720.92 S9^98a 59-00398
Sullivan
Autobiography of an idea
. APR 2 '60s A
AR.'6
JUL i
OCTB 1982
. *l T* ,J*
35 illustrations
with a new introduction by Ralph
Marlowe Line: the autobiography
Sullivan's early creative years: I
the formulation of his theory of modern j
architecture: the pioneer whom Frank 1
Lloyd Wright called "the maste^
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
By Louis H. Sullivan
Foreword by Claude Bragdon
With a new Introduction by
Ralph Marlowe Line
Associate Professor, Department of Architecture,
University of Illinois
and thirty-five
selected and photographed by Ralph Marlowe Line
for this edition.
Dover Publications, Inc., New York 10, N. Y. 1956
Copyright 1956 by Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved under Pan America
and international copyright conventions.
This new Dover edition, first published in 1956, is an
unabridged and unaltered republication of the first
edition published in 1924, with the addition of a new
introduction by Ralph Marlowe Line and 34 illustra-
tions of Sullivan's works selected and photographed by
Professor Line. A new Index has been added for
this edition.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 57-2899
Manufactured in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Page
List of Plates iv
Introduction v
Foreword ix
Chapter I. The Child 9
Chapter II. " There was a child went forth every day" 25
Chapter III. And Then Came Spring! 38
Chapter IV. A Vacation 53
Chapter V. Newburyport 72
Chapter VI. Boston 91
Chapter VII. Boston. The New Rice Grammar School 109
Chapter VIII. Louis Goeth on a Journey 129
Chapter IX. Boston The English High School 151
Chapter X. Farewell to Boston 175
Chapter XL Chicago 198
Chapter XII. Paris 219
Chapter XIII. The Garden City 241
Chapter XIV. Face to Face 260
Chapter XV. Retrospect 285
Index 331
LIST OF PLATES
Facing page
Frontispiece. Inscription of Sullivan's monument 9
1. Schwab and Selz residences, Chicago 24
2. Mrs. N. Halsted residences, Chicago 52
3. Benjamin Lindauer residence, Chicago 53
4. Auditorium Building, Chicago 70
5. Auditorium Building Tower, Chicago 71
6. Walker Warehouse, Chicago 90
7. Walker Warehouse (detail) 90
8. Walker Warehouse (detail) 91
9. Martin Ryerson Tornb, Chicago 91
10. Carrie Eliza Grant Tomb, Chicago 108
11. Carrie Eliza Grant Tomb (detail) 108
12. Carrie Eliza Grant Tomb (detail) 109
13. Charlotte Dickson Wainwright Tomb, St. Louis 109
14. Victor Falkenau residences, Chicago 128
15. Dooly Block, Salt Lake City 129
16. Wainwright Building, St. Louis 150
17. Union Station, New Orleans 151
18. Transportation Building, Chicago 174
19. Stock Exchange Building, Chicago 175
20. Prudential Building, Buffalo 196
21. Prudential Building (detail) 196
22. Prudential Building (detail) 197
23. Gage Building, Chicago 197
24. Carson Pirie Scott & Co., Chicago 218
25. Carson Pirie Scott & Co. (detail) 219
26. St. Trinity Russian Greek Orthodox Church, Chicago 240
27. St. Trinity Church (interior) 241
28. Mrs. Bradley residence, Madison, Wis. 258
29. Security Bank, Owatonna, Minn. 272
30. Poweshiek County National Bank, Grinnell, Iowa 273
31. People's Bank, Sidney, Ohio 284
32. People's Bank (detail) 284
33. People's Bank (detail) 284
34. William P. Krause Music Store, Chicago 304
IN TROD UCTION
It appears most appropriate at this time to again bring to
the reading public this autobiography on the one-hundredth
anniversary of the author's birth.
"History," according to a quotation -which I once scrawled
in an old textbook, "is time's negative. Looking at it, it is the
mirror of the past ; looking through it, it is the lens to the
future."
Several have written of Louis Henri Sullivan, his architec-
ture, his creation of organic ornament, his literature (both
prose and poetry), his philosophy, his prophecies and his teach-
ings. Some writers, still entwined with Renaissance architecture
and art, were too close to the mirror to see Sullivan and his
work as well as we believe we can today. A few others like
Claude Bragdon, who wrote the foreword for the first edition
of this book in 1924, were able by thought and deed to remove
the academic film from the mirror. Bragdon saw- Louis Henri
Sullivan as a man to be coupled with Whitman and Lincoln.
Thirty-two years ago, this evaluation of Sullivan may have
seemed an exaggeration borne of enthusiastic appreciation by a
few friends; today, it is not at all remote.
My introduction to Louis Henri Sullivan reflected this aca-
demic film which clouded the mirror. As a student of archi-
tecture a few years after Sullivan's death, I was taught that
Sullivan was a radical in the profession of architecture and
that his work was not to be followed. This was the view of
many who were still entrenched in the Renaissance as a source
of inspiration for all architectural design. But the strong, clean
proportions of the designs of Sullivan and others who followed
him could not be denied, and architectural schools today have
practically no Renaissance followers.
In ten years of studying and photographing all of Sullivan's
known architectural works which are still standing (seventy-
five some of those photographed have since been demolished)
I have been stirred deeply each time I have come upon one of
his buildings even though it was in the shabbiest of neighbor-
hoods or hemmed in by Main Street prosaism. The straight-
forwardness of design, which gives Sullivan's architecture an
ageless quality, and his bold, organic ornament make his build-
ings most inspiring to observe.
Sullivan is the only individual who has developed a system
of ornament that is altogether excellent in design; others have
tried, but their designs did not live. The styles of ornament
known as Classic, Romanesque, Gothic, and Renaissance are
the result of generations of creation and development. The
ornament of Sullivan is as fresh today as when it was created.
His was an organic ornament it grew out of his buildings
and was a part of them, rather than being applied. So original
were his designs, so bold their character, so unique, that they
cannot be copied successfully.
It is interesting to note that many of Sullivan's buildings are
still serving the purpose for which they were designed -a true
tribute to his architectural ability, his foresight, and his phi-
losophy that "form follows function."
This ph'nase, evolved by Sullivan "through long contemplation
of living things," guided him in all his work. He was firm in
his conviction "that no architectural dictum or tradition or
superstition or habit should stand in the way ... of making an
architecture that fitted its functions a realistic architecture
based on well defined utilitarian needs.** The significance of this
statement is better realized today than in 1924 when it was
quoted by Bragdon in his fore-word.
As a member of the firm of Dankmar Adler and Company,
and later of Adler and Sullivan, Louis Henri Sullivan fulfilled
one hundred commissions before he designed the Transportation
Building for the World's Columbian Exposition the building
from which modern architecture as a movement is generally
conceded to have begun. Nestled in the maze of white build-
ings designed in the Classic and Renaissance styles, the colorful
Transportation Building stood out because of its expressive
form. For his design Sullivan was awarded three medals by
the Union Cent rale des Arts Decoratifs. From this seed in an
era of Classic and Renaissance architecture, the modern move-
ment grew slowly in small areas for four decades. It was not
until the 1930's that the movement gathered momentum.
During the last thirty-one years of his life, Sullivan designed
only twenty-four buildings, five of which were large commis-
sions and eight, small banks. All of the bank buildings are con-
sidered jewels of modern design proof that his creative power
and sensitivity did not falter during the prolonged periods of
inactivity between commissions.
Within the pages of this book, the story of his life told in
the third person, Louis Henri Sullivan sets forth his hopes,
accomplishments and philosophy in a flowing prose that is al-
most poetic.
As with guiding principles in most men's lives, Sullivan's
philosophy reflected lasting impressions established during the
formative years of his youth. His conception of ornament was
influenced by his love of nature gained through summers spent
roaming over a New England farm. His freedom in architec-
tural design resulted from his understanding of "self dis-
cipline of self power" taught to him by Moses Woolson, his
high school teacher. His need to have a reason for everything
with "NO EXCEPTION" sprang from the realization that
he possessed a mathematical imagination brought out by Mon-
sieur Clopet, his tutor in Paris.
The story ends with his appraisal of the World's Columbian
Exposition in 1893, which was characterized by almost com-
plete devotion to Classic and Renaissance architecture:
"The damage wrought by the World's Fair will last for half
a century from its date, if not longer. It has penetrated deep
into the constitution of the American mind, effecting there
lesions significant of dementia."
We are now far enough removed by time to know that his
prophecy was true.
So great was Sullivan's concern with the fate of contem-
porary architecture in this country, that during the last thirty-
one years of his life he devoted much time to establishing his
architectural philosophy. Through the designs of his buildings,
the few men trained in his office, and his writings, Sullivan
presented with conviction his idea of functional architecture.
Students of architecture and others will find this book a
lens to the future, as well as a mirror of the past. It should
give to those who have discovered the full meaning of "self
discipline of self power" both courage and inspiration.
RALPH MARLOWE LINE
University of Illinois, 1956
FOREWORD
ONLY because architecture is so largely an anony-
mous art does Louis Sullivan stand in need
of an introduction, for he is eminent in his
chosen profession.
As an author, as well as an architect, in his build-
ings and in his written words, his aim has been to de-
clare certain truths, to publish certain principles, so
vital, so fertile, so fundamental and necessitous that
I mentally couple him with Whitman and Lincoln,
however little he belongs in their category, or they
in his.
He is like them at least in the untainted quality of
his Americanism, having Lincoln's listening ear for the
spiritual overtones amid the din of our democracy, and
Whitman's lusty faith in the ultimate emergence into
brotherhood and beauty of the people of "these states/ 1
Beyond this, doubtless, the similarity ceases, but
the point I wish to make is that Sullivan is somewhat
different from us others, refusing to be glamored by
our pleasant illusions and by "us others," I mean ar-
chitects academic, beaux-arty, mediaeval, stylistically
pure and purely stylish, now so busily engaged, with
such gusto and mutual admiration, in setting the Ameri-
can scene.
Louis Sullivan has the distinction of having been, per-
haps, the first squarely to face the expressional problem
of the steel-framed skyscraper and to deal with it
honestly and logically. Later solutions, in so far as
The purely structural and economic aspect of a
building is necessarily more or less of a mystery to the
man in the street; but he has usually an interested eye
for ornament. This accounts for the fact that Sullivan
is known to the layman (insofar as he is known) as the
creator of original and beautiful surface decoration.
His Golden Doorway to the Transportation Building
at the Columbian Exposition in Chicago, in 1893;
charmed the unsophisticated eye of the native son more
than the hackneyed ornamental motifs employed in the
buildings surrounding the Court of Honor. It charmed
also the eyes of certain highly sophisticated visiting
foreigners. Alert, in a new country, for any Newness,
they found that quality almost nowhere save in Sulli-
van's designs, to which they accorded unhesitating and
enthusiastic praise.
That he should be thus known merely as an orna-
mentalist seems deeply ironical, because he himself
seriously recommended that we abandon the use of
ornament in architecture until we had mastered the es-
sentials of straightforward design. This indicates that
of all his gifts he holds the decorative one as least
essential.
With no disparagement to his achievements as archi-
tect and designer I hold that Louis Sullivan makes his
most powerful and lasting appeal as author and teacher;
for though you will look in vain for any book of his in
any library, he has nevertheless written and he has
been read. Although his writings have appeared only
in pamphlet form, and as contributions to journals of
limited circulation and short life, they were of a kind
to imprint themselves upon the mind of youth, "wax
to receive and marble to .retain." His Kindergarten
Chats, impatiently awaited, week by week, as they ap-
peared in a trade journal long since vanished, hidden
under draughting-boards until the exit of u the boss," '
and then eagerly read, destroyed for many young men
I was one of them the world of ideas into which
they had been educated, but only to create another and
a better world of ideas in their stead.
The Chats proved to be a vigorous, bitter, bludgeon-
ing assault upon the then existing architectural order
(is it different now, I wonder?), but they pointed out
a way to freedom to any sincere young architectural
talent stifling in the tainted air of our industrialism or
bogged in the academic morass. Large, loose, discur-
sive, a blend of the sublime and the ridiculous, as though
Ariel had collaborated with Caliban, Kindergarten
Chats remains in my memory as one of the most pro-
vocative, amazing, amusing, astounding, inspiring
fhings that I have ever read.
The Autobiography of an Idea I am not called upon
to discuss, either critically or otherwise, this being an
introduction, not of the book, but of the author, and
of him not as a person, but as a personage. His per-
sonality will inevitably reveal itself to the reader as he
progresses, far more truly than could I, who look
through other and older windows, possibly rose-colored
and scribbled over with memories, admirations, grati-
tudes. I am content to leave it thus, because I believe
Louis Sullivan to be one able to endure the scrutiny
made possible, made inevitable, by the autobiographical
form who might conceivably gain by it something
which no appraisement of a friend and fellow crafts-
man could give.
CLAUDE BRAGDON.
CHAPTER I
The Child
ONCE upon a time there Was a village in New
England called South Reading. Here lived a
little boy of five years. That is to say he nested
with his grandparents on a miniature farm of twenty-
four acres, a mile or so removed from the center of
gravity and activity which was called Main Street.
It was a main street of the day and generation, and so
was the farm proper to its time and place.
Eagerly the grandparents had for some time urged
that the child come to them for a while ; and after
light shower of mother tears the father indifferent
consent was given and the child was taken on his
way into the wilderness lying ten miles north of the
city of Boston. The farm had been but recently ac-
quired, and the child appeared, shortly thereafter, as
a greedy parasite, to absorb that affection, that abun-
dant warmth of heart which only Grandma and Grand-
pa have the intuitive folly to bestow. In short they
loved him,, and kept him bodily clean.
To the neighbors, he was merely another brat-nui-
sance to run about and laugh and scream and fight and
bawl with the others all bent on joy and destruction.
The peculiar kink in this little man's brain, however,
was this : he had no desire to destroy except always
his momentary mortal enemies. His bent was the
other way.
Now lest it appear that this child had come suddenly
out of nothing into being at the age of five, we must
[9]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
needs authenticate him by sketching his prior tumul-
tuous life. He was born of woman in the usual way
at 22 South Bennett Street, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.,
on the third day of September, 1856. And, for the
benefit of the exigent and meticulous, it may be added,
on the authority of the young mother, that the event
occurred on the second floor: day Tuesday, hour 10
P. M., weight 10 pounds. The mother, at that date,
had arrived at the age of 21 years, while the father
would be 38 come Christmas.
The long interval of passing years has made it clear
that this pink monstrosity came into the world pos-
sessed of a picture-memory. He remembers, even now,
certain cradle indiscretions ; and from that same cradle
he recalls a dim vision of a ghostly lady in somber
black, and veiled, entering through the open door and
speaking in a voice strangely unlike the mellow tones of
his nearby mother. He remembers that one night in
mid-winter, he was lifted from his warm cozy refuge,
bundled up and taken to the third floor. Grandpa was
already there, scraping the heavy frost from one of
the small square window panes; finally, after the ecsta-
sies of Mama and the awed tones of Grandpa, the
child was lifted up and held close to the pane to see
what? a long brilliant, cloud-like streak, which, he
dimly fancied, must be unusual; but as it seemed to
have no connection with the important concerns of his
existence, he was glad to leave it to itself, whatever it
was, and return to the warm spot from which he had
been taken. This streak in the sky was Donati's comet
of 1858.
Before going further into the doings of this two-
[10]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
year-old, it may be well to give an outline of his
mongrel origin.
As to his father, Patrick Sullivan, no need for dis-
cussion he was Irish. As to the mother, Andrienne
List Sullivan, she seemed French, but was not wholly
so. She had the typical eyelids, expressive hazel eyes,
an oval face, features mobile. She was a medium stat-
ure, trimly built, highly emotional, and given to ecsta-
sies of speech. But she also had parents: her father,
Henri List, was straight German of the Hanoverian
type 6 feet tall, well proportioned, erect carriage, and
topped by a domical head, full, clean-shaven face, thick
lips, small gray eyes, beetling brows and bottle-nose.
He was of intellectual mold, and cynically amused at
men, women, children and all else. Her mother, a
miniature woman of great sweetness and gentle poise,
was Swiss-French, born in Geneva where also her
three children were born. But her long Florentine
nose suggested, unmistakably, an Italian strain. Her
maiden name was Anna Mattheus. Like a true mere
de famille, she ruled the roost, as was the custom in
French society of the Middle Class. Her mind was
methodic, her affection all-embracing.
Henri List was reticent as to his past, but the family
gossip had it that as a young man he was educated
for the Catholic priesthood, rebelled at the job and
ran away from home.
The intervening years between this hegira and his
arrival in Geneva, Switzerland, are a blank. There
seems to have been some lack of clearness as to his
vocation in Geneva; was he a Professor of Greek in
the University, or did he coach rich young English
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
gentlemen through their university course? In any
event he was highly educated, and he prospered. It was
further gossiped that, having met Anna Mattheus
considerably older than he who kept a store filled
with a sumptuous stock of choice linens and laces, he
courted her. It was sneeringly said he married her for
her money. At any rate, they were well to do, and
lived in a marble house with large grounds called La
Maison des Paquis. Here three children were born
to them, in order of arrival: Andrienne, Jennie and
Jules. The narrator has in his possession a small oval
card with perforated edge, on the plain field of which
is drawn with colored pencils, a park-like view, with
house half-hidden among the trees. On the back, in
the handwriting of her mother, is the notation "Terrace
de la Maison des Paquis faitespar Andrienne en 1849"
(that is at the age of 14). According also to family
gossip, there seems to be no doubt that Henri List was
tainted with cupidity. He speculated and finally lent
ear to the wiles of a Jew. He ventured his all. The
enterprise strangely and suddenly lost its credit, and
the house of List tottered and collapsed in irretrievable
ruin. Anna List borrowed money of her relatives to
take the family to America, to forget the past and start
anew in a strange land. Little wonder that Grand-
father w*as reticent It required a span of years for
the narrator to pick up little by little the thread of
the story.
As to Patrick Sullivan; he had no secrets, but his
memory did not extend much back of his 12th year.
He said his father was a landscape painter, a widower,
and he an only child. That together they used to
[121
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
visit the county fairs in Ireland. Tfiat at one of these
fairs he lost his father in the crowd and never saw
him again. Thus at the age of twelve he was thrown
upon the world to make his way. With a curious
little fiddle, he wandered barefoot about the country-
side, to fiddle here and there for those who wished
to dance; and of dancing there was plenty. Thus
traveling he saw nearly all of Ireland. This wan-
dering life must have covered a number of years. The
period that emerges from the wander-period seems
obscure in transition, but his attention must have fo-
cused on dancing as an art. As to the grim determina-
tion of his character, his pride and his ambition, there
can be no doubt; but what chain of influences took
him to London is not known. Arrived there, he placed
himself under the tutelage of the best most fashion-
able masters, and in due time set up an academy of
his own. Not content with this advance, which was
successful, he must needs reach the heights of his art,
and in Paris, the center of fashion, took instruction
of the leading masters. In those days dancing was a
social art of grace, of deportment, and of personal
carriage. It had many branches of development, from
the simple polka to highly figurative formations, in
social functions, upward to its highest and most poetic
reach in the romantic classical ballet. It was an art
of elegance that has passed with the days of elegance.
Artificial it largely was, yet humanizing, and benef-
icent. In such wise must the social value of the dance,
of the dancing master, and the academy of a day long
since past be visualized, to be understood in this day.
This young Irishman had another grand passion.
[13]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
To him the art of dancing was a fine art of symmetry,
of grace, of rhythm; but parallel to this ran a hunger
for Nature's beauty. He must have been a pagan, this
man, for in him Nature's beauty, particularly in its
more grandiose moods, inspired an ecstasy, a sort of
waking trance, a glorious mystic worship. In this
romantic quest, he had, through a series of years, footed
it over a considerable part of Switzerland.
It seems strange at first glance that these highly
virile and sensitive powers should be embodied in one
so unlovely in person. His medium size, his too-slop-
ing shoulders, his excessive Irish face, his small repul-
sive eyes the eyes of a pig of nondescript color
and no flash, sunk into his head under rough brows,
all seemed unpromising enough in themselves until it
is remembered that behind that same mask resided the
grim will, the instinctive ambition that had brought
him, alone and unaided, out of a childhood of poverty.
Naturally enough he had not found time to acquire
an " education," as it Was then called and is still called.
He, however, wrote and spoke English in a polite way,
and had acquired an excruciating French. Hence by
the standards of his time in England he was no gentle-
man as that technical term went, but essentially a
lackey, a flunkey or social parasite. Perhaps it was
for this reason he revered book-learning and the
learned. He knew no better.
It is probable that, about this time, the lure of
America, goal of the adventurous spirit, the great hos-
pitable, open-armed land of equality and opportunity,
had been acting on his imagination. This is surmise.
The fact, of which there is documentary evidence, is
[14]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
this: that on the 22nd day of July, 1847, he took pas-
sage at London for Boston in the good ship Unicorn
of 550 tons register burthen. This, in the eleventh
year of the reign of Victoria; Louis Philippe nearing
his political end; with revolution ripening in Germany;
and the United States kindly relieving Mexico of its
too heavy burden. And this, also, while a small pros-
perous family in a small European city was awaiting,
all unconscious, the call to join" him in the same city
of the same far away land; and that but eleven brief
years lay between them all and the advent of a child
to whose story we must now begin a return. For the
finger of fate was tracing a line in the air that was to
lead on and on until it reached a finger tracing a line
now and here.
Patrick Sullivan reached Boston in 1847, set up an
academy and was successful. He always was success-
ful. His probity was such that he could always com-
mand desirable influence and respect. He was familiar
with polite forms. Later on, probably in 1850, the
Geneva family also reached Boston. Somehow they
met. The young Irishman, keen through training in
the hard school of experience and self discipline was
always wide awake ; and this is what happened ; he met
the young girl, Andrienne, in the conventional way,
was attracted by her grace of manner, her interesting
broken English, her skilled piano playing; paid his
court to her, professed love for her; they became en-
gaged, and on the 14th of August, 1852, they were
married. What is more likely is this; that he heard
her playing of Chopin, Beethoven, et aL, wiith approval,
for he was fond of music; that he asked her to substi-
[15]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
tute dance music; that after the first few bars he was
electrified he had found a jewel without price. Her
sense of rhythm, of sweep, of accent, of the dance-
cadence with its reinforcements and languishrnents, the
tempo rubato was genius itself. He lost no time in
marrying her as a business asset. She was lovable and
he may have loved her. It is possible but hardly prob-
able; for there is nothing in the record to show that
he loved others, or that he loved himself. He was
merely self-centered not even cold. He was moder-
ate of habit; drank a little wine, smoked an occasional
cigar, and was an enthusiast regarding hygiene. The
stage-setting augured well for the coming child. The
stock was sound. All the tribe were black-haired. So
he came to pay his visit in due time, as recorded, be-
lieved by his mother to be an angel from Heaven, so
great, so illusioning is the Mother-passion. But, as
regarded from the view-point of the chronicler, he was
not an angel from heaven. At the age of two he had
developed temper, strong will, and obstinacy. He be-
came at times a veritable howling dervish. He bawled,
he shrieked, he blubbered, sobbed, whined and whim-
pered. He seemed to be obsessed by fixed ideas. Once
in a while, as time passed, there came periods of rela-
tive calm within the pervading tempest, and now and
then he was not wholly unlovable. A rising sun seemed
to be dawning within him. He became interested in
his bath, given daily in a movable tub. Grandma
would allow none but herself to perform this rite, and
as she sponged him down, he would sing to her some-
thing about Marlbrouck s'en va^en guerre, or tell
what this giant did, or that fairy. Life wus beginning
[16]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
to break in upon him from outside. A continuous
breaking in from the outside and breaking out from
the inside was to shape his destiny.
He loved to look out of the window ; to see people
moving to and fro. But it was when first he saw the
street-cleaners at work that there upsprung a life-
fascination, the sight, the drama of things being
done. South Bennett Street ran from Washington
Street to Harrison Avenue, a short block, but for him
a large world. The street was paved with cobble
stones; the sidewalks were of brick. He was there at
the window when the work began. Came on the front
rank; four men armed with huge watering cans painted
red; these they swung in rhythm one-two, one-two.
The thrill began, the child breathed hard. Then fol-
lowed the second rank four men with huge brooms
made of switches ; they also, two-fisted, swung one-two,
one-two, shaping a windrow in the gutter. Then
came the glory of it all, the romantic, the utterly
thrilling and befitting climax an enormous, a won-
derful speckled gray Normandy horse, drawing a
heavy tip cart, and followed as a retinue by two men,
one sweeping the windrows into hillocks, the other with
shovel and with mighty faith, moving these mountains
into the great chariot. Thus appeared from Wash-
ington Street, thus passed in orderly action, thus dis-
appeared into Harrison Avenue the Pageant of Labor,
leaving the child, alone, thrilled with a sort of alarm
of discovery, held by an utter infatuation. He had
missed nothing; he had noted every detail. He had
seen it whole and seen it steady. It is a close surmise
that what actually passed in the child's mind, aside
[17]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
from the romance, was a budding sense of orderly
power. Indeed, the rhythm of it all I And then, to
the wondering child, there began the dawn of a won-
der-world.
