in  our  watertight  compart- 
ments, doing  our  partial,  uncoordinated 
jobs.  It  may  be  that  the  machinery  of 
civilization  has  outgrown  the  capacity 
of  its  mechanicians.  What  was  good 
enough  before  the  war  is  not  good 
enough  now;  and  the  pre-war  mind  is 
incapable  of  grappling  with  post-war 
problems.  The  terms  of  those  problems 
have  changed:  they  are  not  affairs  of 
State,  but  affairs  of  the  world.  It  is  ex- 
traordinary that  the  peace  has  thrown 
up  no  new  men.  This  is  true  of  all 


countries  (excepting  Russia,  where  the 
new  men  nave  indulged  in  a  disastrous 
experiment).  It  is  particularly  true  of 
France,  where  practically  all  the  men 
worth  mentioning  are  the  old,  tried  men. 

As  I  write,  I  cannot  forecast  what 
will  be  done  at  Washington;  I  can 
only  anticipate  that  the  American  dele- 
gates will  be  purely  American,  the  Brit- 
ish purely  British,  and  the  French  pure- 
ly French;  each  concerned  to  defend  the 
narrow  interests  of  his  own  country, 
when  it  is  a  generous  cooperation  of  all 
countries  that  is  called  for.  There  are 
some  questions,  such  as  general  disarm- 
ament, such  as  a  general  economic  and 
financial  settlement,  that  nobody  seems 
big  enough  to  tackle  seriously  and  hon- 
estly; nobody  seems  big  enough  even  to 
approach  them,  except  with  the  desire 
to  show  that  his  own  nation  is  in  an  ex- 
ceptional position  and  cannot  conform 
to  any  suggested  world-order.  Most  of 
the  ills  from  which  we  suffer  are  not 
national :  they  cannot  be  settled  by  na- 
tional statesmen,  but  only  by  men  with 
the  international  mind,  men  with  an 
outlook  as  broad  as  mankind.  There 
are  no  sectional  cures:  there  are  only 
radical  remedies. 

H.  G.  Wells,  in  his  Outline  of  History, 
says  of  the  politicians  of  a  certain 
Roman  epoch  that  they  only  demon- 
strate how  clever  and  cunning  men 
may  be,  how  subtle  in  contention,  how 
brilliant  in  pretense,  and  how  utterly 
wanting  in  wisdom  and  grace  of  spirit. 
It  seems  to  me,  as  it  seems  to  Mr.  Wells, 
that  this  is  a  true  description  of  most 
of  the  politicians  of  all  countries  to-day. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  France  is 
in  this  respect  different  from  other  na- 
tions. I  am  bound  to  say  this  much;  but, 
having  said  it,  I  must  take  another 
measure  and  paint  the  French  politi- 
cians for  what  they  are.  They  do  not, 
any  more  than  do  the  men  in  power  in 
other  countries,  reach  ideal  dimensions: 
they  must  be  judged  on  their  plane. 


II 

It  is  a  somewhat  extraordinary  fact 
that  three,  at  least,  of  the  little  group 
of  men  who  are  most  conspicuous  in 
French  politics,  who  have  climbed  to 
the  heights  of  power,  began  their  career 
as  Socialists.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
I  remember,  suggests  somewhere  that 
most  of  us  begin  as  revolutionaries  and 
end  up,  somewhere  about  middle  age, 
as  conservatives.  Certainly  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  better  examples  of 
this  inevitable  evolution  in  the  human 
spirit  tjian  are  furnished  by  that  trio, 
Alexandre  Millerand,  Aristide  Briand, 
and  Rene  Viviani.  Of  course,  it  is  fool- 
ish to  make  a  charge  of  inconsistency. 
No  man  can  be  judged  by  his  youth.  It 
is  to  their  credit  that,  before  they 
acquired  the  reticences  of  later  years, 
before  they  learned  that  progress  is 
slow  and  must  be  orderly,  these  distin- 
guished Frenchmen  were  aflame  with 
the  passion  of  putting  the  world  to 
rights.  However  violently,  in  certain 
cases,  aspirations  toward  a  better  order 
of  things  were  expressed;  however  in- 
candescent were  their  sympathies  with 
the  downtrodden;  however  excessive 
were  sometimes  their  remedies,  it  does 
honor  to  them  that  they  were  moved  by 
essentially  noble  impulses.  He  is,  in- 
deed, a  poor  man  who  has  never  felt 
wild  yearnings,  has  never  been  guided 
rather  by  the  heart  than  by  the  head. 

When  I  look  round  the  political  field 
in  France,  I  am  invariably  surprised 
with  the  recurring  discovery  that  not 
only  these  three,  but  nearly  all  prom- 
inent publicists  and  politicians,  have 
passed  through  this  stage  of  ardent,  if 
unruly,  enthusiasm.  They  have  not  en- 
tered the  arena  coldly,  calculatingly. 
They  became  gladiators  because  of 
their  generous  emotions.  They  have 
been  shaped  into  what  they  are  to-day 
by  experience.  This  is  excellent,  and  is 
entirely  in  their  favor.  It  may  be  that 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


833 


instances  could  be  discovered  where  the 
ensuing  disillusionment  has  induced 
cynicism.  But,  on  the  whole,  such  a 
beginning  is  a  proof  of  sincerity. 

On  the  other  hand,  they  are  naturally 
open  to  the  attacks  of  the  Communists 
of  to-day,  who  frequently  quote  against 
them  their  speeches  of  other  days  and 
show  that  they  now  oppose  that  which 
they  aforetime  promoted.  For  example, 
M.  Millerand,  in  1896,  in  a  famous  dis- 
course, proclaimed  the  right  to  strike; 
and  in  1920,  following  a  strike,  he  insti- 
tuted proceedings  against  the  Confe- 
deration Generale  du  Travail,  which 
have  helped  to  bring  this  association  of 
trade-unions  to  its  present  position  of 
impotence.  He  was,  again,  a  foremost 
figure  in  anti-clerical  movements  and 
liquidated  the  congregations,  while  dur- 
ing his  premiership  last  year  he  com- 
menced the  negotiations  for  reestab- 
lishing relations  with  Rome.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  peculiarly  little  mind  that  would 
make  these  apparent  reversals  of  policy 
a  reproach.  There  was  a  moment  when 
it  was  important,  above  all,  to  assert 
the  right  to  strike.  There  was  another 
moment  when  the  superior  interests  of 
the  country  demanded  the  suppression 
of  dangerous  agitation.  There  was  a 
moment  when  the  priesthood  had  be- 
come mischievous  in  France  and  men- 
aced the  Republic.  And  there  was 
another  moment  when  diplomatic  rea- 
sons urged  the  appeasement  of  the  old 
religious  quarrel.  Those  abstract  poli- 
ticians who  forget  that  circumstances 
are  of  more  importance  than  doctrines 
are  open  to  criticism.  Whatever  M. 
Millerand  has  done,  it  should  never  be 
forgotten  that,  when  he  entered  the  cab- 
inet of  Waldeck-Rousseau  as  the  first 
Socialist  minister,  he  initiated  many 
remarkable  social  reforms.  To  him  are 
due  pensions,  a  weekly  rest-day  for 
workers,  and  the  shortening  of  hours 
for  women  and  children  employed  in 
industry. 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 
E 


Most  of  his  ministerial  work  has 
been  in  connection  with  internal  affairs. 
He  has  been  an  able  organizer;  he  is  a 
hard  worker  of  the  dogged  rather  than 
the  brilliant  kind.  Certainly  he  is 
tenacious.  When  he  became  Prime 
Minister  after  the  defeat  of  M.  Clemen- 
ceau,  who  had  expected  to  become 
President  of  the  Republic,  French  opin- 
ion was  just  beginning  to  turn  against 
the  authors  of  the  treaty,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  proclaim  that  England  (to 
employ  a  French  expression)  had  taken 
most  of  the  blanket  for  herself.  Mr. 
Lloyd  George,  regarded  as  too  clever 
by  half,  was  beginning  to  be  cordially 
detested  in  France;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  M.  Clemenceau  was  accused  of 
having  given  way  on  almost  every 
point  to  the  British  Premier.  The  old 
Tiger,  who  had  been  placed  upon  a 
higher  pedestal  than  any  statesman  of 
the  Third  Republic,  now  discovered 
that  the  Tarpeian  Rock  was  near  to  the 
Capitol.  There  were  even  clamors  for 
his  trial  in  the  High  Court  of  Justice, 
for  having  sacrificed  French  interests  in 
favor  of  his  friends,  the  English. 

The  task  of  M.  Millerand,  following 
this  amazing  fall  of  M.  Clemenceau 
from  the  heights  of  popularity  to  the 
depths  of  unpopularity,  was  difficult. 
It  was  his  function  to  resist  Mr.  Lloyd 
George.  With  his  shrewd  sense,  how- 
ever, he  was  aware  that  a  compromise 
with  Germany  was  inevitable  and  de- 
sirable. But  behind  him  was  the  clam- 
orous Bloc  National,  refusing,  even  in 
the  name  of  a  policy  of  realism,  any 
further  concessions  to  Germany  in  re- 
spect of  reparations,  and  declining  to 
take  any  practical  step  which  might  be 
construed  as  a  concession  to  British 
views.  There  began  a  long-drawn-out 
fight  between  France  and  England. 
The  attempt  to  get  away  from  the 
sentimentalism  of  the  Versailles  Treaty, 
with  its  grotesquely  impossible  de- 
mands on  Germany,  was  rendered  hard 


834          FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


by  the  suspicions  of  Parliament.  While 
dislike  of  England  grew,  anger  against 
Germany  grew;  and  every  time  that 
Germany's  debt  was  defined  (still  in  un- 
reasonable terms),  M.  Millerand  was  in 
danger  of  being  overthrown. 

More  time  was  needed  for  the  truth 
to  dawn  on  the  politicians,  not  only  of 
France,  but  of  the  Allies  generally  — 
the  truth  that  there  are  limits,  easily 
reached,  to  the  transfer  of  wealth  from 
one  country  to  another;  that,  speaking 
broadly,  wealth  can  be  transferred 
only  in  the  shape  of  goods  which  it  is 
against  the  industrial  and  commercial 
interests  of  the  receiving  country  to 
accept.  This  truth  has  also  its  applica- 
tion to  America,  who  can  be  paid  what 
is  owing  to  her  by  the  Allies  only  in  the 
form  of  goods  which  she  puts  up  tariff 
barriers  to  keep  out. 

Gradually  the  world  is  awakening  to 
the  fact  that  the  only  rational  policy  is 
one  which  consists  in  canceling,  not  of 
necessity  nominally,  but  virtually,  the 
bulk  of  international  debts,  German 
or  Allied,  and  in  resuming  as  quickly 
as  possible  normal  trade-relations. 
This  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that 
Germany  should  make  no  reparations. 
She  should  be  made  to  pay  all  that  it 
is  possible  for  her  to  pay;  but  chiefly 
she  should  be  obliged  to  help  in  the  re- 
building of  the  ruined  North,  as  now, 
at  long  last,  she  promises  to  do  under 
the  Loucheur-Rathenau  accord,  which 
makes  hay  of  the  treaty  and  of  the 
London  Agreement,  and  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  collective  negotiations  and 
action  against  Germany.  France  has,  I 
think,  reached  a  point  where  the  more 
or  less  willing  cooperation  of  victor  and 
vanquished  is  seen  to  be  necessary. 
But  when  M.  Millerand  was  in  power, 
he  was  unable  to  carry  out  such  a 
policy.  At  Spa,  where  he  consented  to 
meet  the  Germans,  matters  only  be- 
came worse.  It  was  assuredly  not  his 
fault.  Events  could  not  be  hurried.  It 


will  still  take  some  years  before  Europe 
can  get  far  on  the  right  lines.  But  it 
must  be  said  of  M.  Millerand  that  he 
did  at  Spa  adumbrate  the  possibility  of 
voluntary  arrangements. 

M.  Millerand  would  not  be  human 
if  he  did  not  sometimes  give  way  to 
sudden  impulses.  There  was  in  this 
atmosphere  of  opposition  between 
France  and  England  every  excuse  for 
his  desire  to  demonstrate  the  indepen- 
dence of  France  —  not  to  be  forever 
subordinate  to  England.  There  were 
several  incidents  that  appeared  to  be 
inspired  by  a  determination  to  break 
the  supposed  hegemony  of  England. 
The  Entente  is  not  to  be  lightly  thrown 
away;  but  some  of  the  consequences 
of  the  Entente,  when  they  run  coun- 
ter to  French  policy,  must  be  destroyed. 
M.  Millerand  may  be  looked  upon  as  a 
friend  of  the  Entente,  but  an  enemy  of 
British  domination.  Thus,  he  revolted 
against  the  British  tolerance  of  Ger- 
many's non-fulfillment  of  her  obliga- 
tions, by  marching  on  Frankfort.  Then, 
against  the  express  advice  of  England, 
he  recognized  Wrangel,  that  anti-Bol- 
shevist adventurer  whose  moment  of 
glory  soon  passed.  Then  he  took  Po- 
land's part  when  Poland  had  foolishly 
provoked  a  war  with  Russia,  and  Eng- 
land counseled  conciliation  —  sending 
General  Weygand  to  save  Warsaw.  It 
was  precisely  this  lucky  stroke  which 
secured  for  him  the  Presidency  of  the 
Republic.  It  seemed  hopeless  to  think 
of  beating  back  the  Bolsheviki  from 
before  Warsaw  —  but  the  miracle  hap- 
pened. He  soared  into  popularity,  and 
as,  at  that  time,  M.  Deschanel,  the 
President,  had  fallen  ill  and  was  com- 
pelled to  resign,  he  was  carried  triumph- 
antly to  the  filysee. 

It  may  be  taken  that,  as  President, 
M.  Millerand  exercises  more  authority 
than  most  of  his  predecessors  have  ex- 
ercised. He  is  extremely  strong-willed, 
and  on  his  acceptance  of  his  seven-year 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON   CONFERENCE 


835 


post,  declared  that  he  intended  that  the 
premiers  he  would  call  should  carry  out 
his  policy.  In  France  it  is  not  as  in 
America:  the  President  has,  constitu- 
tionally, little  power.  The  executive 
chief  is  the  Premier,  who  is  respon- 
sible to  Parliament  and  whom  Parlia- 
ment can  make  or  break.  Nevertheless, 
a  man  like  M.  Millerand,  if  he  is 
surrounded  by  influential  supporters 
and  has  really  the  favor  of  Parliament, 
can  become  supreme.  It  is  only  when 
he  is  faced  by  a  Premier  who  is  backed 
up  by  Parliament,  and  whose  policy 
is  in  opposition  to  that  of  the  Presi- 
dent, that  he  must  submit,  on  pain  of 
being  broken,  as  was  President  Mac- 
Mahon.  M.  Poincare  has  recently 
shown  that  against  M.  Clemenceau  — 
then  at  the  height  of  the  power  derived 
from  Parliament  and  people  —  he  could 
do  nothing,  even  though  he  was  stren- 
uously against  the  provisions  of  the 
treaty.  The  president  may  be  indeed 
nothing  in  France,  and  the  filysee  may 
be  a  prison.  There  are  those  who  assert 
that  M.  Poincare,  who  now  enjoys 
much  backing,  would  have  been  earlier 
called  to  the  premiership  had  not  M. 
Millerand  passed  him  over,  just  as  M. 
Poincare  for  a  long  time  passed  over 
M.  Clemenceau.  However  that  may  be, 
M.  Leygues,  who  succeeded  M.  Mille- 
rand as  Premier,  was  little  more  than 
the  nominee  of  M.  Millerand,  carrying 
out  his  instructions.  M.  Briand  present- 
ly succeeded  M.  Leygues,  and  although 
M.  Briand  is  far  from  being  colorless, 
Premier  and  President  have  worked 
amicably  together,  and  M.  Millerand 
may  be  considered  to  be  still  in  the  as- 
cendant, still  the  supreme  authority 
in  France,  in  fact  as  in  name. 

m 

M.  Aristide  Briand,  more  than  any 
other  French  politician,  has  won  the 
reputation  of  being  shrewd  and  skillful 


in  emergencies.  If  one  wishes  for  con- 
firmation of  this  opinion,  it  is  necessary 
to  see  him  in  a  tight  corner.  He  knows 
how  to  get  out  of  tight  corners  better 
than  anyone.  It  may  sometimes  be 
thought  that  he  might  have  avoided 
getting  into  tight  corners. 

Now  M.  Briand  is  a  fine  manoeuvrer: 
it  is  exhilarating  to  watch  him  placing 
his  opponents,  when  they  are  most 
cocksure,  in  an  impossible  situation. 
His  method  of  speech-making  is  a  lesson 
in  Parliamentary  strategy.  It  is  odd 
that,  in  a  country  so  renowned  for  its 
eloquence,  the  written  speech  is  so 
common.  Often  have  I  seen  an  ora- 
tor who  has  gained  great  fame  take 
out  of  his  pocket  his  typewritten  reply 
to  a  simple  expression  of  thanks  for 
attending  a  luncheon,  and  proceed  to 
read  formal  or  flowery  phrases.  It  is 
somewhat  disconcerting  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon,  who  is  used  to  impromptu 
speeches  —  the  substance  of  which  is 
doubtless  well  prepared,  but  of  which 
the  words  are  left  largely  to  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  moment.  It  is  with  us  re- 
garded as  a  confession  of  weakness,  a 
sign  of  artificiality,  to  hold  in  one's 
hands  the  evidence  of  careful  study. 
We  have  at  least  to  pretend  to  spon- 
taneity. The  form  is  thus  sacrificed, 
but  the  appearance  of  sincerity  is  saved. 
But  with  the  French  the  form  counts 
for  much.  Out  comes  the  written  docu- 
ment, and  only  its  forceful  delivery 
preserves  for  it  its  effect  of  directness. 

But  M.  Briand  is  not  one  of  those 
French  orators  who  not  only  rehearse 
but  write  their  speeches.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  efforts  are  nearly  always  im- 
promptu. This  is  essentially  character- 
istic of  the  man.  He  is  the  improviser 
par  excellence.  He  is  an  amazing 
virtuoso.  In  France  they  say  that  he 
'plays  the  violoncello.'  He  plays  it 
without  the  music  before  him.  He 
plays  it  precisely  as  the  occasion  sug- 
gests. He  would,  perhaps,  be  singularly 


836          FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON   CONFERENCE 


embarrassed  were  he  called  upon  to 
play  a  set  piece.  He  loves  to  embroider, 
to  compose  as  he  goes  along,  to  await 
the  inspiration  of  the  moment  and  the 
call  of  circumstance.  This  is  true  of  his 
speeches  —  but  it  is  also  true,  in  a 
larger  sense,  of  his  politics. 

It  may  indeed  be  taken  as  a  parable 
and  illustration  of  the  man  —  this 
habit  of  his  to  search  in  his  audience 
the  words,  the  ideas,  which  he  utters. 
There  are  times  when  one  might 
pardonably  suppose  M.  Briand  to  be 
tired,  indifferent;  not  to  put  too  fine  a 
point  upon  it  —  lazy.  But  this  impres- 
sion is  altogether  wrong.  M.  Briand  is 
like  Mr.  Lloyd  George  inasmuch  as  he 
relies  largely  on  his  intuition,  his  im- 
mediate judgments,  his  ever-ready 
resources.  He  comes  into  the  Chamber 
apparently  without  anything  particu- 
lar to  say.  He  reads  an  official  state- 
ment in  a  dull  voice.  He  seems  to  be 
bored,  and  so  does  the  Chamber.  There 
is  an  atmosphere  of  hostility.  One  won- 
ders what  will  be  his  fate. 

And  then,  discarding  the  official  state- 
ment, without  notes,  without  (so  far  as 
one  knows)  any  preparation,  he  begins 
one  of  his  wonderful  discourses.  At  first 
he  feels  his  way  cautiously.  His  voice 
takes  on  a  new  animation.  There  is  an 
interruption.  Somebody  in  the  Cham- 
ber reveals  the  ground  of  antagonism. 
This  is  what  M.  Briand  is  waiting  for. 
He  applies  himself  to  that  point;  he 
develops  his  theme.  He  vanquishes  this 
particular  opposition,  only,  perhaps,  to 
arouse  opposition  from  the  other  side 
of  the  house.  This  gives  him  a  fresh 
start.  He  seems  to  seek  to  penetrate 
the  minds  of  his  opponents  in  order  to 
demolish  their  objections.  Now  he  pits 
the  Right  against  the  Left,  and  now  he 
rouses  the  Left  to  enthusiasm.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful  balancing  of  views  it  is 
possible  to  conceive. 

Speeches,  it  is  sometimes  said,  never 
change  a  vote  in  parliamentary  assem- 


blies. This  may  be  true  of  parliaments 
like  the  British,  where  two,  or,  at  the 
most,  three  parties  sit  on  their  benches 
with  their  minds  made  up,  ready  to 
obey  their  party  whip.  But  it  is  not 
true  of  M.  Briand  in  the  French  Parlia- 
ment, where  there  are  many  groups  and 
where  the  possibilities  of  combination 
are  as  numerous  as  the  combinations  of 
a  pack  of  cards.  He  knows,  as  few  men 
know,  how  to  shuffle  them  —  how  to 
lead  this  card  and  then  that.  In  his 
way  he  is  certainly  the  most  masterly 
parliamentarian  who  has  ever  been 
known  in  France.  If  proof  were  neces- 
sary, it  would  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
seven  times  has  he  been  called  upon  to 
govern;  and  this  year,  in  spite  of  his 
reputation  of  belonging  to  the  Left,  he 
has  performed  the  extraordinary  feat 
of  governing  largely  with  the  support  of 
the  Right.  For  that  matter,  he  belongs, 
in  the  formal  sense,  neither  to  the  Right 
nor  to  the  Left.  He  has  no  party.  He 
has,  strictly  speaking,  no  following.  He 
remains,  when  he  is  not  in  office,  alone 
and  apart.  Well  does  he  know  that, 
when  the  situation  becomes  unmanage- 
able, when  the  Parliamentary  team  is 
difficult  to  drive,  his  day  will  again 
come. 

Most  of  the  French  politicians  — 
M.  Poincare  and  M.  Viviani  are  notable 
instances  —  combine  their  role  of  poli- 
tician with  the  role  of  journalist,  and, 
when  they  are  not  responsible  for  the 
government,  become  the  most  powerful 
critics  of  the  government  in  the  press. 
Such  has  been  the  life  of  M.  Clemen- 
ceau.  Sometimes  he  has  been  premier, 
and  at  other  times  he  has  been  a  formid- 
able antagonist  of  the  premier,  thun- 
dering against  him,  not  from  the  tribune, 
but  from  the  newspaper  that  he  di- 
rected. Now,  although  M.  Briand,  like 
most  other  French  politicians,  began 
his  career  as  journalist,  he  never  takes  up 
the  pen  in  the  intervals  of  office.  He 
does  hardly  any  lobbying;  he  rarely 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


837 


commits  himself  in  any  way.  He  sits 
silent  until  his  hour  shall  again  strike. 
Always  is  he  something  of  an  enigma. 
Always  does  he  allow  the  Left  to  sup- 
pose he  is  their  man,  and  the  Right  to 
believe  that  he  is  not  against  them.  In 
the  clash  and  confusion  of  rival  ambi- 
tions, it  is  Briand,  the  man  who  makes 
no  useless  efforts,  the  man  who  knows 
how  to  keep  a  still  tongue  although  he 
possesses  a  winning  tongue,  who  is 
chosen.  The  speeches  that  he  makes 
when  he  is  assailed,  and  the  position 
has  become  difficult,  are  the  most  per- 
suasive speeches  that  may  be  heard; 
but  when  I  read  them  at  length  the 
next  day,  I  generally  find  that  they  are 
full  of  repetitions  and  even  of  contra- 
dictions. That  is  because  he  addresses 
himself,  now  to  this  side,  then  to  that 
side.  To  know  the  true  Briand,  it  is  not 
sufficient  to  hear  or  to  read  his  speeches. 
One  has  to  remember  whom  he  is  ad- 
dressing, and  what  is  his  immediate 
purpose.  One  has  to  be  able  to  distin- 
guish between  what  is  meant  for  one 
party,  what  for  another  party;  what  is 
meant  for  France  and  what  is  meant  for 
Germany;  what  is  meant  for  England 
and  what  is  meant  for  other  countries. 
I  trust  that  this  portrait  does  not 
suggest  a  mere  opportunist,  in  the 
worst  sense  of  the  term.  M.  Briand 
certainly  is  an  opportunist,  in  that  he 
makes  use  of  the  varying  views  of  his 
auditors,  in  that  he  stresses  now  one 
point  and  then  another  point.  It  was 
M.  Briand  who  spoke  of  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  Ruhr,  and  it  was  M.  Briand 
who  condemned  such  a  policy  as  inept. 
The  occasion  has  always  to  be  consid- 
ered. But  he  is  an  opportunist  only  as 
a  sailor  is  an  opportunist.  When  the 
wind  blows  from  the  west,  he  must 
spread  his  sails  accordingly;  but  when 
the  wind  veers  to  the  north,  he  must 
trim  his  sails  anew.  But  the  sailor 
knows  where  he  is  going  and  keeps  his 
course.  M.  Briand  has  a  policy,  and  he 


sticks  to  his  policy  in  spite  of  apparent 
and  momentary  contradictions.  He 
has  to  reconcile  many  opinions,  and  he 
has  to  bring  the  Ship  of  State  safely 
toward  the  land  that  he  sees  ahead. 

There  are,  of  course,  different  kinds 
of  opportunists,  and  to  use  the  word 
without  discrimination  as  a  term  of  op- 
probrium is  altogether  wrong.  In  my 
opinion,  for  example,  Mr.  Lloyd  George, 
who  is  undoubtedly  the  greatest  oppor- 
tunist of  our  century,  has,  in  spite  of 
all  kinds  of  concessions,  all  kinds  of 
seeming  stultifications  of  his  judgment, 
kept  along  exactly  the  same  path  in 
international  affairs  that  he  indicated 
to  me  and  to  others  in  March,  1919. 
When  he  has  seen  rocks  in  the  way,  he 
has  gone  round  them.  It  is  so  with  M. 
Briand,  whose  points  of  resemblance 
with  him  could  be  multiplied.  Perhaps 
it  is  only  the  fool  who  steers  straight 
ahead.  One  of  the  chief  grievances  of  a 
certain  section  of  French  politicians  is 
that  M.  Briand,  in  calling  up  Class  19 
for  the  occupation  of  the  Ruhr,  did  so 
to  discredit  that  policy  and  to  make  its 
repetition  impossible.  As  to  this  I  will 
express  no  opinion;  but  it  will  readily 
be  conceived  that  a  politician  may  ap- 
pear to  do  the  opposite  of  that  which 
he  intends  to  do.  M.  Briand  is  not 
a  native  of  Brittany  for  nothing.  It  is 
from  Brittany  that  France  recruits 
most  of  her  sailors.  M.  Briand  is  an 
expert  sailor. 

The  truth  is  that  M.  Briand  is  es- 
sentially a  man  of  liberal  views.  I  do 
not  purpose  either  to  defend  or  to  at- 
tack him:  I  wish  merely  wish  to  state 
the  facts  as  I  see  them;  and  it  is  in  this 
spirit  that  I  record  my  impression, 
which  is  corroborated  by  conversations 
of  a  more  or  less  private  character  that 
have  come  to  me  from  friends  —  con- 
versations in  which  he  has  expressed 
himself  with  surprising  moderation.  He 
is  far  from  being  the  implacable  task- 
master of  Germany  that  he  has  been 


838          FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON   CONFERENCE 


represented  to  be  on  account  of  certain 
episodes.  No  one  knows  better  than 
does  M.  Briand  the  true  need  of  France 
—  the  need  of  a  policy  that  will  recon- 
cile old  enemies  and  establish  some 
measure  of  economic  cooperation  in 
Europe.  No  one  realizes  more  the  need 
for  a  reduction  of  armaments,  which  is 
possible  only  if  better  relations  exist  in 
Europe. 

France  at  this  moment  has  an  army 
that  is  big  enough  to  conquer  the  Con- 
tinent. France  is  not,  strictly  speaking, 
obliged  to  take  heed  of  the  opinion  of 
anyone.  She  can  adopt  any  coercive 
methods  she  pleases,  and  there  is  no 
country  that  can  effectively  say  her 
nay.  But  that  would  be  a  fatal  course. 
Not  only  would  it  be  folly  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  the  world's  opinion,  but  France 
would  certainly  not  obtain  any  satisfac- 
tion in  the  shape  of  additional  repara- 
tions. The  army,  whether  it  is  put  at 
800,000  men  or  at  700,000,  is  a  tremen- 
dous burden  for  a  country  in  economic 
difficulties,  and  all  sensible  men  must 
desire  its  reduction.  It  is  a  burden  on 
the  finances  of  the  country,  but  it  is  also 
a  burden  on  the  individual  Frenchman, 
who  has  to  spend  what  should  be  the 
most  vital  preparatory  years  of  his  life 
in  idleness  and  the  demoralizing  milieu 
of  the  barracks.  There  are  those  who 
urge,  with  justice,  that,  in  the  economic 
struggle,  Germany  will  enjoy  a  great 
advantage  over  France  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  she  is  compelled  to  keep  her 
army  at  a  negligible  number,  while 
France  has  to  support  a  huge  body  of 
non-producers.  How  could  any  sane 
person  wish  to  maintain  the  army  at 
anything  like  its  present  level? 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  so  long  as 
national  safety  is  secured,  no  matter 
what  sacrifice  must  be  made,  no  matter 
what  handicap  must  be  borne,  M.  Bri- 
and, I  believe,  is  all  in  favor  of  making 
such  amicable  arrangements  with  Ger- 
many as  will  enable  France  to  forget  this 


terrible  preoccupation  of  her  security. 
Doubtless  he,  like  all  other  French 
statesmen,  would  prefer  that  America 
and  England,  as  promised  at  the  Peace 
Conference,  should  come  into  a  tripar- 
tite military  pact.  But  he  is  not,  as 
I  understand,  an  advocate  of  what 
amounts  to  perpetual  occupation,  or  of 
detachment  of  the  Rhineland  from  the 
Reich,  as  are  M.  Poincare,  M.  Tardieu, 
and  M.  Maurice  Barres.  The  most  sig- 
nificant thing  that  was  done  under  his 
ministry  was  the  signing  of  the  Lou- 
cheur-Rathenau  accord,  which  envis- 
ages the  collaboration  of  France  and 
Germany,  which  (provided  Germany  re- 
mains a  non-militaristic  republic)  pres- 
ages some  sort  of  friendship  between 
the  two  countries  that,  in  spite  of  their 
hereditary  hatreds,  intensified  since  the 
Armistice,  have  to  live  side  by  side. 
They  can  be  blood-foes  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  another  war,  or  they  can  com- 
pose their  age-long  differences.  There 
is  no  middle  course. 

rv 

This  brings  me  to  M.  Louis  Loucheur 
—  easily,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  re- 
markable figure  in  French  political  life. 
I  said  just  now  that  there  were  no  new 
men.  I  must  modify  that  statement. 
M.  Loucheur  is  a  new  man.  He  has 
new  methods.  He  is  not  a  politician,  al- 
though he  is  in  politics.  He  is  the  busi- 
ness man.  In  France  the  politicians 
have  become  what  might,  not  disre- 
spectfully, be  called  an  'old  gang.'  M. 
Loucheur  was  not  even  a  deputy  when 
he  became  minister.  He  brings  a  fresh 
mind  to  the  public  problems.  He  has  no 
prejudices,  no  traditions,  no  long  train- 
ing along  political  lines.  He  is  accus- 
tomed to  see  things  as  they  are.  He 
does  not  idealize  them;  he  is  not  a  senti- 
mentalist, dealing  in  abstractions,  hyp- 
notized by  catch-phrases,  as  are  poli- 
ticians generally.  For  me  he  represents 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


839 


an  immense  force.  He  towers  over  all 
the  rest. 

It  would  be  foolish  to  prophecy,  and 
therefore  I  shall  not  assert  dogmatically 
that  M.  Loucheur  will,  for  the  next  ten 
—  if  not  twenty  —  years,  be  the  real 
power  behind  French  politics.  All  I  will 
venture  to  say  is  that,  at  the  present 
moment,  he  is  the  man  who  matters 
most,  and  that  he  should  be  looked 
upon,  not  in  his  ministerial  capacity, 
but  as  a  man.  That  is  to  say,  that  he 
will  probably  continue  to  occupy  a 
nominally  subordinate  post.  It  is  ex- 
tremely unlikely,  in  my  judgment,  that 
he  will  form  a  cabinet  and  put  himself 
at  the  head  of  French  politics.  He  is 
far  more  likely  to  remain  in  the  back- 
ground. But  it  would  be  folly  to  regard 
him  as  a  supernumerary.  He  has  brains; 
he  has  ability;  he  has  energy;  he  is  used 
to  dealing  in  realities,  and  he  thinks 
in  terms  of  realities.  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  has  been  remarked  how  un- 
real politics  tend  to  become,  and  in 
what  an  imaginary  world  politicians 
walk.  Into  this  unreal  world  came  M. 
Loucheur;  but  he  was  not  corrupted  by 
his  environment.  He  had  the  advan- 
tage of  not  serving  an  apprenticeship  to 
politics.  He  passed  through  none  of  the 
intermediary  stages.  During  the  war  he 
controlled  numerous  companies,  and  is 
reputed  to  be  extremely  rich,  to  have 
made  a  vast  fortune. 

It  was  M.  Clemenceau  who  appealed 
to  him  to  lend  a  hand.  It  was  felt  that 
the  practical  man  was  the  kind  of  man 
who  was  needed  to  help  in  the  winning 
of  the  war  and  the  elaboration  of  the 
peace.  Only  rarely  does  a  non-politi- 
cian, who  has  not  been  elected  by  the 
people,  find  himself  called  to  take  up 
a  ministerial  office;  but  in  the  case  of 
M.  Loucheur  the  experiment  was  amply 
justified.  I  am  not  blind  to  the  possible 
disadvantages  of  thus  bringing  rich 
business  men  into  the  government.  The 
door  is  obviously  opened  to  certain 


abuses.  Nor  do  I  consider  that  the  good 
business  man  will  necessarily  make  a 
good  minister.  Probably  the  chances  are 
that  he  will  not.  But  exceptional  times 
call  for  exceptional  men,  and  M.  Lou- 
cheur is  unquestionably  an  exceptional 
man.  Afterward,  of  course,  his  situa- 
tion was  regularized  by  his  election. 
He  has  remained  minister  through  sev- 
eral administrations,  and  in  one  capac- 
ity or  another  his  services  will  continue 
to  be  enlisted. 

It  was  M.  Loucheur  who  initiated  the 
policy  of  direct  negotiations  with  Ger- 
many, and  who  oriented  France  toward 
the  idea  of  reparations  in  kind.  Had  it 
been  possible  to  impose  upon  Germany, 
three  years  ago,  the  essential  task  of 
repairing  the  ruined  regions  of  France, 
there  is  little  doubt  that  by  this  time 
France  would  have  been  largely  restor- 
ed; and  the  speedy  restoration  would 
have  been  worth  far  more  than  the 
nebulous  milliards.  The  two  countries 
would  already  have  settled  down  on 
terms  of  decent  neighborliness.  Un- 
happily, everybody  was  mesmerized  by 
the  glittering  promise  of  immense  sums 
hitherto  unheard  of  —  sums  that  could 
be  expressed  only  in  astronomical  fig- 
ures. The  consequences  might  have 
been  foreseen  —  but  they  were  not,  ex- 
cept by  the  economists.  The  conse- 
quences are  the  collapse  of  Germany 
and  the  collapse  of  the  treaty.  Every- 
body now  realizes  that,  unless  something 
is  done  in  time,  Germany  is  doomed  to 
bankruptcy.  Now,  Germany  is  neces- 
sary to  Europe,  just  as  Carthage  was 
necessary  to  ancient  Rome.  The  foolish 
destruction  of  Carthage  by  the  Romans 
deprived  them  of  a  base  for  the  Eastern 
Mediterranean  sea-routes.  It  is  easy  to 
look  back  and  make  these  criticisms. 
What  is  of  more  importance  is  to  look 
forward,  and  to  appreciate  the  fact  that, 
if  Germany  did  not  exist,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  invent  her.  Nothing  more 
stupid  than  that  policy  which  would 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


840 

erase  Germany  from  the  map  of  Europe 
could,  I  think,  be  conceived. 

Presently,  in  view  of  the  impending 
bankruptcy  of  Germany,  it  will  be  nec- 
essary to  decide  between  her  destruc- 
tion and  her  salvation.  Should  this 
nation  be  broken  up  into  fragments; 
should  there  be  dislocation,  economic 
anarchy,  political  chaos?  Or  should 
there  be  an  abandonment  of  the  system 
of  coercion,  of  financial  squeezing,  and 
such  a  collaboration  be  substituted  as 
would  enable  all  countries  to  draw  spe- 
cific advantages  from  the  continued 
existence  of  a  Germany  that  may  work 
with  hope?  This  is  the  terrific  question 
that  must  soon  be  answered  in  one 
sense  or  another.  The  decision  will  be 
determined  by  the  stress  that  French 
opinion  lays  upon  certain  things.  So- 
called  security  would  seem  to  suggest 
the  break-up  of  Germany,  politically 
and  economically.  This  security,  how- 
ever, would  be  fallacious.  In  a  military 
sense,  France  would  undoubtedly  be 
secure;  but  there  are  also  economic  con- 
siderations. One  bankruptcy  will  en- 
train another,  and  no  man  can  foresee 
the  end  of  the  happenings  in  Europe. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  dreadfully 
hard  to  reconcile  one's  self  to  foregoing 
claims  that  have  been  made  and  prom- 
ises that  have  been  held  out.  The 
choice  is,  or  would  appear  to  be,  be- 
tween two  evils.  But  perhaps  the  sec- 
ond would  turn  out  to  be  not  an  evil  at 
all.  I  must  content  myself  with  posing 
the  problem  in  an  objective  manner. 