His mother often dandled him on her foot, holding
his puny outstretched hands in hers, and in great glee
and high spirits sang to him about Le bon roi Dago-
bert, Le grand St. Elois, and other heroes of the
nursery. He felt these tales to be true, especially
when the high points and low points of 'knee action
were reached in a rushing climax. But one evening
his mother took him for a visit; and on the return
walk he tired and wailed. The mother raised him to
her shoulder, and when the tears had dried he looked
upward at the sky and beheld with delight the moon
plowing its way through fleecy clouds. He called upon
his mother to share in the joy. She too looked up-
ward, yet told him that the moon was not plowing a
path through the clouds, but that the clouds were driven
by the wind across the face of the moon. This:
astounding statement he received as an affront to his
common sense, and so stated. But the mother was
adamant in her folly. He looked again skyward, to
confirm himself. As by accident his eye fastened on
the moon; the moon held steady and he was amazed
to see the clouds go by. Then consciously he tried it
on the clouds and the moon again plowed on. This
process he reversed and reversed until he felt sure,
and then it was he confided to his weary mother sag*
ging under the intolerable burden of him, that he had
made a discovery! He felt a sense of mastery and
pride. He, HE, had discovered this thing. In a
[18]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
world rising larger, difficulties appeared, and this par-
ticular thing was not quite what it seemed at first to
be. But he had mastered it. That his mother knew
all about it, had told him all about it, instantly faded;
the child sank into sleep. The mother, weary unto
death, reached her destination; she entered with her
sleeping son while the clouds and the moon in the still-
ness of early night went their serene way undisturbed
by further mundane intervention.
Ever at the window pane, he liked to watch the
snow, falling gently in large moist flakes and, in the
little gusts, swirling and piling here and there, gath-
ering curiously in odd nooks, and crannies, gathering
on the window panes across the street, gathering on
his own window panes, mantling the trees in a loving
way, building far out in a roU from the top of a neigh-
bor house and not breaking off (why did it not break
off?). And the stillness, the muffled stillness, the
lovely stillness. He was not satisfied to glance, he
must look long, very long and steadily, he must see
things move, he must follow the story, he must him-
self live the drama of dark things slowly changing into
white things. It was all so real to him as he gazed
through the window pane, alone and very quiet. And
then when morning came, the hasty rattle and scoop
and sip of the shovels, cleaning the sidewalks, heaping
the snow in mountains in the street. Again the song
of work, the song of action.
About this time a strange thing happened. It is the
mother's story repeated many times in after years.
It seems one afternoon she was at the piano playing a
nocturne with the fervor and melancholy sweetness
[19]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
that were her sometime mood. Lost in dreamland she
played on and on, when of a sudden she seemed to hear
a voice low-pitched like a sigh, a moan. She stopped,
looked, listened; no one there. She seemed mistaken;
then from under the very piano itself, came a true
sob, a child sob and sigh. Why tell what happened?
Her precious son in her arms pressed tight to her
bosom; tears, tears, an ecstasy of tears, a turmoil of
embraces, the flood gates open wide, a wonder, a joy,
a happiness, an exultation, an exaltation supreme over
all the world. The child did not understand. Why
did he, unnoticed, enter the room; why secrete himself
where he w&s found; why was he overcome and melted
into lamentation? Had anyone else been playing,
would he have thus responded? Had a new world
begun to arise, this time a wonder-world within him-
self? Had there been awakened a new power within
this child of three, a power arising from the foun-
tainhead of all tears?
FOLLY COVE
The family had decided to spend the summer on
Cape Ann. They settled in a farm house of the very
old fashioned kind, at a tiny spot called Folly Cove.
The farm was a fairly large one and spread out to
the rock-bound coast. It had its weather-beaten
orchards, its meadows and its fields, its barn and out-
buildings, its barnyard with a well and bright tin bucket
w<orked with a pulley and chain. There were also
the fanner, a typical extra-nasal Yankee; the faded,
shriveled, worn-out wife; the usual dozen or more
children, and a farm hand. Also in the meadow was
[20]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
a well without a curb. Presently the child wanders
into this meadow, picking the sparkling flowers, feel-
ing the lush grass, glorying in the open. Quite inci-
dentally in his floral march he walked into the welL
It was rather deep, and amid his shrieks he felt that
his blue flannel skirt seemed to float about him. His
father and mother were away fishing; the farmer busy
at a distance. Came the hired man on the run; a
quick descent, a quick ascent of the boulder wall of
the well, the child was saved. In the arms of the man
he was hurried to the farm house and turned over to
the women-folk. The farm-man returned to his work.
The children quickly gathered. The women-folk
rapidly stripped the chilly child, rubbed him down with
harsh towels, and stood him naked with back to the
g-low in the huge fireplace. The children, all. older
than he, looked on curiously, pointed, giggled. For
the first time he was aware of a vague sensitiveness.
He felt, uncomfortably, that there was something in
the air besides atmosphere. He turned aside. A new
world was gestating in the depths.
Upon the return of the parents all was in turmoil
again. Appalled thanks, gratitude, relief, amazement,
the precious, the precious, and again the precious 1
The father, more sedate, bethought him it would be
righteous should he hold early communion with the
life-saver, the farm-man. They met. The father
offered lucre in gratitude sincere enough. The offer
w&s spurned. Would the farm-man, an American he-
man, accept of gold for saving the life of an innocent
child? He would not! Things looked bad. There
was argument, persuasion, even supplication. Finally
[21]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
as by an inspiration he was asked if he would not
accept something that was not money. The farm-man
replied that if the father insisted and would not other-
wise be calmed, he would with pleasure accept from
him, as a casual gift, a plug of chewing tobacco. Thus
was the value of a man-child ascertained.
In the course of his exploration, he came to the
other well, the one in the barn yard with pulley, chain,
and big bright tin bucket. He was curious, and began
huge experiments. Somehow the bucket got loose
from the hook, struck the water with a splash and
began to fill. He leaned over the edge in alarm.
What was to be done ? The bucket began its swaying
descent, glinting this way, darkening that way, became
dusky and was gone. In its place arose from the well
an accusation seeming to say * 'guilty,*' and there arose
within and without the child a new world, the world
of accountability.
He spent most of his time with his father ; the bond
of union was the love of the great out-of-doors. Too
young to philosophize and search his soul to discover
sin, he took all things for granted. It seemed natural
to him that there should be flowers, grass, trees, cows,
oxen, sunshine and rains, the great open sky, the solid
earth underfoot, men, women, children, the great ocean
and its rock-bound shore. All these he took at their
face value they all belonged to him. He would sit
beside his father on a great boulder watching him fish
with pole and line. He would remain patiently there,
inspirited by the salt breeze, listening to the joyous
song of the sea as the ground swells reared and dashed
upon the rocks with a mighty shouting, and a roaring
[22]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
recall, to form and break and form again. It seemed
to lull him. It was mighty. It belonged to him. It
was his sea. It was his father fishing.
One day as he was sitting alone on the boulder his
father swung into sight in a row boat, and pulled for
the open sea. The child did not know about rowboats,
he had not discovered them, he did not understand
how they went. Suddenly father and boat dis-
appeared, the child gave a shriek of alarm, then as
suddenly man and boat re-appeared, to disappear again.
The ground-swell running high, the breeze stiffening,
the boat with the man grew smaller and smaller at
each appearance; there was a flash each time. Smaller
grew the boat until it became a speck, then it began to
grow bigger and bigger. The child, dumbfounded,
ran to meet his father, in wild excitement, at the land-
ing. His father, very patient in such matters, explained
it all as best he could, and the child listened eagerly,
with some understanding. What was said must be
true, because his father, who knew everything had
said so. But what he knew, all of himself, and beyond
the knowledge of others, was that the sea was a
monster, a huge monster that would have swallowed
up his father, like one of the giants he had told his
grandmama about, if his father had not been such a big
strong man. He felt this with terror and pride. Thus
arose in prophecy the rim of another world, a world
of strife and power, on the horizon verge of a greater
sea.
For the remainder of the summer, nothing of special
import occurred. The family returned to the city.
When all were settled, he was sent to the primary
[23]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
school of that district. He reported to the family at
the end of the first day that teacher had called him to
the platform to lead the singing. What a dreary
prison the primary school of that day must have been.
His recollection of his stay there is but a gray blank.
Not one bright spot to recall, not one stimulus to his
imagination, not one happiness. These he found only
at home. He learned his letters, he followed the
routine, that is all. Nor were there any especially
memorable events at home until the matter of the farm
came up and was discussed interminably. He had been
merely enlarging his geographical boundaries, and ex-
hausting the material. The primary school had, for
the moment, dulled his faculties, slackened his frank
eagerness, ignored his abundant imagination, his native
sympathy. Even the family influence could not wholly
antidote this. The neighborhood was growing disrep-
utable. Next came the farm.
[24J
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CHAPTER II
"There was a child went forth every day!'
WHITMAN
f | \HUS after traversing a long orbit inversely to
I the prehistoric of the family genealogy, and trac-
ing, on the backward swing, the curve of a lit-
tle one's experience in contact with the outer world and
his individual impulsive responses thereto, we again
take the train for South Reading.
Arriving at the station a man descends, asks direc-
tions, and follows the first dirt road to the left, leading
over an almost treeless flat, and heading for a some-
what distant hill. Part way up the hill he notices a
house on the right Here lived a man named Whitte-
more, who having lost a leg, proceeded in due consid-
eration of the remaining one, to invent, perfect and
manufacture a new type of crutch, which has remained
the standard to this day. The workshop stood some
distance back of the house, just at the beginning of the
pine woods that covered part of the hill. The road
here takes a curve to the right, traverses the back of
the hillside with a heavy growth of pines on the right
ascension, and a neat valley to the left with scattering
woods and meadow. The road then straightens, be-
comes of easy grade, and begins to emerge from the
wilderness, so to speak. An orchard comes into view
on the left, a field of herds-grass on the smoothly
rounded hilltop at the right Straight ahead, running
at the right angles and terminating the road thus far
traversed, was the main road from South Reading to
[25]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Stoneham. The land here was level for a moment or
two. At the left-hand corner of the Intersection stood
a rather modern house, clap-boarded, painted white
with green shutters, and in front of it on the Stoneham
Road were two stately elms. Here lived the Tomp-
sons. The person who made this trip had no sooner
reached the intersection and made a mental note or
two of the surroundings than he saw a middle-aged
or elderly couple, quite near, slowly approaching from
the left on the road running toward South Reading.
They were leading between them a chubby child who
was screaming at the top of his angry voice, crying
savagely, declaring vindictively he would not go, he
would not go to school. The traveler must have worn
the tarnhelm of legend, for they saw him not To our
thinking he was a phantasm of years to come. The
child was absurdly dressed. Under an immense straw
hat, curving broadly upward at the brim and tied on
with a ribbon, appeared his upturned face, red, bloated,
distorted; angry eyes, terribly bright, running with
tears in a stream; a mouth hideously twisted out of
shape. Below this raging hell was a sort of white
jacket and a big bow tie. Below this, white pantalettes,
gathered in at the ankle and more or less flounced or
frizzled. These pantalettes were the source of his
fear, of his rage and his protest. He had already on
account of them, he said, been regularly insulted by
the neighbors' children who had formed a circle around
him and danced, sneered, pointed the index of scorn,
and made merry. Was that not enough? Must he
now face a schoolful of tormentors? He would not
go, he would not go ! He bawled and screamed that
[26]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
he would not go! The child was on the verge of
hysterics; it seemed less agonizing to face death than
ridicule. The elders consulted quietly, turned back,
the child still between them, and disappeared at the
entrance-way of a house a hundred yards or so beyond
the Tompsons on the Stoneham Road. Next day, the
child appeared in conventional garb. His name was
Louis, or, as his Grandmother pronounced It, Louie.
It was a joyous day for him, a sad day for her. For
in her heart she knew that with the laying away of the
pantalettes there was laid away a child a child gone
forever a child soon to be but a sweet memory a
child soon to metamorphose into a tousle-headed,
freckled, more or less toothless, unclean selfish urchin
in jeans; and that he would continue to grow bigger,
stronger, rougher, and gradually grow away from her
ever more masculine, ever more selfish. But this
apprehension, this heart's foreboding was not to come
wholly true, for she held his love she held it to the
end. The child was not an enfant terrible; he was,
rather, an independent, isolated compound of fury,
curiosity and tenderness. Subtle indeed were the cur-
rents flowing and mingling within him, embryonic pas-
sions arising and shaping, ambitions vaguely stirring;
while his sharp eyes saw everything. Spring was on
the wane. The birds were full-throated in glorification
of the number of bugs and worms eaten, or the inten-
sive discussion of domestic affairs. High up in one of
the Tompson elms the one to the east hung the
purse-like nest of the self-same golden orioles that came
there year by year, while from a nearby meadow floated
the tinkle of a solitary bob-o-link winging its way
[27]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
rejoicing. The day was beauteous; full sunshine
flooded and enfolded all. The child, after much
thought of its kind suddenly announced he was
ready. His curiosity had been insidiously at work. He
would see the school; he would meet new children; he
had become eager; he would be a big boy in the world's
opinion. So, on this same cheerful morning, hand in
hand with Grandma, who alone habitually assumed
responsibilities, he began the pilgrimage of learning
that hath no end. They took the dusty road that led
eastward, directly toward the north end of the village.
They leisurely mounted a gentle grade until the crest
was reached. At this exact point, just behind the
stone wall to the right of the road marvel of marvels
stood a gigantic, solitary ash tree. On account of
a certain chipmunk, various flowers, pebbles, and other
things, the child had not noticed it during the approach.
But of a sudden, there it stood, grand, overwhelming,
with its immense trunk, its broad branches nearly
sweeping the grass, its towering dome of dense dark
green; opposite it, across the road was a farm house;
back of it an open pasture. From the vantage of the
road spread out a view of things below. The grand-
mother was for going on. The child stood transfixed,
appalled. A strange far-away storm, as of distant
thundering, was arising within his wonderself. He
had seen many trees, yes; but this tree this tree! He
trembled strangely, he wished to cry ; with gentle scold-
ing he was dragged away. From this point the road
was bare and shaggy. Half way down, to the left,
and set well back, was found not the little red school-
house of romance, but a rather large white one, clap-
[28]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
boarded, green blinds, gabled, a bell, a well with force-
pump, trampled playground, and so on. He was duly
presented to the teacher. Her face and form, alas,
like many another face and form, have passed into
memory's oblivion. All details settled, he was to come
the next morning, which he did, after successfully pass-
ing the magnet tree, while saluting it affectionately in
a calmer mood. Day after day he passed the tree.
It became his tree his Great Friend.
He was to spend many days at this barren hillside
school. He became acquainted with the boys and girls
there, for it was coeducational. What these children
did during the recess hour would scandalize the wholly
good. But to the casual sinner, scrutinizing the depths
of his own past, reason might be found and a certain
tolerance engendered whereby these vagaries of small
animals, if not exactly condoned, might at least be
minimized as the native output or by-product of inquisi-
tiveness and emulation. The child was as yet too
young to fight. But according to the rules and regula-
tions of the gang his time was but deferred, for each
new boy must establish his fistic status,
The school-room was large and bare with two
wooden posts supporting the roof. The teacher sat
at her desk on a raised platform at the wall opposite
the entrance. The children sat at rows of desks (a
row per grade) at right angles to the rear wall; in
front of them an open space for recitation by class;
blackboard on the wall and so forth. There were five
grades in the single room. Teacher sat at her desk,
ruler in hand to rap with or admonish. All the chil-
dren studied their lessons aloud, or mumbled them. The
[29]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
room vibrated with a ceaseless hum, within which in-
dividual voices could be heard. Everything was free
and easy; discipline rare. There was however a cer-
tain order of procedure. Came time for a class to
recite. They flocked to the wall and stood in a row;
neither foot nor head at first. Questions and answers
concerning the lesson of the day. Teacher's questions
specific; pupils' answers must be definite, categorical.
Teacher was mild, patient; the answers were some-
times intelligent, more often hesitant, bashful, dull, or
hopelessly stupid. Each answer was followed by a
monotonous "go to the foot," "go to the head;" and
all the time the hum went on, the unceasing murmur,
a thin piping voice here, a deeper one there, a rasping
out yonder, as they pored over their primers, first
readers, geographies, arithmetics ; while now and again
Teacher's voice rose high, questioning the class on the
rack, the children answering as best they could. This
babel merged or deliquesced into a monotone; there
seemed to be a diapason, resonant, thick, the conjoined
utterance of many small souls trying to learn, enter-
ing the path of knowledge that would prove short for
most of them. The children were all barefoot and
rather carelessly clad ; notably so in the matter of omis-
sions. One thing is certain and the rest is lies : This
school was of, for, and by the people.
The child was given his proper place in the lowest
grade, or class, or whatever it was called. He took
hold rather blithely. He seemed to feel the importance
of his entry into this new world, so different from
home. Little by little he seemed to feel that he be-
longed there; but he never succeeded in feeling that
[30]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the school belonged to him except as to its externals.
Somehow he did not fit Into the curriculum or the
procedure. He was of a pronounced, independent na-
ture. He quickly became listless as to his own lessons.
He seemed to be nothing but a pair of eyes and ears
not intended for books, but for the world little and
big about him. In this immediate sense he was almost
devoid of self-consciousness. His normal place was
at the foot of his class. But one day he awakened
to the fact that unawares he had become interested,
not in books, but in procedure ; said procedure consist-
ing in the oral examinations and recitations of the
grades above his own, as they, in accordance with the
arrangement of the school-room, stood directly in
front of him, drawn up in line, undergoing the routine
torture. He began to notice their irregular mass-effect
and their separate persons. He followed their for-
tunes in going to the foot and going to the head. He
transferred himself to them. He noticed, too, which
girls were the prettiest and which boys were the gaw-
kiest. He learned the names of all. He became solic-
itous of their personal fortunes, in their struggle for
knowledge or their attempts to escape it. For him, it
became a sort of drama, a sort of stage performance,
and he began to note with growing interest what they
said and what teacher said, which answers were correct,
which were failures. Over and over he saw and heard
this until he came to know the groundwork of what
all the grades above him were struggling with. But
as to his own lessons '-Alas I Yet he followed the
upper grades so intently that he became critical : What
was this about the four men who built so many perches
[31]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of stone wall in three days, and two other men who
were to build some wall in six days? What did it
amount to anyway? The real question was where was
the wall to be built? For whom was it to be built?
What was his name? What were the names of the
men who were building the wall, (for it was becoming
a real wall)? Were they Irish or Scotch? Where
did they get the stone to build the wall ? Did they get
it from the rough quarry across the road from the
school-house? Did they gather up boulders from the
fields? Was not this matter of four men and two men
irrelevant? The information was too sparse, too un-
convincing. He could not place the wall, and what
good was any wall he could not see? And thus he
went on, unaffected by the abstract, concerned only
with the concrete, the actual, the human.
One evening when all were at home, a letter arrived
addressed to Grandpa. He opened the envelope and
read the letter aloud. It was from Teacher, and set
forth with deep regret and concern that his grandson
was a dull boy, that he was inattentive, would not
study his lessons, was always at the foot of his class,
but he was a nice boy. Could not Mr. List bring
influence to bear to induce Louis to reform his ways?
Would not a kindly word from him, concerning the
need of education, have a moral effect? She had used
all her powers of persuasion, and so forth and so on.
At the end of the reading Grandpa dropped the letter
on the floor, burst into volcanic laughter, roaring until
the lid of the heater rattled, rocking forward and
backward on his chair, clapping himself on the knee,
in a series of subsiding outbursts, ending in a long
[32]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
drawn spasmodic chuckle, expressive of his cynical
sense of humor, his infinite contempt for those who
had eyes and yet saw not. To call his sharp-eyed
grandson a dullard ! Why, he said, one might as well
call Sirius a flap-jack, and other joking words to that
effect, for he was fond of teasing his grandson, whom
he had so long watched out of the corner of his eye. But
Grandma, more conservative, took the matter seriously.
With her grandson standing at her knees, a bit abashed,
a bit afraid, after giving her six propitiatory kisses,
his arms about her neck and cheek to cheek, she found
it, oh, so hard, to scold him. Instead she told him
gently how necessary it was to acquire an education;
how necessary to that end that little boys, particu-
larly her own grandson, for the family's pride, should
attend industriously to lessons. Could he not do better,
would he not do better? He said he could and would;
and all was peace.
Next day, at school, he pitched in, and the next
day and the next; shutting out all else. Oh, it was
so easy to head this class; so easy for one who knew
what the upper grades knew, or thought they knew
for a moment or perhaps a day. They knew not that
it was all, save a bare remnant, fated to fade away
forever. Tired of heading the class, which was so
easy, he occasionally, and indeed with increasing fre-
quency fell to zero, because of a lapse, because, per-
haps, of a twitching squirrel in a tree nearby die
window, or a beautiful white cloud curiously chang-
ing shape as it slowly drifted through a beautiful blue
sky. And what did it all amount to? What signi-
fied it to be at the head of a row of dull-wits? He
[33]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
was becoming arrogant. For Grandma's sake, he kept
on, after a fashion. He was becoming bored.
Summer was waning. The third of September was
at hand. Six candles in the cake announced an anni-
versary. He was overjoyed. He was actually six.
The winter of 1862-3 passed along with its usual
train of winter sports and hardships. Louis joined
heartily according to his height and weight in all the
sports. Of hardships he knew nothing. What fun
it was to be drawn on a sled over the snow by his
Uncle Julius. To be drawn on the same sled over
die dark sheer ice of the pond by Uncle on newly
sharpened skates. What thrill of courage it required
not to cry out as he shuddered at the darkness below,
and wondered whether the pace were not too swift.
But Uncle, some fifteen years older than he, was to
him a big man; and what could not a big man do?
So he had faith in Uncle, if not entire confidence, as
they flew here and there among the gay crowd of
skaters. How they went way to the end of the pond
and then swung back past the ice houses where men
were beginning to work! And later on how thrilled
and stilled he was by the thunderous boom and tear
of an ice crack ripping its way from shore to shore!
And many such booms he heard on similar trips in
zero weather. And then the men at work cutting
ice I How exciting it was to watch men at work. They
used large hand saws to cut ice into square blocks and
there was one strange saw drawn by a horse. Then
men with poles shoved and dragged the ice-blocks
through the clear water to the bottom of the runway,
and then it was hauled up the runway by a horse that
[34]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
walked away with a rope that ran through a pulley
and then back to the ice cake. The ice seemed very
thick and clear.
And then came splendid snow-storms, decorating the
trees, forming great drifts through which he struggled
in exultation, every now and then stumbling and fall-
ing with his face in the snow. How he rolled over and
over in glee in the snow of a white world, a beauti-
ful world even when the gray skies lowered. And why
not? Had he not warm woolen mittens knitted by
Grandma, and hood and stockings by the same faith-
ful hands, and "artics"? Was he not all bundled up?
And the sleigh rides. Oh, the sleigh rides in the
cutter with the horse looming so high, and the row of
bells around the horse's collar, jangling and tinkling in
jerky time. And he so warm under the buffalo robe.
And they met so many other sleighs in the village
when they went to the post-office or the grocery store,
and he noticed so many men walking about clad in
buffalo coats. And he made snowballs and did all the
minor incidentals. It was his first experience within
the pulchritude of a winter in the open. His mother
came frequently to see him and caress him. He could
hardly understand why she loved him so; he had so
many other personal interests and distractions. But
he hailed her comings and deplored her departures.
While his name was Louis, he had other names in-
teresting ones, too. He had not been christened or
baptized. The question had called for a family coun-
cil. The father, a nominal Free-mason, not sure
whether he was a Catholic or an Orangeman or any-
thing in particular, expressed no serious interest; he
[35]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
would leave it to the rest. Grandpa, as usual, vented
his view in scornful laughter. Grandma, a Menno-
nite, was opposed to baptism. But Mother in her
excited way was rampant. What ! Would she permit
any man to say aloud over the body of her pure and
precious infant that he was born in sin and ask for
sponsors? Never! That settled it and they named
him Louis Henri Sullivan. It has been declared and
denied that the name was given in order to heap honors
upon Napoleon III. Be that as it may. The name
Henri, obviously, was to deify Grandpa. The Sullivan
could not be helped. It was scorned by all but its
owner. They detested the Irish, whose peaceful pene-
tration of Boston had made certain sections thereof
turn green. Even his wife could not stand for it, much
less for Patrick. So sometimes she gallicized the name;
which Wasn't so bad, when she used it in the third
person, nominative, singular. Then she had an inspira-
tion, an illumination one might say, and invented the
word Tulive, whatever that may have meant, as a
general cover-name, and thus secured a happy, life-long
escape. But later on, say about the age of twelve, the
scion asked his father about this name Sullivan, which
seemed to coincide with shanty-Irish. So his father
told him this tale : Long ago in Ireland, in the good
fighting days, there were four tribes or clans of the
O'Sullivans: The O'Sullivan-Moors, the O'Sullivan
Macs, and two others. That We were descended from
the O'Sullivan-Moors, and that all four tribes were
descended from a Spanish marauder, who ravished the
west Irish coast and settled there. His name it appears
was O'Soulyevoyne or something like that, which,
[36]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
translated, meant, The Prince with One Eye. Now,
however great was the glory of this pirate chief, his
descendant, Louis Henri Sullivan O'Sullivan-Moore-
O'Soulyevoyne, had this specific advantage over him
of the high-seas. The prince had but one eye that
must have seen much; the youngster of six had two
eyes that saw everything, without desire to plunder.
These became part of that child who went forth
every day, and who now goes, and will always go
forth every day.
And these become part of him or her that peruses
them here. WHITMAN.
[37]
CHAPTER III
And Then Came Spring!
THE beauty of winter was fading as the thaws
began their work, patches of bare ground appear-
ing, patches of deep snow remaining in the gul-
lies, remnants of drifts. Each day the scene became
more desolate; mud and slush everywhere. But the
child was not downhearted. Any kind of weather
suited him, or rather he suited himself to any kind of
weather, for he was adaptable by nature which meant
in this case abundant glowing health.
The hounds of spring may have been on winter's
traces; he knew nothing about that His immediate
interests lay in the rivulets which emerged at the lower
end of the gully drifts. He wished to know just where
these rivulets started. So he shoveled off the snow
and broke off the underlying decaying ice until the
desired point of information was reached. Then he
would go immediately to another drift, and operate
on that to see if the result tallied with the first. This
work completely absorbed him. It gave him new and
exciting sensations. Then, too, he would tramp over
the sodden stubble of the fields, and plow along the
muddy roads. He would hunt about eagerly to find
by actual test which places were the soggiest, and just
where the mud was deepest and stickiest. Then came
rains upon rains. The snow vanished. Earth, fields,
trees : All was bare. The child took this for granted.