Now,  the  Loucheur-Rathenau  accord 
is  of  tremendous  import.  It  is  pretend- 
ed that  it  supplements,  and  does  not 
supplant,  the  London  Agreement  for 
the  payment  by  Germany  of  132,000,- 
000,000  gold  marks,  made  in  virtue  of 
the  treaty.  In  reality,  however  long  the 
pretense  is  kept  up,  it  must  be  taken  as 
an  entirely  new  system.  The  London 
Agreement  asks  for  impossible  sums 
spread  over  an  impossible  period  of 


years,  and  is  already  breaking  down, 
since  Germany  simply  cannot  go  on 
meeting  her  obligations.  The  Loucheur 
Agreement  stipulates  that  Germany 
shall  pay  in  goods,  in  materiel,  a  limited 
amount  for  the  next  five  years,  not  to 
the  Allies  in  general,  but  to  France  in 
particular.  This  means  that  common 
bargaining  is  abandoned.  It  means 
that  France,  preparing  for  the  crash,  is 
endeavoring  to  secure  for  herself,  as  she 
has  in  equity  an  undoubted  right  to  do, 
a  certain  portion  of  her  credits  on  Ger- 
many, and  is  anxious  at  least  to  have 
the  North  repaired.  It  is  possible  that, 
when  Germany  ceases  to  pay  everyone 
else,  she  will  continue  to  pay  France  in 
kind.  She  can  hardly  do  both,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  France  is  contracting 
out  of  the  London  Agreement.  France 
is  coming  to  a  voluntary  arrangement 
with  Germany.  As  France  for  the  next 
five  years  may  be  paid  more  than  is  due 
to  her  under  the  London  Agreement,  she 
might  be  satisfied,  and  might  not  resort, 
in  exasperation,  to  methods  of  coercion 
and  of  sanctions.  France,  be  it  noted,  is 
the  only  country  which  could  or  would 
resort  to  serious  coercion  and  sanctions. 
This  policy  of  M.  Loucheur,  then,  is 
intensely  realist,  and  denotes  a  com- 
plete change  in  the  manner  of  regarding 
the  Franco-German  problem.  It  fore*- 
shadows  a  very  much  wider  system  of 
cooperation.  It  may  be  the  turning- 
point  in  European  affairs.  Its  bearing 
upon  the  possibility  of  land-disarma- 
ment is  obvious. 


It  would  be  foolish  to  be  too  optimis- 
tic. Not  all  French  statesmen  think  on 
these  lines.  There  is  M.  Raymond  Poin- 
care,  the  ex-President  of  the  Republic, 
who  will,  in  all  probability,  be  called  at 
an  early  date  to  the  premiership,  con- 
trolling the  destinies  of  France.  I  think 
I  am  betraying  no  secret  when  I  say 
that  the  ultimate  policy  of  M.  Poincar£ 


FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


841 


is  to  move  toward  the  same  system  of 
collaboration  with  Germany.  But  he 
reserves  that  policy  for  the  future.  For 
the  present,  to  judge  him  by  his  writing, 
—  and  he  is  the  most  prolific  journalist 
in  France,  contributing  regularly  to  the 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  the  Temps,  and 
the  Matin,  —  he  believes  in  turning  the 
screw  on  Germany  as  tightly  as  it  may 
be  turned.  He  was  thrust  aside  by  M. 
Clemenceau  in  the  peacemaking.  Al- 
though President,  he  was  reduced  to 
silence.  He  had  no  effective  way  of  pro- 
testing, but  he  has  put  on  record,  in  a 
memorandum  addressed  to  M.  Clemen- 
ceau, his  strong  opinion  that  the  limi- 
tation of  the  period  of  occupation  of 
Germany  to  fifteen  years  was  disastrous 
for  France.  He  would  have  the  occupa- 
tion extended  to  such  time  as  it  will 
take  Germany  to  fulfill  all  the  mone- 
tary obligations  of  the  treaty  —  which, 
being  interpreted,  means  forever. 

M.  Tardieu,  the  chief  assistant  of  M. 
Clemenceau,  argues  that  this  right  is 
actually  conferred,  by  the  treaty  itself; 
but  M.  Tardieu's  arguments  will  not 
bear  examination. 

M.  Poincare,  in  addition,  has  always 
shown  himself  to  be  one  of  those  ardent, 
patriotic  Frenchmen  who  believe  that 
the  contemporaneous  existence  of  a 
strong  Germany  and  a  prosperous,  se- 
cure France  is  impossible.  After  he  re- 
tired from  the  Presidency,  he  was  made 
Chairman  of  the  Reparations  Commis- 
sion. He  resigned  because  the  Repara- 
tions Commission  showed  a  tendency 
to  reduce  the  German  debt  to  more 
manageable  proportions.  At  each  suc- 
cessive abandonment  of  some  French 
right,  he  has  fulminated  against  the 
Premier  in  office.  One  can  only  suppose 
that,  when  he  becomes  Premier  himself, 
he  will  carry  out  his  policy  of  no  conces- 
sions. No  concessions,  now  that  the 
original  demands  are  shown  to  be,  how- 
ever justified,  inexecutable,  spells  the 
final  ruin  of  Germany,  and,  as  most 


people  think,  the  greater  embarrass- 
ment of  France.  It  is  perhaps  wrong  to 
suppose  that  a  statesman  in  office  will 
behave  as  a  statesman  out  of  office 
writes.  He  is  bound  to  modify  his  con- 
ceptions in  accordance  with  changing 
circumstances  and  proved  facts.  Never- 
theless, one  must  take  M.  Poincare  to 
be  what  he  paints  himself  to  be. 

I  should  certainly  describe  him  as 
the  most  formidable  of  the  politicians 
proper  in  France.  He  has  a  tremendous 
force.  He  has  been  peculiarly  consist- 
ent in  his  attitude  toward  Germany, 
from  the  days  when  he  was  raised,  as  a 
bon  Lorrain,  to  the  Presidency  in  the 
year  before  the  war.  His  prestige  is 
enormous.  There  are  living  at  this 
moment  no  fewer  than  four  former 
Presidents  of  the  Republic.  As  the 
term  of  office  is  seven  years,  this  is  a 
somewhat  remarkable  fact.  But  who- 
ever hears  of  Emile  Loubet,  or  of  Ar- 
mand  Fallieres?  They  have  gone  to 
trim  their  vines  or  to  live  quietly  in 
complete  obscurity.  After  their  occu- 
pation of  the  Elysee,  there  was  no  place 
for  them  in  public  life.  M.  Deschanel, 
it  is  true,  is  a  member  of  the  Senate, 
but  he  is  only  nominally  in  politics. 
M.  Poincare  is  made  in  another  mould. 
Still  comparatively  young,  with  an  alert 
mind,  full  of  ambition  unsatiated,  be- 
lieving that  he  is  the  strong  man  that 
his  country  needs,  he  declines  to  be  bur- 
ied alive,  and  is  taking  a  notable  re- 
venge for  his  impotence  during  the  latter 
years  at  the  Elysee.  He  is  the  indefat- 
igable critic. 

VI 

I  regret  that  my  space  will  not  per- 
mit me  to  treat  of  other  French  politi- 
cians so  fully,  but  these  men  are,  after 
all,  the  really  representative  men  of 
French  politics.  M.  Rene  Viviani  is  a 
highly  successful  lawyer,  gifted  with 
the  most  amazing  flow  of  language  that 
it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  listen  to.  The 


842          FRANCE  AND  THE  WASHINGTON  CONFERENCE 


words  simply  pour  out.  He  has  been 
Premier,  and  during  the  early  part  of 
the  war  performed  good  service.  He 
has  been  sent  to  America  on  missions 
not  clearly  defined  —  the  vague  kind  of 
mission  that  is  meant  to  awaken  sym- 
pathy, and,  indeed,  does  so.  It  was 
hoped  that  he  might  influence  Wash- 
ington with  regard  to  the  cancellation 
of  debts;  but  as  it  was  afterward  found 
an  inopportune  moment  to  broach  this 
delicate  subject,  he  came  out  with  a  de- 
nunciation of  those  who  made  such 
proposals,  on  the  ground  that  Germany 
might  also  ask  for  the  cancellation  of 
her  debts. 

M.  Barthou  is  an  impetuous  patriot, 
a  somewhat  fiery  man,  conspicuous  as 
a  supporter  of  the  Three  Years'  Mili- 
tary Service  Law.  He  has  written,  with 
rather  more  intimacy  than  some  of  us 
think  justifiable,  of  the  private  affairs 
of  Sainte-Beuve  and  Victor  Hugo. 

My  own  favorite  French  statesman 
—  a  man  whom  I  consider  to  be  the 
finest,  the  noblest,  of  our  time  —  is  M. 
Leon  Bourgeois,  the  colleague  of  M. 
Viviani  on  the  French  delegation  to  the 
League  of  Nations.  His  has  been  a  well- 
filled  life,  singularly  free  from  intrigue, 
singularly  free  from  ambition  (he  might 
have  aspired  to  any  post,  including  the 
Presidency),  devoted  solely  to  the 
furtherance  of  the  idea  of  the  League. 
Before  Mr.  Wilson  had  ever  made  the 
suggestion  of  such  an  organization,  he 
was  already  old  in  its  service.  He  took 
the  leading  part  in  the  deliberations  of 
The  Hague.  I  know  him  well  and  am 
happy  to  pay  a  tribute  to  his  kindliness, 
his  simplicity,  his  unselfishness,  and  his 
generous  thought  for  humanity.  There 
are  not  many  Bourgeois  in  the  world, 
so  hard-working,  so  self-sacrificing,  so 
single-minded. 

Among  the  younger  men,  M.  Andre 
Tardieu  is  undoubtedly  the  ablest, 
with  the  best-stored  mind.  He  is  in- 
clined to  a  sort  of  priggishness,  of  supe- 


riority, that  makes  him  unpopular,  but 
he  will  probably  come  into  his  own  again. 

There  are  two  officials  who  will,  un- 
less something  unexpected  happens, 
play  extremely  important  parts,  wheth- 
er at  Washington  or  at  Paris. 

Of  M.  Jules  Jusserand  it  is  necessary 
to  say  only  that  he  is  respected  as  the 
most  adequate  ambassador  that  France 
possesses.  He  is  too  well  known  in 
America  to  need  my  eulogy.  England 
has  long  envied  America  his  possession. 
He  is  tactful,  active,  and  has  a  unique 
knowledge  —  an  altogether  indispensa- 
ble man.  He  occupies  far  too  strong  a 
position  ever  to  be  displaced.  If  he  is 
left  in  charge  of  part  of  the  proceedings 
at  Washington,  France  will  be  repre- 
sented by  a  judicious,  sagacious,  likable 
man,  not  likely  to  make  any  mistake 
from  the  diplomatic  standpoint. 

At  the  head  of  the  permanent  staff 
at  the  Quai  d'Orsay  is  Philippe  Ber- 
thelot.  Berthelot  has  a  memory  that 
is  an  encyclopaedia  of  foreign  affairs. 
There  are  archives  at  the  Quai  d'Orsay, 
but  the  real  archives  are  under  the 
cranium  of  Philippe  Berthelot.  In 
France  ministries  change  frequently. 
Often  no  record  —  or  an  insufficient 
record — is  kept  of  negotiations  engaged 
in  by  the  predecessors  of  the  ministries 
in  power.  But  Philippe  Berthelot 
knows.  He  can  supply  the  information. 
He  is  sometimes  the  only  man  who  can 
supply  it.  It  may  be  urged  that  it  is 
bad  business  to  give  one  man  the  extra- 
ordinary power  that  is  thus  given  to  M. 
Berthelot ;  but  he  is  sound  and  shrewd, 
and  whenever  he  is  directly  responsible 
for  policy,  his  judgments  are  excellent. 
He  is  the  son  of  the  famous  chemist  who 
instituted  and  developed  research  work 
in  the  properties  of  coal.  M.  Berthelot 
in  his  early  days  explored  and  studied 
China,  and  is  an  authority  on  Asiatic 
matters.  Ministers  may  come  and  min- 
isters may  go,  but  Philippe  Berthelot 
remains. 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


BY  JEAN   SOKOLOFF 


DEAR  MARGARET,  — 

Cut  off,  as  I  have  been  since  the  spring 
of  1918,  from  all  my  friends  in  England 
and  Scotland,  I  must  seem  to  you  now 
as  one  who  has  returned  from  the  Land 
of  the  Dead.  And  truly  I  feel,  since  my 
release  from  the  terrors  of  Soviet  Russia, 
that  I  have  escaped  from  an  existence 
hardly  better  than  death.  Of  all  my 
dreadful  experiences  in  Petrograd  I 
cannot  write,  but  I  must  tell  you  of 
some  which,  here  in  far-off  America, 
still  haunt  me  like  awful  nightmares. 

After  the  Revolution  of  February, 
1917,  and  particularly  after  the  fall  of 
Kerensky,  eight  or  nine  months  later, 
the  position  of  the  moneyed  classes  be- 
came rapidly  desperate,  and  I  soon 
found  myself  in  a  precarious  situation. 
What  a  change  had  come  over  my  for- 
tunes! Here  I  was,  the  elderly  widow 
of  a  Russian  naval  officer,  British  by 
birth  but  Russian  by  marriage.  My 
husband  had  left  me  at  his  death  with 
an  ample  income  from  several  invest- 
ments which  seemed  perfectly  secure. 
In  my  long  years  of  residence  in  Petro- 
grad I  had  come  to  love  the  beautiful 
city,  and  I  had  no  intention  of  leaving 
it.  Why  should  I?  In  Petrograd  I  had 
friends,  possessions,  money,  servants, 
and  heart's  ease  but  for  my  husband's 
death.  I  could  look  forward  to  declin- 
ing years  of  comfortable  leisure. 

Then  came  the  Revolution  and  Bol- 
shevist rule,  and  my  prospects  melted 
like  mist  in  the  sun.  My  investments 
became  worthless,  my  chattels  were  na- 

1  This  letter  recounts,  of  course,  authentic 
personal  experiences.  —  THE  EDITORS. 


tionalized.  I  dismissed  my  last  serv- 
ant, and  soon  I  was  suffering  privations 
and  hardships  I  had  never  dreamed 
of,  and  living  amid  horrors  that  I  had 
never  seen  in  my  wildest  delirium. 

Of  the  political  and  social  changes 
that  took  place  in  Russia,  and  of 
the  ruin  into  which  the  poor  country 
rapidly  sank,  you  have  read  much  in 
recent  months,  for  the  Bolsheviki  could 
not  conceal  these  changes  forever.  I  will 
tell  you,  therefore,  of  only  some  of  the 
things  I  saw  and  some  of  the  hard- 
ships I  suffered  in  Petrograd.  This  ac- 
count I  have  taken  pains  to  make  simple 
and  unvarnished.  As  I  look  back  now 
upon  my  experiences,  I  do  so  without 
spite  or  resentment  against  the  mis- 
guided people  who  were  the  cause  of  so 
much  sorrow.  Perhaps  my  sufferings 
have  made  me  apathetic;  but  it  seems 
to  me  now  as  if  I  and  the  Jean  Sokoloff 
of  the  last  two  or  three  years  in  Russia 
were  not  the  same  person. 

At  the  beginning  everybody  spoke  of 
the  Revolution  as  bloodless,  and  so  it 
was  —  at  first;  but,  later,  dreadful  trag- 
edies were  enacted.  All  police  officers 
and  government  officials  who  showed 
loyalty  to  the  Tsar  were  immediately 
shot.  Not  far  from  my  house  nine  were 
executed  on  the  second  day  of  the  Revo- 
lution. For  a  long  time  it  was  quite 
unsafe  to  go  out  into  the  streets,  as 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  shooting; 
quick-firing  guns  were  mounted  on  high 
buildings,  and  no  one  knew  when  there 
might  be  a  rain  of  bullets.  In  the  Nev- 
sky  Prospect  and  other  principal  streets 
motor-lorries,  bristling  with  rifles  and 

843 


844 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


quick-firing  guns  and  packed  with  stu- 
dents and  other  revolutionists,  caused 
excitement  and  terrorized  the  people. 

The  opening  of  the  prisons  and  the 
release  of  all  criminals  made  both  life 
and  property  very  unsafe,  especially 
since  there  were  no  police  officers.  Rob- 
beries were  frequent,  and  after  dark 
pedestrians  were  often  stripped  of  their 
boots  and  their  upper  garments.  One 
lady  whom  I  knew  was  coming  home 
one  evening  wearing  a  long  coat  of 
black  Persian  lamb.  Two  men  stopped 
her  and  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  buy  a 
fur  coat.  She  replied  that  she  did  not 
require  to,  as  she  had  the  one  she  was 
wearing.  'Why,'  they  said,  'that  is  the 
very  one  we  mean';  and  as  she  did  not 
have  the  money  to  redeem  it,  they  took 
it  from  her.  At  length  the  people  took 
matters  into  their  own  hands,  and  when 
they  caught  a  robber,  they  lynched  him 
straight  away,  and  threw  his  body  into 
a  canal.  A  decree  was  issued  that  every- 
body over  sixteen  was  to  take  his  turn 
as  night-watchman.  That  is,  if  a  house 
was  rented  in  seven  flats,  let  us  say, 
each  flat  had  to  provide  a  watch  for  one 
night  in  the  week. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  expe- 
rience as  watchman.  Imagine  me,  an 
elderly  lady  with  no  bloodthirsty  ideas 
whatever,  sitting  at  the  great  gate  which 
led  to  the  inner  court,  with  a  loaded  gun 
across  my  knees !  My  watch  was  from  1 1 
P.M.  to  4  A.M.,  and  I  was  under  instruc- 
tions to  shoot  if  anybody  refused  to  give 
his  name  or  to  tell  why  he  wished  ad- 
mission. I  was  far  more  afraid  of  the 
gun  than  I  was  of  any  robber  who  might 
appear;  and  taking  pity  on  me,  our  old 
house-porter  hung  up  a  battered  tea- 
tray  near  me,  and,  giving  me  a  stick, 
told  me  to  bang  on  the  tray  if  I  needed 
help.  Fortunately,  I  did  not  have  to 
make  use  of  either  the  gun  or  the  tray. 

On  another  occasion,  the  good  old 
porter  did  me  an  even  more  valuable 
service.  A  decree  was  issued  that  no  one 


renting  a  house  could  claim  for  himself 
more  than  two  rooms  at  most;  the 
rest  of  the  house,  furnished  and  with 
the  use  of  the  kitchen,  must  be  given  to 
whoever  from  the  working  class  might 
want  to  use  it.  Soon  there  appeared  at 
my  door  a  workingwoman,  dirty  and 
unkempt,  but  arrogant,  who  demanded 
that  I  give  up  a  certain  number  of  rooms 
to  her.  The  house- porter  told  the 
woman  and  the  Bolshevist  official  who 
supported  her  in  her  demand,  that  I 
had  a  male  lodger;  I  showed  them  some 
of  my  husband's  clothes  and  a  man's 
hat  and  walking-stick  which  I  had  laid 
out  in  one  of  the  rooms,  and  the  porter 
exhibited  a  false  entry  which  he  had 
made  in  the  house-book.  The  invaders 
were  satisfied  and  departed. 

Some  time  after  this  experience  I  was 
obliged  to  give  up  my  home  and  rent  a 
room  in  the  dwelling  of  a  friend.  As  my 
investments  had  become  worthless,  I 
had  applied,  many  months  before  my 
removal,  for  permission  to  sell  my  furni- 
ture; as  all  property  had  become  na- 
tionalized, I  could  not  sell  my  own 
chattels  without  a  permit.  This  was 
finally  granted  to  me  on  the  ground 
that  I  was  a  widow.  Shortly  after  I  had 
moved  to  my  friend's  house,  we  expe- 
rienced our  first  armed  raid.  We  were 
roused  from  our  beds  at  about  two  in 
the  morning  by  five  armed  men  and 
two  women,  who  said  they  had  come  to 
search  for  firearms.  They  nosed  into 
every  corner  and  examined  all  photo- 
graphs. My  husband's  photograph  in 
naval  uniform  they  left,  after  I  had  told 
them  that  he  was  dead;  but  the  photo- 
graphs of  King  George  and  King  Ed- 
ward and  the  Tsar  they  tore  into  bits 
and  stamped  under  foot.  Some  money 
and  jewelry  I  had  hidden  behind  pic- 
tures and  among  the  tea  in  the  tea- 
caddy.  These  valuables  they  did  not 
discover,  and,  strange  to  say,  they  ex- 
amined all  my  boxes  excepting  the  one 
in  which  I  had  packed  what  table  silver 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


845 


I  had  not  yet  sold.  After  an  hour  and  a 
half  they  left.  Everything  was  turned 
upside-down:  bedding,  pillows,  books, 
clothing  —  all  were  heaped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor. 

In  a  few  weeks  we  had  a  second  mid- 
night raid;  but  this  time  they  were 
searching  for  incriminating  documents 
and  did  not  disturb  any  of  our  person- 
al belongings.  In  November,  1919,  we 
experienced  the  worst  raid  of  all.  Every 
letter  or  scrap  of  written  matter  my 
friend  and  I  possessed  was  taken  from 
us,  and  we  were  also  relieved  of  what- 
ever personal  effects  appealed  to  the 
invaders.  From  me  they  took  all  my 
husband's  medals  and  decorations.  I 
begged  them  to  allow  me  to  keep  the 
crosses  of  Saint  Anna  and  of  Stanislav 
as  a  remembrance  of  him,  but  they  re- 
fused saying,  'No  one  has  orders  now, 
and  we  need  the  gold.'  After  searching 
for  nearly  two  hours,  they  ordered  my 
friend  to  get  on  some  clothes,  as  she 
must  go  with  them.  They  took  her 
away  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  she  was  kept  in  prison  for  three 
months.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she 
was  released;  but  she  was  never  given 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  why  she 
was  arrested. 

I  was  most  fortunate,  as  I  was  arrest- 
ed only  once  and  was  not  then  sent  to 
prison.  When  I  came  home  one  day, 
a  soldier  arrested  me  at  my  door  and 
marched  me  off  to  a  hall  where  there 
were  several  other  prisoners.  There  we 
were  detained  for  eight  hours,  and  then 
released  without  any  explanation  as  to 
the  cause  of  our  arrest. 

One  did  not  have  to  be  in  prison  to 
know  what  hunger  means.  Those  of  us 
who  were  not  imprisoned  learned  the 
lesson  only  too  well.  Lack  of  food  be- 
came more  and  more  acute,  and  the 
prices  were  such  that  it  was  impossible 
to  earn  enough  in  one  day  to  buy  even  a 
pound  of  black  bread.  Milk  cost  250 
rubles  a  bottle,  and  was  well  watered  at 


that.  Potatoes  were  200  rubles  a  pound, 
and  were  often  half-frozen.  Tea  and 
coffee  cost  thousands  of  rubles  the 
pound.  For  a  time  I  drank  an  infusion 
of  black-currant  leaves  and  also  of  cran- 
berry leaves,  which  would  have  been 
quite  pleasant  if  I  could  have  had  any 
sugar.  The  Bolsheviki  opened  soup- 
kitchens,  for  which  each  person  received 
a  monthly  ticket  on  application  to  a 
certain  department  of  the  Soviet.  Often 
I  have  stood  for  a  long,  long  time  in  a 
queue,  waiting  with  a  pitcher  to  receive 
a  portion  of  soup,  which  was  simply  wa- 
ter, with  some  cabbage-leaves  or  pieces 
of  frozen  potato  floating  in  it.  For  this 
the  charge  was  eight  rubles.  Hunger 
made  me  glad  to  eat  this  soup,  but 
there  were  days  when  it  smelled  so  bad, 
especially  when  they  had  added  herring 
heads  to  it,  that  I  gave  it  to  someone  in 
the  queue,  or  poured  it  out. 

The  members  of  the  working  class  re- 
ceived a  special  ticket  and  got  a  second 
dish,  perhaps  some  potatoes  or  a  salt 
herring;  but  these  extras  were  denied 
to  the  Intelligentsia,  who  suffered  far 
more  than  did  the  workers.  Sometimes, 
when  it  was  impossible  to  procure  bread, 
many  of  us  used  to  buy  turnips  and  eat 
them  raw  as  a  substitute.  You  will  be 
surprised  that  we  did  not  boil  them, 
but  we  found  them  more  satisfying 
when  raw.  As  they  were  very  dear,  we 
could  not  afford  to  buy  more  than  a 
few.  Some  who  were  hungry  even  made 
soup  of  fresh  green  grass.  This  I  never 
tried,  but  soup  made  of  rhubarb  leaves 
I  found  could  be  eaten.  At  first,  when 
we  still  had  coffee,  we  used  to  mix  a 
little  flour  with  the  coffee-grounds,  and 
make  cookies;  but  I  must  say  that  I 
could  eat  these  only  when  I  was  very 
hungry.  The  Intelligentsia  could  re- 
ceive on  their  bread-cards  only  two 
ounces  per  day;  and  when  it  was  possi- 
ble to  buy  any  extra,  the  price  was 
exorbitant.  The  working  class  was 
allowed  much  more.  Anv  extra  bread 


846 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


could  be  bought  only  by  chance  on  the 
street,  from  peasants,  or  in  the  open  mar- 
ket, and  often  there  was  more  sawdust 
and  minced  straw  in  it  than  flour.  Fre- 
quently, when  the  Bolsheviki  ran  out 
of  flour,  so  that  they  were  unable  to  give 
us  bread  on  our  bread-cards,  they  sub- 
stituted oats;  but  the  amount  was  so 
meagre  that,  when  we  ground  it  down, 
very  little  flour  came  out. 

All  stores  and  shops  were  closed,  and 
one  could  buy  only  in  the  open  markets. 
Butter  in  1919  sold  at  2800  rubles  per 
pound,  and  bacon  at  3000.  Peasants 
brought  in  milk  and  produce  from  the 
country  and  bartered  it  for  clothing. 
They  did  not  want  money,  as  they  said 
there  was  nothing  to  buy  with  it.  It 
was  sad  to  see  ladies  standing  in  the 
market,  bartering  or  selling  their  beau- 
tiful dresses  and  linen  to  get  money  for 
food.  As  long  as  they  had  things  to  sell, 
they  got  good  prices;  but  what  was  to 
be  done,  once  they  had  parted  with  all 
their  belongings?  It  was  no  uncommon 
thing  to  see  peasant  women  wearing 
beautiful  fur  coats  and  exquisite  eve- 
ning dresses  and  also  jewelry,  probably 
received  in  exchange  for  food. 

Some  ladies,  friends  of  mine,  who  were 
formerly  well  to  do,  had  to  sell  flowers 
and  newspapers  in  the  street,  to  earn  a 
livelihood.  All  women  under  fifty  years 
of  age  had  to  take  their  turn  at  sweep- 
ing the  snow  on  the  streets,  breaking  up 
the  ice,  and  emptying  the  dust-bins. 

There  were  so  many  sick  that  the 
hospitals  were  over-crowded.  The  lack 
of  even  the  most  necessary  medicines 
was  great.  In  former  times  Germany 
provided  great  quantities  of  the  medic- 
aments used.  Doctors  were  scarce,  as 
so  many  had  been  sent  to  the  front. 
Typhus,  of  course,  was  raging  and 
claimed  many  victims.  A  friend  of  mine, 
who  went  to  one  of  the  hospitals  to 
identify  a  relative  who  had  died,  told 
me  that,  in  the  mortuary,  the  bodies 
were  stacked  from  floor  to  ceiling,  like 


logs  of  wood,  and  many  of  them  much 
decomposed.  The  difficulty  was  to  get 
a  sufficient  supply  of  coffins.  Two  bod- 
ies were  placed  in  each  coffin,  which 
was  merely  a  few  boards  of  wood  rough- 
ly nailed  together.  One  could  often  see 
carts  piled  up  with  these  coffins,  which 
were  taken  outside  of  the  city,  where 
the  bodies  were  put  into  a  pit  and  the 
coffins  brought  back  to  be  used  for  the 
bodies  of  other  victims.  Those  whose 
friends  died  at  home  had  to  convey 
the  coffins  themselves  to  the  cemetery, 
either  on  a  sledge  or  otherwise. 

The  funeral  of  a  Bolshevik  was  a 
very  grand  affair.  The  coffin  was  al- 
ways covered  with  bright-red  cloth, 
the  hearse  also  being  draped  in  red, 
and  with  wreaths  from  which  scarlet 
ribbons  were  suspended.  There  was 
always  a  band,  and  a  procession  with 
many  red  banners  flying.  Processions 
bearing  red  banners,  eulogizing  Com- 
munism or  Bolshevism  and  denouncing 
the  old  regime,  were  a  common  sight. 

The  suffering  of  poor  animals  was 
also  terrible,  and  horses  dropped  dead 
on  the  street  from  starvation.  The  fod- 
der was  so  bad  that  horses  that  were 
starving  would  turn  away  from  it.  Be- 
hind the  house  where  I  lived  the  Bolshe- 
viki had  a  number  of  horses  stabled. 
Every  week  I  saw  several  dead  ones 
carried  out;  and  one  of  the  soldiers  who 
cared  for  the  animals  told  me  that  there 
was  not  a  scrap  of  woodwork  left  within 
reach  of  the  horses,  because  they  had 
gnawed  it  all  away  in  their  hunger.  If 
a  dead  horse  were  left  in  the  street  at 
night,  by  the  next  day  nothing  would  be 
left  of  it  but  the  ribs  and  perhaps  the 
head,  upon  which  some  gaunt  dog 
would  be  gnawing.  People  had  come  in 
the  night  and  taken  away  all  other 
parts  of  the  carcass  for  food.  Many  ate 
cats  and  dogs,  and  said  the  flesh  tasted 
good. 

Many  a  night  I  was  not  able  to  sleep 
for  hunger.  But  lack  of  food  was  not  my 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


847 


only  privation.  Before  the  Revolution 
I  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be 
cold  indoors;  wood,  which  was  used  for 
fuel  in  Petrograd,  was  plentiful  and 
cheap.  During  my  last  two  winters 
there,  there  was  great  suffering  caused 
by  lack  of  fuel.  In  Finland  and  parts  of 
Russia  there  was  plenty  of  wood,  cut 
and  ready  to  be  sent  to  the  cities;  but 
the  transportation  system  had  broken 
down  completely.  This  want  of  wood 
became  more  and  more  acute;  many 
wooden  dwelling-houses  were  pulled 
down,  and  all  wooden  fencing  around 
gardens  and  wooden  walks  was  utilized 
for  fuel.  More  than  once  I  was  thank- 
ful wrhen  I  could  buy  an  old  beam,  tie  a 
rope  around  my  waist,  and  drag  it  home 
to  be  sawed  up  into  short  pieces.  We 
were  permitted  to  buy  only  a  small 
quantity  each  month  and  had  to  show 
the  paper  with  the  date  of  the  preceding 
purchase,  which  was  compared  with  the 
entry  in  the  official  books.  Often  I  have 
left  the  house  in  pitch  darkness  (no 
lights  in  the  streets),  at  four  o'clock  on 
a  winter's  morning,  to  get  my  place  in 
the  queue  at  the  wood-store,  so  as  to  be 
one  of  the  first  to  be  attended  to  when 
the  office  opened  at  ten  o'clock.  It  was 
no  joke  to  wait  six  hours  with  the  tem- 
perature below  zero.  Sometimes  the 
soldiers  who  were  on  duty  would  admit 
us  to  a  room  they  had  and  permit  us  to 
warm  ourselves  for  a  few  minutes.  By 
ten  o'clock  there  were  hundreds  in  line, 
and  when  you  reached  the  window  you 
were  given  only  a  piece  of  paper  which 
entitled  you  to  receive  the  wood  on  a 
specified  day.  Think  of  what  this  meant 
to  poor  mothers  who  had  to  leave  young 
children  at  home  for  hours!  One  poor 
woman  in  the  queue  one  morning  had  a 
sick  baby  which  she  could  not  leave  at 
home;  it  died  in  her  arms  before  she 
reached  the  window. 

The  shortage  of  food  and  the  other 
privations  all  helped  to  make  us  more 
sympathetic  toward  one  another,  and 


we  did  all  in  our  power  to  help  one  an- 
other. One  of  my  pupils  (for  I  was  try- 
ing to  keep  body  and  soul  together  by 
teaching  English)  was  a  Russian  naval 
officer;  he  used  to  bring  me  occasionally 
a  small  piece  of  bread  which  he  had  left 
over.  He  was  serving  under  the  Bolshe- 
viki  —  under  compulsion,  like  so  many 
others.  It  was  his  plan  to  learn  to  speak 
English  and  then  to  try  to  escape  from 
Russia.  To  my  great  sorrow,  for  he 
was  my  favorite  pupil  and  could  con- 
verse fairly  well  in  English,  he  was  ar- 
rested by  his  masters  and  sent  away  to 
Cologda.  I  never  could  find  out  the 
reason  for  his  arrest  or  hear  anything 
further  about  him.  He  once  told  me 
that,  if  he  were  arrested,  he  would  take 
his  own  life;  and  I  often  wonder  if  he  is 
still  alive. 

I  was  deeply  touched  one  day  by  a 
workingwoman's  bringing  me  a  tea- 
spoonful  of  dry  tea.  This  was  a  wonder- 
ful present,  as  she  had  only  a  very  small 
quantity,  which  had  been  given  to  her, 
and  tea  was  at  a  premium.  I  did  not 
wish  to  accept  it,  but  she  insisted,  be- 
cause sometimes  I  had  helped  her  and 
her  children  with  a  little  food,  and  had 
once  procured  a  situation  for  her. 

So  in  such  ways  we  tried  to  cheer 
one  another.  Often,  when  one  did  show 
a  little  kindness,  one  was  repaid  four- 
fold or  more.  I  remember  that  once, 
when  crossing  the  Nicholas  Bridge,  I 
came  upon  an  elderly  lady  struggling  to 
carry  a  very  heavy  bag.  I  asked  her  in 
what  direction  she  was  going,  and  as  it 
was  not  very  far  from  my  own  destina- 
tion, I  carried  the  bag  home  for  her. 
When  she  thanked  me  at  parting,  she 
said,  'I  hope  that,  if  ever  you  have  to 
carry  something  that  is  too  heavy  for 
you,  you  also  will  meet  some  kind  per- 
son to  help  you.'  A  few  days  later  I  had 
to  bring  to  my  home  some  wood  which 
was  very  heavy.  I  tried  to  carry  it  on 
my  back,  but  found  it  beyond  my 
strength  to  do  so,  as  my  house  was  quite 


848 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


a  good  distance  away.  Just  as  I  was  sit- 
ting on  a  doorstep  wondering  whatever 
I  should  do,  a  soldier  came  along,  and  I 
summoned  up  my  courage  to  ask  if  he 
would  help  me,  even  for  a  short  distance. 
He  immediately  picked  up  the  wood, 
slung  it  on  his  back,  and  asked  me 
where  I  lived.  When  I  told  him,  he 
said, '  I  can  easily  go  by  that  street.'  He 
took  me  right  to  the  door  of  my  house, 
and  when  I  offered  him  money,  he  re- 
fused. '  I  was  only  too  glad  to  helpyou,' 
he  said;  'I  should  not  like  to  see  my 
mother  carry  such  a  load.'  The  old 
lady's  wish  for  me  was  not  long  in 
being  realized. 

On  the  streets  one  seldom  encounter- 
ed an  old  person,  all  having  died  from 
malnutrition.  Some  elderly  people,  un- 
able to  work  and  add  to  their  small  in- 
comes, suffered  terribly,  as  food  prices 
were  impossible.  In  the  homes  for  old 
men  and  women,  where,  under  the  old 
regime,  they  were  well  fed,  many  deaths 
from  starvation  took  place  every  week. 

One  thing  the  Bolsheviki  tried  to  do 
was  to  feed  the  children.  They  had  no 
use  for  old  people  and  even  said  openly 
that  they  ought  to  die;  but  they  had  to 
think  of  the  rising  generation,  for  the 
future  of  the  country.  At  the  schools, 
children  received  a  free  dinner,  which 
consisted  of  soup  and  a  good  piece  of 
black  bread,  or  often  some  cooked  ce- 
real. Of  course,  there  was  no  fat  in  the 
food  and  little  nourishment  for  growing 
children.  Then  the  Bolsheviki  tried  to 
nationalize  the  children,  asking  the 
parents  to  give  them  up  at  a  certain  age, 
that  they  might  be  brought  up  and 
educated  in  colonies  and  trained  in  all 
the  principles  of  Bolshevism.  When  I 
left,  in  1920,  they  were  trying  to  carry 
this  out;  but  the  parents  objected,  so  I 
do  not  know  what  success  they  met 
with  later.  One  mother  said  to  me, 
'Where  is  the  joy  of  motherhood  if  I 
must  give  up  my  child  whenever  his  in- 
fancy is  over?' 


With  all  my  suffering  I  cannot  but 
feel  that  God  dealt  mercifully  with  me. 
I  will  give  you  one  instance  of  this.  On 
Christmas  Eve,  1918,  I  was  alone  and 
without  a  scrap  of  food  in  the  house. 
As  I  thought  back  over  my  past  happy 
life  and  the  loved  ones  who  had  gone 
from  me,  I  naturally  felt  much  depress- 
ed. How  I  could  manage  to  live  to  the 
New  Year,  I  could  not  imagine.  Before 
retiring  to  rest  that  night,  I  asked  God 
to  send  me  some  food.  The  next  morn- 
ing, at  eight  o'clock,  the  back-door  bell 
rang;  and  when  I  opened  the  door,  I 
saw  standing  there  an  old  servant  who 
had  served  me  faithfully  for  seventeen 
years,  but  whom  I  had  had  to  dismiss 
several  months  previously  because  of 
my  inability  to  feed  her.  Her  people 
were  farmers  in  Poland.  She  said  that 
she  had  come  to  spend  Christmas  with 
me  and  that  she  had  brought  with  her 
some  provisions,  such  as  black  bread, 
flour,  and  a  little  bacon,  and  some  sugar 
and  potatoes.  Truly,  this  was  an  answer 
to  prayer.  In  those  trying  times  we 
learned  to  live  by  the  day  and  to  rest 
on  the  promise,  'As  thy  days,  so  shall 
thy  strength  be.' 

Many  whom  I  knew,  who  were  serv- 
ing under  the  Bolsheviki,  were  merely 
doing  so  to  earn  a  livelihood,  and  it  was 
indeed  hard  for  them  to  serve  such  mas- 
ters. In  fact,  many  were  at  the  point  of 
starvation  when  they  accepted  positions 
under  the  Soviet.  As  one  put  it,  'To  all 
appearances  we  are  Red,  but  we  are  just 
like  red  radishes;  scratch  us  but  a  little 
and  we  are  white  underneath.' 