He did not know, he did not suspect, because of
the city life he had led, that out of this commonplace
[38]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
bare earth indeed now hidden within it was to arise
a spectacle of entrancing beauty. The rains became
showers, occasionally sparkling in the sunshine. The
winds became mild breezes. There settled over all a
calm, a peace, an atmospheric sense that caressed and
encouraged. And thus came spring. The grass ap-
peared as a delicate deepening influence of green. Did
not the child soon find the earliest pussy-willows, the
first crocuses in the garden? Did he not note the deli-
cate filigree appearing as a mist on tree and shrub, and
the tiny wild plants peeping through the damp leaves
of autumn in his favorite woods? Did he not really
see things moving? Was not the filigree becoming
denser and more colorful? Was not the grass actually
growing, and the tiny plants rising higher? Was not
the garden becoming a stirring thing like the rest?
The outburst of bloom upon peach tree, cherry and
plum, evoked an equal outburst of ecstasy and acclaim,
an equal joy of living. Was not something moving,
were not all things moving as in a parade, a pageant?
Was not the sunshine warm and glowing? Had not
the splendor come upon him as upon one unprepared?
He heard the murmur of honey-bees, saw them bur-
rowing into flowers, fussily seeking something and then
away; and the deep droning of the bumble-bee, the
chirping of many insects, the croaking of crows, as in
a flock so black, they flew heavily by, and the varied
songs of many birds; riotously shaping, all, on one
great tune with bees, insects, flowers and trees. Were
not things moving? Was not something moving with
great power? Was there to be no end to the sweet,
clamorous joy of all living- things, himself the center
[39]
THE AVTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of all? Could he stand it any longer? Then of a
sudden the apple orchards sang aloud! What made
them thus burst forth? Was it that same power,
silent amidst the clamor? Was it a something serene,
sweet, loving, caressing, that seemed to awaken, to
persuade, to urge; yea, to lure on to frenzy, to utmost
exaltation, himself and the world about him, the new,
the marvelous world of springtime in the open a
world that became a part of this child that went forth
every day, a world befitting him and destined to abide
with him through all his days ? Oh, how glorious were
the orchards in full bloom ! What mountains of blos-
soms! What wide-flung spread of enravishing splen-
dor! The child became overstrung. Yet his heart
found relief from suffocation in his running about, his
loud shouts of glorification and of awe, his innumer-
able running-returns to the house to say breathlessly,
"Come Grandmama! Come see! Come see!" He
wished to share his joy with all. These wonder-or-
chards were his, the fields, the woods, the birds were
his; the sky, the sun, the clouds were his; they were
his friends, and to this beauteous world he gave him-
self. For how could he know, that far, far from this
scene of love, of pride and joy, men were slaughtering
each other every day in tens, in hundreds and in thou-
sands ? True, at the appointed hour, he had run about
the house shouting u Fort Donelson's taken! Fort
Donelson's taken I" and equally true he had made mon-
itors out of a bit of lath and the bung of a flour barrel,
and with greater difficulties a Merrimac. He had
sailed them in a wash-tub filled with water. Further,
he had listened to some talk about the war between the
[40]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
North and the South. He heard some talk about
"Rebels" and "Yanks." Yet it was all vague, and
distant beyond his hills. It was all indistinct. He
knew nothing about war he does now.
Spring passed slowly on, things were surely moving.
The petals had fallen, and tiny round things appeared
in their places. Trees were coming to full foliage,
their branches swaying, leaves fluttering in the breeze.
Plowing, harrowing and seeding were over. He had
been given a tiny patch in the main garden to be all
his own, and with toy tools he worked the soil and
planted flower seeds. He became impatient when cer-
tain nasturtium seeds failed to show above the surface,
so he dug them up with his fingers, only to be astonished
that they had really put forth roots. He pressed them
back into the earth. To his sorrow that was the end
of them. For a first attempt however he did pretty
well.
He learned little by little. He was now abundantly
freckled, and in a measure toothless. His heavy thatch
of black hair seemed to have known no brush. His
hands were soiled, his clothes were dirty. Hadess,
barefooted, his short pants rolled above his knees, and
unkempt with activity, he was effectively masked as
a son of the soil. To the passerby, he was a stout,
stocky, miniature ruffian, let loose upon a helpless
world. The more discerning noted two fine eyes, clear
and bright. He saw all things just as they were. The
time had not arrived for him to penetrate the surface.
Exceedingly emotional though unaware of it the
responses of his heart, the momentary fleeting trances,
the sudden dreaming within a dream, perturbed him.
[41]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
He wished to know about these; he wished to know
what it was that enthralled him time after time. And
in this he failed also; he could not interpret few can.
For that which perturbed him lay far deeper than his
thoughts a living mystic presence within the self-same
open that was his. Per contra, he was generally re-
garded as a practical little fellow who liked to work.
Casually speaking the family was " without the pale."
The father had some nondescript notions, without
form, and void. He was attracted by the artistic,
especially by the painter's art. He was well posted as
to the names and works of contemporaries, and was a
fairly good judge of landscape and still-life; also he
admired a fine orchestra. He had tried church after
church seeking what he wanted. What he wanted was
not priest or preacher, but a thinker and orator. At
last he found, in Theodore Parker, the satisfaction of
his quest. Going alone, he attended regularly. From
this it may be inferred that he leaned toward Unita-
nanism. Nothing of the sort he leaned toward ora-
tory. If Unitarianism went with it, well and good.
It was of no moment. He praised Parker highly.
Mother had a fixed idea that existence was continu-
ous in a series of expanding becomings, life after life,
in a spiral ascending and ever ascending until perfec-
tion should be reached in a bodiless state of bliss.
This ethereal belief, opened to view the beauty and
purity of her heart. Moreover, she read with avidity
Renan's Vie de Jesu.
Grandpa looked upon religion as a curious and amus-
ing human weakness as conclusive evidence of univer-
sal stupidity. Grandma alone was devout. Quietly
[42]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
she believed in her God; in the compassion of His Son,
in the wondrous love He bore a love freely given to
the outcast a love so great, so tender, so merciful,
that for its sake he yielded up in agony His earthly be-
ing, the supreme sacrifice, to the end that all men might
be blessed thereby; that, as His mortality passed, His
supernal love might be revealed to men throughout
all time; that His divine being ascended through the
firmament to join the Father in Glory on the throne
of Heaven. These things she firmly believed. They
were the atmosphere of her inner life, the incentive of
her daily deeds. She believed in doctrine and it may
be in dogma. She held the scriptures of the Hebrews
to be sacrosanct as verily inspired of God. She did
not seek to proselyte. She was satisfied to abide in
her faith, undisturbed and undisturbing. Perhaps this
is why her grandson loved her so. Innocent of creed,
of doctrine and dogma, he loved her because she was
good, he loved her because she was true, he loved her
because to his adoring eyes she was beautiful. Such
was Grandmama.
Otherwise Grandmama was the responsible head of
a family consisting of herself, her husband, her son
and her grandson. She was methodical, orderly, knew
the true meaning of thrift, entered every item promptly
in the account books, struck the monthly balance, had
a fine mind for figures, and withal she was prudently
generous. Her main business was to give private les-
sons in French to certain brahmins and their off-spring
in that curious city called Boston. In her leisure mo-
ments, she knitted, knitted, knitted; gloves, mittens,
scarves, socks, stockings, shawls; she knitted in silk,
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
in woo!, in cotton; she knitted with wooden needles
and with steel needles; sometimes she used two needles,
sometimes three. Frequently in night's still hours, she
read in her Bible. Her precise hour of retiring was
always 1 A. M. She had her coffee served in bed, and
arose precisely at 10 A. M. Grandpa's hours were
reverse. At or about 8 o'clock in the evening he would
lay down his long-stemmed clay pipe, yawn, chirrup
a bit, drag himself from his comfortable chair, kiss
everyone goodnight and make his exit. His grandson,
following soon after, passed the open door at the head
of the stairs. He always looked in, and always saw
grandpa stretched full length in bed, reading by the
light of a student lamp some book on astronomy. The
child did not intrude. He knew full well that however
much Grandpa ridiculed so many things, he never
poked fun at the solar system. In this domain, and
the star-laden firmament, he lived his real life. This
was his grand passion. All else was trivial. The
vastness awed him; the brilliance inspired him; he
kept close track of the movements of the planets. He
read endlessly about the moon and the vast, fiery sun,
and the earth's spiral path.
But it was in Autumn, when the full train of the
Pleiades, the Hyades, Orion and Canis Major had
cleared the horizon and stood forth in all their con-
joined majestically-moving glory, that Grandpa went
forth in the early hours of night to make vigils with
the stars, to venerate, to adore this panoply of con-
stellations, to be wholly lost within the splendor of the
sky. Here was the man all else was husk. What
communion he held within the stillness of night, with*
[44]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
in his own stillest hour, no man shall know. No-w-
and then he would, bit by bit, endeavor to impart a
little of his knowledge. But he knew well enough
his grandson was not of age. Still, the boy learned
to recognize and name several of the constellations as
well as some of the larger stars and planets. One
evening they were walking together along the garden
path. The crescent moon was smiling just above the
tree-tops to the westward. They had been silent, thus
far, when Grandpa of a sudden asked, "Louis, have
you ever seen the penumbra of the moon?" When
the meaning of penumbra had been asked and an-
swered, when the child had grasped the idea that it
was the rest of the moon next to the crescent, he said,
"Yes, Grandpa, I see it."
"What is it like?"
"It is curved at the edge and flat the rest of the
way. It is pale blue, like a fog. It is beautiful."
"Ah !" exclaimed Grandpa, "how I envy your young
eyes ! I have never seen it. I have tried with opera
glasses, but still could not see it. It must be wonder-
ful and I shall never see it. Ah, my dear boy, little
do you know what treasures your sharp eyes may bring
to you. You see things that I cannot see and shall
never see. When you are older you will know what
I mean."
The child was startled. He did not know his Grand-
pa was near-sighted. True, he had noticed that when
Grandpa read in bed, he held the book very close to
his eyes. He had noticed that some people wore spec-
tacles, that his Grandma wore spectacles in the evening.
But Grandpa didn't wear spectacles at all. Why then
[45]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
could he not see the penumbra of the moon? It was
all strange, very strange to him; it was anything but
strange to Grandpa it was a sorrow. To that eager
mind, burdened with reluctant eyes, it was a calamity
that he could not see and would never see the penum-
bra of the moon. *
Grandma on the other hand was not imaginative.
In place of this divine power she had well-defined,
solidly settled ideas concerning decorum, breeding,
formal and informal social intercourse, and a certain
consciousness that Mrs. Grundy resided as definitely in
South Reading as elsewhere. Upon her arrival there,
one of her first activities was to seek out a church,
attendance upon which would at one and the same
time insure to her unquestioned respectability, and, as
nearly as possible, coincide with her individual views of
doctrine. Indeed Grandmama was conservative of the
social order of her day* She seemed oblivious to
hypocrisy and cant. She was devoid of them. In this
instance, she differed diametrically with her daughter
Andrienne, who railed bitterly at that cloak of re-
spectability which to her view camouflaged the sins of
the world. Candor and sincerity were her ideals of
character and conduct. There was but limited choice
in the village and Grandmama soon fixed upon the
Baptist Church as her selection. She began regular
attendance. The child had now reached the age at
which she deemed it proper that he, also, should at-
tend divine service. Thus another new world was to
arise above the limited horizon of his experience.
Among the treasures of barn and pasture, there was
a certain and only horse named Billy. He was an
[46]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
object at the time technically known as a "family
horse safe for any lady to drive/' Billy was a
sallow plug, who, as a finality, had resigned himself
to a life of servitude, but not of service. Within the
barn was housed what was mentioned familiarly as
the "carryall." It was a family carriage, having an
enclosed body. It was a neat solid affair, well built,
well finished and upholstered, and with good lines. It
was of the essence of respectability, even as Billy was
of the lower classes. Billy's harness was all that could
be desired, and on Sundays Billy was groomed to the
extent of his limited adaptability to the exactions of
high life. Billy, harness, and carryall, made a rather
interesting combination, even though Billy, as fate
would have it, was as a fly in an ointment. The com-
bination, however, is explainable. Grandma was timid,
or at least apprehensive, and very cautious. She wished
to be sole guardian of her physical safety, to the extent,
even, that she permitted no one but herself to drive.
Her husband was too nearsighted and absent-minded,
her son too reckless, her grandson, too young. Hence
her determination to take matters into her own hands.
The idea of a glossy, dignified, high-stepper to match
the aristocratic carryall could therefore not be enter-
tained by her. It involved risk, possibly disaster. So
Billy was selected as a compromise between the desired
tone and the much more desired security. That is, as
a deletion of a certain, or uncertain percentage of vil-
lage respectability, for South Reading was of ancient
settlement.
Grandma would not countenance a checkrein for
Billy; she maintained that it was cruel. The normal
[47]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
center of Billy's head, In consequence, was nearer the
earth he feebly loved than the heaven Grandma hoped
to reach with Billy's material aid. There was a whip,
in its socket, to be sure, but Grandma would not strike
a dumb beast. When Grandma wished to start, or,
on frequent occasions, to accelerate Billy's pace if
such it might be called she waved the lines with both
hands and chirped encouragement never becoming
aggressive and satisfied that she had a horse "safe
for any lady to drive." But just here appearances
became deceptive; for Billy, soon after his transfer in
exchange for legal tender, revealed a defect in char-
acter. He was given to unlooked-for fits of insanity.
From a turbid dodder, he would suddenly break into
a runaway. This was alarming; yet there seemed a
method in the madness. Like a clock, with mainspring
breaking, and the works rattling fiercely toward a
silence soon reached, even so were Billy's runaways.
Their distance-limit seldom exceeded one hundred
yards. So, after prudent observation of his antics, and
with due allowance for the fact that he did not run
away every time, Billy was reinstated as a family
horse, safe for any lady to drive, provided she were
familiar with his mannerisms. Such was now the case.
Of a Sunday morning, fair to look upon, in early
summer, all prepared and ready, Billy and carryall
connected into a material totality, the family set forth,
following the dusty road to the village, without mis-
hap. Upon arrival at the church, a white-painted
wooden structure in imitation of stone, pretentious, and
ugly, as if indoctrinated with sin, so much talked
about within Billy was hitched to the general railing
[48]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and the family entered, after Louis had sufficiently
patted Billy's nose. Climbing a wide flight of stairs
to the second floor, all entered a large, dim, barren
room, and reached the family pew. Louis immediately
felt a pang of disappointment. There was nothing
here to recall an echo of the spring song he had shared
in the open. He thought there should be. Looking
about at the congregation, he was astonished at the
array of solemn faces: Why solemn? And the whis-
pering silence : Why whispering? What was to fol-
low? What was to happen? He enquired, and was
hushed. He awaited. The service began ; he followed
it eagerly to the end, noting every detail.
He greatly admired the way the minister shouted,
waved his arms terrifically, pounded the big Bible mag-
nificently, and then, with voice scarcely exceeding a
whisper, pointed at the congregation in dire warning
of what would surely befall them if they did not do
so and so or believe such and such. He roared of
Hell so horribly that the boy shivered and quaked. Of
Heaven he spoke with hysterical sweetness a mush
of syrupy words. He had painted the same word-
pictures year after year; worked himself to the same
high pitches and depths. His listeners, now thrilled,
relaxed, expanded, held these sermons, these prayers,
these hymns as precious; for the man looming in the
pulpit was of their world. He gave pith, point and
skilled direction to those collective aspirations and
fears, which otherwise would have lacked symmetry
and power. The sermons invariably ended with a
tirade against the Papists. This epilogue appealed to
all as a most satisfying finale. After the closing
[49]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
words of benediction the congregation remained for a
while outside the church, gathered in groups, the men
swapping lies and horses, the women-folk exchanging
Idiosyncrasies. All declared their satisfaction with the
sermon. This was the routine. Then they went home.
To the child, however, as a first violent experience,
the total effect was one of confusion, perturbation, and
perplexity. One particular point puzzled him most:
Why did the minister, when he prayed, clasp his hands
closely together and so continue to hold them? Why
did he close his eyes? Why did he bow his headland
at times turn sightless face upward toward the ceiling?
Why did he speak in whining tones? Why was he
now so familiar with God, and then so groveling?
Why did he not shout his prayers as he had shouted
and roared through his sermon? Why did he not
stand erect with flashing eyes, wave his arms, clinch
his fists and pound the big Bible, and walk first this
way and then that way, and otherwise conduct himself
like a man? He seemed afraid of something. What
could it be? What was there to be afraid of? And
then this matter of the Papists. Why so bitter, why
so violent, why so cruel as to wish these people, who-
ever they were, to be burned throughout all eternity
in the flames of awful hell? And the minister had
said he was sure they would be. The boy asked at
home what Papists were. Grandma said they were
Catholics. Grandpa said they were imbeciles. Then
he asked what were Catholics, and Grandma said,
simply, they were not Protestants. And what were
Protestants? And Grandma said, as simply, but with
a touch of detail, that they were not Catholics, to
[50]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
which Grandpa added that they, also, were Imbeciles.
But at the end of the next sermon the minister ex-
plained it all. He declared in his wrath that they, the
Papists, were pagans, heathen, infidels, idolaters, wor-
shippers of saints, low beasts, vile savages, ignorant,
depraved, the very scum and slime of earth whom God
in his mercy had segregated from the elect, in this
world, in order that he might damn them totally to
Hell in the next.
The minister made it quite clear that no Papist could
by any chance enter the Kingdom of Heaven, and
equally clear that a good, strict Baptist could and
surely would. As to other denominations, he felt du-
bious, indeed plainly doubtful, almost certain. Still,
he said, grace was infinite, and the wisdom of the
Father beyond the grasp of mortal man. On the other
hand, he acknowledged himself a sinner, and frequently
proclaimed, as with a sort of pride, that his entire con-
gregation, individually and collectively, were miserable
sinners; and they agreed. He told them, moreover,
the wages of sin was death. He told them also, with
unction, of the bloody source whence came the wages
of purity in redemption. The child appealed to Grand-
pa, who said the minister was an idiot full of wind
and nonsense. The child suffered. Nothing in this
new world agreed with his own world. It was all
upside down, all distorted, cruel and sugary. It was
not like his beautiful springtime, it was not even like
his beautiful winter. There was no laughter, no joy
as he knew these things. He appealed to Grandma,
but his questions were too persistently direct, too em-
[51]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
barrassing to her placidity. She explained perfunc-
torily ; he got no satisfaction there.
He began to think perhaps Grandpa was right.
After more sermons, and prayers, and denunciations,
he began to feel distinctly that his world, his life, which
he had frankly felt to be one, was being torn in two.
Instinctively he revolted. He would not have the
beauty of life torn from him and destroyed. These
things he did not say; he felt them powerfully. A
tragedy was approaching. He was about to lose what
he loved, what he held precious in life; he was about
to lose his own life as he knew or felt life. He re-
belled. He lost confidence in the minister. He no longer
believed what was said. More than that he soon dis-
believed everything that was said. He was regaining
his freedom. The services increasingly irritated him;
he asked to be transferred to the Sunday School. He
would at least see children there. The Old Testament
amused and pleased him with its interesting stories. He
could almost live them over. But when it came to the
crucifixion he rebelled again in spirit, this time so ar-
dently that it was thought prudent at home to release
him from Sunday School and Church alike. His ru-
mination now was to the effect that fortune might
perhaps also separate him from the schoolhouse, stand-
ing white and bare on the hillside.
[52}
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PLATE 3. Benjamin Lindaucr residence, 3312 Wabash
Avenue, Chicago. 1885.
CHAPTER IV
A Vacation
E~UIS became moody. Day by day the hillside
school and all its doings irked him ruthlessly.
In wood, field and meadow, his friends the birds
were free. Why should he remain within these walls
imprisoned and sad? He was a child of sudden re-
solves. On a morning early he went to the pantry.
As he glanced over the shelves, his thoughts wandered
to the pink and white smiling baker who delivered
u Parker House rolls" every so often, and, with a
cheery word left thirteen for a dozen. "A baker's
dozen" he would say every time he drove up to the
kitchen door; and then in a busy way inquire: "How's
all the folks? Guess I don't need ask if this boy's
a sample." Then he would make a quick step into his
light wagon and away with a rattling start. The boy
in the quiet pantry unbuttoned his blouse, as his
thoughts went on : Not so at the school ; Teacher was
not always kind. Twice with a rattan she had whipped
the palm of his right hand while he placed his free
arm across his eyes and bent his head and cried. It
did not hurt much, but Teacher said it hurt her more
than it did him. She told all the class so. She said
she must make an example by having him stand on
the platform and she said she did it to "learn him to
mind and pay attention"; that it was her moral duty
to do so; that she could not fail in her moral duty
even though it pained her; that she punished not in
anger but in grief; and then she cried, her forehead
[53]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
bowed between her hands, as she sat at her desk on
the raised platform. He recalled that she had cried
this way every time she had whipped a child, and she
didn't whip very often either; so he bore her no ill will;
yet he wondered why he should be whipped at school
when he was never whipped or punished at all, at
home; and again came floating the thought of the
dainty baker-man; nimble, pink-faced, blue twinkling
eyes and jolly chuckle. Thus musing but intent he
filled his blouse with rolls and doughnuts and cookies
and buttoned up. Also, he had, hidden in his bosom,
a small tin cup, for he knew where he was going. He
was preparing to answer the call of a wooded ravine
through which wandered a noisy rivulet. He had seen
it but once, while on a walk with Grandpa, but he
marked it then as the favored spot in his imaginary
world. Once found and marked for friendship, it
often had called to him in his school a distant call
he could not come. This morning it called to him
irrevocably and nearby.
Without a word to any one he set forth, following
the Stoneham Road westward until he reached the gate
of a right of way leading northward. He climbed the
padlocked gate, and, following the road, soon passed
a long hillock to the left crowned with tall hardwood
trees, then down grade, then upgrade to a crest where
the road ended. He climbed the gate and in new
freedom, lightly traversing the down slope, reached the
depths of the promised land. One bright particular
spot was his goal. It lay in the narrow bottom of the
ravine just where the gurgling water passed hurriedly
among field stones under tall arching oaks. Here was
[54]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the exact spot for a dam. He got immediately to work.
He gathered the largest field stones he could handle,
and small ones too. He had seen Scotchmen and
Irishmen build farm walls and knew what to do. He
was not strong enough to use a stone hammer if he
had had one. So he got along without. He found
a rusty remnant of a hoe, without a handle; with this
he dug up some stiff earth. So with field stones, mud,
twigs and grass he built his dam. It was a mighty
work.
He was lost to all else. The Impounded waters
were rising fast behind the wall, and leaking through
here and there. He must work faster. Besides, the
wall must lengthen as it grew higher, and it leaked
more at the bottom. He had to plug up holes. At last
child power and water power became unequal. Now
was at hand the grand climax the meaning of all this
toil. A miniature lake had formed, the moment had
arrived. With all his strength he tore out the upper
center of the wall, stepped back quickly and screamed
with delight, as the torrent started, and, with one great
roar, tore through in huge flood, leaving his dam a
wreck. What joy! He laughed and screamed. Was
he proud? Had he not built the dam? Was he in
high spirits? Had he not built this dam all by himself?
Had he not planned in advance just what happened?
Had he not worked as hard as he had seen big men
work? Wasn't he a strong boy for his age? Could
anything at school or at home compare with this? Ex-
hausted with work and delight he lay stretched on his
back, in the short grass, looking far up at the spreading
branches, glimpsing bits of blue between the leaves,
[55]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
noting how these self-same leaves rustled softly, and
twinkled In the sunshine. This rested him. Then
hunger sharply called. He had cached his Parker
House rolls and doughnuts and cookies, and his tin
cup, on a big boulder in the shade. The "hired girl,"
Julia, had taught him to milk. Dipper in hand he
went afield to hunt up a cow. All cows were his
friends. Soon he had the dipper filled with warm
fragrant milk his delight. Then came the repast
near the site of his triumph. Then he loafed and in-
vited his soul as was written by a big man about
the rime this proud hydraulic engineer Was born. But
he did not observe "a spear of summer grass"; he
dreamed. Vague day dreams they were, an arising
sense, an emotion, a conviction; that united him in
spirit with his idols, with his big strong men who did
wonderful things such as digging ditches, building
walls, cutting down great trees, cutting with axes,
and splitting with maul and wedge for cord wood,
driving a span of great work-horses. He adored these
men. He felt deeply drawn to them, and close to
them. He had seen all these things done. When
would he be big and strong too ? Could he wait? Must
he wait? And thus he dreamed for hours. The shad-
ows began to deepen and lengthen ; so, satisfied, with a
splendid day of work and pondering, he reached home
in time for supper. Grandma said the usual grace ; all
heads were bowed as she appealed to her Lord of love
to give strength and encouragement and to bestow his
blessing upon this small family in their daily lives and
tasks and trials and to give abundantly of His divine
strength unto all that loved and obeyed Him. But
[56]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the child's thoughts were concrete and practical; paral-
lel to the prayer but more locally concentrated. His
Grandmama, in her appeal, spoke the beautiful old
French with its liquid double-ell. Her voice soft and
heartfelt meant peace on earth. He understood a
little of it; he knew that the words Que Dieu nous
benit which sounded to him like one word : Kudgernoo-
baynee, meant: May God bless us. He had no ob-
jection to God as a higher member of the family; it
was only the minister's God, the God of Hell that
he disliked and avoided. Nevertheless he wished the
ceremony might be shorter it would do just as well
for while Grandmama prayed, his mouth watered.
He would have accepted prayer as a necessary evil were
it not for the reconciling thought that God seemed to
be Grandmama's big strong friend; and what Grand-
mama loved he knew he ought to love too ; even as he
loved his own idols his mighty men.
The prayer done, a silver bell tinkled by Grand-
mama and Julia appeared, a glowing Irish vision, bear-
ing high stacks of her wonderful griddle-cakes, a
pitcher of real syrup, and a but why parade or parody
a dreamer's gluttony rising thus thrice daily like a
Jinni of old within his nascent dream of power? After
supper he visited his small garden in the large garden.
It was more sizable than last year. Satisfying himself
that the four o'clocks, nasturtiums, geraniums, mign-
onettes, and the rest of the family were doing well,
he trotted down the granite steps to the dirt road in
front where he might practice at throwing stones &
sport strictly taboo in the fields, but permissible in
the sterile pastures. Between his house and the Tyler
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
farm-house opposite, was quite an open space, con-
taining, at a level considerably lower than the road, a
small spring-fed pond. In this pond were colonized
bullfrogs, mud-turtles, minnows and leeches ; bulrushes
grew at each end. Stray cattle browsed about at times.
This pond was one of his possessions. It didn't make
any difference if it were called Tyler's Pond, it was
his own just the same. Stone-throwing finished, he
went to look things over and satisfy himself that
everything was all right and as it should be. As he ap-
proached, the host of frogs were beginning their eve-
ning chant to the invisible King of all frogs ; he waded
in a bit; the clamor increased; then the bass volume
became overtoned by the awakening sounds of tree
toad, Katydid and cricket, while fireflies softly shone
here and there. These were his familiars. Then he
found a glow-worm in the damp grass. As he held it
in his hand he noticed with surprise that the surface
of the pond was crimson : This was new to him. He
waded a little ahead and was pleased to see the ripples
turn silver and crimson as they moved away from him.
He was pleased and somewhat perplexed. Somehow
he looked straight ahead from where he stood in the
water, and there right in the woods on Tompson's
knoll, he saw the setting sun, the trees silhouetting
against it, and the lower sky aglow. He had seen
many sunsets, but there was something peculiar about
this sunset he would speak to Grandpa. The sun
sank from sight; the western sky softened into gray,
twilight deepened into gloaming as the child stood knee
deep in the warm shallow water, lost in reverie so faint,
so far, so near, so absorbing, so vibrant that the once
[58]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
noisy chorus seemed a tranquil accompaniment to a
melody that was of earth and sun in duo with his
dream. He awoke ! He must speak to Grandpa about
the sun.
Grandpa was willing, but careful. He well knew
that a child's mind was a tender thing. He was keenly
observing, but said little. He quietly, even eagerly
observed his grandson, as one might watch a precious
plant growing of its own volition in a sheltered garden,
but far was it from him to let the child suspect such
a thing. He had often laughed at the child's out-
rageous frankness. It infinitely amused him ; but when
it came to knowledge, he was cautious dropping in-
formation by crumbs. But this time, when his grand-
son in eager child-words dramatized the sunset and
climaxed all by a sudden antithesis, saying he had never
seen the sunrise I How did the sun rise? Where did
it rise? How did it rise? Would Grandpa tell him?
Would Grandpa please tell him? Then Grandpa wide-
eyed knew a mystic golden bell had struck the hour.
He told the boy at once that the rising sun could not
be seen from the house because Cowdrey's hill shut off
the view; that the sun truly arose far beyond this hill.
That to see the sun rise one must go to the crest of the
hill, whence one could see to the horizon. He used the
word horizon boldly, as one throws down a card, and
then with strategy of simple words, and easy similes
he produced a sort of image for the child; difficult to
do in a hilly country, and for the mind of one who had
never viewed the open sea. Then he explained that
the lay of the land westward of the house was not so
[59]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
hilly as that to the east, therefore one could view the
sunset to fairly good advantage.
In his discourse, he was careful not to mention the
revolution of the earth. He knew well enough the
child was living in a world of the senses. "But Grand-
pa, is the sunrise as beautiful as the sunset?" "Far
more so, my child; it is of an epic grandeur; sunset
is lyric, it Is an elegy." These words escaped Grand-
pa in a momentary enthusiasm. He felt foolish, as he
saw a small bright face turn blank. However, he
patched up the "lyric" and the "elegy" fairly well, but
"epic" was difficult. Had he but known of his grand-
son^ big strong men, how simple. Then Grandpa
went on: "But you must know that in summer the
sun rises very early, earlier than I; and I scarcely be-
lieve my young astronomer will get out of his comfort-
able bed long before daylight, just to see the sun rise
out of his bed," and Grandpa chuckled. "Yes, I will,
Grandpa, yes, I will" and he slipped from his Grand-
father's knee to arouse the somnolent cat, and shape
his plans for tomorrow.
Restless through the night, he arose at twilight,
made ready quickly, and passed up the road leading to
the great ash tree whose companionship he ever sought
on high occasions. Here, under the wondrous tree
and with Cowdrey's farmhouse resting silently across
the way here in stillness of oncoming dawn punctured
here and there by a bird's early chirp, and chanticleer's
high herald call heard near and far, raucous, faint, and
ever fainter far away; the few remaining stars serene
within the dome of pale passing night, he stood, gazing
wistfully over the valley toward a far away range of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
dark blue drowsy hills, as the pallid eastern sky, soon
tremulous with a pink suffusion, gave way before a
glow deepening into radiant crimson, like a vanguard
of fire as the top of the sun emerging from behind the
hills, its slow-revealing disc reaching full form, as-
cended, fiery, imperious and passionate, to confront
him. Chilled and spellbound, he in turn became im-
passioned with splendor and awe, with wonder and he
knew not what, as the great red orb, floating clear of
the hilltops overwhelmed him, flooded the land; and in
white dazzling splendor awakened the world to its
work, to its hopes, to its sorrows, and to its dreams.
Surely the child, sole witness beneath his great ash
tree, his wonder-guardian and firm friend sharing with
him in its stately way as indeed did all the land and
sky and living things of the open the militant splen-
dor of sunrise the breaking of night's dam the tor-
rent and foam of far-spreading day surely this child
that went forth every day became part of sunrise even
as this sunrise became forevermore part of him. The
resounding power of the voice of the Lord of the sky
and earth found in him a jubilant answer an awaken-
ing world within, now aroused from its twilight dream,
its lyric setting sun, its elegy of the gloaming. The
great world was alive to action. Men resumed the
toil of countless ages; the child, illumined, lost in an
epic vision, came slowly to a consciousness of his own
small self, and the normal doings of his own small
day.
He made a long detour through the solemn pine
woods near Whittempre's, crossed the road there, de-
scended into the small valley, followed it to and
[61]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
through a lumpy bog where skunk-cabbages grew and
their synonyms wandered, scaled a low wall, followed
a rivulet that traced from the considerable spring in
the hollow of his own pasture, sat there watching a
small frog, fell asleep, woke up, followed the hollow
to the pasture's high ground, turned into the walled
road leading to the barn, stopped at the pump in the
kitchen yard and was late to breakfast. Grandpa
looked at him quizzically, but said nothing he knew
what the imp had been up to he had heard him leave
the house and had hastily donned gown and slippers,
to watch his grandson disappear up the road to sun-
rise land. Julia was furious in rich brogue concerning
punctuality, and the child, usually so naively communi-
cative, said not a word to anyone about his adventure
it seemed to have happened for himself alone.
Grandpa, amused, amazed and disturbed by this freak
of his grandson, feared precocity in much the manner
that academically trained men are apt to fear mani-
festations of instinct.
The only thing that reassured him was the fact that
his grandson, between spells, was as ridiculously prac-
tical. As a matter of fact Louis was living almost
wholly in the world of instinct. Whatever there was
of intellect consisted in keen accuracy of observation,
and lively interest in all constructive affairs. Without
reflection he admired work. To see men at work, and
himself to work, especially if he could participate, was
his childish joy. With never a serious illness, most
carefully reared as to his diet and early hours, he was
sound. Though he was his grandparents' pet, disparity
in age, occupation and thought left him much to him-
[62]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
self and he did mostly as he pleased. What marked
him apart and comforted his elders was an entire ab-
sence in him of destructive tendency. Therefore they
allowed him the utmost freedom to go and come and
do. This morning, breakfast out of the way, and
Julia also, he went at once to his garden. His quick
eye detected a fallen nasturtium ; with his finger he dug
up the offending cut-worm. How could a cut-worm
do so shocking a thing? Had he not reared all these
cherished beauties from the very seed? Had he not
watched them growing, day by day, from infancy to
blossom-time putting forth tender leaf after leaf, and
unfolding their tiny buds into lovely flowers? Had
he not watered them and weeded? How often had
he wondered at what made them grow. How often,
on hands and knees close up had he peered and
gazed long, hungrily, minutely at them one by one,
absorbed in their translucent intimacy; indeed wor-
shipped them in friendship until he seemed to feel them
grow; that they were of his world and yet not of his
world; that they seemed to live their own lives apart
from his life/ But he never said a word of this to
Grandpa or to Grandma They might not understand
and Grandpa might laugh.
After further careful inspection, he left his garden
friends for the day; and equipped as before, made his
way to the ravine with its sturdy rivulet and the
wreckage of a dam. But this he judged was not dam-
building day. He had not seen the full spread of his
domain. He must explore. So saying, he followed
the rivulet eastward out of the heavily wooded ravine,
into a broad field of meadow grass where the small
[63]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
clear stream now flowed in tranquillity winding its
way. As he lifted his eyes from its course, there,
solitary in the meadow, stood the most beautiful tree
of all. He knew it at once for an elm; but such tall
slender grace he had never seen. Its broad slim fronds
spreading so high and descending in lovely curves en-
tranced him. He compared it with the two Tompson
elms. They were tall and spreading but stiff and
sturdy. Now he knew why he had never adopted them :
they were pruned from the ground way up to the
big strong branches, while this lovely sister of the
meadow, beneath her branching plume, put forth from
her slender trunk delicate frothy branchlets reaching
almost to the meadow grass. Her beauty was incom-
parable.
Then he thought of his great ash tree. How dif-
ferent it was so grand, so brooding, so watchful on
the crest of the hill; and at times, he firmly believed
so paternal so big-brotherly. But the lovely elm was
his infatuation he had adopted her at first sight, and
still gazed at her with a sweetness of soul he had
never known. He became infiltrated, suffused, inspired
with the fateful sense of beauty. He melted for an
instant into a nameless dream, wherein he saw he was
sufficient unto herself, that like his garden plants
she lived a life of her own, apart from his life. Yet
they both lived in the same big world they both, for
the moment, stood in the same green field. Was there
nothing in common ? Did she not know he was there ?
Then he awoke ! he came to his senses, and turned
to the practical business of hunting wild strawberries
in the meadow grass. His dream had flitted by like
[64]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
a bird of passage. He looked upon her sanely now.
She was still uniquely beautiful, he thought, in free
admiration. So he had two trees now all his own,
and powerfully prized. It was all agreed. Then he
moved further north to a dense mass of rather tall
pines. He pushed in some distance, saw a crow's nest
overhead, climbed painfully up to it, had barely looked
in when came a horrible cawing; angry crows came sud-
denly from everywhere, bent on his destruction. Amid
a fierce clamor, he descended to safety and then and
there fixed those gloomy pines as the eastern boun-
dary of his domain. He explored until he found in
another field, on slightly higher ground, the deep clear
wellspring from which the rivulet flowed. Thence he
followed its windings, wading as he went. Grasshop-
pers in alarm hopped foolishly into the stream and
floated along; now and then a small frog jumped the
other way for safety. There were a few strawberries
peeping from the grass along the banks; the channel
was cutting deeper into the meadow and held more
water; as he rounded a long curve he became aware
of a great presence near him; it was his elm; he craned
his neck to look at the branches way up in the sky, but
his interest was centered in his new friend the rivulet ;
he had not room for both just now. The little stream
began to ripple and sing sweetly to the child all alone
in the meadow in the full sunshine all alone; with
plenty of company. Then the rivulet began to hurry
and gurgle. Louis scaled the fence quickly to see the
water descend all at once in a beautiful cascade of
about his own height. After this, noisily foaming, it
poured among the boulders to the lower level where
[651
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
he had built the dam, and, as he knew, moved on to
the marsh.
He had reached his sanctuary in the shady grove,
and sat a while on the lower or northern bank, to watch
the squirrels. It seemed so funny to see a gray squirrel
run head first down a tall tree, sit up straight in the
grass, frisk his tail, wag his head, scamper to the next
tree, run up and out to the end of a branch and
jump from that to a branch of the next tree. He
laughed gleefully at these antics. Meanwhile came
from the undergrowth the note of the brown thrush,
and from above various twitterings, chirpings, and dis-
tant floating meadow songs. It was now time to estab-
lish the northern boundary. The north bank of the
ravine sloped rather gently upward, and as it emerged
from the grove it rounded and flattened into a lumpy
pasture, with many boulders large and small, and
plants of mullein scattered over its surface. He must
include this pasture because here was the milk supply,
and besides, the pasture was green. All along the
north border of it stood a dense growth of young
pines which he found impenetrable and repellant, so he
fixed his northern boundary resolutely there. As to the
southern boundary he was in some doubt. It should,
properly, be located a little way south of the crest of
the ravine where the grove ended. He mounted the
height and stood at the edges of a sterile stony sun-
burned pasture no trees, no cows; nothing biu mul-
leins. This would not do. Yet he yearningly gazed
beyond it to the long Tompson hillock crowned with
beautiful lofty hard wood trees running parallel to the
ravine. He wished this grove to be his, but could not
66]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
accept the miserable pasture. He thought hard, and
solved his problem this way: He would fix the south
boundary at the crest of the ravine, and would annex
the Tompson Grove as an outpost The boundary of
the meadow he had already fixed, much farther south
than the ravine, at a cross fence near the spring, where
the meadow ended and a cultivated field began. He
contemplated for a while, and saw that all thus far
was good.
Now for the marsh at which he had cast covetous
eyes as he, yesterday, peered under the lower branches
of his grove as through a portal. His expectations were
far exceeded by the revelation. It was a lovely marsh,
shaped like an oval, enshrined by the diminishing trees
of his grove and a margin of heavy shrubbery all
around. In the near background beyond the far end
of the marsh were scattering swamp pines and cedars
standing very straight and tapering to a point; they
were welcome to him as they stood on guard behind the
dense thicket. But the marsh itself how beautiful
covered with water half-knee deep, filled with groups
of tall bulrushes, of reeds, of blue flag, and slender
grasses; and bright flowers here and there along the
wavering edge. What joy to wade and wade, length-
wise and crosswise, pulling up a flag now and again and
stripping it to reach the edible core; following the
margin to seek out hidden flowers. It was too much;
too much at one time for one small boy. And then,
in mingled affection and gratitude he established as
western boundary a vague semicircle of deep green
holding in its heart a marsh his marsh without price.
Slowly he returned to the dam-site to think it all over.
[67]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Now was the work done. The boundaries of his do-
main established. The domain his very own. His
breast swelled with pride. It was all his. No other
boy should ever enter those lovely precincts. No other
boy could understand. Besides, he loved solitude as
he loved activity, and the open.
Thus an entire month sped by as he reigned supreme.
Not a soul came to disturb him: Rabbits, squirrels,
birds and snakes were company enough. When he
wished to play with other boys he went to them and
joined in their games. While his heart was fixed in
one spot, he made many tours of exploration ; he called
on many farmers and shoemakers. He even went so
far one day as to enter the stove foundry beside the
tracks, near the depot. He went frankly to a work-
man, watched him a while and told the man he liked
to see him work. The moulder, mucji amused, said he
would show him how it was all done. Louis spent
the entire afternoon there; the moulder carefully ex-
plained to him every large and minute procedure. The
child was amazed; a new world had opened to him
the world of handicraft, the vestibule of the great
world of art that he one day was to enter and ex-
plore. He went away holding this mouldennan in
special honor, although he was not very big nor very
strong. He even visited the rattan works but did
not like the dust and noise. He saw nothing but a
long slender cane coming out of a machine.
One day he saw a man in a wagon. The wagon
was going without a horse. Also he visited a shoe-
maker named Boardman who lived near his home and
whom he knew well; a swarthy little man, with black
[68]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
beard, black beady eyes, who both worked and chewed
tobacco furiously. There he learned every detail of
making pegged and sewed shoes; he saw them built
from beginning to end. He would spend hours with
this shoemaker who made shoes every day, while the
farmers made shoes only in winter. The man liked to
have him around; and once in a while he would sus-
pend work, and, to amuse the child, would extinguish
the life of a fly on the opposite wall with an unerring
squirt of tobacco juice. Louis danced with joy. What
a wonderful man to spit like that. He tried to spit
tiiat way himself failing ignominiously. The man told
him he must spit hard between his teeth; and Louis
did spit hard between his teeth; without avail. Then
the Boardman man would catch flies with his hand
and eat them, or pretend to eat them. Louis believed
he really ate them. Then the shoemaker would return
to his furious work, and Louis in admiration would
wander on. The neighbors said this man Boardman
was a lowdown sport who staid sober and worked hard
only to get money to bet on the races whatever that
meant. But thus far Louis had made no social dis-
tinctions. It did delight him, though, at a certain sea-
son, to see Boardman, all dressed up and flashy, jump
into his surrey behind a nervous high-stepping steed,
start away with a prancing rush and disappear down
the Stoneham Road lost in a trailing cloud of dust.
For a long time after this event Boardman would not
be seen thereabouts.
Also he would visit Farmer Hopkins to watch him
break a fallow field with his monstrous team of oxen,
swaying and heaving heavily against the yoke, with
[69]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
low-bending heads and foaming mouths, as the man,
with one booted foot in the furrow, guided the plow-
share as it turned up the beautiful black soil of the
bottom land, while the man said, "gee-haw"; "haw";
u haw-gee." Many such trips he made, always starting
from his secret domain. Evenings he would tease Julia
to tell him Irish fairy tales. How lovely, how beau-
tiful they were, with fairies, elves, gnomes and a great
company, weaving spells of enchantment in the moon-
light. He lived them all. Julia was a robust Irish
peasant who remained with the family for nine long
years. Fiery was her hair; brilliant her white perfect
teeth of which same she was very proud. And had she
a temper? Surel She had a temper that came and
went like a storm. She was not long since come to
America. Many evenings her Irish women friends
called and they talked Irish together. He had never
heard anything" so sweet, so fluid, except the rivulet.
He could listen by the hour; and Julia taught him a
few words.
All was running smoothly. It had not in the least
occurred to him that all this time he had been a
truant. No one had said anything for a whole month ;
or asked any questions.
Then came the crash ! Teacher had written. Little
was said at home. He was simply sent back to school.
Here he languished in misery. But help soon came
as suddenly as the crash. His father had opened a
summer school in Newburyport. Grandma had writ-
ten to Mama; Mama had told it to Father; Father de-
cided that the grandparents were too soft; they had let
his child grow up like a weed; they had pampered him
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
outrageously; it was high time his son was brought
to him, that he might establish in him a sense of respect,
order, discipline, obedience. So Mama took the train
to South Reading. She spent a few days there visiting
her parents. She looked at her son with a sadness he
could not understand, but she found it not in her heart
to chide. The day of their departure arrived. With
many a sob he had said good-bye to all. They were
driven to the depot. Mother and son boarded the
train for Newburyport The engine puffed the train
sped on its way. Came to an end the day-dreaming
of a child.
[711
CHAPTER V
Newburyport
THE train now well under way for Newburyport,
our poet, he of the dream-life, crawled forth
from his cave of gloom and began to take notice.
Soon he was all notice and no gloom. His prior and
only trip in a railway train was now over two years
back in ancient history, which signified oblivion. Hence
all was now new and novel. He began at once, at
the very beginning of the beginning, that intolerable,
interminable series of questions which all children ask
and no mother can for long stand the strain of answer-
ing. He did his mother the wholly unsolicited and
unwelcome honor of assuming as a finality that she
knew the names of every farmer along the route, that
she knew why the trees went by so fast, why the tele-
graph wires rose and fell and rose again; that she
was personally acquainted with the conductor and the
brakeman. At the forty-seventh question, Mother, who
was only twenty-eight and not very strong, became
drowsy with fatigue just as her son was becoming
rigidly interested. Mother was not the only one asleep ;
everybody was asleep ; and he noticed that they were all
greasy with sweat and dust and grotesquely relaxed.
He was intent on knowing the brakeman's name. For
that purpose he moved up the aisle, managed to open
the door, was on tjhe platform and would have
been pitched to Kingdom Come as the ramshackle
train rounded a sharp curve, had not a white-faced
brakeman grabbed him, thrust him back into the car
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
and, with a string of New England profanities, wanted
to know why in thunder he was out on the platform.
The child replied that he had come to ask him his name ;
to which the brakeman replied; "Wall, I swow, you
be a cute un; you'll be President some day." So the
child immediately transferred his questionnaire from
oblivious Mama to his wide awake new friend whom
he found good natured, and much amused, and whose
name as far as this recorder knows, may have been
Matthew, Luke, David or Moses all favorites in that
day; but there were also many Johns, Jameses, Marks,
Samuels, Ezechiases but no Solomons. He put the
brakeman through an exhaustive examination and cross-
examination concerning this, that and the other, after
he had induced him to detail his family connections
and home life, and to give assurance that he was not
a Papist, and had not hated his teacher.
Then began the technical inquisition: Why did the
wires move up and down all the time? What were
the wires for? Why did the poles whizz by? What
did "telegraph" mean? What made that funny noise
all the time, click-a-lick-click-click, click-a-lick click-click-
click? And so on and so on. He was amazed at
what the brakeman knew. It was wonderful how
much he knew. Then came a toot for the next station ;
the brakeman swung open the door, let out a yell
that startled the child, reminding him of the Baptist
minister in South Reading, and began to twist the
hand-brake with all his strength. The child saw all
this through the open door. How wonderful that one
man could be so strong as to stop a car that had been
going so fast? Wasn't it splendid to see a man in
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
action? He adopted "Luke" Immediately. At the
station Luke helped him down the steps, and he began
verifying certain statements. For Luke had only told
him; he wanted to see. So he examined the link and
coupling pins, the flange on the wheels, the iron rails
which he found badly frayed from wear, the open
joints, the fish plates, the spikes, the ties, and was
crawling under the car to examine the trucks when
a strange man yanked him out and asked him if he
was crazy. The bell rang; the brakeman hoisted him
aboard before he had had time to go forward and ask
the engineer his name, and the fireman his name, and
how much wood it took, and what made the choo-
choo. True the brakeman had told him all about it,
but that wasn't seeing; and besides he wished to know
the engineer and the fireman personally, for they must
be great men it must be a wonderful man who could
keep the engine on the track and steer it around all
those curves as the brakeman said he did. And the
brakeman said the fireman expected to be an engineer
some day, but that he himself didn't expect to brake
no cars all his life it was just hell in winter; and
he went on to tell of his ambition, said he'd be damned
if he'd work for anybody much longer; he'd save
up some money and was going to have other men
work for him, and he'd make more money out of them.
He'd drive 'em, he said; he'd learn 'em what a day's
work meant when they worked for him, he would;
and so on, excitedly. The child took no interest in
this and wandered back to his mother, who, having
observed him in safe hands, had not troubled. He
started to tell her all about his new friend, what
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
a great man he was, that he wore three woolen under-
shirts in winter, and knew the name of every station,
and all about links and pins, and engines and tele-
graph and everything, until Mama wearily turned
toward him and gasped: "Louis! Louis!! Mon duu )
you are a pest!" Louis thought it strange that his
Mamma was not interested in what interested him,
yet failed to reflect that the brakeman's get-rich ro-
mance had bored him. So on went the train swaying,
rattling, banging, clanking, sinking suddenly, rising
suddenly, screeching infernally around the curves,
amidst smoke and dust and an overpowering roar.
Soon there were two bedraggled ones sweatily sleeping
side by side, and from the roar unfolded for one of
them a dream of much mixed up brakemen, wheels,
engineers, telegraphs, wood, links, pins, firemen, trucks
but no conductor; the conductor had not interested
him, for he had a big belly, a heavy gold watch chain
across it, gray chin whiskers, wore spectacles and did
nothing but walk up and down, punch tickets and
stick bits of cards in people's hats. Faintly the brake-
wheel creaked; and a distant voice seemed to call the
name of a station NEWBURYPORT! 1
The town, in, by, and of itself, made no first im-
pression on him, other than one of quiet commonplace.
It was not very different from the village of South
Reading, only it was larger and had more streets and
houses.
The family had taken quarters in an old-looking
building called a hotel a word new to the child. The
hotel fronted on a square in which were trees, and
[75]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
on the other side of the square but not opposite the
hotel was the town hall, and in front of the town hall
was the town pump of which, more later. Thus
the family "boarded" at the hotel. The dining room
was a large dreary cave containing one long table at
which the boarders sat facing each other. From the
middle one could not see the end of the rows of vacant
sallow faces. The family had places in the middle
Louis sitting next to Mamma. He was hungry
always hungry. It was their first joint struggle against
dyspepsia. Not much was said for a while; then Louis,
in confidential tones, suitable to a pasture, uttered
this sage judgment: "Mamma; this gravy isn't like
Grandmamma's gravy; this is only just a little flour
and water 1" Mamma made big eyes and grasped his
-arm, a titter went along the opposite row, napkins to
faces, whispers exchanged, some rude persons laughed,
and some one said "Hurrah 1" Lucky Grandpa wasn't
there the ceiling would have fallen. Everybody was
stunned at the child's bravado, but assent was beaming.
Perhaps, even, they yearned for some of Grandmam-
ma's gravy; why not? if they but knewl The child
looked at the opposite row of faces in astonishment.
What was it all about? If the gravy was only a little
flour and water, why not say so ? Besides, he was only
talking to Mamma anyway. And moreover, he did
not see anything to laugh at, at all. It was a serious
matter, this flour and water.