Of  course,  you  know  that  in  Russia 
the  custom  of  giving  tips  (or,  as  it  is  call- 
ed there,  tea-money)  was  carried  to 
great  lengths.  If  you  dined  with  friends, 
or  paid  a  call,  you  were  expected  to  tip 
the  servant  who  removed  your  over- 
coat or  wrap.  At  Christmas  and  Easter 
the  dvoriks,  postmen,  chimney-sweeps, 
and  men  who  polished  your  floors,  all 
called  upon  you,  to  receive  their  tea- 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


849 


money.  I  heard  a  very  good  story  rela- 
tive to  this  habit  of  tipping.  After  the 
Revolution,  everyone  was  supposed  to 
be  on  the  same  level  —  no  distinction 
of  class.  The  working  class  was  de- 
lighted with  this  equality.  An  officer 
who  frequently  visited  at  the  house  of 
some  friends,  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
giving  the  house-porter  a  liberal  tip 
each  time.  On  his  first  visit  after  the 
Revolution,  the  porter  met  him  with  the 
greeting, '  Well,  comrade,  how  are  you?' 
and  shook  him  by  the  hand.  The  officer, 
returning  the  handshake,  answered, 
'Thank  you,  comrade,  I  am  well.'  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  visit,  when  the 
porter  opened  the  door  for  the  officer, 
the  latter  held  out  his  hand  and  said, 
'  Good-bye.  Of  course,  now  we  are  com- 
rades, it  is  impossible  for  me  to  offer 
you  a  tip.'  The  man  was  so  taken  aback 
that  his  hand  dropped  to  his  side  and 
his  jaw  fell  with  astonishment.  In  this 
case,  he  did  not  appreciate  the  equality. 

In  1919  quite  a  number  of  British  and 
other  subjects  escaped  without  passes 
from  the  Bolsheviki,  who  had  forbidden 
anyone  to  leave  Petrograd.  Those  who 
escaped  did  so  by  the  back  door,  as  it 
was  called  in  Russia,  that  is,  illegal- 
ly, through  Finland.  There  was  a  secret 
society  which,  for  large  sums  of  money, 
arranged  these  escapes,  taking  the  fugi- 
tives across  the  ice.  It  was  a  hazardous 
journey,  and  no  one  could  undertake  it 
with  children,  as  they  had  long  distances 
to  walk,  and  often  had  to  crawl  on  their 
hands  and  knees,  or  lie  flat  in  a  bog, 
while  the  Bolsheviki  were  throwing 
searchlights  on  the  frontier.  All  fugi- 
tives had  to  wear  some  covering  of 
white  over  their  clothes,  so  as  to  be  less 
liable  to  be  seen  on  the  white  snow.  I 
met  one  lady  in  Finland  who  had  thus 
escaped.  Her  experiences  had  been  so 
terrible  that  her  eyeballs  stuck  out, 
from  the  nervous  strain  she  had  under- 
gone. 

Many  and  strange  were  the  subter- 

VOL.  128  —  NO.  6 


fuges  employed  to  get  out  of  Russia.  A 
Scotch  friend  of  mine,  who  had  married 
a  Russian  and  thus  become  a  Russian 
subject,  got  permission  to  leave  with 
her  three  little  children,  by  going  before 
the  Soviet  with  her  husband.  There 
they  asked  to  be  divorced.  A  few  ques- 
tions were  asked  them,  one  of  which 
was,  if  the  mother  wished  the  children. 
She  answered  'Yes,'  and  a  paper  was 
written  out,  for  which  they  paid  the  small 
sum  of  ten  rubles,  according  them  the 
divorce,  and  giving  back  to  my  friend 
her  British  nationality,  so  that  she  was 
able  to  leave  the  country  with  her 
three  little  ones  in  April,  1920.  The  hus- 
band, of  course,  had  to  remain  behind ; 
but  it  was  easier  for  a  man  to  get  along 
alone,  than  if  he  had  a  wife  and  child- 
ren to  feed. 

In  the  early  part  of  1920,  when  I  saw 
different  parties  of  British  refugees  final- 
ly being  permitted  to  leave  Russia  while 
I  was  detained  as  a  Russian  subject  be- 
cause of  my  marriage,  I  lost  all  hope  of 
ever  getting  away.  By  this  time  my 
health  was  much  impaired;  my  feet  and 
legs,  and  often  my  face,  were  badly 
swollen,  and  at  times  I  felt  so  giddy 
that  it  was  hard  for  me  to  get  along. 
Owing  to  physical  weakness,  I  suppose, 
I  became  quite  apathetic  and  did  not 
seem  to  care  what  became  of  me,  al- 
though I  realized  that  I  could  not  live 
through  another  such  winter  as  the  last, 
since  I  had  already  parted  with  nearly 
all  my  belongings  and  would  have  noth- 
ing to  supplement  my  earnings.  Early 
in  April  we  were  told  that  the  Bolshe- 
viki were  considering  the  advisability 
of  allowing  the  British-born  widows  of 
Russian  subjects  to  leave  the  country, 
and  a  few  days  later  a  decree  was 
published  according  this  permission.  In 
five  days  we  must  leave  with  some  other 
refugees.  Permits  and  passes  had  to  be 
obtained.  No  books  or  written  matter 
of  any  kind  could  be  taken  with  us,  and 
I  even  had  to  get  the  Soviet  stamp  put 


850 


THE  DISSOLUTION  OF  PETROGRAD 


on  my  Bible,  and  on  some  photographs 
that  I  wished  to  take  with  me. 

I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  details  of  my 
journey  out  of  Russia,  for  it  is  a  long 
story.  About  two  in  the  afternoon  of 
April  13,  we  finally  approached  the 
point  near  the  frontier  where  persons 
and  luggage  were  to  be  examined.  The 
examination  was  very  thorough:  all  the 
women  were  undressed,  their  shoes  and 
stockings  taken  off,  and  even  their  hair 
taken  down.  Even  so,  many  managed 
to  smuggle  their  diamonds  through,  and 
I  was  able  to  slip  into  my  box  an  old 
glove  containing  a  pair  of  large  solitaire 
diamond  earrings  belonging  to  a  friend. 
I  was  fortunate  in  being  one  of  the  last 
to  be  examined,  and  so  I  was  allowed  to 
pass  more  easily. 

After  the  examination  we  were  taken 
by  a  train  a  little  farther,  to  the  frontier 
line,  which  is  determined  by  a  swift  and 
narrow  running  stream.  It  is  utterly 
impossible  to  describe  our  feelings  as 
we  stepped  from  the  bridge  on  the  other 
side  and  stood  once  again  on  free  soil. 
Many  hearts  were  full  of  thankfulness 
to  God,  who  had  delivered  us  from  the 
power  and  tyranny  of  the  Bolsheviki. 
It  was  difficult  to  realize  the  fact  that 
now  they  could  no  longer  harm  us,  and 
we  need  have  no  more  fears,  or  nights  of 
terror  when  sleep  forsook  our  eyes  from 
the  dread  of  arrest.  When  we  crossed 
the  frontier,  we  were  greeted  by  mem- 
bers of  the  British  Red  Cross,  who  con- 
gratulated us  warmly  on  our  escape. 
With  them  were  some  British  and  Irish 
officers  who  had  just  been  released  from 
prisons  in  Moscow.  One  of  their  num- 
ber, belonging  to  a  Highland  regiment, 
wore  tartan;  and  when  I  saw  this  bit  of 
transplanted  Scotland,  my  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  my  weak  knees  grew 
weaker  with  emotion.  I  doubt  if  the 
pipes  of  Lucknow  created  greater  emo- 
tion in  any  breast  than  did  that  plaid 
in  mine. 

I  turned  to  Janet  MacDonald,  who 


had  come  out  of  Russia  with  me  after 
much  suffering  and  imprisonment.  The 
tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
She  buried  her  face  on  my  shoulder 
and  sobbed  out  in  a  transport  of  joy, 
'O  Jean,  Jean,  the  tartan  breeks,  the 
tartan  breeks!' 

There  is  little  more  to  tell.  From  the 
frontier  we  were  taken  to  Terioki  on  the 
Gulf  of  Finland,  where  we  were  all 
examined  by  a  doctor  and  detained  in 
quarantine  for  a  month.  At  the  end  of 
the  month  we  were  taken  to  Helsingfors, 
the  seaport  of  Finland,  and  there  em- 
barked on  the  transport  Dongola  for 
Southampton. 

Just  outside  of  London  was  a  home 
for  Russian  refugees.  To  this  home  we 
were  all  taken,  and  here  I  remained  for 
some  weeks  until  I  could  inquire  about 
my  Scottish  relatives  and  friends.  I 
had  not  heard  from  them  for  years,  and 
undoubtedly  some  of  the  letters  they 
wrote  to  me  were  among  the  thousands 
that  were  stacked  in  a  huge  pile  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  General  Post  Office  in 
Petrograd  and  eventually  burned.  A 
small  box  contained  all  my  earthly 
possessions,  and,  as  I  looked  at  it,  I  came 
more  and  more  to  realize  the  uncer- 
tainty of  riches  and  the  need  of  setting 
our  affections  on  things  above.  After 
several  months  I  finally  received  my 
naturalization  papers  and  was  again  a 
British  subject;  and  in  January,  1921, 1 
left  England  for  America,  to  visit  my 
only  brother  in  far-off  Montana. 

Here,  amid  the  changing  majesty  of 
these  mountains,  my  mind  often  turns 
back  to  dear  Russia,  and  the  tears  fill 
my  eyes.  I  spent  many  years  there  in  a 
happy  home;  and  the  soil  in  which  I 
laid  my  loved  ones  to  rest  will  ever  be 
sacred.  Now  the  newspapers  are  bring- 
ing tales  of  more  suffering  and  more 
famine  in  that  unhappy  country.  May 
the  good  God  save  Russia,  and  guide 
the  hearts  and  hands  that  would  rescue 
her  and  bring  her  out  of  her  distress ! 


A  SUGGESTION  ON  COAL 


BY  WALTER  L.  BALLOU 


IN  his  article  'What  Shall  We  Do 
About  Coal?'  in  the  September  Atlan- 
tic, Arthur  E.  Suffern  has  suggested  a 
remedy  through  gradual  extension  of 
government  control  over  the  waste  in 
natural  resources  and  man-power  which 
present  mining  methods  entail.  It  is  to 
be  doubted  whether  many  who  are  con- 
versant with  the  industry  will  quarrel 
with  his  premise;  there  is  every  reason 
to  know  that  there  are  many  who,  hav- 
ing the  best  interest  of  the  industry  at 
heart,  will  quarrel  with  his  suggested 
remedy.  Nor  is  the  quarrel  prompted 
exclusively  by  selfish  motives  —  past 
experience  has  convinced  many  of  the 
inadequate  costliness  of  the  Govern- 
ment's attempt  to  control  the  industry. 

It  is  a  truism  that  the  history  of 
American  development  has  been  the 
history  of  wasted  natural  resources. 
Man  seldom  thinks  of  conservation 
until  the  approach  of  total  consump- 
tion of  a  natural  resource  prompts  him 
to  do  so.  This  is  true  of  forests,  agri- 
cultural resources,  and  mines.  It  is 
true  of  man-power  and  the  potential 
possibilities  of  man-power,  to  such  an 
extent,  that  it  has  been  said  that  in  its 
treatment  of  men  America  is  to-day 
wasting  her  greatest  natural  resource. 

Conservation  is  out  of  the  question 
without  the  moral  support  of  the  public 
that  consumes  the  product  to  be  con- 
served. As  long  as  an  industry  dealing 
with  a  natural  resource  is  operated  on  a 
competitive  basis,  so  long  must  waste 
be  the  key-note  of  operation.  One 
mine-operator  is  forced,  for  instance,  to 
mine  the  cream  of  his  potential  output, 


in  order  to  meet  the  competition  from 
another  operator  who  is  doing  the  same 
thing.  He  cannot  mine  'clean,'  because 
the  cost  of  such  mining  will  not  permit 
him  to  meet  the  competition  of  the  pro- 
ducer who  does  not  mine  clean. 

The  result  is  to  be  found  in  England, 
where  to-day  the  pits  have  been  worked 
far  back,  and  each  year  sees  an  added 
cost  of  production,  making  more  diffi- 
cult the  competition  that  the  British 
producer  has  to  meet.  It  is  true  that,  if 
present  mining  methods  continue  in  this 
country  unchecked,  America  will  event- 
ually have  to  face  the  same  problem. 

There  is  no  question  as  to  the  over- 
production of  coal  in  the  country, 
caused  by  an  over-development  of 
mines.  That,  too,  is  the  result  of  the 
basis  of  open  competition  that  obtains. 
Good  years  in  the  industry  call  forth 
the  opening  of  new  mines,  or  the  re- 
opening of  old  ones  that  have  been  idle 
during  dull  years.  What  control,  other 
than  through  government  ownership, 
can  the  Government  exercise,  which 
will  check  the  natural  effort  of  one  man 
to  make  money  in  a  market  where  oth- 
ers are  making  it? 

Admitting  the  evil,  we  believe  there 
is  a  solution  which,  while  at  the  further 
end  of  the  social  pole,  will  come  nearer 
to  being  a  solution  than  that  proposed 
by  Mr.  Suffern.  Let  us  first  consider 
some  of  the  evils  which  might-  be  ex- 
pected to  accompany  government  con- 
trol, and  then  state  the  suggestion. 

During  the  'tight'  coal  market  of  the 
summer  of  1920,  various  attempts  at 
control  were  made  by  the  Government, 

851 


852 


A  SUGGESTION   ON   COAL 


directed  chiefly  toward  forcing  lower 
prices.  These  were  attempted  through 
regulation  of  the  car-supply  by  priority 
orders  favoring  coal-movements.  One 
priority  order  alone,  however,  which  in 
effect  permitted  the  abrogation  of  con- 
tracts with  dock  operators  in  the  north- 
west, —  if,  in  fact,  it  did  not  force  that 
abrogation,  —  resulted  in  adding  ap- 
proximately $13,000,000  to  the  fuel- 
bill  of  that  section,  without  getting  a 
pound  more  coal  moved  into  the  terri- 
tory than  would  have  moved  without 
the  orders.  Other  priority  orders,  in- 
tended to  make  possible  greater  pro- 
duction, resulted  in  a  dispersion  of 
available  equipment  to  an  extent  which 
militated  against  the  object  in  view. 

As  to  control  by  the  Government  in 
other  industries,  the  railroads  and  the 
merchant  marine  are  eloquent  of  what 
waste  is  possible  and  actual  under  such 
direction.  Not  only  was  there  an  actual 
loss  of  millions  of  dollars  during  federal 
operation  of  the  roads,  but  the  loyalty 
of  the  railroad  men  was  squandered  to 
an  almost  irremediable  extent.  Re- 
cent figures  given  out  by  the  present 
head  of  the  Shipping  Board  show  that 
the  loss  in  that  venture  alone  ran  high- 
er than  $1,000,000  daily  during  the  last 
fiscal  year  of  operation. 

Nor  is  this  condition  one  that  is  due 
to  questionable  motives  or  willful  in- 
tent. Government  control  lacks  that 
personal  interest  which  nature  has 
decreed  must  underlie  conservation. 
There  is  a  lack  of  centralization  of  re- 
sponsibility that  no  idealism  of  good  in- 
tent can  offset.  Delegation  of  authority 
and  responsibility  carries  with  it  a  cost 
which  prohibits  conservation  as  it  fos- 
ters waste.  In  New  Zealand,  where 
government  operation  of  mining  in  the 
coal-industry  has  been  tried,  it  has  been 
found  that  production  costs  were  high- 
er and  labor  troubles  greater  and  more 
frequent  than  under  private  operation. 
The  experiment  has  resulted  in  less, 


rather  than  more,  conservation  of  both 
money  and  good-will. 

That  control  is  necessary  before  con- 
servation can  be  accomplished  is  evi- 
dent, since  conservation  means  control. 
May  we  suggest  that  that  control  can 
best  be  effected  by  increasing  industry 
control,  rather  than  lessening  it  through 
the  introduction  of  government  control? 
Railroad  heads  to-day  are  confront- 
ed by  the  evils  of  divided  authority  as 
the  result  of  a  paternalistic  attitude 
on  the  part  of  Government.  They  are 
much  in  the  state  in  which  Brown- 
ing's Saul  found  himself,  —  'death 
gone,  life  not  come,'  —  unable  to  put 
into  effect  those  economies  that  are  es- 
sential if  railroad  transportation  is  to 
recover  from  its  present  chaotic  condi- 
tion. Is  it  not  reasonable  to  believe 
that  an  extension  of  control  over  coal  to 
government  agencies  would  have  a  sim- 
ilar result  in  this  industry? 

The  history  of  what  is  commonly 
called  'big  business'  has  been  marked 
by  a  degree  of  conservation  that  has  not 
been  found  in  other  forms  of  industrial 
arrangement.  Whether  we  take  the 
packing  industry,  the  steel  industry,  or 
the  petroleum  industry,  the  gathering 
of  control  into  a  few  hands  has  made 
possible  a  saving  and  elimination  of 
waste  that  never  could  have  existed,  and 
did  not  exist,  under  open  competition 
between  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
small  firms  and  individuals.  '  Big  busi- 
ness' not  only  has  adopted  modern 
methods  of  production,  accounting, 
marketing,  and  'labor-adjusting,'  but 
has  developed  raw  natural  resources 
to  the  highest  degree,  bringing  forth 
by-products  in  profusion  out  of  what 
under  former  management  had  been 
waste.  Through  maximum  production, 
which  this  control  fostered,  prices  have 
been  frequently  lowered  as  compared 
with  prices  under  competitive  condi- 
tions. Monopoly,  with  all  it  is  frequent- 
ly said  to  imply,  has  been  a  benefactor 


A  SUGGESTION  ON   COAL 


853 


to  the  public  as  well  as  to  the  industry 
in  which  it  is  born. 

In  the  coal-mining  industry  such  a 
monopoly  would  have  even  greater  pos- 
sibilities for  good  than  in  most  other  in- 
dustries. Present  overdevelopment  in 
coal  lands  has  resulted  in  wasteful  dis- 
persion of  railroad  equipment,  increas- 
ing the  cost  of  transportation  of  fuel, 
and,  in  times  of  emergency,  cutting 
down  the  potential  haulage  of  the 
roads.  Were  the  coal  lands  of  the  coun- 
try in  the  hands  of  a  comparatively  few 
well-financed  corporations,  new  lands 
would  be  held  in  reserve  while  old  ones 
were  being  developed  along  modern 
scientific  lines.  Without  the  struggle 
that  now  is  frequently  necessary  in  the 
attempt  to  meet  necessary  overhead 
expenses,  it  would  be  possible  to  in- 
stall permanent  equipment  needed  for 
economic  mining;  the  operator  would 
know  that  he  could  depreciate  that 
equipment  on  a  producing-time,  rather 
than  on  a  largely  idle-time,  basis,  and 
would  not  feel  the  necessity  to  recover 
his  investment  in  a  year  or  two. 

Such  control  would  also  tend  to 
minimize  the  waste  in  man-power  that 
accompanies  present  methods.  Intro- 
duction of  modern  machinery  would  be 
one  factor;  but  the  elimination  of  hun- 
dreds of  mines  from  operation  would  in 
itself  release  thousands  of  men  from 
the  industry  for  other  employment,  and 
at  the  same  time  tend  to  increase  the 
annual  working  time  of  those  who  re- 
mained. Conservation  would  be  accom- 
plished also  in  the  selling  end  of  the 
industry,  since  duplication  of  merchan- 
dizing forces  would  be  unnecessary. 

It  is  true  that,  as  in  other  industries, 
such  concentration  in  a  small  circle  of 
control  of  the  vast  coal  resources  of  the 
country  would  carry  with  it  possibili- 


ties of  evils  and  dangers;  but  it  is  to  be 
doubted  whether  these  would  be  as 
great,  from  the  public's  standpoint,  as 
would  the  waste  and  inadequacy  of 
government  control.  The  public  has 
not  forgotten  that  heatless  days  and 
lightless  nights  were  never  known  out- 
side of  federal  control  of  coal,  and  that 
they  happened  then  even  after  war- 
inconveniences  were  past.  It  may  have 
forgotten  that  it  was  government  inter- 
ference that  gave  the  union  miners  a 
wage-rate  which  is  largely  responsible  for 
the  present  high  price  of  fuel ;  and  that  it 
was  government  operation  of  the  rail- 
roads which  brought  about  freight- 
rates  on  coal  that  are  the  other  real  fac- 
tor in  present  coal  prices.  It  finds  it 
possible  under  monopolistic  conditions 
in  the  petroleum  field  to  buy  gasoline  at 
a  satisfactory  price  and  with  satisfac- 
tory service.  It  has  voiced  its  senti- 
ments in  favor  of  private  control  of  pri- 
vate business,  and  it  stands  ready,  we 
believe,  to  back  that  expression,  if  need 
be,  by  revoking  its  presidential  choice 
of  1920  if  the  present  administration 
fails  to  deliver  on  its  pledge. 

The  Government  has  been  far  more 
successful  in  coping  with  the  evils  of 
private  monopolistic  tendencies  than  it 
has  been  in  attempts  at  direct  control 
of  an  industry.  In  those  fields  where  a 
few  well-financed  firms  have  gained 
control  of  the  output,  —  as  in  Frank- 
lin County,  Illinois,  for  instance,  —  a 
stability  of  policy  tending  toward  effi- 
ciency is  to  be  noted,  as  well  as  a  sta- 
bility of  price  in  what  may  be  called 
runaway  markets.  Is  it  not  reasonable 
to  suggest  that  an  expansion  of  this 
control,  rather  than  that  of  Govern- 
ment, may  in  the  end  prove  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem,  and  result  in  a  real 
conservation  of  coal? 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  CLUB 


MY    WIFE'S   ADDRESS-BOOK 

I  WONDER  whether  other  women's 
address-books  are  like  Cynthia's.  Hers 
defies  definition:  it  cannot  be  indexed  or 
codified,  but  must  be  interpreted  by  its 
amazing  creator.  To  give  an  idea  of  the 
system  by  which  it  has  been  compiled 
I  must  quote  a  specific  instance. 

The  other  day  a  lady  who  was  calling 
on  my  wife  inquired  whether  she  could 
recommend  a  good  laundress. 

'Oh,  certainly!'  cried  the  practical 
Cynthia, '  I  always  keep  the  names  and 
addresses  of  everyone  who  can  possibly 
be  useful  to  anyone.  Algernon/  she 
called  out  to  me  as  I  was  trying  to  read 
the  paper  in  the  next  room,  'just  look  in 
my  book  of  Social  and  Domestic  Emer- 
gencies and  tell  me  Nora  Mahoney's 
address.  It  is  something  River  Street.' 

Obediently  I  took  up  the  little  red 
book  with  its  alphabetical  pages,  and 
turning  to  the  M's,  ran  my  finger  down 
the  list,  encountering  on  the  way  an 
alien  group  of  P's  who  had  somehow 
strayed  into  the  wrong  fold.  There  was 
no  Mahoney  among  them.  But  I  knew 
some  of  my  wife's  mental  processes, 
and,  nothing  daunted,  I  turned  to  the 
N's,  remembering  that  Cynthia  had 
once  dropped  the  remark  that  very  few 
of  the  people  she  had  ever  employed 
seemed  to  have  last  names.  There  was 
no  Nora  among  the  Nightwatchmen, 
the  Nurses,  the  Nellys,  and  the  Neds. 
'  Is  your  name  M  or  N? '  I  murmured  as 
I  abandoned  both  initials  and  turned  to 
L  for  Laundress.  Again  I  was  thwarted, 
but  my  hunting-blood  was  stirred,  and 
I  feverishly,  but  vainly,  sought  the 
needle  of  a  Nora  in  the  haystack  of 
Hired  Help. 

854 


'Don't  you  find  it,  dear?'  inquired 
Cynthia  with  a  note  of  gentle  surprise. 
'Perhaps  you  had  better  let  me  look. 
You  can  never  seem  to  learn  my  system 
of  registration.' 

When  the  mystic  volume  was  in  her 
hands,  she  appeared  to  go  into  a  trance, 
and  with  eyes  closed  muttered,  'Let  me 
see  now,  would  it  be  under  W  for 
Washerwoman?  No.  Perhaps  it  might 
be  under  G  for  General  Housework  — 
don't  you  remember,  Algernon,  how 
cleverly  Nora  was  always  able  to  do 
things  that  we  did  n't  want  her  to  do? 
Here  are  the  G's,  —  let  me  see,  —  Gas- 
man, Gymnasium  teacher,  Mrs.  Gor- 
don, Glove  Cleansing,  Miss  Grant,  Oh, 
here  we  are!  General  Housework!  Oh, 
no,  that  is  n't  Housework,  it's  General 
Houston  —  don't  you  remember  that 
delightful  man  with  the  military  mous- 
tache we  met  in  Virginia?  He  gave  me 
his  card,  and  I  just  jotted  his  name 
down  in  my  address-book.  I  put  him 
among  the  G's  because  I  knew  that 
though  I  might  forget  his  name,  I 
should  never  forget  that  he  was  a  Gen- 
eral; so  here  he  is,  just  where  he  belongs 
—  only,  where  is  Nora?' 

She  knit  her  brow  for  an  instant  and 
then  unraveled  it  hastily.  'Now  I  re- 
member! How  stupid  of  me  to  forget 
the  workings  of  my  own  mind !  I  always 
used  to  think  that  Nora's  name  was 
Agnes,  —  it's  so  exactly  the  same  kind 
of  a  name,  —  and  I  probably  put  her 
down  under  A,  thinking  that  is  where 
I  should  look  for  her.  Oh,  yes,  here  she 
is ! '  she  called  to  her  patiently  waiting 
friend.  '  She  leads  off  the  A's,  like  Abou 
Ben  Adhem.  Nora  Mahoney,  18  Brook 
Street  —  just  what  I  told  you,  except 
that  I  thought  it  was  River  Street.' 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


855 


A  few  days  after  this  episode  I  tried 
to  get  Cynthia  really  to  explain  her 
address-book  to  me  so  that  I  might  be 
able  to  assist  others,  or  myself,  in  some 
domestic  crisis,  if  she  were  away  or  ill; 
but  she  found  me  very  literal  and  thick- 
witted. 

'You  see,'  she  interpreted,  'if  a  per- 
son has  a  very  marked  characteristic 
that  distinguishes  him  more  than  his 
name,  of  course  I  put  him  down  under 
the  initial  of  his  idiosyncrasy.  For  in- 
stance, there 's  that  deaf  old  upholsterer 
that  Aunt  Eliza  told  me  about,  who 
comes  to  the  house  and  does  n't  hear 
the  awful  noise  he  makes  when  he  ham- 
mers. He  is  entered  under  D  for  Deaf 
Upholsterer,  because  the  image  that  is 
flashed  into  my  mind  when  the  chairs 
need  recovering  is  of  a  deaf  man  —  the 
fact  that  his  name  is  Rosenburg  is  of 
minor  importance.' 

'  But  you  have  such  a  confusing  way 
of  mixing  names  and  profession,'  I  ob- 
jected. 'For  instance,  those  delightful 
English  people  who  were  so  good  to  us 
in  London,  Sir  James  and  Lady  Taylor, 
would  be  flattered  if  they  could  see  that 
right  on  the  heels  of  Lady  Taylor  fol- 
lows, "  Ladies '  Tailor,  seventy-five  dol- 
lars and  not  very  good!"  Then  here 
under  M  is  Mason,  A.  P.,  such  and  such 
a  street.  That  of  course  is  our  old  friend 
Miss  Anna,  but  right  under  her  name  is 
Mason,  A,  with  some  business  address 
following.' 

'Oh,  but  A  is  n't  an  initial  in  that 
case,'  cried  Cynthia.  'A  is  just  A,  you 
know,  a  mason  whose  name  I  don't  re- 
member but  who  was  highly  recom- 
mended by  the  carpenter  that  time 
when  the  bricks  fell  out  of  the  chimney! 
Really,  Algernon,  you  don't  seem  to  be 
using  your  mind.' 

I  was  still  doggedly  turning  over  the 
pages,  and  hardly  listened  to  her.  'Now 
look  here,'  I  triumphantly  exclaimed, 
'can  you  give  me  any  logical  reason 
why  under  the  letter  F,  I  should  find 


Mrs.  Charles  B.  Redmond,  32  Pineland 
Road?' 

'Why,  of  course  I  can!'  Cynthia  in- 
formed me  without  an  instant's  hesi- 
tation. 'Mrs.  Charles  Redmond  was 
Fanny  Flemming  before  she  was  mar- 
ried, and  people  always  speak  of  her  by 
her  maiden  name,  on  account  of  the  al- 
literation, so  I  put  her  down  under  the 
initial  that  brings  her  to  my  mind,  but 
of  course  using  the  names  she  is  called 
by.  Don't  you  see?' 

I  saw,  but  there  were  still  unplumbed 
depths  of  mystery. 

'Can  you  tell  me,  please,'  I  asked 
humbly,  'why  there  should  be  flowery 
beds  of  E's  among  the  O's,  and  why  a 
little  oasis  of  blossoms  beginning  with  B 
should  be  blooming  among  the  weedy 
Ws?  I'm  sure  there  is  some  perfectly 
good  feminine  reason,  but  — ' 

'Ah,  there  there  is  some  excuse  for 
you ! '  Cynthia  acknowledged ; '  but  sure- 
ly even  you  must  always  associate  cer- 
tain letters  together  for  no  apparent 
reason.  For  instance,  perhaps  you  may 
have  forgotten  a  name,  but  you  are  cer- 
tain that  it  begins  with  a  T.  Later  you 
remember  the  name  and  find  that  it 
does  n't  begin  with  a  T  at  all,  but  with 
an  L.  Of  course,  there  is  some  psycho- 
logical reason  why  those  two  letters  are 
associated  together  in  your  mind.  Now 
to  me,  B  and  W  are  practically  inter- 
changeable, so  I  have  put  Mrs.  Blake 
and  the  Burlingtons  and  old  Miss  Bos- 
worth  in  with  the  W's,  and  the  Wilkin- 
sons and  the  Warners  are  among  the 
B's.  It  really  helps  me  very  much  to 
have  them  like  that,  but  I  can  see  that 
it  would  be  confusing  to  people  who  had 
different  group  associations.' 

I  closed  the  little  red  volume  abruptly. 
'  Oh,  well,  if  your  address-book  is  sim- 
ply an  Intelligence  Test —  'I  began. 

But  Cynthia  interrupted  me. '  It  is  n't 
an  Intelligence  Test,  it's  an  Intelligence 
Office,'  she  gently  explained. 

'Well,  it's  no  use,  I  can't  understand 


856 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'    CLUB 


it,'  I  confessed.  'Your  addresses  are 
as  safe  from  me  as  if  they  were  written 
in  Sanscrit  instead  of  ciphers,  and  were 
locked  into  a  safety  deposit  vault.  I 
have  no  key  that  fits,  and  I  don't  know 
the  combination.' 

'That  's  because  you  're  a  man,'  my 
wife  pityingly  explained.  '  There  is  n't  a 
woman  of  my  acquaintance  who  does 
n't  do  her  address-book-keeping  on  this 
general  plan,  but  the  word  that  opens 
the  combination  is  one  that  no  man  will 
ever  understand.' 

'Thank  Heaven  there  are  still  the 
Telephone  Book  and  the  Social  Regis- 
ter,' I  cried,  stung  by  the  tone  of  supe- 
riority in  Cynthia's  voice. 

But  her  last  word  was  yet  to  bje 
spoken.  'If  ever  you  want  to  look  up 
your  own  name  in  my  address-book,' 
she  said  very  sweetly,  'remember  the 
Parable  of  the  Deaf  Upholsterer,  and 
look  under  S.' 

FAMILY   PRAYERS 

If,  as  one  of  the  younger  generation 
has  remarked,  'Religion  is  the  spiritual 
stream  in  which  we  are  all  floating  or 
swimming  or  struggling  or  sinking,'  I 
can  only  observe  that  the  temperature 
of  the  stream  is  pleasantly  tepid  in 
these  days,  and  that  it  wanders  lan- 
guidly through  a  flat  and  uneventful 
country.  It  has  come  a  long  way  from 
the  icy  mountain  streams  and  blue 
lakes  that  were  its  source.  Back  in  my 
boyhood  days,  in  Brierly,  it  flowed 
more  swiftly,  and  the  water  was  colder. 
Some  courage  was  required  to  plunge 
into  it,  and  some  agility  and  skill  to 
keep  one's  head  above  the  current. 

I  am  reminded  of  a  recent  statement 
made,  one  Sunday  morning,  by  my 
sister  Tryphena,  to  the  effect  that  in 
her  youth  little  boys  did  not  play  mar- 
bles on  the  Sabbath;  and  of  the  crisp 
note  in  the  voice  of  my  brother  Ed- 
ward's youngest  son  — aged  seven  — as 


he  stood  on  tiptoe  to  reach  his  bag  of 
marbles  from  the  playroom  shelf,  and 
answered:  'Well,  Aunt  Tryphena,  you 
see  things  have  changed.' 

True.  Things  have  changed.  Edward 
is  a  good,  Christian  father,  and  he  goes 
to  church  every  Sunday  morning,  when 
it  is  too  warm  or  too  cold  or  too  wet  on 
the  links.  He  does  his  duty  by  his  child- 
ren, but  I  can't  imagine  him  kneeling 
down  by  Jack  and  praying,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  for  light  and  strength  and 
guidance  for  them  both,  and  then  sup- 
plementing prayer  with  a  hickory 
switch,  the  way  father  did  when  John, 
who  was  twelve  at  the  time,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  church,  profaned  the  Sabbath 
and  outraged  all  Brierly  traditions  by 
wearing  his  new  baseball  suit  on  Sun- 
day morning. 

Of  course,  it  was  a  particularly  vivid 
suit.  The  trousers  were  red-and-white 
striped,  and  the  jacket  blue  with  white 
stars.  And  John,  who  knew  only  too 
well  the  result  if  he  were  caught  in  such 
a  costume  on  the  seventh  day,  climbed 
out  of  the  window  of  his  room  and  down 
over  the  woodshed  roof,  to  show  him- 
self to  Frances  and  Caroline,  who  were 
washing  breakfast  dishes  in  the  kitchen. 
But  one  of  the  neighbors  saw  him,  and 
strolled  over  to  the  front  gate  to  chat 
with  father;  and  father  appeared  at  the 
woodshed  door  —  an  avenging  Nem- 
esis, with  the  hickory  switch  in  his 
hand  — 

Yes,  things  have  changed.  There  is 
still  plenty  of  religion  abroad  in  the 
land,  but  the  faith  that  most  of  us  hold 
nowadays  is  a  milder,  more  comfortable 
variety  than  the  sort  that  permeated 
Brierly  when  we  were  growing  up.  It 
seems  to  consist  mainly  of  a  vague 
optimism,  combined  with  a  gentle  tol- 
erance of  all  differing  creeds  that  might 
be  mistaken,  by  a  skeptic,  for  indiffer- 
ence. 

We  were  n't  gently  tolerant  of  other 


THE    CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


857 


creeds  in  Brierly.  The  details  of  salva- 
tion were  desperately  vital.  Baptism 
and  confirmation  were  ordeals  of  tre- 
mendous significance.  Frances  ran 
away  when  she  was  seven  years  old, 
to  attend  a  Methodist  revival,  and  was 
converted.  On  reaching  home,  she  lay 
awake  all  night,  from  joy  that  her  sins 
were  forgiven;  and  though  the  older 
boys  and  girls,  who  had  just  joined  our 
church,  felt  this  to  be  an  unparalleled 
piece  of  uppishness  on  her  part,  and  fa- 
ther and  mother  insisted  on  her  attend- 
ing worship  with  her  own  family,  no 
one  questioned  the  depth  or  reality  of 
her  experience. 

Things  have  changed,  indeed;  and 
who  can  doubt  that  they  are  changing 
for  the  better?  Yet  there  was  much 
beauty  and  sweetness  in  the  religious 
life  of  those  days,  and  many  memories 
dear  to  us  older  ones  that  the  present 
generation  will  never  know.  Edward's 
children  are  being  brought  up  much  as 
we  were,  with  this  difference:  then-  bad- 
ness is  transformed  into  goodness  be- 
cause they  love  their  parents  and  fear 
punishment,  while  our  lives  were  regu- 
lated by  the  fact  that  we  loved  God  and 
feared  the  devil  —  a  very  different 
thing  in  reality,  although  it  seems  to 
bring  about  much  the  same  result. 

Not  that  we  had  any  lack  of  love  for 
our  parents.  They  stood  as  a  firm  bul- 
wark between  us  and  the  devil,  and  as 
intermediaries  between  us  and  God. 
Father  made  public  intercession  for  us 
with  the  Almighty  every  morning  at 
prayers,  and  three  times  daily  at  grace 
before  meals;  and  I  know  that  mother's 
private  devotions  were  unceasing.  I 
never  heard  her  pray  aloud  except 
once,  when  a  visiting  minister  called 
on  her  unexpectedly  to  lead  the  Wednes- 
day evening  service,  in  prayer.  That 
night  she  rose,  said  simply,  '  God  bless 
this  meeting,'  and  quietly  resumed  her 
seat.  I  always  felt  that  her  silent  peti- 
tions went  fully  as  far  as  father's;  but 


he  was  the  nominal  head  of  the  family 
in  matters  religious.  Every  morning, 
directly  after  breakfast,  he  gathered  us 
together  in  the  parlor  for  family  prayers, 

We  came  from  the  laughter  and  fun 
of  the  breakfast-table  into  another  at- 
mosphere. Father,  usually  the  merriest 
of  us  all,  was  suddenly  grave  and  silent 
as  he  took  the  big  family  Bible  in  his 
hands.  The  hush  that  fell  over  us  was 
accentuated  by  our  being  in  the  parlor; 
for  we  lived  and  played  and  studied  in 
the  'sitting-room,'  and  the  parlor  was 
reserved  for  occasions  of  state.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  constraint  born  of  our 
uncertainty  whether  our  record  for  the 
past  twenty-four  hours  would  bear  the 
sight  of  heaven  and  the  family. 

First,  each  child  had  to  repeat  a 
verse  from  the  Bible.  Next,  father  read 
aloud  from  the  Scriptures,  and  then  led 
us  in  prayer,  each  of  us  kneeling  before 
the  chair  he  had  previously  occupied. 
Mine  was  a  small  carved  rosewood  one, 
with  a  hard  haircloth  seat.  I  shut  my 
eyes  tight  and  laid  my  cheek  against  it, 
and  tried  not  to  see  Edward  snuggling 
into  his  green  tufted  cushion. 