Mamma said she would tell him something after
a while when they were alone. And she did. Accord-
ing to her view, children, in public, should be seen
but not heard; they should speak only when spoken
to; they should be well mannered, circumspect; they
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
should especially be respectful toward their elders ; they
must never put themselves forward, or try to be smart
or show off, or otherwise attract attention to them-
selves; must remain in the background; speak in sub-
dued tones and say: "yes, s * r " <<no > sir >" "y es ma'am,"
"no, ma'am," and she thus went on setting forth a com-
plete code of ethics and etiquette for children in general
and for her child in especial particularity, for she trusted
he would not become, so she said, a young ruffian like
other people's children that were devoid of table man-
ners in particular, and used the language of the streets.
This was Mamma's theory. In practice she vacillated,
oscillated, vibrated, ricochetted, made figures of eight
and spirals in her temperamental emotionalism and
mother love, meanwhile clutching at the straw of her
theory. And this was not all. Secretly she kept a
note book. In this she entered carefully and minutely
all the wonderful sayings of her son as observed by
herself, or as transmitted in long letters from Grand-
mamma. True to form, she immediately entered the
gravy item, wrote a long letter to Grandmamma about
it, confessed she nearly strangled in suppressing her
delight; and how the other people present were con-
vulsed, as a loud voice, within the dining room's wilder-
ness, proclaimed the unholy truth that this was not
like Grandmamma's gravy it was only just a little
flour and water. Officially the child was squelched;
and officially Mamma kept an eye to weatherward.
But in her secret book she gave way to self flattery.
Not so with Father. There was no sentiment, no
nonsense about him. He would not rave for thirty
minutes over a single blossom; a brief moment of
appreciation sufficed; during which he would express
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
regret at the absence in him of the sense of smell.
This was the regular formula unless it came to
"Scenery." What he had fixed firmly in mind was
a practical program fitted to a child that had grown
up like a weed a program of physical training, com-
bined with presumptive education and sure discipline.
This program he set in motion by pulling his son out
of bed at five in the morning, standing him upright,
hurrying him into his clothes and leading him by the
hand straight to the town pump. Here Sullivan Senior
pumped vigorously until certain the water was of low-
est temperature; then he gave unto the child to drink.
The child, as commanded, drank the full cup, shud-
dered, and complained of the chill. Well, if he was
chilly, he must run, to establish circulation again a
new word. There was no help for it. After a sharp
quarter mile, the son of Patrick Sullivan was con-
vinced that "circulation" was now established, and
said so. They settled to a brisk walk. At the end
of two miles they came upon a narrow arm of the
sea, which spread into a beautiful sequestered pool, at
the point reached, with water deep, and clear green,
and banks quite high. Strip ! was the order. Strip it
was. No sooner done than the high priest dexterously
seized the neophyte, and, bracing himself, with a back-
forward swing cast the youngster far out, saw him
splash and disappear; then he dived, came up beside
a wildly splashing sputtering unit, trod water, put
the child in order, and with hand spread under his
son's breast began to teach him the simple beginnings
of scientific swimming. "Must not stay too long in
the water," he said. "Would Sonny like a ride astride
Papa's shoulders to a landing?" Sonny would and did.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
He gloried as he felt beneath him the powerful heave
and sink and heave of a fine swimmer, as he grasped
his father's hair, and saw the bank approach.
On land he took note of his father's hairy chest,
his satiny white skin and quick flexible muscles over
which the sunshine danced with each movement. He
had never seen a man completely stripped, and was
pleased and vastly proud to have such a father, espe-
cially when the father, an object lesson in view, made
exhibition dives and swam this way and that way in
lithe mastery. And he asked his father to promise
him he would teach him how to do these things, that
he too might become a great swimmer. For he had
a new ideal now, an ideal upsprung in a morning's
hour a vision of a company of naked mighty men,
with power to do splendid things with their bodies.
The return journey passed quickly and excitedly.
Would Papa take him again to the pool? Yes, Papa
would take him every morning to the pool. And
would he have to swallow any more salt water? Not
unless he opened his mouth at the wrong time. And
why was the water salt, and why did it tingle the
skin so queerly? Because it was sea water. And
would Papa show him the sea? Yes, Papa would
show him the sea, and ships under sail; and Papa
would some day take him to the shipyards where ships
were built. Ah, what prospects of delight! How
big the world was growing, how fast the world was
spreading. Had not Papa promised him?
*Tfhe dingy hotel loomed ahead; a mighty craving
arose. To the child, the bowl of cold oatmeal was
super-manna. Father's dietary law was strict; simple
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
foods, no coiee, no tea, no pastry, a little meat; and
strictly taboo was white flour bread, for the millers
had even then begun their work; lots of milk, some
brown sugar, plenty of greens and fruit, potatoes only
when baked, or boiled in their jackets and so eaten;
no greasy things; and at times a tiny sip of claret
as a bonus. His time-law for young people was : Taps
at eight o'clock, reveille five o'clock. He put his son
through a fine and highly varied course of calisthenics
to make him supple and resilient. He took him daily
to the pump and the pool, made of him for his age
a competent diver and swimmer, made him vault fences,
throw stones at a mark; taught him to walk properly
head up, chin in, chest out; to stride easily from the
hip, loose in the shoulders. And the child worked
with gusto; it became play; for the father did all
these things with him jointly they even ran races to-
gether, and threw stones at marks, in competition.
Surely it was intensive training; but Father was wise
in these respects: He knew that where there was hard
work, there must also be leisure and relaxation, and
time for carefree play. Father was forty-five then,
and wondrous wise for his day and generation. To
be sure his profession gave him the time to spare.
So, the family frequently went a-picnicking to the
lovely banks of the Merrimac River, and elsewhere to
shady groves and beauty spots.
This Sunday, it was the first trip to the Merrimac
a clear, calm summer day, not too warm.
They found, at the bend of the river, a bit of green-
sward, sufficiently shaded, yet leaving an open view of
the woods across the water*
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
The great stream flowed by tranquilly: Its dark
brown mirror solemnly picturing woods and sky.
The child had never seen a river. Was it not
wonderful, this river so wide, so dark, so silent, so
swift in its flow? How could such things be? Why
had he not known?
Here and there a small fish jumped, leaving a pretty
circle of ripples where it fell; and then arose into
the air an enormous sturgeon, to fall heavily back,
making a great hole whence came a rush of circles
expanding magically to the shores, causing sky and
trees to totter and twist; then all would be calm again
and silent, as the great stream flowed on and on care-
less of trifles; on and on, so Papa said, until its waters
should mingle with the sea's ; on and on, day and night,
winter and summer, year after year, before we were
born, when we are gone, so Papa said, its waters had
flowed and would evermore flow to the sea.
Papa and Mamma had begun to draw pictures of
the opposite shore, and were absorbed in the doing.
The child watched sturgeon after sturgeon leap and
fall; they seemed to shoot out of the water's surface.
He had never seen such big strong fishes ; he had seen
nothing larger than minnows and sunfish in South
Reading. But here on this river everything was large.
So thinking he wandered downstream along the
water's edge, musing about South Reading, recalling
his rivulet, his dam, his marsh. How small they
seemed. And then there arose his tall, slender elm,
his great ash tree to comfort him. Mechanically he
ascended a hill, entered a heavy grove, musing, as he
went, upon the great river Merrimac; lost in the
thought that the world about him was growing so
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
large that it seemed out of proportion to him too
great for his little size, too bewildering for his un-
tutored mind. Meanwhile something large, something
dark was approaching unperceived; something ominous,
something sinister that silently aroused him to a sense
of its presence. He became aware; he peered through
the foliage. What was it? He could not quite see;
he could not make out; except that it was huge, long
and dark. He thought of turning back, for he was
but a little boy, alone in the woods bordering a dark-
running river whose power had stilled him, and the
lonely grove that stilled him; he was high strung with
awe; he could glimpse the river; he was moving for-
ward, unthinkingly, even while he thought of turning
back. The dark thing came ever nearer, nearer in
the stillness, became broader, looming, and then it
changed itself into full view an enormous terrifying
mass that overhung the broad river from bank to
bank.
The child's anxious heart hurt him. What could
this monster mean? He tried to call for Papa, but
found no voice. He wished to cry out but could not.
He saw great iron chains hanging in the air. How
could iron chains hang in the air? He thought of
Julia's fairy tales and what the giants did. Might
there be a fairy in the woods nearby? And then he
saw a long flat thing under the chains; and this thing
too seemed to float in the air; and then he saw two
great stone towers taller than the trees. Could these
be the giants? And then of a sudden, mystery of mys-
teries, he saw a troll, not much bigger than a man,
come out of the fairy forest, driving a fairy team.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
The troll went right across on the flat thing that
floated In the air, and vanished. This must be the
land of enchantment that Julia told about. A wicked
wizard has done this thing. A giant will come soon
to eat up a little boy. And the trees murmured: "Yes;
a wicked wizard has done this thing a giant will
come to eat up a little boy good-bye, little boy" and
the river said: u Good-bye little boy" and the great
iron chains said: "Good-bye little boy." The child
shrieked: u Papa! Papa! Papal" Instanter Papa ap-
peared ah, the good fairy had waved her wand in the
enchanted wood! Papa had become concerned at the
child's long absence, and was angry that his son should
have gone away without asking permission. He had
intended to spank the child; but one look at that up-
turned face, at those eyes glazed with approaching
madness halted him in alarm. "What's the matter,
Sonny? Did something frighten you?" "Oh, Papa,
Papa, see the big iron chains hanging in the air, see the
two giants turned to stone, see the flat thing floating in
the air. A troll just came over it with horses and
wagon. I am to be eaten up by a giant. The troll
with the magic wagon is coming to get me now. I am
to be eaten by a giant, Papa; the trees have just said
good-bye, little boy; the river has said good-bye, little
boy; Oh, Papa, did the good fairy send you to save
me?" Papa, thoroughly alarmed, impulsively said:
"Yes, dear"; then, soothingly: "Sonny, you must not
listen any more in memory to Julia's Irish tales. They
are not true, now. There are not any giants or goblins,
or trolls or elves or even fairies any more anywhere.
They lived only in people's fancy long ago, when Ire-
land was young. It is onlv the tales that are told to-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
for the Irish have ever loved romance. Their
heads are filled with queer notions. They imagine
things that are not so. Papa lived in Ireland once;
he knows what is true. Now we will go to the bridge
and see it all." "And what is a bridge, Papa ?" "That
is what you are to see. Don't be afraid. It won't
hurt you." So they went to the nearby bridge.
As they crossed to the Amesbury side the Father felt
the nervous clutch of his child's hand about his fore-
finger. His own mind began to clear; now the child's
mind must be cleared. So he explained that the road-
way of the bridge was just like any other road, only
it was held up over the river by the big iron chains;
that the big iron chains did not float in the air but were
held up by the stone towers over the top of which they
passed and were anchored firmly into the ground at
each end beyond the towers; that the road-bed was
hung to the chains so it would not fall into the river.
That the bridge was so strong that many people and
loaded teams could pass over it at the same time;
and as he said this, happily some teams and people
came and went. Father was clever in making simple
explanations of things he knew something about. This
expertness came of his long training in teaching little
tots to dance. His skill and patience in this respect
were fine art. So, gradually, he brought his son out of
nightmare-land into the daylight of reality. For
shameful fear, he substituted in his son's heart con-
fidence and courage. Thus was the child-mind freed
again to wonder what men could do; to adjust itself
to the greater world into which it had been suddenly
catapulted from South Reading's tiny world. Within
that little spot of earth he had never seen a river,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
never a bridge, for neither river nor bridge were there
to be seen. On their way to rejoin Mamma, the child
turned backward to gaze in awe and love upon the
great suspension bridge. There, again, it hung in air
beautiful in power. The sweep of the chains so
lovely, the roadway barely touching the banks. And
to think it was made by men! How great must men
be, how wonderful; how powerful, that they could
make such a bridge; and again he worshipped the
worker.
Mamma had become alarmed; but Father, on the
approach, gave her a hush-sign. Evening was on the
wing; dew was in the air; dark Merrimac still flowed,
sturgeons still leaped high, a cricket chirped its first,
cheerful note. They returned to the dismal house
of flour and water.
This child was soon abed; the father sank into deep
thought: This would never do; the boy must be pro-
tected against himself; he was overexciteable ; he must
not be let go into the woods alone, nor near any
mystic thing. His blood must be cooled more water;
no meat ; his mind must be directed to everyday things ;
he would take him into the active world, to the ship-
yards, to see ships a-building; he would take him to
Plum Island, to get the salt sea air, to see the real
ocean, with its ships coming and going under full sail ;
he would explain all these practical things to him and
keep his mind wholesome; he must be educated to
realities, disciplined, shown life as it is. And Father,
thus ruminating, turned in.
Now they are at the shipyards, father and son. Four
or five ships are in progress on the ways; others are
being rigged in the slips. One is a skeleton, another
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
almost ready to launch. There is much hubbub; men
going here and there. The strident song of the caulk-
ing iron saws the air; odor of tar everywhere; fine
view of the harbor, craft of all kinds moving this way
and that some at anchor. Here in the shipyard were
crowds of men working, doing many things, all mov-
ing at the same time all urging toward a great end.
The child was in a seventh heaven; here were his
beloved strong men, the workers his idols. What
a great world it was into which he had been thrust
the great river, the wonderful bridge, the harbor, the
full rigged ships so gallantly moving. And what new
words too circulation, calisthenics, catenary, dietary,
suspension bridge and others, that seemed very long,
very strange indeed. Was he also entering a world
of words? Were there many more such words?
Eagerly he watched a man working with an adze.
The man was lying on his back and chipping over-
head. Then the man turned on his side and chipped
sidewise; then he chipped between his feet and in front
of his feet. Was it not wonderful? He had never
seen an adze, nor a man at work with an adze. Here,
the man took off heavy chips and there only thin shav-
ings; was it not wonderful? He wished to talk to the
man, but the man was too busy; perhaps the man wished
to keep his feet to walk home with. And all the
other men were too busy to talk to him; they did
not seem to know he was there, except one man near
a kettle of hot tar who told him to get out of the
way. And there were men boring holes in great planks ;
other men steaming planks, other men carrying planks,
other men bending the planks against the ribs of the
ship, other men driving in with sledge hammers great
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
iron bolts to keep the planks in place, and these men,
he guessed, had no time to talk to him. He wondered
why the ships were all set stern-end toward the water.
He wondered how "they" were going to get them
into the water. And there were men who drove oakum
a new word into the joints between the planks.
They did it with a thin wedge and a funny looking
mallet, and made a sound that beat upon his ear
drums. He could get near enough to some of these
men to talk to them, but they were too busy to hear
him ; and he saw men painting* another ship which was
all ready to be pushed into the water. And there
was such a rush and crowd of things that were new
to him that he was joyfully dazed very happy, very
serious.
He had his first view of the power of concerted
action; but he did not look at it that way. To him
it seemed the work of individual men working sep-
arately, or of small groups of men helping each other
a great crowd of men each doing his own work in
his own way. To be sure, he saw men walking about
who spoke to the workmen, and the workmen always
had to listen to these men. In the great confusion
he had not sensed order, and therefore did not ask
Papa about it. Yet he saw the ships grow, and saw
the workmen make them grow.
He walked all over the place with Papa, ever inquisi-
tive, peering here and there. The hum of work was
everywhere. He keenly sensed its greatness. What
could men not do if they could do this, and if they
could make a great bridge suspended in the air over
the Merrimac. He poured forth his questions and
Papa answered them pretty well, but a bit pedantically
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
where he was not posted. He used too many big
words. He concealed with them what he did not know.
A few days later father and son saw the launching
of a ship, and the child had another spasm of wonder,
for the ship seemed to him to launch itself; he did
not see any men pushing it, and Father recited some-
thing about "she seems to feel the thrill of life along
her keel," which he said was poetry because it all
rhymed, so the child learned at once what poetry was
it was a new word. And again came the regular
questionnaire, and again Father did his best, using
however, so many strange long words that the child
became drugged and drowsy with them and said he
wanted to go home; so they both, father and son,
went home.
And soon the child began to tease to be taken to
Plum Island, to see the ocean his father had talked
about. Strangely enough there wasn't any ocean at
South Reading, any more than there was a great river
and a wonderful bridge there; any more than there
was a great shipyard and a great harbor. At South
Reading there was only a railroad and two ponds a
big pond and a little pond and some hills. So the
son, accompanied by the father, went to Plum Island,
for he had said, "This is to be mine, isn't it, Papa?"
And the father had relaxed at the idea.
There they stood, in a stiff salt breeze, on the sharply
sloping rounded beach; some drifting clouds in a pale
sky, some ships in the offing. True, he had seen the
ocean at Cape Ann, seen it in furious, terrifying, storm-
ing moods; seen it as huge glossy ground swells, as
glancing, dancing wavelets in the sunshine; but that
was long, long ago when he was three; he had wholly
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
forgotten what happened when he was three and
four and five. He had forgotten even that he had
fallen into a well there. He had, like the workmen
in the shipyard, been too busy all these years, these
months, these days.
Even South Reading was fading before the glory of
the new-risen day; this engulfing splendor of Newbury-
port, as they stood there, on the hard wet sand, two
figures solitary, a mere speck, a minute accent on the
monotonous miles of beach and pounding surf. The
child looked far seaward, without emotion, save a sense
of dull platitude, of endless nothingness, of meaning-
less extension. The sea was merely rough, without
mood, dull in color, spotted here and there by a cloud's
shadow. It left him indifferent, all except the green
and white combing surf which was in merry mood,
He wished to wade in but Father said positively no,
the beach was too steep, the undertow too strong.
Undertow? Undertow? another word more expla-
nations. He built sand forts which the rising tide
made short work of; he ran up and down the beach,
waded in the dry sand, found some wild cranberry
bushes. He ran back to Papa who was wrapped in
thought, standing with folded arms, facing the sea.
Far to the east, far over the waters lay Ireland, he
said to his son. The son looked for Ireland; it was
not to be seen; but he cried out of a sudden: "Papa,
some of those ships are sinking! One is all gone but
the top of the masts; one is just beginning to sink!"
Father, who wished to educate his son, now found
his work cut out for him. How explain the curvature
of the sea? How explain the horizon? How prove
that the ships were not sinking? He went at it bravely,
[89]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
patiently, doggedly, step by step; he even made dia-
grams on his drawing pad. Little by little the child
grasped the idea ; he brightened with intelligence. His
Father had opened for him then and there a new,
an utterly unsuspected world the world of pure knowl-
edge vaster than the sea, vaster than the sky. And
for the child, the portal to that limitless world was an
illusion a sinking ship.
Now it was time to return to Boston. The school
must open soon. In the bustle of preparation the day
he was seven passed unnoticed even by himself. New-
buryport departed Boston came.
[90]
PLATE 6. Walker Warehouse, 200-214 South Market
Street, Chicago. 1888-89. Demolished in 1953.
View from the southeast.
PLATE 7. Walker Warehouse (see Plate 6). Impost on
east facade.
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PLATE 9. Martin Ryerson Tomb, Graceland Cemetery,
Chicago. 1889. Constructed of highly-polished
blue-black Quincy granite.
CHAPTER VI
Boston
AS ONE in tranquillity gazes into the crystal depths
/% called Memory, in search of sights and sounds
* and colors long since physically passed out from
what is otherwise called memory; when one is intent,
not upon recalling but upon re-entering, he finds a
double motion setting in. While out of the gray sur-
face-obscurity of supposed oblivion, there emerges to
his view, as through a thinning haze, a broad vision
assuming the color and movement of a life once lived,
of a world once seen and felt to be real, so likewise,
the intensive soul moves eagerly forward descending
through intervening atmospheric depths toward this
oncoming solid reality of time and place, a reality grow-
ing clearer, more colorful, more vibrant, more alluring,
more convincing filling the eye, the ear with sound
and color and movement, with broad expanses, with
minute details, with villages and cities, farms and
work shops, men and women densely gathered or
widely scattered, and children, little children always
and everywhere. So moving, the two great illusions,
the two dreams of the single dreamer, accelerating,
rush onward, and vanish both into a single life which
is but a dream; the dream of the past enfolding and
possessing the dreamer of today; the dreamer of today
enveloping, entering and possessing the dream-reality
of the past; all within the inscrutable stillness of a
power unknown, within which we float, with our all,
and believe ourselves real. We believe in our reality
in our strenuous hours, in our practical doings, in our
declamatory moments, and even in our hours of silence.
[91]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
In sleep there come images before us, floating by, irre-
trievable, or steadfastly convincing; and these we speak
of casually as dreams. We are willing even to extend
the idea of dream to man's ambition. We say such
or such a man had or has dreams of empire, of domin-
ion, of achievement, of fulfilment of this or that sort.
And occasionally we acknowledge, upon information,
that such dream had taken full possession not of a man
we read about, or see in the plenitude of his power,
but that the dream arose within a child, in broad day-
light as night-dreams do in their way and aroused
in him a passionate desire.
We do not associate the idea of dream with our
strenuous hours of thought and deed in the selfsame
broad daylight. Nor do we see the stars at noon
but they are there. So is a dream there, within every
human, ever day and night unceasingly.
We impeach the dream idea, calling certain men
"Dreamers." We do this in derision much as the
pot might call the kettle black. We do not suspect
that we could not put one foot forth before the other
were we not dreaming; so artificial and sophisticated
are we in our practical moments. And it is even so
as we forget that each of us was once a child; even
as we banish the thought, as crude, that out of that
very child we have grown inevitably to be what we
are ; that the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions, the
reactions, the waking dreams of that child have gov-
erned and determined us, willy-nilly, through the course
of our lives and careers with cpmpelling power that
what the child accepted we accept; that what the child
rejected we reject.
[92]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Thus from the abysm of Memory's stillness, that
child comes into being within Life's dream, within
the dream of eternal time and space; and in him we
behold' what we were and still are. Environment may
influence but it cannot alter. For it is the child in
multiple and in multiple series that creates the flowing-
environment of thought and deed that shall continu-
ously mature in its due time. It is the moving child-
in-multiple of long ago that created for us the basic
environment within which we now live. Thus in a
memory-mirror may we re-discover ourselves. Expect-
ing to find therein a true reflection of ourselves as
we believe we are, the image dissolves as the features
of a long forgotten child confront us. Deny him, we
dare not.
Turning about from self-contemplation we find chil-
dren everywhere. We see the tidal wave of children
moving on and on, we partly under their dominion,
they partly under ours. But theirs is the new, ours
the old ; and, as ancients, we move on, unchanged from
the children that we were leaving our thoughts and
deeds as a beaten trail behind us.
With this image in view the narrator has laid ex-
tended stress upon an authentic study of child life.
Maturing years have made it but too clear that only
on such foundation, resting deep within the vast-mov-
ing and timeless heritage of Instinct and Intellect,
might a valid superstructure be reared into the light
of our day. Men in their fatuity believe that they
cause replicas of themselves to be born of woman; that
they create children like themselves for themselves.
They are picturesquely unaware, in mass, that they
are but instrumental, normally, in bringing forth full
[931
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
grown men and women whom they may never see,
but who, it must be so, are in essence of being with
them at birth, specifically differing from them. Hence
the unceasing flood of child personalities, accepting or
rejecting influences in an environment they had no
share in making. Historically, and in mass, victims
of Fate rather than Masters of Destiny. For Destiny
and Fate alike have birth in what is accepted or re-
jected by the child.
With this digression as a commentary we may now
resume in its natural course the story of a growing
child well known to us, and proceed to extend that
series of rejections and acceptances beginning in his
infancy into an ever enlarging world of fact and fic-
tion until we may perchance obtain a glimpse of what
they really were, and of their significance in determin-
ing his onward drift a drift that as yet has developed
no self-defined momentum.
Shortly after their return to Boston from Newbury-
port, the father, for reasons of his own, whatever they
were, decided to move his family to Halifax, Nova
Scotia. They were away six months.
A small boy stood on the dock at Eastport, Maine,
holding in his hand a huge greengage plum. The same
small boy suffered and saw the agonies of those who
cross the Bay of Fundy. He saw and lived in a hotel
in Halifax, where an Academy was opened. Later
he endured in patience the terrible discipline of his
father, who in below zero weather walked him for
[94]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
miles along the bleak "Northwest Arm," to return
with white cheeks and nose, only to be told to wash
his face in snow the father doing the like. He saw
his gods blasting a deep trench for water pipe through
the solid slate ledge, and again he marvelled at what
men could do. He saw the great citadel crowning
the heights, and from it, he viewed the harbor. Then
came calamity. Mamma was taken down with diph-
theria; and he saw the great and grand Newfound-
land dog, that had welcomed them effusively on their
arrival and had adopted them at once, lying day after
day, night after night, faithfully guarding 'her cham-
ber door. Mamma recovered; but her illness was pro-
phetic of change.
In the spring they returned to Boston, and Louis
was sent to live with his grandparents in South Read-
ing, as before, with the proviso that he was to return
to his parents in the fall. He became at once deeply
immersed in the miniature activities of the farm, taking
the initiative wherever he could, doing small things
with large enthusiasm. He did not consider such
things work, but joy. He was physically active and
mentally active too. He was always excited in his
work and always constructive. As Grandpa also
worked, they became great pals, and planned and
worked together. His natural surroundings became less
mystical to him. He held them in affection, but no
longer in dreamy wonder. The delicate bloom of early
childhood was passing, while the vigor and aggressive-
ness of budding boyhood were rising as branches from
the same deep root. His love of the open remained
constant and intense. He was developing pride, am-
bition, and a sense of growing power over material
[95]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
things. The desire some day to exercise such power
to the full became in him a definitive dream, within
which, unnoticed, was resident the glow of a deeper
p 0wer a power that had suffused a swiftly-moving,
vocal springtime, which he had seen and heard and
lived in this same spot.