Father's  prayers  were  really  wonder- 
ful. In  all  the  time  we  lived  at  Brierly, 
I  am  sure  I  never  heard  him  say  the 
same  thing  twice.  And  there  was  more 
to  recommend  them  than  their  ver- 
satility. They  were  simple,  direct,  elo- 
quent. He  began  by  thanking  God  for 
the  blessings  of  the  day  and  night  that 
had  passed.  Next  he  prayed  for  the 
conversion  of  the  Jews,  and  for  the  ten 
tribes  of  Israel.  These  duties  disposed 
of,  he  entered  upon  the  real  business  of 
the  day.  One  by  one,  he  took  his  child- 
ren by  the  hand,  and  Jed  them  before 
the  throne  of  Grace.  Our  little  tri- 
umphs were  mentioned  and  our  virtues 
extolled, — though  this  was  always  done 
guardedly,  and  accompanied  by  a  peti- 
tion that  we  might  remain  free  from 
pride;  —  and  our  secret  shortcomings 
were  brought  unflinchingly  to  the  light. 


858 

Frances  once  told  me  that  she  knew 
the  Bible  meant  father  when  it  said, 
'There  is  nothing  hidden  that  shall  not 
be  revealed';  and  I  remember  thinking 
that  she  was  the  only  one  of  us  who 
would  have  dared  to  say  it.  But  it  was 
with  mingled  emotions  of  reverence 
and  relief  that  we  rose  from  our  knees 
at  the  close  of  father's  long  prayer,  and 
gathered  around  mother  at  the  piano. 

The  music  was  best  of  all  —  partly 
because  we  all  loved  it,  and  partly  be- 
cause it  came  as  a  relaxation  to  minds 
and  muscles  after  the  prayer.  On 
week-days  we  were  limited  to  one  hymn, 
on  account  of  time;  but  on  Sundays  we 
frequently  stood  around  the  piano  for 
an  hour,  while  one  'Gospel  Carol'  fol- 
lowed another.  Sometimes  we  selected 
our  hymns  from  mixed  motives.  Once, 
after  John  had  been  sent  upstairs  to 
make  his  hands  fit  to  be  seen,  Caroline 
chose  to  sing  'Wash  me,  and  I  shall  be 
whiter  than  snow ';  and  on  the  morning 
after  the  twins  were  born,  my  irrepres- 
sible Frances  suggested:  'More  and 
more,  More  and  more,  Still  there's 
more  to  follow';  but  was  silenced,  for 
once,  by  a  look  from  father.  Each  of  us 
had  his  favorite,  and  to  this  day  certain 
tunes  bring  back  those  Sunday  morn- 
ings with  startling  clearness,  and  the 
singing  faces  of  those  boys  and  girls. 

'Pull  for  the  shore,  Sailor,'  —  and  I 
see  Gerald  and  Charlie,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  piano-stool.  '  Stand  up,  stand 
up,  for  Jesus!' —  John  and  Arthur, 
with  their  heads  close  together,  singing 
bass  and  doing  their  best  to  ignore  the 
other  parts.  'Rock  of  Ages,'  and  Try- 
phena's  face  shines  out  of  my  memory, 
sweetly  serious,  and  framed  in  smooth 
brown  braids.  'Count  your  blessings' 
means  Caroline's  laughing  blue  eyes 
and  clear  soprano,  with  Edward  trying 
to  sing  alto  and  not  quite  doing  it;  and 
whenever,  in  a  Methodist  church,  I 
hear  'There  is  a  fountain  filled  with 
blood,'  I  see  Frances,  true  to  the  creed 


of  her  adoption,  singing  with  all  her 
might.  'Onward,  Christian  Soldiers'  is 
father,  with  the  baby  on  his  left  arm, 
beating  time  with  his  right  hand;  and 
whenever  I  hear 

*O  happy  band  of  pilgrims,  if  onward  ye  would 

tread, 
With  Jesus  as  your  fellow,  to  Jesus  as  your  head,' 

I  see  the  light  shining  through  the  east 
window,  across  the  old  square  piano, 
upon  mother's  face. 

The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  surer  I 
am  that  Edward's  children  are  missing 
something. 

THE   CHRISTMAS   SPIRIT 

We  talk  glibly  about  the  greed  of 
profiteers;  but  there  is  a  sheep-like 
streak  in  the  human  race,  which  makes 
us  rather  enjoy  being  exploited.  How 
otherwise  can  one  account  for  the  rap- 
idly increasing  commercialization  of 
every  phase  of  human  affection  and 
sentiment?  For  instance,  the  artful  and 
seductive  advertiser  has  so  trained  us, 
that  the  first  thing  we  think  on  hearing 
of  a  friend's  engagement  is:  'Good 
Heavens!  What  shall  I  give  them  for  a 
wedding  present?'  Half-a-dozen  wed- 
dings in  a  family  are  a  serious  tax  on  all 
but  its  most  opulent  members;  and 
though  something  may  be  said  in  favor 
of  the  habit  of  receiving  wedding  pres- 
ents, the  middle-aged  bachelor  of  either 
sex  can  find  but  few  kind  words  for  the 
custom  of  giving  them. 

And  when  the  most  beautiful  festi- 
vals of  the  Church  are  exploited  by  the 
manufacturers  and  shopkeepers,  it  is 
time  to  call  a  halt.  What  idea  of  the 
Christian  religion  would  the  hypothet- 
ical visitor  from  Mars  gain  by  strolling 
through  the  shopping  district  of  any 
American  town  shortly  before  Easter? 
Easter  bonnets,  Easter  bunnies,  Easter 
eggs  are  bad  enough;  but  by  the  time 
he  came  to  'Easter  corsets,'  it  would  be 
hard  to  convince  him  that  Easter  was 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


859 


not  as  secular  and  frivolous  a  date  as 
April  Fool's  Day. 

Christmas  has  been  even  more  thor- 
oughly commercialized  and  desecrated, 
the  better  to  fill  money-bags  that  are 
already  bursting  open.  Unfortunately, 
the  money-bags  have  as  their  firmest 
allies  the  well-meaning  folk  who  in- 
dulge in  orgies  of  sentiment  over  what 
they  sobbingly  speak  of  as  the  *  Christ- 
mas spirit.'  The  scoffers  who  go  on 
about  sun-myths  and  Druid  ceremonies 
and  such-like  entertainments  will  never 
hurt  the  spirit  of  Christmas;  it  is  so 
human  a  quality  that,  like  the  rest  of 
us,  it  can  be  hurt  only  by  its  friends. 
They  who  bring  the  Christmas  spirit 
into  disrepute  are  those  admirable  mon- 
sters of  forethought  who  start  during 
the  January  sales  laying  in  the  stock  of 
their  nefarious  trade;  who  during  De- 
cember fill  the  house  with  reams  of  white 
tissue-paper  and  miles  of  red  ribbon; 
who  positively  exude  Christmas  stick- 
ers and  seals  and  tags  and  labels;  who 
'remember'  everyone  with  at  least  a 
Christmas  card;  and  whose  deepest 
humiliation  it  is  to  be  remembered  by 
someone  they  had  themselves  forgotten. 
Their  preparations  endure  up  to  Christ- 
mas Eve,  their  frenzy  increasing  as  the 
hour  approaches.  Yet,  when  the  long- 
expected  day  dawns  at  last,  does  any- 
one suppose  that  these  virtuous  souls 
can  sit  back  and  enjoy  life?  Far  from 
it!  By  that  time  they  are  completely 
submerged  in  the  return  avalanche;  for, 
to  paraphrase  the  words  of  Scripture, 
to  him  that  giveth  shall  be  given;  so 
the  rest  of  the  month  is  spent  in  writ- 
ing and  receiving  unmeaning  letters  of 
hollow  thanks. 

What  a  horrid  parody  of  what  Christ- 
mas should  be,  might  still  be,  if  the 
admirable  self-restraint  and  self-abne- 
gation and  sense  of  humor  of  my  New 
Year's  friend  were  more  widely  followed ! 
I  can  see  my  New  Year's  friend  in  my 
mind's  eye;  not  her  features,  —  they 


are  unfortunately  rather  vague  and  un- 
defined, —  but  her  delightfully  whimsi- 
cal and  kindly  expression,  her  look  of 
gentle  seriousness  breaking  into  a  deli- 
cious twinkle.  She  is  generous,  sensitive, 
reserved,  humorous,  and  romantic,  and 
it  shows  in  her  face.  Though  I  know 
her  so  well,  I  fear  that,  in  a  court  of  law, 
this  description  of  her  would  not  be 
admitted  as  evidence.  To  tell  the  truth, 
all  I  actually  know  of  my  New  Year's 
friend  is  that  for  the  past  four  years  I 
have  received  on  that  propitious  date, 
either  by  an  unknown  messenger  or  by 
the  minions  of  the  late  Mr.  Burleson, 
a  New  Year's  card  accompanying  a 
golden  eagle  or  its  paper  equivalent,  to- 
gether with  an  admonition  that  it  is  to 
be  spent  solely  on  myself.  The  envelope 
is  addressed  in  an  unfamiliar  hand  and 
bears  no  stationer's  stamp,  nor  is  there 
any  other  clue  to  follow  up.  I  spend  the 
enclosure  religiously  on  some  useless  and 
beguiling  article,  which  I  should  other- 
wise never  think  of  indulging  in. 

No  other  present  has  ever  afforded 
me  the  pleasure,  amusement,  and  inter- 
est of  this  anonymous  gift;  and  I  am 
convinced  that  the  giver  gets  almost  as 
much  fun  out  of  it  as  I  do.  She  cannot 
fail  to  do  so;  for,  though  her  gift  does 
not  coincide  with  Christmas,  she  has 
the  real  Christmas  spirit,  giving  with  no 
possibility  of  thanks,  no  hope  of  return. 
I  am  glad  at  last  to  be  abje  to  tell  her 
a  little  of  the  pleasure  she  has  given  me. 
Luckily  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  will 
see  this,  for  a  person  of  her  unusual 
qualities  of  head  and  heart  must  be  a 
confirmed  reader  of  the  Atlantic! 

Now,  having  won  the  war,  and  made 
the  world  safe  for  democracy  and  the 
cider-mill  and  unsafe  for  the  League  of 
Nations  and  the  purchaser  of  wood- 
alcohol,  why  cannot  we  turn  to  with  a 
will  and  save  Christmas  for  our  de- 
scendants by  following  the  methods  of 
my  New  Year's  friend?  Our  gifts  need 
not  take  the  form  of  hard  cash,  and 


860 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   CLUB 


some  of  them  might  even  be  given  at 
Christmas;  but  at  least  let  them  be 
anonymous  and  appropriate,  let  none 
be  given  to  get  rid  of  an  obligation,  or, 
still  worse,  of  a  last  year's  white  ele- 
phant. We  should  give  and  receive  few- 
er presents,  but  they  would  come  ra- 
diant with  the  sheer  joy  of  giving.  We 
should  be  spared  the  agony  of  writ- 
ing mendacious  notes  of  thanks,  and 
the  horrible  and  demoralizing  phrase, 
'Suitable  for  Christmas  gifts,'  would 
disappear  forever  from  the  advertising 
columns  of  the  daily  press. 

It  is  high  time  we  remembered  that 
the  Christmas  spirit  has  nothing  in 
common  with  the  gains  of  profiteers  or 
with  crowded  shops  and  overworked 
saleswomen;  still  less  with  the  giving 
of  perfunctory  and  awkward  thanks  for 
perfunctory  and  undesired '  remembran- 
ces.' It  should  be  as  free  as  air,  as  spon- 
taneous as  a  child's  smile;  and  the  gifts 
it  inspires  should  be  as  anonymous  as 
the  other  good  things  of  life. 

While  we  are  about  it,  we  might 
also  rescue  Easter  from  the  clutches  of 
the  milliner,  florist,  and  stationer,  the 
Fourth  of  July  from  the  exploitation  of 
the  gunpowder  and  fireworks  manu- 
facturer. These  may  seem  very  minor 
reforms,  but  a  moment's  reflection  will 
show  us  that  the  commercialization  of 
our  pleasures  and  social  instincts  is  one 
of  the  dangers  of  the  world  to-day,  and 
that  the  reaction  to  this  dimly  perceived 
peril  was  a  strong  factor  in  the  passing 
of  the  Eighteenth  Amendment.  Let  us 
leave  the  Constitution  alone  in  future, 
and  reform  ourselves.  It  can  be  done :  my 
New  Year's  friend  has  shown  the  way. 


WINTER   MORNING 

In  winter- time  we  go  to  school; 
And  every  day  the  motor-bus 
Stops  at  the  gate,  and  waits  for  us, 
All  full  of  children  that  we  know, 
Sitting  inside,  row  after  row. 

It  stops  and  gets  them,  one  by  one, 
And  brings  them  home  when  school  is 
done. 

Then  there  is  ice  upon  the  pool 
Where  lilies  grow.  The  leafless  trees 
Stand  shivering  in  the  winter  breeze, 
Except  where  here  and  there  is  seen 
A  cheerful,  warm-clad  evergreen. 

There 's  one  I  always  like  to  see. 

It  stands  alone  upon  a  hill 

Just  like  some  giant's  Christmas  tree. 

I  'd  like  to  see  the  giant  fill 

It  full  of  giant  toys  and  light 

Big  candles  on  it  Christmas  night. 

But  when  the  world  is  deep  in  snow 
That  sparkles  coldly  in  the  sun, 
And  motor-buses  cannot  run; 
They  send  a  pung  with  runners  wide 
And  two  long  seats  for  us  inside. 

That  is  the  way  I  like  to  go. 
The  horses  prance,  and  ting-a-ling 
The  bells  upon  their  harness  ring. 
The  driver  cracks  his  whip,  and  blows 
Steam,  like  a  dragon,  through  his  nose. 

The  birds  look  lonely  as  they  fly 
Across  the  solemn  winter  sky. 
I  wish  they  were  just  half  as  gay 
As  happy  children  in  a  sleigh. 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


A.  Glutton-Brock,  critic  of  art  and  lover  of 
gardens,  has  at  the  Atlantic's  request  con- 
tributed a  number  of  papers  on  modern 
dangers  and  difficulties,  varied  in  their  sub- 
ject, but  alike  hi  ascribing  to  religion  the 
real  hope  of  the  future.  The  secret  which 
brought  her  consolation  at  a  tune  of  an- 
guish many  years  ago,  and  which  has  ever 
since  been  the  constant  companion  of  her 
thoughts,  Mrs.  Albion  Fellows  Bacon  now 
feels  it  right  to  share  with  others.  The  rec- 
ord is,  of  course,  faithful  to  the  last  detail. 
The  writer  of  '  Shell-Shocked  —  and  After,' 
for  manifest  reasons,  prefers  to  remain  un- 
known. After  many  actual  pilgrimages  to 
the  Orient,  L.  Adams  Beck  now  makes  an 
imaginary  one  into  the  heart  of  the  Chinese 
Empire  of  other  days. 

*  *  * 

Margaret  Widdemer  is  a  well-known  poet 
of  the  younger  generation.  Anne  C.E.Allin- 
son,  author  of  'Roads  from  Rome'  and 
(with  her  husband)  '  Greek  Lands  and  Let- 
ters,' was  formerly  dean  of  the  Women's 
College  in  Brown  University.  From  her 
girlhood  experiences  upon  her  father's 
Southern  plantation,  Eleanor  C.  Gibbs  re- 
calls these  memories  of  old-time  slaves. 
Her  forebears  were  kinsmen  of  another  Vir- 
ginia planter,  George  Washington.  Bert- 
rand  Russell,  long  famous  as  a  mathemati- 
cian and  philosopher,  is  a  grandson  of  Lord 
John  Russell,  the  eminent  British  states- 
man. Mr.  Russell  has  just  returned  to  Lon- 
don from  a  winter's  stay  in  China,  where  he 
has  been  teaching  at  the  Government  Uni- 
versity in  Peking. 

*  *  * 

This  interpretative  reading  of  Shake- 
speare's letters  brings  Miss  Ellen  Terry  back 
for  one  more  curtain  call.  It  is  characteristic 
of  her  discrimination  to  find  in  the  Shake- 
spearean field  a  topic  quite  unworn.  During 
the  war  Arthur  Pound  edited  a  confidential 
weekly  bulletin  of  trade  and  commodity  in- 
formation, issued  by  the  Chief  Cable  Censor, 
U.S.N.,  for  the  guidance  of  American  naval 
censors  in  handling  business  cable  and  radio 
messages.  Traces  of  this  training  in  interna- 
tional trade-practices  are  evident  now  and 


then  in  the  'Iron  Man'  papers.    Margaret 
Wilson  Lees  is  a  Canadian  essayist. 

*  *  * 

We  wonder  how  many  readers  will  re- 
member Agnes  Repplier's  first  two  contri- 
butions to  the  Atlantic,  on  'Children,  Past 
and  Present,'  and  'On  the  Benefits  of  Super- 
stition.' They  marked  the  beginning  of  the 
long  and  delightful  series,  different  in  qual- 
ity and  kind  from  anything  else  America 
has  to  show.  Christopher  Morley,  whose 
'Bowling  Green'  is  the  sportive  element  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post,  advocates 
newspaper  work  because  it  'keeps  one  in 
such  a  ferment  of  annoyance,  haste,  inter- 
ruption, and  misery,  that,  occasionally,  one 
gets  jolted  far  enough  from  the  normal  to 
commit  something  worth  while.'  William 
Beebe's  new  book, '  Edge  of  the  Jungle,'  is  re- 
viewed in  this  month's  Atlantic.  Harrison 
Collins,  at  present  a  member  of  the  faculty 
hi  one  of  the  Imperial  Normal  Colleges  in  Ja- 
pan, bases  his  story  on  an  actual  experience 
with  Japanese  goldfish  and  fishermen. 

*  *  * 

Sir  Arthur  H.  Pollen  is,  perhaps,  the  best- 
known  naval  critic  hi  the  United  Kingdom. 
Our  attention  was  originally  called  to  Sisley 
Huddleston  through  the  warm  recommen- 
dation of  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett.  Throughout 
the  Paris  Conference,  his  journalistic  work 
seemed  to  us  of  the  highest  importance. 
Since  then  Atlantic  readers  have  had  oppor- 
tunities to  judge  it  through  a  number  of  ar- 
ticles which,  once  read,  are  not  easily  for- 
gotten. Jean  Sokoloff,  the  Scotch  widow  of 
a  Russian  officer,  after  her  recent  escape 
from  Petrograd,  made  a  flying  visit  to 
American  cousins,  and  has  returned  to  her 
home  in  Glasgow.  Walter  L.  Ballou  is 
the  associate  editor  of  The  Black  Diamond, 
the  official  organ  of  the  Coal  Industry. 

*  *  * 

At  Mr.  Pound's  request,  we  are  glad  to 
publish  the  following  acknowledgment. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  —     • 

The  receipt  of  the  October  number,  containing 
the  first  of  my  articles  on '  The  Iron  Man,'  brought 
forcibly  to  my  mind  the  absorption  with  which  I 
must  have  been  vacationing  when  you  wrote  me 

861 


THE   CONTRIBUTORS'   COLUMN 


in  August  of  your  decision  to  run  the  'Education' 
and  'International  Polities'  articles  ahead  of  the 
'War.'  Otherwise,  I  am  sure  I  should  not  have 
failed,  at  the  outset,  to  acknowledge  gratefully 
my  indebtedness  to  an  unusual  man  for  valuable 
material. 