Grandpa did not bother about the child's education,
for, being wise, he knew the child was daily self-acquir-
ing an education exactly suited to his temperament
and years. But Grandmamma believed otherwise.
She thought her grandson needed polish, and that he
should now begin a systematic study of the French
language. Louis was willing enough and started in
gaily. He liked the sound, and the words in italics
looked pretty; all went well for a while. As he got
in deeper he began to be oppressed by the inanities of
the grammar-book, and the imbecilities of a sort of
first reader in which a wax-work father takes his wax
children on daily promenades, explaining to them as
they go, in terms of unctuous morality, the works of
the Creator, and drawing therefrom, as from a spool,
an endless thread of pious banalities. Louis rebelled.
He declared he was an AMERICAN BOY 1 that
none of his playmates spoke French why should he?
Grandmamma, in habitual indulgence, discontinued
polishing. She could not enter the child-mind. To
her, her grandson was an object of boundless love
and little more; and yet this little more was an im-
passable gulf, lying as a chasm between old age gently
petrifying in the thoughts of her own childhood, and
a vigorous young animal with thoughts and an im-
petuous will of his own. And he in turn held his
[96]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
grandmamma to be the sweetest of mortals and little
more.
Thus summer passed on broad pinions sweeping* and
Louis saw It moving thus. He saw such things. Be-
neath all the overlay the child was a mystic; inarticu-
late, wondering, believing. These fleeting revelations
of Life came and went as interludes within the chosen
practicalities of his realistic and material activity. He
had rather help build a stone wall than listen to a
poem all except the fairy tales that Julia told for
here was Romance and romance he could not with-
stand.
One morning; it happened to be September 3rd of
that year, Louis Henri Sullivan arose early and sal-
lied forth in pomp and pride. On the Stoneham road
he met a farmer friend:
Hello I Do you know I am eight years old today?
No, wall, wall, that's fine. Heow old did yeh say
yeh be?
I am Eight! Don't you think I'm a big boy now?
Do you want to feel my muscle?
My sakes but yeh aire strong!
Yes I am. I can lift a stone almost as big as my
grandfather can; but of course he's older.
How old did yeh say yeh be ?
I say I am eight years old today and I want you
to know it. Do you want to pound my chest?
Can't say's I do.
You may pound my chest as hard as you like and
I won't say a word. Have you noticed my new
boots? It's my first pair. My grandma gave
them to me for my birthday.
No I hadn't saw them.
[97]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Well, look at them now. See; they're copper-toed
and have red tops. Don't you think they're fine?
Yaas; how old did yeh say yeh be? I think yeh
got a mighty fine granny t'give yeh them boots.
And the Ancient doddered down the road dustily
regurgitating the thoughts of his childhood now be-
come decayed and senile ; while bounding boyhood clat-
tered on, from house to house, from field to field, wher-
ever might be found man, woman, or child to whom
he might sing his own saga in vainglory. For was he
not right? Was he not Eight? Was he not hero-
ically aware that that day he was crossing the invisible
line between childhood and boyhood? Were not the
gaudy boots his plain certificate of valor and of deeds
done and to be done? Were they not for him sym-
bols of that manhood toward which he so ardently
yearned that his pride might come to the full? He
said it was so. In this joyous mood was his saga sung,
as of one with a growing faith.
Then came, as it were, a bugle call from the south.
He answered the call in person. Boston City swal-
lowed him up.
The effect was immediately disastrous. As one
might move a flourishing plant from the open to a dark
cellar, and imprison it there, so the miasma of the big
city poisoned a small boy acutely sensitive to his sur-
roundings. He mildewed; and the leaves and buds of
ambition fell from him. In those about him, already
city-poisoned, even in his own kin, he found no solace,
and ceased openly to lament. Against the big city
his heart swelled in impatient, impotent rebellion. Its
many streets, its crooked streets, its filthy streets, lined
I 98 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JN IDEA
with stupid houses crowded together shoulder to shoul-
der like selfish hogs upon these trough-like lanes, irri-
tated him, suffocated him; the crowds of people, and
wagons, hurrying here and there so aimlessly as it
appeared to him confused and overwhelmed him,
arousing amazement, nausea and dismay. As he
thought of the color, the open beauty of his beloved
South Reading, and the great grand doings of New-
buryport, where men did things ; where there was obvi-
ous, purposeful action; an exhibit of sublime power;
the city of Boston seemed a thing already in decay. He
was so saddened, so bewildered, so grieved, that his
sorrow, his bitter disappointment, could find no ade-
quate utterance and relief. Hence he kept it all within
himself, and became drugged to the point of lassitude
and despair. The prospect of a whole winter to be
spent within these confines, shut out from the open
world that had been growing so large and splendid for
him, filled him at times with a sudden frantic desire to
escape. Had not his father at once taken up again the
rigorous training of cold baths and outdoor exercise,
had he not taken him on long walks to Roxbury, to
Dorchester, even to Brookline, where the boy might
see a bit of green and an opening-up of things, the
boy would surely have carried out his resolution to
run away. To run where? Anywhere to liberty and
freedom !
He had partly revived from the first shock, when
his ruthless father placed him in the Brimmer School
on Common Street. Louis found it vile; unspeakably
gloomy; a filthy prison for children. He learned noth-
ing. There was no one to teach him, and what he
saw there shall not be recorded here. So passed the
[99]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
winter; Louis looking, ever aimlessly, yearning, for
a teacher. As a rose springs upward from the muck
and puts forth gracious blooming, even so out of the
muck of this school a re-action sprang up, a fervent
hungered yearning within, for a kindred spirit to^arise
that might illumine him and in whom he might rejoice;
a spirit utterly human that would break down the
dam made within him by sanctioned suppressions and
routine, that there might pour out of him the gathered
cesspool, and the waters of his life again flow on. Of
such a nature was the hunger of a well-fed child.
As the Boston winter of '64 was groaning on its
way to the tomb of all winters, Mamma was again
stricken with diphtheria ; and again she recovered. The
city winter passed, a city springtime passed. With
vacation at hand, Louis returned to his grandparents,
resumed his activities now enlarged in scope, and in
the fall returned to the City, his wounds somewhat
healed. He was immediately placed in the newly or-
ganized Rice School temporarily housed in another
gloomy structure, but not so foul at that time situ-
ated on the west side of Washington Street and a short
distance south of Dover Street. Here he learned noth-
ing at first except in-so-far as there was a sort of
mechanical infiltration going on. But, at a nearby book
store, "Beadle's Dime Novels" appeared in a whirl-
wind of popularity. Louis Sullivan pounced upon
them. He devoured the raw melodramas and cried for
more. Here at last was Romance ! Here again were
great men doing great deeds. Here was action in the
open. He could live these scenes. He could visualize
these acts even within the deadly philistine air of
Washington Street and its Rice School where he was
,[1001
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
supposed to know that 2:4:: 4:8. He did not espe-
cially care for the standardized lady in the case who
was always ravishingly beautiful and always eighteen ;
and to the villain he was sometimes lenient, but the
hero, that magnificent man-god whose ear had just
been grazed by the arrow of a huge red savage him
he took to his bosom. He got a thrill out of every
page, which was more than he ever got out of the
school. He was to remain at this school for several
years, during which time he slowly became citified. His
activities naturally spread over an ever widening field ;
and these years were filled with multifarious details
large and small. His geographical ventures extended
from South Reading as a center to Stoneham, Woburn,
North Reading, Saugus and Ipswich; and from Bos-
ton as a center to Rockport, Gloucester, Marblehead,
Salem, Lynn and Nahant; and southward into Jamaica
Plain. Between Boston and South Reading were dot-
ted, as villages or hamlets, Somerville, Maiden, Mel-
rose, Greenville and South Reading Junction. West
of the Junction was a small affair called Crystal Lake,
with bare and sterile surroundings, including an Ice-
house on its northern shore. The big pond to the north
of South Reading then a village of possibly two
thousand souls was officially known as Lake Quanna-
powitt. From the western shore of this lake projected
a promontory, and within this promontory was a ceme-
tery.
During these years, Louis Sullivan, always inquisi-
tive and foolhardily curious, had ferreted out every
street, alley and blind court, and dock and wharf from
end to end and crosswise within the limits of Boston,
and had made partial explorations of Charlestown,
[ 101 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Chelsea, and South Boston. Thus there gradually arose
within his consciousness a clearing sense of what a city
meant objectively as a solid conglomerate of diverse
and more or less intricate activities. He began indeed
to sense the city as a power unknown to him before
a power new-risen above his horizon ; a power that ex-
tended the range and amplified the content of his own
child-dream of power as he had seen it manifested in
the open within the splendid rhythm of the march of
the seasons. Nevertheless, he saw, in his boy-way, and
felt it strongly, a great mysterious contrast between the
two. In the open all was free, expansive and luminous.
In the city all was contraction, density, limitation, and
a cruel concentration. He felt that between himself
and the city, as such, lay a harsh antagonism that
seemed forever insoluble; as though men had made
the city when they were mad ; and that as it grew under
their hands it had mastered and confined them. Yet
men, women and children seemed to move about freely
enough at certain hours. These waves of doubt and
apprehension came and passed at intervals, but each
wave left its precipitate, in solution as it were, in the
boy's quizzical mind. He became less> and less un-
friendly toward the school, as sporadic knowledge
crept out of his books and took on a certain segregated
appearance of validity, having slight connection, how-
ever, with his own world. He ceased to be wholly
rebellious, and took his small doses of formal routine
education much as he might take a medicine supposedly
for his good. Thus far his father had been his only
successful teacher.
The boy had acquired and was continuing to acquire
the education he possessed partly through a series of
[102]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
shocks frequently humiliating which inverted his il-
lusions into realities; partly through his own keen pow-
ers of observation, and perhaps something in the way
of intuition; but mainly and fundamentally through
his high sensitiveness to externals which, always with
him, took on character, definition and, as it were, a
personality. He was now ripe for another shock.
One day his father took him on a walk to South
Boston, and made him run up a high hill on the top
of which was a reservoir. This altitude reached, a
great view spread before them. The boy at once be-
came exalted with awe at the living presence and
expanding- power of Mother Earth. Never since the
long forgotten days of Halifax had he reached such
a peak of observation. His father's love for "scenery"
had taken them there. As the boy gazed in thrilling
wonder, his father called attention, one after another,
to special points of beauty in the land and water-
scape, finally coming around to the Blue Hills, which
indeed were blue and enchanting against the far hori-
zon and its haze. After explaining the nature of the
haze, father called attention to two outstanding peaks,
near together but differing in size, and asked his son
a point-blank question: Which of the two hills is the
larger? His son walked straight into the trap, saying
that of course the larger one was the larger why
did Papa ask? Then the trap fell knocking Louis
senseless for Papa said, (beyond a doubt maliciously
he said it) that the smaller was the larger. When
Louis came to, he protested vehemently; but Papa said
he had been there and knew. Then, relenting, believ-
ing he had carried his practical joke far enough, he
told his son, seriously, that the effect, the appearance,
[103]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the illusion was, in fact, due to what he called PER-
SPECTIVE; and the nature of this particular per-
spective, and perspective in general, he explained with
notable skill, simplicity, and with many objective in-
stances. But Louis instead of receiving this informa-
tion with acclaim and joy, as a new world opening
before him, was deeply saddened and perturbed. His
father, sincerely believing he was educating his own,
came near to destroying him. He was no psychologist,
he had indeed but little human sympathy or insight
hence he had no suspicion of what was going on be-
neath the surface of his own son. For had not that
son built up a cherished world all his own, a world
made up of dreams, of practicalities, of deep faith, of
unalloyed acceptance of externals, only now to find
that world trembling and tottering on its foundations,
threatening to collapse upon him, or to vanish before
this new and awful revelation from the unseen. This
ghostly apparition which his father called "perspective"
terrorized him. What his father said about it did not
help. For behind the perspective that the father saw
was a perspective that the child saw invisible to the
father. It was MYSTERY a mystery that lay be-
hind appearances, and within appearances, and in front
of appearances, a mystery which if penetrated might
explain and clarify afi, as his father had explained and
clarified a little. Did this mystery reside also in his
lovely slender elm tree? Was his great friend the
ash tree involved in mystery? Was the sunrise that
had glorified him and the earth around him part of this
mysterious perspective that lay behind appearances,
that lay behind even the clear apparition his father
called perspective? Must he lose his faith in what
[104 j
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
seemed real? W f as Boston itself and all within it but
a mask and a lie? Was there within it and behind it
a perspective, a mystery which if understood might
reveal and clarify it, making it intelligible? Could
this mystery be penetrated? He was determined it
should be, soon or late and that he would do it. Thus
had a father's playful joke set up in a child a raging
fermentation. Such high-pitched emotion could not
last. Such vision was bound to fade. Such fear must
pass. And so it happened. The turmoil, the chaos
lasted but as the span of a day-dream. But within that
dream, within that turmoil, there awakened a deeper
dream that has not passed. Thus Louis Sullivan ac-
cepted and rejected; rejected and accepted.
He returned to the school and the streets which
were much the same thing to> him. At recess he
promptly announced that he could lick any boy of his
size. Whereupon "his size" knocked him in the eye,
and the two "sizes" went at it, according to regula-
tions which consisted in beginning fairly and ending
foully two boys rolling over and over in the middle
of the street, in the center of an eager, urging, admir-
ing circle of excited ruffians of varied sizes, who cried
at the proper time: "He's had enough; let him up."
Sometimes Louis's prophecies were verified. Some-
times they proved unfortunate. But it was all the same,
all in the game ; and there was established in the school
a "Who's Who" that never reached print. Moreover
there was established a Hierarchy in which each "who"
was definitely ranked according to the who's he could
lick, and the who's and sizes who could lick him. And
while all this was going on, Louis picked up, in addi-
tion to a bit of geography and arithmetic, every form
[ 105 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of profanity, every bit of slang, and every particle of
verbal garbage he could assimilate. In other words
he was one of the gang and a tough. But his honor
required that he refrain from licking the good boys
just because they were good which could not be said
of some.
He was progressing so well at school, his mother
thought for his teacher so certified for reasons un-
known perhaps to conceal the truth that she be-
lieved it time he learn to play the piano. Louis thought
otherwise. Mamma was stern, Louis yielded. Mam-
ma promised it should be half an hour only, every day.
She placed her watch in good faith on the piano shelf
fatal error and the series began. It was not that
Louis disliked music; quite the contrary. Had not his
parents but recently taken him to Boston Music Hall,
there to hear a great Oratorio rendered by the Handel
and Haydn Society? Had he not been overwhelmed
by the rich volume and splendor of choral harmonies
again a new and revealing world? Had he not
thrilled to the call: "Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors ; and the King
of Glory shall come in."
Was he not always teasing his mother to play for
him any one of a group of brilliant five-fingered exer-
cises arranged as stately composition? No; Louis
loved his Mamma but hated the piano when annexed
to himself. So the series moved on to disaster. The
five-finger work bored him, the dinky tunes enraged
him; he watched the watch, he kicked the piano, he
struck false notes, he became utterly unruly; and at
the agonizing end of one especially bad half-hour,
Mamma burst into hysterical tears; and Louis, seeing
[106]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the damage he had done, threw his arms about her
neck and cried his heart out with her. Thus the series
ended, by mutual understanding and Mamma's for-
giveness as Mamma's tears still flowed from bitterly
swollen eyes, as she gazed blindly in unspeakable sor-
row at her repentant but incorrigible son. But let it
be said in a whisper Mamma should have known that
Louis's hands were not made for the piano. Louis did
not know it; yet there lay all the trouble.
Then the father thought he would teach his son
drawing. His son thought otherwise. His son detested
drawing. The prospect of copying a lithographic plate
setting forth a mangle, a step-ladder, a table, a mop
and a pail, was not alluring. Louis demurred. Father
thought a thrashing would help along some. He
started in. A she-wolf glared. He quailed End of
still-born drawing lesson. No series.
Meanwhile the name of the village of South Read-
ing was, by popular vote, changed to Wafcefield. Cyrus
Wakefield, rattan magnate, thought it good business
to offer a new town hall in exchange for his name.
The townspeople thought so too. The deed was done;
both deeds were done; and, as if on a magic carpet
the farm that Louis had lived on floated from South
Reading into Wakefield meanwhile remaining station-
ary as of yore. This occurred in the summer of 1868
when Louis was in his twelfth year.
Meanwhile, also, in 1868, a new school building
was in course of construction on new made land in
the Back Bay district. It was to be up to date in
all respects, and was to be called The Rice Grammar
School Building.
In the winter of this year, Mamma, for the fifth
[107]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
time, was stricken with diphtheria and her life des-
paired of. She pulled through on a perilous margin.
Father, now thoroughly frightened, finally got, it
through his head that the east winds meant death. So
in the summer of 1869 he moved his family to Chi-
cago leaving Louis behind, to live with his grand-
parents, and continue his education. Louis sobbed on
his Mother's shoulder, but was much relieved to say
to his father: Good-bye! Now he was free!
[ 108 ]
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62
CHAPTER VII
Boston
The New Rice Grammar School
ONE day, In Boston, a boy of nine was walking
northward on the east side of Washington
Street Just then "Yankee Doodle* 5 came
along whistling his tune to a brisk step, a pair of boots
slung over one shoulder of his faded blue jeans; and,
under a stovepipe hat, much battered in the strife of
years, this agile elderly man wore a grey chin beard
after the manner of Uncle Sam. And thus went Yan-
kee Doodle tirelessly up and down Washington Street,
always on the east side of it, day after day, year after
year. In a legendary sense he was a cobbler. The
boy watched his kindly face approaching, and for the
hundredth time admired in despair the clear sharp
whistle which he had tried in vain to emulate ; and, as
Yankee passed on southward the boy turned east into
South Bennett Street following the south sidewalk.
About midway to Harrison Avenue a paper bag struck
the sidewalk in front of him, burst, and hard candies
scattered over the pavement. The boy, startled,
looked around, and then up. In a second story win-
dow, straight across the way, appeared two fat bare
arms, an immense bosom, a heavy, broad, red face,
topped with straight black hair. A fat finger beckoned
to him ; a fat mouth said something to him ; and at the
doorway of the house was the number 22 the house
he had been born in; but the silver nameplate marked
P. Sullivan in black script was no longer there.
He had been led to the spot, which he had not seen
[109]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
for years, by a revived memory of a sweet child named
Alice Look, who lived next door when the two of
them were three together. He had wished to see once
more the sacred dwelling wherein she had lived and
the walled yard in which she had mothered him and
called him Papa in their play.
Much troubled, he walked on to Harrison Avenue,
where Bennett Street ends its one block of length.
There he noticed that the stately trees were bare of
leaves and sickly to the sight, while on the twigs and
among the branches and even on the trunks were hun-
dreds of caterpillar nests which made the trees look
old, poor and forsaken. While he was counting the
nests on a single tree, caterpillars now and then would
come slowly downward from the heights. Some of
them would remain for a time in mid-air, suspended
invisibly, before completing their descent, perchance
upon a passerby. The boy was examining one of these
caterpillars undulating upon his coat sleeve, when his
quick ear detected the sound of snare-drums. Crowds
began to gather on the sidewalks. Slowly the drums
beat out their increasing sadness, pulsing to a labored
measure of weariness and finality, as a faint bluish
mass appeared vaguely in the north. The sidewalk
crowds became dense men, women and children stood
very stiH. Onward, into distinctness and solidity, came
the mass of faded blue undulating to the pathos of
the drums. The drum corps passed and in the grow-
ing silence came on and passed ranks of wearied men
in faded blue, arms at right shoulder, faces weather-
beaten, a tired slow tread, measured as a time-beat on
the pavement, the one-two of many souls. And to these
men, as they marched, clung women shabbily clothed,
[110]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
with shawls drawn over their heads, moving on in a
way tragically sad and glad, while to the skirts of many
of these women clung dirty children. Thus moved in
regular mass and in silence a regiment of veterans,
their women, their children, passing onward between
two tense rows of onlooking men, women and children,
triple deep, many of them in tears. So vivid was this
spectacle, so heartrending, so new this aching drama of
return, that the boy, leaning against a caterpillared tree,
overflowed with compassion. When he had ceased
weeping upon his coat sleeve, Harrison Avenue was
vacant; but not so the boy he in fullness of sympathy
was ill with the thought of what all this might mean.
What was the mystery that lay behind these men in
faded blue ? He found no sufficing answer. The men
had been mustered out, he had been told; that was all.
He chafed until he got permission to go to South
Reading for a week end; ostensibly to visit the grand-
parents, surreptitiously to visit Julia, to whom alone he
could bare his heart. He knew in advance what Grand-
pa would say; he knew in advance what Grandma
would say; he wished eagerly to learn what Julia might
say. So after earnest greetings with Grandpa and
Grandma he slipped quietly to the kitchen. Julia was
not there. He moved to the barn; Julia was not there.
Then, in dime-novel fashion he made a detour through
the "old" orchard, dodging from tree to tree in Indian
fashion, examining the grass, crawling slowly on all
fours, bent on surprise, signalling to an imagined com-
panion in the rear, cautiously advancing until he caught
a glimpse of a broad back, topped with massy hair on
fire. He approached at a flat crawl and, from behind
the next tree, saw Julia sitting on a milking stool peeling
[111]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
potatoes. Now came the villain's mad rush. Julia
was seized savagely with an arm around her neck,
her head pulled back, her face kissed all over, her hair
roughly tousled, her shoulder pushed hard, her stool
kicked from under her as Louis, in a warwhoop of joy,
hailed her as Ireland's hope, Queen of the orchard,
and was greatly pleased,
Not so Erin's daughter. Sitting broadly on the
grass, shaking a clenched fist, she screamed: "Ye rat,
ye vile spalpeen. To think o' the likes o 1 ye takin' me
unawares; and yeVe upset the spuds and me pan of
fresh water. May the divil fly away with ye. Get
y'self out o' here before I smash ye with the stool";
and Julia's language became violent in a torrent of
brogue, as, madly erect, she swung the stool and let fly
while Louis danced about her singing an impudent
Irish song he had learned from her. Then Julia sat
largely down again in the grass, gasping for breath,
while Louis went for the distant stooL Grandpa
passed that way, remarking simply; "Ah, I hear you
and Julia are visiting today." Louis walked up to
Julia and said, in a manner: "Julia Head, I now pre-
sent you with this stooL It is far less beautiful than
yourself, but in its humble way, it is as useful as your
own valued activities, inasmuch as it, on many an occa-
sion, has served as your main stay while you were draw-
ing from our gentle kine the day's accumulations. Will
you accept this emblem of industry in the same sim-
plicity of spirit with which it is offered you?" Julia,
tired of ranting, laughed. "Sure," she said, " 'tis well
ye know that had ye come at me dacently, it's a hearty
welcome I'd a given ye." And she resumed operations,
still sitting, the pan of spuds resting upon her enor-
[112]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
mous thighs. And Louis sat down meekly beside her,
his small hand barely touching the expanse of freckled
arm. He said he was sorry, and went on to pacify her.
He used Gaelic words she had taught him, words ro-
mantically tender and sweet. Julia softened. With
both hands she turned his face toward her; looked at
him roguishly:
"Now what the divil is it ye want?"
"Julia, tell me a fairy story, won't you ? Just a little
one, won't you, Julia?"
"Divil a fairy tale there'll be told this day ! Tell me
about Boston. I've a brother working there. I want
ye to find how he's getting on. His name's Eugene
Head. He's younger than meself, he's only here wan
year. He's tendin' bar in a saloon on Tremont Street
near King's Chapel. I've heard he's steady and don't
drink; and I've heard, too, that he knocks down quite
a bit. Naw! I don't mean that he knocks down peo-
ple. I shouldn't be talking such things t'ye anyway.
It's sorry I am I said a word. But Boston is a hell ye
know."
Then Louis opened the subject nearest his heart. He
told her all about the soldiers in faded blue, and the
wives and children hanging to them. What did it all
mean? Why was it so sad; why did he have to cry?
"Well, Louis dear, ye know war's a sad business ;
those men ye saw had just been mustered out of the
army; they were good fighting men, but all tired out.
From the shawls the women wore and the dirty childer,
I know the whole crowd was Irish and poor; and as
everyone knows, the Irish won the war. Think of it!
Holy Virgin! the Irish fighting for the naygers!
What will it be next time?"
[113]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
"But, Julia, what was it all for? What was back
of it all?" - ,, u i
"1*11 not be telling- ye what was back of it all, tho
well I know. I'll waste no breath on one who has no
motnd. Besides you're too young and ye have no edu-
cation. Ye wouldn't understand. Why the divil^ don't
ye stick hard to yer books, and learn? What in the
name of all the saints d'ye think your father is spend-
ing his good money on ye furr? Filling yer belly with
food, giving ye a good, clane bed to sleep in, putting
nice clothes on ye, buying ye books, except that he
wants ye to have an education? The Irish are proud
of education, and yer father's a proud man, and he
wants to be proud of his son. In God's name why
don't ye do yure share ? Ye remember the tale, I told
ye of the man who looked too long at the moon? It's
a tender heart indade, ye had likewise to be lookin' at
thim dirty childer hangin' to the mithers' skirts ! It's a
big heart ye had and a fine education ye have that ye
didn't think at wanst whin ye saw thim that ye haven't
a care in the world, that ye've niver known rale hunger,
niver a rale sorrow, niver a heart-break, niver despair;
niver heard the wolf bark at the doore as yer blood
went cold! And yerself, Louis, wid yere big heart and
small head couldn't see with yer own eyes and without
any books at all, that thim very childer was part of
what as ye say lies behind it all ? God ! me heart aches
in the tellin; for the min ye saw come back wuz not all
the min that wint out; but I'm through. I'll tell ye no
more of what lies behind it all; but I'll tell ye some
more about education, for I want to knock a bit of
'siftse into yure empty, skull. Yere all sintiment, Louis,
and no mercy. You've kissed the Blarney Stone right
[114]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
well, and ye kicked the milking stool from under me.