Mutual  friends,  knowing  my  absorption  in  in- 
dustrial problems,  brought  me  into  touch  a  year 
ago  with  Ernest  F.  Lloyd  of  Ann  Arbor,  Michi- 
gan. After  some  thirty  years  as  a  manufacturer 
of  gas-making  machinery,  and  as  a  public-utility 
operator  supplying  gas  to  several  towns,  Mr. 
Lloyd  had  acquired,  as  he  says  philosophically, 
'sufficient  worldly  credit  to  forego  business  with 
decency  untainted  by  affluence.'  He  took  up  his 
residence  at  Ann  Arbor,  entering  the  University 
of  Michigan  as  a  special  student  in  economics. 
Thereby  he  reversed  the  usual  educational  pro- 
cess, and  was  able  to  check  theory  by  practice, 
and  vice  versa.  Starting  from  the  firm  base  of 
experience,  he  studied  acutely  the  problems  of 
capital  and  labor,  especially  those  underlying 
economic  principles  affecting  the  organization  of 
employers  and  wage-workers,  their  bargaining 
powers  and  limitations  of  reward,  the  historical 
development  of  these  relations,  the  influences  of 
modern  machinery  thereon,  and  the  status  of  the 
corporation  as  the  modern  industrial  employer. 
These  researches  ultimately  may  be  published  for 
textbook  use  in  colleges;  some  have  already  ap- 
peared in  academic  journals. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Lloyd  kindly  gave  me  free  use 
of  his  manuscripts,  and  I  have  based  the  eco- 
nomic aspects  of  'The  Iron  Man'  largely  upon 
them.  On  the  political,  psychological,  biological, 
and  educational  aspects  of  the  case,  my  friend 
will  admit  no  more  than  a  friendly  interest, 
though  his  keen  criticism  has  been  invaluable 
even  there.  However,  in  his  special  field  our  ar- 
ticles are  really  collaborations,  in  which  my  ob- 
servations in  the  field  have  been  tested  in  the 
Lloyd  crucible  before  being  passed  on  to  the  pub- 
lic via  the  Atlantic.  Sincerely  yours, 

ARTHUR  POUND. 
*  *  * 

Mrs.  Cannon's  frank  expression  of  mis- 
giving regarding  the  organization  of  pres- 
ent-day charity  has  been  seriously  debated 
all  over  the  United  States.  The  Associated 
Charities  of  several  cities  have  made  it  the 
subject  of  discussion  at  stated  meetings; 
and  letters  from  charitable  workers,  both 
in  support  and  in  attack,  have  poured  in  on 
us.  We  are  sorry  to  find  room  for  only  a  few. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Mrs.  Cannon's  article  contains  many  wise  and 
helpful  suggestions,  but  contains  also  a  pretty 
serious  indictment  against  the  philanthrophy  of 
the  past  thirty  years.  The  author  characterizes 
it  as  short-sighted  and  unintelligent,  reluctant  to 
cooperate,  and  apt  to  be  too  superficial  and  self- 
ish to  seek  the  real  good  of  the  community,  when 
that  implies  self-effacement. 

He  would  be  a  bold  man  who  should  affirm 


that  there  are  no  so-called  philanthropists  whose 
work  is  open  to  these  charges,  but  are  they  the 
representative  men  and  women  of  this  calling? 
If  you  have  charges  to  make  against  the  medical 
profession,  for  instance,  you  would  not  select  the 
tyros,  the  quacks,  or  the  practitioners  before  the 
time  of  Lister,  to  illustrate  your  point.  A  profes- 
sion has  a  right  to  be  judged  by  its  best  —  its 
great  men  and  the  humble  but  earnest  followers 
who  are  striving  to  live  up  to  their  ideals. 

The  philanthrophy  of  the  last  thirty  years 
means  Jane  Addams,  Josephine  Shaw  Lowell, 
and  the  thousands  of  men  and  women  who  are 
spending  their  lives,  like  them,  in  the  struggle  to 
bring  scientific  methods  and  the  profoundest 
teachings  of  modern  philosophy  into  the  study  of 
human  betterment.  To  private  philanthropy  we 
owe  to-day  most  of  the  public  work  in  that  direc- 
tion. Evening  schools,  vacation  schools,  super- 
vised play,  the  fight  against  tuberculosis  —  all 
these  movements  and  many  others  were  tried  out 
in  philanthropic  laboratories,  and  handed  over  to 
the  city  or  state  after  their  value  and  practicabil- 
ity had  been  proved.  Surely  'tenderness  and 
pity'  are  not  incompatible  with  'reasoning  intel- 
ligence'! Sincerely  yours, 

HELEN  CABOT  ALMY. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Please  permit  one  of  your  readers  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  '  Philanthropic  Doubts,'  the  leading  ar- 
ticle in  your  September  number.  Naturally,  as 
the  work  of  an  accomplished  thinker  and  writer, 
it  is  delightful  reading;  probably  no  less  delight- 
ful that  one  finds,  instead  of  'doubts,'  a  confi- 
dent argument  in  support  of  quite  definite  views. 
This,  perhaps,  opens  the  way  to  an  expression  of 
some  doubts  touching  those  views.  For  example: 

1.  How  will  this  strike  the  philanthropists? 

2.  Are  reformed  philanthropists  the  key  to  im- 
proved government  and  the  ideal  social  condition? 

3.  Assuming  that,  when  shown  the  error  of 
their  ways,  they  will  refrain  from  further  con- 
tributions and  aid  to  charitable  undertakings, 
will  the  philanthropists  pour  their  charity  funds 
into  the  coffers  of  the  State,  and  devote  to  the 
State  their  energies  hitherto  given  to  philan- 
thropic undertakings? 

4.  How  does  it  stand  with  sound  principles  of 
government  to  attempt  to  make  of  the  State  — 
the  community  in  its  corporate,  governmental 
capacity  —  a  universal  providence?  N.B.  Russia 
under  Bolshevism. 

5.  Can  there  be  an  ideal  social  condition  with- 
out ideal  human  beings? 

6.  Does  democratic  government  seem  to  be  in  a 
fair  way  to  become  the  perfect,  final  form  of  gov- 
ernment, and  a  hopeful  agency  for  bringing  the 
millennium?  RUTHERFORD  H.  PLATT. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Social  workers  have  no  quarrel  with  the  person 
who  wishes  to  lift  himself  by  his  boot-straps  and 
who  refuses  a  friendly  boost  by  the  philanthropist. 
Such  people  rarely  sit  in  a  Charity  office,  and  if 
they  do,  their  visit  is  only  an  occasional  one. 
Social  workers  merely  supply  the  knowledge  and 
incentive  for  self -fulfillment  to  those  people  who, 
through  poverty,  have  grown  stolid,  hopeless, 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


863 


and  indifferent.  Rarely  is  pressure  brought  to 
bear  upon  a  man  in  order  to  make  him  docile  to 
the  wishes  or  caprice  of  the  philanthropist. 
Health  decisions  are  practically  the  only  ones 
ever  forced,  and  these,  for  the  most  part,  only 
when  the  welfare  of  a  child  is  at  stake.  As  to  the 
philanthropist's  influence  upon  the  people  with 
whom  he  deals,  that  is  impossible  to  measure. 
Perhaps,  as  Mrs.  Cannon  says,  the  majority  of 
our  clients  'act  upon  our  advice  if  they  must, 
they  disregard  it  if  they  can,  but  they  preserve 
untouched  the  inner  citadel  of  their  personality.' 
This,  however,  is  no  indictment  against  the  phil- 
anthropist, but  against  human  nature.  God  for- 
bid that  any  of  us  should  fling  wide  to  all  comers 
the  inner  gates  of  our  personality! 
Yours  sincerely, 

FLORENCE  STTZ. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  speak  a  word 
for  the  Settlements,  which  are  included  in  the  al- 
leged 'perfect  orgy  of  charitable  activity'  in 
which  philanthropists  are  said  to  have  indulged 
for  the  past  thirty  years.  The  Settlements  have 
consistently  endeavored  to  avoid  the  dangers  of 
philanthropic  work  against  which  the  author 
rightly  inveighs.  From  the  very  first  they  have 
tried  to  become  an  integral  part  of  their  neigh- 
borhood. An  attitude  of  condescension  is  as  ab- 
horrent to  them  as  to  Mrs.  Cannon.  A  cardinal 
principle  of  settlement  work  has  been  to  seek  the 
cooperation  of  their  neighbors  in  improving  local 
conditions.  Their  aim,  as  it  was  put  long  ago,  I 
believe  by  Jane  Addams,  has  been  to  work  with 
and  not  for  people.  I  think  it  can  safely  be  said 
that  they  are  not  hampered  by  the  'philanthro- 
pists' first  handicap'  —  that  of  making  their '  hu- 
man contacts  on  the  basis  of  infirmities,  poverty, 
ignorance,  sin,  never  on  the  basis  of  any  mutual 
interest  or  responsibility.'  It  is  precisely  on  the 
basis  of  mutual  interest  and  responsibility  that 
they  seek  to  make  their  contacts  with  their  neigh- 
bors. Again,  the  Settlements  have  all  along  been 
trying  to  pass  over  to  the  tax-payers  such  of  their 
experiments  in  the  promotion  of  social  welfare  as 
have  proved  of  permanent  value.  Mrs.  Cannon 
concedes  that  certain  'social  pioneers'  have  done 
essential  work,  and  that,  '  in  so  far  as  charitable 
societies  catch  the  spirit  of  these  adventures  and 
hold  the  ideal  of  their  own  labor  as  pioneering,  they 
do  a  vital  work,  and  in  the  future  as  in  the  past, 
will  be  essential  to  social  progress.'  Without,  I 
trust,  assuming  too  much,  Settlement  residents 
may  take  heart  from  this  admission,  for  they  have 
thought  (modestly,  I  hope)  that  such  pioneering 
was  an  important  part  of  their  work,  and  they  be- 
lieve that  the  time  is  not  yet  come  for  them  to  shut 
up  shop.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  modern  social  work- 
ers, like  the  members  of  the  medical  profession, 
are  really  intent  upon  putting  themselves  out  of 
business,  but,  like  the  doctors  again,  they  have 
not  yet  achieved  this  desirable  end.  Let  us  not 
neglect  the  extension  and  improvement  of  public- 
welfare  agencies,  while,  for  the  present  at  least, 
we  maintain  such  private  philanthropies  as  are 
serving  the  community.  Very  truly  yours, 

GAYLORD  S.  WHITE. 


Oh,  the  crimes  of  the  Intellect! 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

The  popularity  of  the  Atlantic  with  wide-rang- 
ing peoples  was  demonstrated  recently,  when  our 
house  was  entered  in  the  night-time,  and,  along 
with  food-stuffs,  safety-razor,  flash-light,  and 
sundry  kitchen  vessels,  the  August  and  Septem- 
ber Atlantics  were  taken,  with  a  reading-glass. 
Respectfully  yours,  HENRY  A.  BLAKE. 


Our  readers  seem  to  think,  since  there  is  a 
woman  in  the  case,  that  twelve  hundred,  and 
not  twelve,  is  the  requisite  number  for  a 
jury.  From  the  full  panel  we  have  selected 
one  for  the  body  of  the  magazine,  and  here 
is  another  for  the  Column. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Your  story '  The  Jury '  intrigues  me.  It  recalls  by 
its  unannounced  verdict  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ? 

It  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  exact  nature  of 
the  plea.  There  is  no  prosecution  and  there  is  not 
a  suggestion  of  a  defense.  It  is  not  quite  a  peti- 
tion for  pardon  with  restoration  of  civil  rights. 
The  guilty  person  —  I  beg  her  pardon,  the  hero- 
ine—  is  not  a  petitioner  of  any  sort;  only,  as 
always,  a  recipient  of  unrequited  favors.  The  ques- 
tion seems  to  be:  shah1  other  benefactors  rush  in 
to  fill  a  temporary  vacancy,  her  late  'protector' 
having  been  removed  by  death? 

The  principal  speaker's  status  is  not  quite 
clear.  Is  it  that  of  the  amicus  curias  of  the  civil,  or 
of  the  advocatus  diaboli  of  the  ecclesiastical  court, 
or  just  'your  orator'  of  the  old  court  of  equity? 
She  herself  is,  however,  sufficiently  convincing. 
And  how  admirable  are  her  accessories!  The  first 
cigarette  that  she  lights  seems  to  dispel  all  illu- 
sions as  to  old-fashioned  social  conventions.  The 
second  seems  to  symbolize  the  weakened  will- 
power that  over-indulgence  produces.  And  then 
the  bridge  table!  It  seems  symbolic  of  the  ennui 
of  the  unoccupied  time  of  the  'idle  rich.' 

Surely  there  can  be  no  question  as  to  the  ver- 
dict. One  seems  to  hear  the  unanimous  cry:  'Tell 
Violet  Osborne  to  return.  The  seventh  com- 
mandment is  out  of  date.  No  one  can  expect  a 
rich  woman  to  care  for  her  children.  We  take  no 
stock  in  this  talk  about  "much  being  required 
from  those  to  whom  much  has  been  given."  ' 

But  might  not  the  whole  company  be  persua- 
ded to  join  Violet  Osborne  'abroad,'  and  make 
room  here  for  a  few  more  who  want  to  vindicate 
for  America  a  moral  supremacy  in  meeting  the 
needs  of  a  world  wrecked  by  selfishness  and  self- 
indulgence?  Very  truly  yours, 

ETHELBERT  D.  WARFIELD. 


The  clergy  of  the  old  school  kept  their 
sermons  in  barrels.  But  now  —  ? 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

You  are  always  glad,  I  know,  to  hear  how  use- 
ful you  are.  Even  your  wrappers  are  of  use  —  for 
sermon-covers.  I'm  sure  the  sermons  acquire  a 
literary  quality  they  might  not  otherwise  possess. 


864 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS'  COLUMN 


Practical,  too;  for  each  manuscript  bears  my 
name  and  address;  you  can  appreciate  the  im- 
portance of  that.  One,  which  I  had  left  by  mis- 
take in  a  strange  pulpit,  I  had  returned  to  me  the 
other  day  by  mail.  Sincerely  yours. 


A.  D.  SWIVELY. 


*  *  * 


In  the  September  number  of  the  Atlantic, 
Mr.  Newton,  discussing  his  delightful  Old 
Lady,  London,  made  something  of  a  whip- 
ping-post of  old  Thomas  Carlyle.  The  ed- 
itor, who  has  loved  the  cantankerousness  of 
Teufelsdroch  for  forty  years,  gladly  prints 
this  letter  from  an  indignant  disciple. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

In  the  September  Atlantic  the  author  of  the 
Amenities  of  Book-Collecting  slipped  from  ameni- 
ties in  interrupting  his  tale  of  love  for  'My  Old 
Lady,  London'  to  express  some  misinformation 
about  Carlyle. 

Our  amenitor  was  treading  in  Carlyle's  foot- 
steps in  searching  out  the  Gough  Square  house: 
and  if  he  proceeds,  he  may  find  other  points  of 
agreement.  His  specific  charge  is  this:  'Carlyle! 
who  never  had  a  good  or  kindly  word  to  say  of 
any  man  or  thing.'  Carlyle  has  lain  in  his  grave 
for  forty  years.  When  Johnson  had  lain  in  his 
grave  for  forty-seven  years,  Carlyle  wrote  of  him: 
'Johnson  does  not  whine  over  his  existence,  but 
manfully  makes  the  most  and  best  of  it.  ...  He 
is  animated  by  the  spirit  of  the  true  workman, 
resolute  to  do  his  work  well;  and  he  does  his  work 
well;  all  his  work,  that  of  writing,  that  of  living. 
.  .  .  Loving  friends  are  there!  Listeners,  even 
Answerers:  the  fruit  of  his  long  labors  lies  round 
him  in  fair  legible  writings,  of  Philosophy,  Elo- 
quence, Morality,  Philology:  some  excellent,  all 
worthy  and  genuine  Works:  for  which  too,  a 
deep,  earnest  murmur  of  thanks  reaches  him 
from  all  ends  of  his  Fatherland.  Nay,  there  are 
works  of  Goodness,  of  undying  Mercy,  which 
even  he  has  possessed  the  power  to  do:  "What  I 
gave  I  have;  what  I  spent  I  had!"  .  .  .  How  to 
hold  firm  to  the  last  the  fragments  of  old  Belief, 
and  with  earnest  eye  still  discern  some  glimpses 
of  a  true  path,  and  go  forward  thereon,  "  in  a 
world  where  there  is  much  to  be  done  and  little 
to  be  known"!  This  is  what  Samuel  Johnson,  by 
act  and  word,  taught  his  Nation;  what  his  Nation 
received  and  learned  of  him,  more  than  of  any  oth- 
er. ...  If  England  has  escaped  the  blood-bath 
of  a  French  Revolution,  and  may  yet,  in  virtue  of 
this  delay  and  of  the  experience  it  has  given, 
work  out  her  deliverance  calmly  into  a  new  Era, 
let  Samuel  Johnson,  beyond  all  contemporary  or 
succeeding  men,  have  the  praise  of  it.  .  .  .  Since 
the  time  of  John  Milton,  no  braver  heart  had 
beat  in  any  English  bosom  than  Samuel  Johnson 
now  bore.' 

Better  or  kindlier  words  concerning  Sam  John- 
son it  will  tax  the  Amenities  of  Book-Collecting  to 
discover. 

But  enough.  Good  and  kindly  words-  great 
affectionate  thoughts  Carlyle  had  for  Scott,  for 
Sterling,  for  Irving,  for  Elliott,  the  Corn-Law 


Rhymer,  for  Allan  Cunningham,  for  Dickens,  for 
Tennyson,  for  Emerson,  and  had  their  sincere 
and  lasting  love  —  contemporaries  all ;  and  the 
list  might  be  extended  indefinitely. 

MERRITT  STARR. 


Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall.  The 
poems  penned  in  wet  weather  have  not  infre- 
quently a  certain  melancholy  appeal. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

I  submit  herewith  an  'II  Penseroso'  for  that 
'L' Allegro'  entitled  'Joy'  in  the  October  number 
of  your  revered  publication.  Shall  we  call  it 

SADNESS 

When  I  am  sad 
There  seems  to  be 
A  big  Dreadnaught 
Inside  of  me. 

It  sags,  and  drags 
Down  to  my  feet; 
And  yet  I  lose 
No  chance  to  eat. 

From  my  sub-con- 
Scious  mind  doth  come 
(Down  in  my  ep- 
I-gas-tri-um) 

A  'What  care  I, 
Though  there  should  be 
A  fleet  of  woe 
Inside  of  me? 

For  may  I  not 
Of  such  a  toy 
At  once  disarm, 
And  so  find  joy? 

Very  truly  yours, 

KATE  E.  PARKER. 


We  always  did  like  a  pessimist.  He  has  a 
way  of  looking  the  world  right  in  the  eye.  But 
the  editor's  family  is  too  considerable  to  ad- 
mit of  his  accepting  the  following  proposal. 

DEAR  ATLANTIC,  — 

Am  wondering  whether  you  will  be  interested 
in  a  3000-word  article  on  '  Must  Human  Propa- 
gation Continue  ? '  In  a  thorough  discussion  of 
the  subject  I  suggest  the  thought  that  the  nu- 
merous troubles  in  the  world  will  cease,  and  its 
great  problems  be  solved,  only  by  a  cessation  of 
multiplication,  sorrow7  and  death  be  at  an  end, 
and  the  earth  itself  be  better  off  without  human 
beings.  Very  truly  yours, . 

The  same  mail  brings  us  a  contribution 
entitled  'The  Horrors  of  Matrimony';  but 
that  —  as  we  might  have  guessed,  even  if 
the  note-paper  had  not  told  us  so  —  is  by  a 
member  of  the  League  for  the  Preservation 
of  Wild  Life. 


AP  The  Atlantic 

2 

A8 

v.128 


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