"Now the story I'm to tell ye I got from one of me
girl friends whose brother said he knew the man by
reputayshun, and that he came from County Kerry
where the Lakes of Killarney a' re IVe told ye so
mooch about, and I suppose yeVe forgotten it all ; and
faith, I have me doubts, with yere scatter brains if ye
can say fer a truth wither Ireland's this side o j the
water or the other. Now its not meself as'll make a
short story long nor a long story short, so I'll tell it in
the words I heard it.
"This man from Kerry was in some way connected
with the army, as most of the Irish were, for they're
natural fighting min from the oldest times. And wan
day as he was out a-walking fer his health, and faring
to and fro, he came upon a blanket lying on the ground ;
and at once he picked it up and with great loud laughter
he sed, sed he: Sure IVe found me blanket with me
name upon it: U fer Patrick and S for McCarty; sure
edication's a foine thing, as me faather before me wud
say."
"Oh, Julia, I don't believe that's true. That's just
another Irish yarn."
"Will, maybe it isn't true and maybe it's just a yarn ;
but I belave it's true and I want to till ye this ; the man
from Kerry had a rale edication. Ye may think I'm
a-jokin' now, but when ye get older and have more
sinse ye'll be noticin' that that's the way everywan
rades; and the higher educated they are, the more they
rade just as Pat McCarty did, and add some fancy
flourishes of their own. Now run along and carry in
the wood, and do the chures. Me two feets is sore
wid me weight. And take along the pans and the stool
[115]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
as ye go. I suppose it's the whole batch of yees I'll
have to be feedin* ; and I've a blister on me small toe,
and me back is broke with handlin' the wash tubs ; an'
it's little patience I have with ye, furr ye don't seem to
learn in school or out, and yit, be the powers, ye ask
some mighty quare questions for a lad, so I suppose
there's something in the back of yer head that makes
yer father support ye when ye ought to be wurkinV
And thus Julia grumbled on to the kitchen door and
Louis did the chores. But his heart was not in them.
Julia had told the story mockingly* She seemed to
leave in it somewhere a sting he could feel but could
not understand; and he mused as to what might per-
haps be behind Julia, Irish to the core. She had set
him vibrating at the suggestion of an unseen power and
he became rigid in his resolve to penetrate the mystery
that seemed to lie back of the tale she told.
Later on, say about the age of twelve, this same boy,
to his own surprise, became aware that he had become
interested in buildings; and over one building in par-
ticular he began to rave, as he detached it from the
rest and placed it in his wonder-world. It stood at the
northeast corner of Tremont and Boylston Streets. It
was a Masonic Temple built of hewn granite, light
gray in tone and joyous of aspect*
Boston, as a conglomerate of buildings, had depressed
Louis Sullivan continuously since he became engulfed
in it. These structures uttered to him as in chorus a
stifling negation, a vast No! to his yea-cry for the
light-hearted. In their varied utterance, they were to
him unanimous in that they denied the flowers of the
[1161
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
field. Some were austere, some gave forth an offensive
effluvium of respectability, some fronted the crowded
street as though they had always been there and the
streets had come later; some seemed to thank God that
they were not as other buildings, while others sighed :
I am aweary, aweary. Most of them were old and
some very new; and individually they impressed
Louis, in their special ways, as of an uncanny particular-
ity. He seemed to feel them as physiognomies, as
presences, sometimes even as personalities; thus the
State House with its golden dome seemed to him a thin,
mean, stingy old woman; while Park Street Church
seemed to tower as a loyal guardian above its ancient
graveyard, and as friendly monitor of the crowds be-
low. And one day as they looked at Faneuil Hall,
Grandpa said of it: "The Wild Ass of the City stamps
above its head but cannot break its sleep." This
sounded thrilling and imaginary to Louis, like a wild
thing out of Julia's land of enchantment; but Grandpa
said he got it out of a book and that its meaning was
too deep for the boy that he was talking to himself.
Thus buildings had come to speak to Louis Sullivan
in their many jargons. Some said vile things, some
said prudent things, some said pompous things, but
none said noble things. His history book told him that
certain buildings were to be revered, but the buildings
themselves did not tell him so, for he saw them with a
fresh eye, an ignorant eye, an eye unprepared for so-
phistries, and a mind empty of dishonesty. Neverthe-
less, a vague sense of doleful community among build-
ings slowly suffused him. They began to appear within
his consciousness as a separate world in their way; a
world of separated things seemed, in unison, to pass on
[117]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
to him a message from an unseen power. Thus im-
mersed, he returned again and again to his wonder-
building, the single one that welcomed him, the solitary
one that gave out a perfume of romance, that radiated
joy, that seemed fresh and full of laughter. How it
gleamed and glistened in the afternoon sunlight. How
beautiful were its arches, how dainty its pinnacles; how
graceful the tourelle on the corner, rising as if by it-
self, higher and higher, like a lily stem, to burst at last
into a wondrous cluster of flowering pinnacles and a
lovely, pointed finial. Thus Louis raved. It has been
often said that love is blind! If Louis chose to liken
this new idol of his heart unto a certain graceful elm
tree, the pulchritudinous virgin of an earlier day, sure-
ly that was his affair, not ours; for he who says that
love is blind may be himself the blind and love clair-
voyant.
One day, on Commonwealth Avenue, as Louis was
strolling, he saw a large man of dignified bearing, with
beard, top hat, frock coat, come out of a nearby build-
ing, enter his carriage and signal the coachman to drive
on. The dignity was unmistakable, all men of station
in Boston were dignified; sometimes insistently so, but
Louis wished to know who and what was behind the
dignity. So he asked one of the workmen, who said :
"Why he's the archeetec of this building."
"Yes? and what is an archeetec, the owner?"
"Naw; he's the man what drawed the plans for this
building."
"What! What's that you say: drawed the plans for
this building?"
[118]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
"Sure. He lays out the rooms on paper, then makes
a picture of the front, and we do the work under our
own boss, but the archeetec's the boss of everybody."
Louis was amazed. So this was the way: The
workmen stood behind their boss, their boss stood be-
hind the archeetec but the building stood in front of
them all. He asked the man if there had been an
"archeetec" for the Masonic Temple, and the man
said: "Sure, there's an archeetec for every building."
Louis was incredulous, but if it were true it was glori-
ous news. How great, how wonderful a man must
have been the "archeetec" of his beloved temple! So
he asked the man how the architect made the outside
of the temple and the man said: "Why, he made it
out of his head; and he had books besides." The
"books besides" repelled Louis: anybody could do that;
but the "made it out of his head" fascinated him.
How could a man make so beautiful a building out
of his head? What a great man he must be; what a
wonderful man. Then and there Louis made up his
mind to become an architect and make beautiful build-
ings "out of his head." He confined this resolve to
the man. But the man said :
"I don't know about that. You got to know a lot
first. You got to have an education. Of course us
mechanics has our books too. That's the way we lay
out stairs, rails and things like that But you got to
have more brains, more experience, more education
and more books, especially more books, to be an arch-
eetec. Can yer father keep yer at school long enough ?"
"Yes; he says he'll keep me at school until I'm
twenty-one if I wish."
"WeU, that being so, yer may stand a chance of com-
[119]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
ing out ahead, but I honestly don't think yer have the
right kind of brains. That far-away look in yer eyes
makes me think yer won't be practical, and y' got to be
practical. I'm a foreman and that's as far as I'll get,
and IVc done work under a good many archeetecs; and
some of them that's practical ain't much else. And
some of them that's fairly practical has so much edu-
cation from books that they gets awful fussy, and are
hard to get on with." The latter part of this mono-
logue interested Louis rather faintly, for he'd made
up his mind. He thanked the foreman who said in
parting: "Well, I dunno mebbe."
Shortly before his father left Boston for Chicago,
Louis confided to him his heart's desire. The father
seemed pleased, greatly pleased, that his son's ambi-
tion was centering on something definite. He "al-
lowed," as they used to say in New England, that
Architecture was a great art, the mother of all the
arts, and its practice a noble profession, adding a word
or two about Michael Angelo. Then he offered a
counter proposal that made Louis gasp. It was none
other than this : That Louis was fond of the farm and
the open, that he had shown himself a natural farmer
with ready mastery of detail of common fanning. Why
not go further. After proper preparation he would
send Louis to an agricultural college, he said, and
thus Louis would be equipped as a scientific farmer.
Louis was dazzled. The word scientific was electrical.
Before him arose the woods, the fields, the cattle, the
crops, the great grand open world as a narcotic phan-
tom of delight. The father was eloquent concerning
[120]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
blooded stock, plant cross-fertilization, the chemistry
of soils and fertilizers, underdrainage, and so forth;
Louis wavered. He sat long in silence, on his father's
knee, lost to the world. Then he said: U NO: / ha^ue
made up my mind."
And thus it was agreed that Louis should remain in
Boston to complete his General Education; after that
to a Technical School ; and, some day Abroad.
During the years preceding his decision, Louis, in
practice, was essentially scatter-brained. His many
and varied activities and preoccupations, physical, men-
tal, emotional, his keen power of observation, his in-
satiable hunger for knowledge at first hand, his tern*
peramental responses to externals, his fleeting mystic
trances, his utterly childlike flashes of intuition, his
welcoming of new worlds, opening upon him one after
another, his perception that they must grow larger
and larger, his imagination, unknown to him as such;
all these things, impenetrable to him in their vast sig-
nificance within the gigantic and diverse world of men
and things and thoughts and acts, a world as yet sealed
tight to him ; all these things seemed to exist within him
formless, aimless, a disconnected miscellany rich in im-
pulse but devoid of order, of form, of intention.
Yet this was not precisely the fact. It was an
ostensible fact, objectively, a non-fact, subjectively; for
a presiding order, a primal impulse, was governing and
shaping him through his own marvel at manifestations
of power, his constant wonder at what men could do ;
at men's power to do what they willed to do; and
deeper than this moved a power he had heard in the
[ 121 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
Song of Spring, and which awakened within the glory
of the sunrise.
AH this was vague enough, to be sure, but his
memory was becoming tenacious and retroactive.
Little given to introspection, as such, he was in daily
conduct and appearance much like any boy, thoug-h
perhaps he had a more stubborn will than is usual.
His aversion from schools and books had been normal
Enough, becaused they failed in appeal. Nevertheless
he began to swing around to an idea that there might
be something useful to him in books, regardless of
teachers ; and this idea was vivified when he was trans-
ferred to the new Rice Grammar School building, the
lightness and brightness and cleanliness of which put
him at once in exceeding good humor.
True to form he reacted to these cheerful externals,
and at once became filled with a new eagerness. A
cloud seemed to pass away from his brain, a certain
inhibition seemed to relax its hold upon him. As by
the waving of a magic wand, he ^made a sudden swerve
in his course, and became an earnest, almost fanatical
student of books, in the light and joy of the new school-
house. Teachers were secondary; and in habit he be-
came almost a recluse. For the idea had clarified that
In books might be found a concentration, an increase
in power; that books might be and he later said they
were storehouses of what men had done, an explana-
tion of their power to do, and that the specific knowl-
edge stored within them might be used as tools of the
mind, as men used tools of the harid. Louis saw con-
sequences with extreme rapidity and daring once the
first light of an initial idea broke upon him. His en-
thusiasms were pramagtic. He lost no time, once he
[122]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
saw an objective. His grammar-book in particular
fascinated him. Here for the first time in all his
schooling a light began to shine within a book and
illumine his brain. Here opened up to him, ever more
startling, ever more inspiriting, the structure of the
language he spoke; its whys and wherefores. Here
opened, ever enlarging, a world of things said, and to
be said. The rigid rules became plastic as he pro-
gressed, then they became fluent; grammar passed into
romance ; a dead book became a living thing. He could
not go fast enough. When would he reach the end?
And as the end approached nearer and nearer, there
came forth from the book as a living presence, as a
giant from the world of enchantment, with shining
visage, man's power of speech. Louis saw it all, but
it left him feeble. He had taken grammar at one dose.
As usual his imagination had far outsped any possi-
bility of reasonable accomplishment. For Louis, as
usual, smu too much at one time. He saw, at a glance,
ends that would require a lifetime of disciplined en-
deavor to reach. And so, in a measure, it was with his
other studies, though not so ardently. There was lit-
tle romance to be found in his arithmetic. It was in
the main material and philistine. Yet he saw use in
it/ He accepted it as a daily task and plodded. It
was not his fault but his misfortune that it was handed
to him dry. Geography he took to kindly. He could
visualize it as a diagram and it extended, on paper, his
boundaries far and wide. Topographically and racially
he could not see into it, even though he was informed,
for instance, that the Japanese and Chinese were half-
civilized. He asked what civilized meant and was told
that we were civilized. There were various other
[123]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
things In the geography that were not clear; he found
difficulty In making images of what he saw in the book.
In Ms history book he was lied to shamefully, but he
did not know it. Anyway, he had to take some things
on faith. The history book did not interest him greatly
because the people described did not seem human like
the people he knew, and the story was mostly about
wars. He got the idea that patriotism always meant
fighting, and that the other side was always in the
wrong.
As to compositions, the pupils had to write one every
so often, on a given topic. The first subject for Louis
was "The Battle of Hastings." He went at this dole-
fully, sought refuge in the encyclopedia, and in wabbly
English produced a two-page essay weakly-hesitant and
valueless; a mere task. He was marked low. The
next subject was "A Winter Holiday in Boston."
Louis filled the air with snowflakes, merry bells, laugh-
ter, movement and cross movement, amusing episodes
and accidents, all joyous, all lively. In simple boyish
English, he made a hearty story of it, a word-picture;
yes, the suggestion even of a prose poem, for it had
structure. Within it was a dominant idea of winter
that conveyed a sensation of color, of form. Louis was
happy. He had hard work to confine himself to four
pages. He was marked high. He was commended be-
fore the class. But the topics seldom fired him ; as a
rale they were academic, arid, artificial, having no re-
lation to his life experiences, concerning which he might
have said something worth while had he been given
the chance. Another feature of the curriculum that
went against the grain with Louis was the course in
declamation, or "speaking pieces." For Louis had a
[124]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
streak of bashfulness in his make-up, which, though In-
visible in his former street fights, came painfully into
view when he must face the class and "speak out loud."
The ensuing torture of self-consciousness made him
angry and rebellious. Besides, he had his opinions con-
cerning various "pieces" and was not in the least back-
ward in venturing them. He ridiculed the "Village
Blacksmith" unmercifully.
His pet aversion was "Old Ironsides," and it befell
one day that he was to speak this very piece. As he
approached the platform, he saw red; the class was in-
visible, no bashfulness now; teacher even, scarcely
visible. His mind was made up ; he mounted the plat-
form, faced about; and in instant desperate acrimony,
he shrieked: Ay, tear her tattered ensign down/!////
The class roared; teacher stopped him at once; sent
him to his seat. She left the room. Louis boiled in his
seat. In the hubbub he heard: "Now yer going to
get it." "Serves yer right." "Yer made a fool of
teacher." Serves yer right." "Fatty'll fix yer." The
teacher, Miss Blank, returning, stilled the storm, and
said calmly: "Louis Sullivan, you are wanted in Mr.
Wheelock's office." Mr. Wheelock, head master
called "Fatty" for short was round, of middle height,
kindly, with something of the cherub in his face. He
wore a blond beard, had rather high color, merry blue
eyes, a full forehead, sparsely covered with hair. He
appeared not over thirty-five, had served in the army,
and was judicial, considerate and human In his dealings.
As Louis entered he saw, not this Mr. Wheelock,
but a Mr. Wheelock, gray of face, sinister of eye, hold-
ing in his left hand a long rattan. "Miss Blank tells
[125]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
me you have grossly insulted her before the class. What
have you to say for yourself?"
Louis was fearless and aggressive by nature. He
had crossed his Rubicon. He made a manly apology,
wholly sincere as regarded Miss Blank. This cleared
the ground but not the issue. He saw the rattan, and
with steady eye and nerve he quickly wove about it his
plan of action. The rod should never touch him; it
was to be a battle of wits. He boldly made his open-
ing with the statement that he regarded the poem as
bunkum. Mr. Wheelock sneered. He then went on
to take the poem to pieces, line by line, stanza by
stanza. Mr. Wheelock looked puzzled; he eyed Louis
quizzically. He edged about in his chair. Louis went
on, more and more drastically. Mr. Wheelock's eyes
began to twinkle, calm returned to his face, he dropped
the rod. He laughed heartily: "Where in the world
did you dig that up?" Then Louis let go, he waxed
eloquent, he spread out his views so long suppressed;
he pleaded for the open, for honesty of thought for the
lifting of a veil that hid things, for freedom of thought,
for the right of interpretation, for freedom of utter-
ance. He passionately unbosomed his longings. The
head master, now sitting chin in hand, looked steadily
at Louis, with grave, sad face. As Louis ceased, the
master remained silent for a moment, then pulled him-
self together, relaxed, chuckled, and patting Louis on
the shoulder said : "That was a pretty fine stump-speech,
young man. When you got through with Holmes, you
left his poem as tattered as his ensign. As for the rest:
Irish accounts for that. Fm glad we had it out though.
1 might have thrashed you in anger. Go back to your
class now, and hereafter be considerate of a woman's
[126]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
feelings, " Louis returned to his room; before all the
class he made full amends. Then, in his seat* he set
to with a book. His plunge into grammar had not
been in vain.
Thus Louis worked on and on, all by himself, as it
were, digging into the solid vein of knowledge as a
solitary miner digs ; washing the alluvial sands of knowl-
edge as a miner sifts a young prospector grub-staked
by an absentee provider now settled on the shores of
a vast Lake far in the West.
Living again with his grandparents Louis felt at
home once more. He had respites from the city bare-
ness and baldness. He studied in the evenings, in the
sitting room, unmindful of the family doings. He lost
interest in playmates; waved aside all little girls as
nuisances and inferior creatures they became non-ex-
istent. He rose early, at all seasons and in all weathers,
before the family were awake, walked the mile to the
depot, took the train to Boston, walked a mile to break-
fast and another mile to school. Many a night he was
awakened by the rattling sash, and listened to the sharp
wind moaning, groaning, shrieking, whistling through
the crevices with many a siren rise and fall, from the
depths of sorrow to the heights of madness, from
double forte to piannissimo as this weird orchestra of
the countryside lulled him again to sleep. And many a
morning, in pitch darkness, he lit his little lamp, broke
the skin of ice at the pitcher's top, washed in arctic
waters, donned his clothing, neatly folded over a chair
as Grandmamma had taught him his stockings even,
carefully turned in for orderliness, then left the house
still in darkness and silence, to break his way, it may
be, through fresh-fallen snow, knee-deep on the level,
[127]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and as yet without a trail, his woolen cap drawn down,
his woolen mittens well on, his books bound with a
leather strap, held snog under the arm of his pea-
jacket as the dim light at the depot shone nearer, and
a distant double-toot announced die oncoming train,
and the blinding headlight that shortly roared into
view as he stood, waiting, on the platform.
Yet this was not heroism, but routine. It was an
accepted part of the day's doings, accepted without a
murmur of other thought in days long since gone by.
Thus Louis worked, in gluttonous introspection, as
one with a fixed idea, an unalterable purpose, whose
goal lay beyond the rim of his horizon, and beyond
the narrow confines of the casual and sterile thought of
the day. Hence Louis was bound to be graduated with
honors, as he was, the following June of 1870, There
and then he received in pride, as a scholar, his first
and last diploma. Never thereafter did he regard life
with the gravity, the seriousness and the futility of a
cloistered monk. That summer, he spent part of vaca-
tion time on the farm, and part of it within the prime-
val forest of Brown's Track in the northern part of
the State of New York. On his return to Boston in
September, he passed the examinations, and at the age
of fourteen entered the English High School, in Bed-
ford Street there to expand.
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CHAPTER VIII
Louis Goeth on a Journey
EARLY In the summer of '70, Henri List felt
an impelling desire to visit his second daughter,
Jennie, whom he had not seen in a number of
years. In 1862, she was married to a certain Walter
Whittlesey, a contracting railway engineer, and they
lived on 300-acre farm at Lyons Falls, N. Y. On
the 29th day of February, 1864, she added to the
world's population a daughter, in diue time named
Anna, under Presbyterian auspices. Mrs. Whittlesey
at the time we are considering, was 34 years of age
one year younger than her sister, Andrienne, gready
beloved mother of Louis Sullivan. When Henri List's
desire had ripened into a resolve and was so announced,
there was "the devil to pay," as was said at times in
those days. Louis became frantic. He must go too.
He, also, had not seen his Tante Jennie in many years.
He must see where she lived and how she lived. He
must see his dear little cousin Anna, and Uncle Walter
too. He must see the farm, and the river and the
great waterfall.
"Grandpa, I have never seen a waterfall, only in
pictures, and in pictures they don't move and they don't
roar; I want to live with a real waterfall; and I want
to see the Berkshire Hills; and the Hudson; you know,
Grandpa, pictures don't give you any real idea; why
Grandpa, a picture of q, tree isn't anything at all when
you see a real tree, like our great Ash at Cowdry's;
and to think, Grandpa, I've never been farther away
than Newburyport; take me with you, Grandpa. I
[129]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
want to see something big; everything in Boston and
Wakeleld has grown so small; we are so shut in; my
geography says there are big things as you go west,
that outdoors gets bigger and bigger; I want to go
Grandpa; now is the time; I may never have another
chance."
Grandpa, at first was angry and obdurate. He
thought only of what a pest, of what a continuous
nuisance his growing grandson would be, and the
thought became a nightmare; for Henri List, con-
forming to custom, was growing older, was acquiring
nerves; his easy-going humor showed occasional thin
spots of temper. He roared at the "dear little Cousin
Anna" business, but the possible significance of the
pleadings concerning a "shut-in life" and "big things
as you go west" dawned upon him, grew stronger, and
he came finally to believe that what he had heard was
not altogether boyish nonsense but a rising cry for ex-
pansion, a defining hunger for larger vision, bigger
things; that his grandson, as it were, was outgrowing
Ms cocoon. Upon second and third thoughts he agreed;
whereupon the few remaining sane ones also agreed
that Louis needed kennel, collar and chain.
The day came. They departed via the Boston and
Albany Railway in the evening. Sleepless, restive,
Louis awaited, as best he might, the coming of the
Berkshire Hills into his growing world. He knew
he would see them near dawn. The hour came; he
entered the foothills and began winding among them,
as with labored breath the engines, like heavy draft
horses, began a steady pull, the train dragging reluc-
tantly into steadiness as succeeding hills grew taller
with Louis eagerly watching. The true thrill of action
[130]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
began with the uprearing of imposing masses as Louis
clung to the solid train now purring in the solitudes
in ever-lengthening swings deep valleys below until,
amid mists and pale moon gleaming, arose the mighty
Berkshires, their summits faint and far, their immensi-
ties solemn, calm, seeming eternal in the ghostly fog
in the mild shimmer, clad in forests, uttering great
words, runic words revealing and withholding their
secret to a young soul moving as a solitary visitant,
even as a wraith among them, the engines crying: "We
will!" the mountains replying: "We will! n to an ex-
panding soul listening within its own mists, its own
shimmering dream, to the power without and within,
amid the same echoes within and without, bereft of
words to reply, a bare hush of being, as though through
mists of mind and shimmer of hope, SUBLIMITY, In
revelation, had come to one wholly unprepared, had
come to one as a knock on the door, had come to one
who had known mountains only in books. And Louis
again, in wonder, felt the power of man. The thought
struck deep, that what was bearing him along was
solely the power of man; the living power to wish,
to will, to do. That man, in his power, with broad
stride, had entered the regioned sanctity of these tow-
ering hills and like a giant of Elfinland had held
them in the hollow of his hand. He had made a path,
laid the rails-, builded the engines that others might
pass. Many saw engines and rails, and pathway, and
one saw what lay .behind them. In the murky mist
and shimmer of moon and dawn, a veil was lifted in
the solitude of the Berkshires. Louis slept, his nerves
becalmed, amid the whistle's sonorous warnings, the
silence of the engine, the long, shrill song of the brakes,
[131]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
with mingling echoes, as the train, with steady pace,
wound slowly downward toward the Hudson, leaving
the Berkshires to their silence and their solitude and
Louis slept on, under the wand of the power of man.
They reached Albany in broad daylight. The Hud-
son, to Louis's dismay, did not impress him as greatly
as he had hoped and believed it would. Its course was
straight instead of broadly curving, and the clutter
of buildings along its western flank seemed to belittle
it. It appeared to him as a wide waterway, not un-
pleasant of its kind. It seemed to lack what Louis
had come to believe the character of a river. The
bridge crossing it, with its numberless short spans and
lack of bigness, beauty and romance he gazed upon
in instant disdain. It appeared to creep, cringing and
apologetic, across the wide waters which felt the humi-
liation of its presence.
Yet he received a shock of elation as the train had
moved slowly along the bridge, carrying him with it;
and as he gazed downward upon flowing waters, again
he marvelled at what men could do; at the power of
men to build; to build a bridge so strong it would
carry the weight of a great train, even with his own
precious and conscious weight added thereto. And
Louis mused about the bridge; why was it so mean,
so ugly, so servile, so low-lived? Why could not a
"bridge perform its task with pride? Why was not
a proud bridge built here ? Was not New York a great
state? Was it not called in his geography "The Em-
pire State"? Was not Albany the Capital City of
that state? Then why so shabby an approach? Was
not the broad Hudson figuratively a great aqueous
frontier between Massachusetts and New York, each
CI32J
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
state proud in sovereignty? And was not this bridge
a presumptive greeting between sovereign states? For
surely, the railroad train came straight from proud
Boston to exalted Albany? And a veil lifted as there
came to his mind a striking verse he had read :
"Why were they proudf
Again I cry aloud
Why in the name of glory
Were they proudf"
And there came up also to him the saying: "By
their fruits ye shall know them," as, lost in imagery,
he visioned forth the great Bay State, saluting the
great Empire State, saying solemnly: The Sovereign
State of Massachusetts greets the Sovereign State of
New York. Let this noble bridge we herewith present
you be a sign and a bond of everlasting amity between
us, even as Almighty God proclaimed unto Noah of
old and his sons : *I do set my bow in the cloud, and
it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and
the earth.' Thus Louis, ruminating rather fiercely,
wished to know what was behind the pestiferous bridge.
He keenly felt that man's amazing power to do, should,
in all decency and all reason, be coupled with Romance
in the deed. And even more keenly he felt, as his
eyesight cleared, that this venomous bridge was a be-
trayal of all that was best in himself, a denial of all
that was best in mankind.
That day they took the New York Central train for
Utica. After traversing the roughage, the Mohawk
Valley opened to them its placid beauty as in welcome
to a new land. And to Louis it was in verity a new
land, known to him up to this very present hour as a
[133]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
geographical name an abstraction unknown to him
aad wholly unimagfned, In its wealth of open rarity,
its beauteous immensity of atmosphere. Here was
freedom; here was expanse! Louis ranged with his
eyes from near to far, following the sweep of the val-
ley ioor from the Mohawk to the distant low-flowing
hills, and to and fro caressingly; and as mile after
mile of valley passed by, and again mile upon mile
Louis's peaceful mind passed into wonder that such an
open world could be; and now he marvelled, not at
man's power and his works, but at the earth itself,
and a reverential mood claimed him for its own, as
he began in part to see with his own calm eyes what
Mother Earth, in her power, had done in her varied
moods, and to surmise as best he could what more
she had done that he knew not of. And all this while
the Mohawk wound its limpid way, gentle as all else;
and Louis, softening into an exquisite sympathy, cast
his burden upon the valley, and there he found rest;
rest from overintrospection, rest from overconcentra-
tion; freed from suppression and taboo.
Thus Louis became freshened with new growth as
a tree in spring, and a new resilience came to take
the place of the old. He was cleansed as by a storm,
and purified as by fire; but there was no storm, no
fire, no whirlwind there arose from the valley a still,
small voice, and Louis heard the voice and recognized
it as his own returning to him, and he was overjoyed
and strengthened in his faith and became as one trans-
lated into the fresh, free joy of living; for in this
valley, this wilderness of light and earth he had found
surcease.
Louis turned to Grandpa, whom he found dozing.
[134]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
The hills were coming together; a lurch of the train
awakened Grandpa; 'he regarded Louis with a lazy
smile and asked him if he had found the u big things/'
and how about the u shut-in life." Louis at once over-
flowed concerning the Berkshires, the Hudson, and the
Bridge, but said not a word about the valley that
was sacred. Whjen he had finished, Grandpa's face
spread into one of those grimaces that Louis knew
but too well as a preliminary to speech; and Grandpa
said: "As to your bridge, young man, I know nothing;
as to the Hudson, you know nothing; as to your Berk-
shires, they are an impertinence."
Grandpa was an incorrigible tease. With inward
chuckle, with sweet, succulent sinfulness, he gazed his
fill upon a crestfallen face, knowing the while how
quickly and how well he could restore its color; then,
having gloated long enough, he, as always, relented
but slowly, for effect, he began: u Louis, what good
does the study of your stupid geography do you? Sup-
pose you can bound all the states, you haven't an
idea of what the states are. You see a crooked black
line on your map and it is marked such or such a
river; what do you know about that river? Have
your teachers ever told you anything of value about a
river? Any river? Have they ever told you that
there are rivers and rivers each with its special char-
acter? Have they ever given you a word-picture of
a river, so that you might at least summon up an
image of it, however short of reality? They have
not. They can not. They are not inspired. They are
victims of routine, wearied on the daily treadmill until
they can no longer see into the heart of a child. Now,
I have watched you since you were a babe in arms,
[135]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and I have mostly let you alone for fear of meddling
with nature's work; for you were started right by
my daughter, the mother who carried you and yearned
for you. She is sound to the core. She alone of my
children might fittingly wear the red cap of liberty.
Yet you do not know your own mother. / know you.
I "know your abominable selfishness come from your
father; and your generosity and courage come from
my proud daughter. You have a God-given eye and a
dull heart. You are at one and the same time in-
credibly industrious and practical, and a dreamer of
morbid dreams, of mystic dreams, sometimes clean,
brilliant dreams, but these are too rare.
"What you have said, from time to time, concerning
man's power to do, has astounded and frightened me,
coming from you. That idea you never got from any
of us. There shines the light of the seer, of the prophet,
leading where? to salvation or destruction? I dare
not think how that flame may grow into conflagration,
or mellow into a world-glow of wisdom. But I know,
worst of all, that adolescence is at hand ; that you are
in grave danger of a shake-up. Hard work and clear
straight thinking may pull you through; that is my
sincere hope. I regret, now, having spoken harshly:
I did not intend to, but one thought led to another as
a river flows. Now let us return to earth and I will
tell you about the Hudson.* 1
Then Grandpa, aroused to eloquence, made a splen-
did, flowing, word-picture of the Hudson, from Al-
bany to the sea, that brought out all the rare qual-
ities of his fine mind, and so aroused Louis that he
made the journey with him lost to all else. Just
then the train slowed up and came to a full stop.
[06]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Louis looked out of the window. They were in a
ravine, with high walls of rock, jagged and wild, and
through this gorge came dashing, plunging, swirling,
sparkling, roaring over the ledges in cascade after cas-
cade, laughing and shouting in joy, the same Mohawk
River that had flowed as gendy as the footstep of a
veiled nun, through the long, quiet valley they had
traversed. Louis was exultant, he leaped from the
train, waved his hat, and in spirit sang with the waters
the song of joy. The bell clanged its warning note,
Louis was aboard with a swing, and as the tram moved
on, from the rear platform he waved his farewell to
Little Falls.
They soon arived at Utica; and Grandpa, who had
begun to feel the fatigue of the journey; announced
that they would spend the night there In order to be
fresh on the morrow. Louis, still restless, took a long,
evening stroll. Utica had not impressed him. It
seemed staid and somnolent, giving out an air of old
and settled complacence, differing however, in kind and
quality, from that of New England. So he strolled;
his thoughts reverting to Grandpa and his extraordi-
nary monologue; and for the first time, since he had
begun think such thoughts, he asked himself, what
lies hidden behind Grandpa?
The Black River at that time flowed irregularly
northward, as presumably it does today. Originating
in hills not far northeast of Utica, it finally, after
much argument with the lay of the land, debouched
into Lake Ontario, not far beyond Watertown. About
midway in its course it picked up the Moose River,
[137]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and a short distance beyond their junction broke into
a rough and tumble waterfall of perhaps forty feet
descent, beyond which, its surface at first much ruffled,
it went smoothly on its way as far as the eye could
comfortably follow. The water-tumult was named
Lyons Falls. Near the falls, on a narrow flat, close
to the west bank of the river, sat dismally, in true
American style, in the prevailing genius of ugliness, a
hamlet or village, also called Lyons Falls. It was oc-
cupied at the time by what were then known as human
beings and was the terminus of a canal, already in
decay, that had somehow found its way from the city
of Rome. At a level higher than the village flat, ran,
substantially north and south, a railway, named, if
memory serves, the Rome, Carthage & Watertown.
During what time the village had served as the termi-
nus of the railway, it flourished; when the line moved
on, the village drooped and withered into what has
eminently been set forth as a state of innocuous desue-
tude. At the station was a dirt road at right angles
to the railroad, that quickly fell around a curve down
to the village. To the westward, however, it ran
straight as a section line over the hills and vanished.
From the railway station the ascent was gradual
for a space, and at a distance, say of a hundred yards
from the railway, and close to the northern side of
the dirt road, rested the home of Walter Whittlesey,
a rather modern structure for that day, surrounded by
spruce trees that looked as though they had been
dragged there and chained. Across the road from the
family residence was the ice house, secreted in a lovely
and refreshing glen of wildwood; at a decorous dis-
tance northeast of the "Mansion" was a big barn
[ 138 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
with Its out-buildings, all in a state of dilapidation,
and adjacent thereto was a worn and weary apple
orchard, lichen-covered and rheumatic with age. Be-
yond this orchard was sheer stubble over a vast acreage.
Not very far west of the house, however, was a
charming valley, quite incidentally berthed between
the looming earth-billows. Throughout the length of
this ever-to-be-hallowed spot busily ran a rivulet to
the encouragement of a swath of herbage, and of thank-
ful shrubbery clinging to its edges. Part way up the
western slope was a long horizontal out-cropping of
limestone ledge, along which, in comparative safety,
grew a slender grove of tall, hardwood trees, with in-
viting undergrowth. One cannot drive a plow through
a limestone ledge, and it is too much trouble to drain
a low spot where there are plenty of hills. The grove-
land paid its rent in firewood, the rivulet paid no
rent at all, thus were they tolerated in their beauty.
Hay was the general crop.
The Black River was crossed by a wagon bridge at
a point between the Moose River and the falls. The
road continued on to Lyonsdale. This same Black
River gave an impression of performing a bold, high-
handed deed. It split its territory sharply in halves.
From its left bank rose wave upon wave of smooth
hills mounting to a high plateau, while, as sharply
from its right bank spread a huge, somber, primeval
hemlock forest, mounting in turn upon its hills beyond
the range of vision. Out of this forest rushed the
Moose River, its waters icy and dark. Into this forest
ran no road for long. The Black River appeared to
have done this big, high-handed act; but the recur-
rence of the name Lyons, and the presence of a baronial
[139]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
seat at Lyonsdale, just within the edge of the forest,
might have offered a diverging explanation to one In-
tent upon what lies beyond appearances. However,
such was the lay of the land.
The train bearing Grandpa and Louis, after the
preliminary whistle and bell clanging of ceremony,
slowed up at the station. Grandpa, clean shaven,
erect, aglow, descended with dignity; Louis, somewhat
begrimed because of his fixed belief that the place
for his head lay outside the car window, jumped after
him, already excited by the Black River. He wanted
to Investigate everything at once or immediately; oh,
yes he must kiss Tante Jennie.
They were greeted at the station by Walter Whit-
tlesey, a sizeable man, swarthy, grave, full bearded
black sprinkled with gray, wearing the wide felt hat
of a landowner who knew horses. He had given in-
structions, and had so notified Grandpa, that all baggage
and luggage would be cared for, extraneously, by
menials. He was a calm, courteous man, whose bear-
ing suggested a lineage of colonels on horseback, blue
grass, bourbon, blooded stock, beauteous women, and
blacks*
The three walked leisurely up the road, to the white
house with green blinds where Tante Jennie, other-
wise Mrs. Jenny List Whittlesey, awaited them with
the reserve of a gentlewoman whom long practice had
enabled to speak with delicate precision In a voice
scarcely audible, and to inhale her smiles.
As the trio mounted the steps leading to the ver-
anda, Louis In his rough and ready way casually no-
ticed, not far from the doorway^ a young lady re-
clining in an easy chair, quietly rocking, deeply absorbed
[140]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
in a book. Scarcely had he entered the open door
but she had affirmed: *Tm going like that boy. 11
Within the "spare room" of the house, Grandpa
folded his daughter in fervent arms, kissed her with
the profound affection of an ageing father, and wept.
Auntie did not weep; she amiably returned her father's
greeting, and said something in very pure French that
seemed to satisfy. Louis went through the perform-
ance, awkwardly, and as hastily as possible. Auntie
gave him the dry kiss of superculture and assured him
in very pure English of her gratification at his arrival
within her home.
Louis at the earliest moment escaped to the veranda.
He had forgotten all about the young lady, and was
startled and abashed to find her still there, gently
rocking, absorbed in her book. Before he could re-
treat she arose in greeting with a smile known other-
where only in Paradise; she said in glee: "My name is
Minnie! I am eighteen, and a 'young lady' now. Oh
Louis! I have waited for you so impatiently, and
here you are at last. I am sure we shall like each
other; don't you think we will? I'm in society in
Utica and I'm going to tell you lots of things. See,
I wear long skirts and do up my hair, but I can't
climb trees any more; isn't that a shame? But I'll
run races with you and we'll have lots of fun; and
I'll tell you all about the books I've read and all
about society. Here I've been for a month reading
French books and speaking French with Aunt Jenny
and have grown weary of myself; now you and I are
to be chums! Don't you think you'll like me?"
And Louis, taken* thus unawares, and thus caressed
with words, dared at last to look into gray Scotch
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
eyes that seemed endowed with an endless fund of
merriment, of badinage, of joy, of appeal, of kindness,
and saturated with an inscrutable depth beyond all of
these. He gazed steadily at a tender face, narrow,
tapering, slender, and very pale, delicately freckled;
at nostrils trembling; at a wide thin-lipped super-
sensitive mouth; at large ears; at thin, vagrant, dark,
sandy hair; at a sprightly medium figure, all alive.
She was clad in dark blue silk. He found in her
not ""beauty but irresistible pervading charm. As he
was thus absorbed Minnie said: "Sit down beside me,
Louis dear, and watch me die. Sit very still and
watch." Whereupon, leaning back in her easy chair,
she dosed her eyes, deepened her pallor, closed her
nostrils, made a thin line of her mouth, elongated her
face, and lay deathly still, as though in veritable rigor
mortis, until Louis's nerves were on edge. Then, still
dead and rigid, the fine line indicating her closed lips
slowly widened across her face, the thin lips parting
slightly as of themselves, cadaverously, the teeth also,
a little later; after a seemingly endless wait, from
this baleful rictus there came out moans, wails, gurgles,
the ears began to crawl as of themselves. Then of
a sudden the corpse sat bolt upright, with wide glar-
ing eyes, grasped Louis by the shoulders and in fierce,
frothy words forecast for him the direst of misfortunes
by sea and land. Then she patted Louis's pale cheek,
fell back into her chair and giggled softly, casting at
Louis the funniest, merriest, glances. "How old are
you, Louis?" "Fourteen." "Oh, I knew that. I
asked your auntie. But isn't it lovely, fourteen and
eighteen; fourteen and eighteen! and to think that I
have died for you, and have come back to you !
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"Tomorrow we'll go to church. The new minister's
a rather nice chap. I like to hear him pray f he's so
genteel about it; and he's sound in doctrine, so your
auntie says, and you know she's a blue Presbyterian."
And Minnie immediately took Louis under her wing.
Next day she took him to church, leading him by
a string, as it were, set him down beside her in the
family pew, and their whisperings mingled with other
whisperings in the repressive silence. Then the min-
ister appeared in the pulpit, a fairly young man with
mien and countenance betoking earnestness, piety and
poverty. Louis thought he prayed well, as with quiet
fervor he set forth his belief that God was within
his temple, and assuredly within the hearts of his flock.
When it came to the sermon, Louis sat up straight
and took eager notice, for the good man had just read
from the big Bible this text: "And the Lord went
before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them
on the way, and by night in a pillar of fire, to give
them light to go by day afid night." Louis needed
no sermon ; in a flash he knew that all his life he had
been led in by a pillar of gleaming cloud, and a pillar
of fire; and his far-reaching instant vision forecast it
would be thus until the end. Yet he took much heart
in listening to the youngish man in the pulpit grasp
the totality of this simple story, transmute it into a
great symbol, and in impassioned voice lift it to the
heights of idealism and of moral grandeur, refashion-
ing it into a spiritual pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire
ever present in the hearts, the minds, the souls of all
humans, as he urgently, yea, piteously, besought the
blind to see.
As they walked home Minnie remarked that it was
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
an extra-fine sermon, but as Louis did not reply she
scented danger and tactfully chatted about little^ things,
until her joyous sweetness detached him from his pillar
of ravishing cloud and the pillar of wondrous fire.
Soon she had him laughing as gaily as herself and
plucking wayside flowers for her. For Minnie was
intuitive to a degree. She knew that Louis had been
deeply stirred, that he had been dreaming somberly as
they left the church: and this she would not counte-
nance. She believed that if one must dream it should
be of happiness, and the dreamer wide awake to the
joy of living. They sat for a while by the falls, but
Louis was not content. There seemed to be something
purposeless in this clumsy tumbling about of dark wa-
ters, losing their balance, falling helplessly over ledges
and worn boulders, lost in their way among them,
and reeling absurdly off at the bottom. It all seemed
to lack order and singleness of purpose. Near the
falls was a small wooden mill afflicted with the rickets,
and this alone seemed in tune with the falls.
So they trudged home and Aunt Jenny said the
blessing. Grandpa had just returned from a long walk,
his favorite pastime fifteen or twenty miles noth-
ing for him. It became his daily habit. He always
went barehead, always got lost and always found his
way back*
Next day Minnie told Louis, in confidence, she
knew of a charming spot not very far away, where
there were ledges of rock and tall trees, and a darling
rivulet with green along its banks. She took him there,
and would not even let him help her over the lichen
and moss covered rocks. With Louis in tow she found
a shady spot, with ferns and undergrowth forming a
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
nook, and the wide-branching trees a canopy. She
had taken books with her, and on a large, ancient stone
which she called her pulpit, she perched with her slave.
Below them ran the rivulet, and above the opposite
crest there showed a bit of the roof of the dwelling.
Minnie clapped her hands with joy. "Louis, don't you
think I'm good to bring you here? It is the solitary
oasis in this desert of hayland. There is hay, hay,
hay, for miles."
Presently she opened a book and read from Tenny-
son, making her selections carefully varied, feeling her
way through Louis's responses to see where she could
reach his heart, how she could bare it, and then keep
her secret. She read from Byron, recited many other
poems with a skill unknown to elocutionists, and a
stealthy, comfortable look came into her eyes now
turned green, her face wreathed in a Mona Lisa smile,
as she said: "Louis, this is a great, beautiful, good
world if but we knew it, and to this very spot I have
often come in thankful mood, and from this very
pulpit prayed to these trees to make me pure in heart. 1 *
And then she told Louis about the many books she
had read, largely French novels for practice, she said;
and then Louis told her he had read all of Captain
Mayne Reid's books, all the Leather Stocking Tales,
some by Maryatt, and some wonderful and beautiful
stories in the Bible ; and he recited for her, verbatim,
the story of Elijah, the whirlwind, and the still small
voice.
The smile on Minnie's pale face became luxurious,
her gleaming eyes about to close, as she said half-wam-
ingly: "Louis, Louis, you are in danger!" and refused
to explain. Then suddenly coming to herself she
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
cried; "We must go back to the house at once; if we
are late at supper, your auntie will give me just one
look, and I will know exactly what that one look
means; but you won't." And she took Louis by the
hand, her books under the other arm, resumed her
jaunty mood and led him to the house, delivering to
his Auntie a human package not merely stirred, but
churned into butter and whey.
Auntie again said grace; the thoughts of all bowed
heads but hers were on supper. The evening was
spent by the family on the dark veranda singing old-
fashioned hymns; after which the peace of night came
over all but one.
Next day, Minnie, repentant of her wickedness, ap-
peared as a fresh blown morning glory, gave hearty,
cheerful greetings to all, and to Louis talked as might
an ordinarily affectionate sister. Her eyes were crys-
talline, her carriage buoyant. Then, at the appointed
time, she began her hour of French with Auntie ; and
as Louis, nearby, listened, he framed a desire and a
resolve to learn the language which Minnie seemed to
read and speak as easily as Auntie. The lesson over,
Minnie came to Louis, took a place beside him and
as one wooing, said, "Dear protege: the hour is at
hand. I have much to say. The woods are calling,
the birds are waiting. Let us now repair to the pulpit
and be two sensible humans." To the pulpit they
repaired, that day and many a day. Once seated on
the great stone, Minnie put Louis at his ease and be-
gan rapid-fire questions, about Louis's home and school
life. She wished every detail; and Louis answered
faithfully. He told her not only the story of his
life, but the story of every one and everything there-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
with connected: Minnie saying: "Fine, fine, how well
you tell it," in running comment. He even told Min-
nie one of Julia's fairy tales, the tale of the "Good
People," and Minnie cried: "Oh, what a lovely brogue,
isn't it sweet?" and Louis said yes, it was, and added
that Julia had taught him some real Gaelic words,
but he had forgotten the meaning of most of than.
"That gives me a bright idea, Louis; you don't know
French, so I will give you a pass-word, in French,
that is better than any Gaelic. Say to me, once every
day, Je t'aime" ; and Louis said to her once every day
Je faime deeming it a secret. And Minnie would
gravely say each time, in approval, that he pronounced
it beautifully.
She told him conversationally about herself and her
home. She described in detail her finishing school, and
mimicked its follies. She raved over her adored brother
Ed, fresh from Yale. Told of her coming out, of
Utica society, and her set, and of the landed aristoc-
racy, the old families, thd exclusive, best people; said
her father was a big grain forwarder, and had plenty
of money, as far as her simple needs were concerned,
and described minutely her trip to Europe. She trav-
elled this ground to and fro with many a mimicry,
flippancy, wise saw, and splendid enthusiasms.
So Louis began to see that people were graded. He
was pained at many things Minnie casually described.
She was revealing too much. She was unconscious of
lifting many veils, as Louis was unconscious of repeat-
ing world-truth when he said, every day, Je faime.
He was not lifting any veil for Minnie; this self-
same Minnie having one small devil peeping through
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
each eye. Their talk, throughout that live-long day,
was gossip.
When Minnie came, through questioning, to a full
sense of the depth of Louis's ignorance of the world,
of social organization both In its ephemeral and its
momentous inert and stratified aspects, that he was
provincial, that he was honest, frank, and unsuspecting,
she became alarmed at the new danger, and determined
to prepare him; and in so doing, she lifted at least
a corner of a sinister and heavy veil that lay behind
appearances. This she did with skill, and a little at
a time, proving her case in each instance, by direct
illustration and remarks none too complimentary. But
Minnie could not be serious for long at a time; she
preferred frivolity, nonsense and high spirits never
for a moment neglecting" to keep Louis dazed in her
land of enchantment.
Minnie became Louis's precious teacher. She made
him feel he was not being taught, but entertained with
gossip. She knew that what she said in persiflage,
would later sink in deep, and she knew why it would
do so.
Minnie -was both worldly and unworldly. With
nature she was dreamy; but wheti it came to people,
she became a living microscope, her sharp brain void
of all illusion, for her true world was of the world
of people there she lived as Louis's world had been
a world of the wide open of romance. Hence, with
Louis she was ever gentle, even though she dangled
him as though he were a toy balloon.
An aching in her guarded heart was soothed by
him ; and he became for her a luxury a something to
remain awhile a precious memory. Thus Minnie filled
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the air with laughter, and with debonnaire delight
meanwhile feeding honey drop by drop just to see
upon a human face the rare, the precious witching
aspect of idolatry.
So came a day when Minnie, on the pulpit, talked
of things pertaining to herself. Among other words
she said the young men of her set were grossly stupid;
incapable of thought above the level of the sty. Their
outlook upon life she said was vapid, coarse and vain.
That they held women to be property, their appendage,
their vehicle of display. They were all rich, she said,
and this made matters worse. To be anchored to such
brutes, scarcely decent in their evening clothes, she said,
was horror. She would be owned, she said, by no
man rich or poor. She must be free, she said; free
as air. Knowing all this now, she had marked her
course in life, and she said that never would she marry
the risk of sorrow was too great. All this she said
as lightly as a swallow on the wing.
At these last words, something fell away in Louis's
solar plexus, sometimes known as the sensorium, and
Minnie said: "Never mind, never mind, you'll outgrow
it, Louis, you are fourteen, I'm eighteen. While it
lasts, let us be dear friends together; the dearest com-
rades ever known. Your heart's in mine and mine in
yours, I know. Let these great oaks, as witnesses, be-
trothe us in such way, and prophesy a lovely memory."
Louis with unheard-of stoicism held back his tears.
And Minnie said: "Come now, let's be going; don't
refer to this again. Let's be as we've always been,
together, carefree and let laughter ring again."
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Such was Minnie's way of doing and of saying.
She was Louis's loyal friend* She mothered him in
sprightly malice and in tenderness alike. All her va-
garies and sweetness came from one constant nature.
She was ever thoughful of the needs of others. She
was exquisitely human. To Louis, long adapted to
the elderly, she was held by him as in a shrine, to
be the only truly human he had ever known; and
her kindness in adopting him, and making him her
own, not for a day, but for all the glad summer long,
made him feel as though his life, before her floating
into it, had been but a blank. How could he ever
repay 1 She had come, it seemed to him, out of the
invisible that lies behind all things, all dreams, to be
his faerie queen.
And now it seems as though a half a century had
stood still.
LISOJ
PLATE 16. Wainwright Building, NW corner of Sev-
enth and Chestnut Streets, St. Louis, Mo.
1890-91. Adler & Sullivan; Charles K. Ram-
sey, associate.
CHAPTER IX
Boston The English High School
WHILE at Lyons FaUs, Louis made acquaint-
ance of the sons of the tenant farmer; twins,
two or three years older than he, and he ap-
praised them accordingly. Broad shouldered, heavily
built throughout, with large-featured homely faces
evenly browned by the sun, they had big coarse hands
which Louis envied. They swayed and lurched in talk-
ing, shifting their feet; good natured, heavy-minded
fellows, taller than Louis. One day they said they
were bound for Brown's Tract and would have as
guide a trapper, a grown man; that they would head
for a certain lake twenty miles away, where the trap-
per had a shack and a canoe; that they were after
game; they asked Louis if he would like to come along,
Louis jumped at a chance he had been aching for*
Many a day he had wondered what a forest could be,
within its depths, as he gazed at the mass of sombre
and silentious green rising from the dark waters of
the river and had seen no hope to solve the mystery.
The boys warned him that it would be rough, heavy
work, with some danger; but he said the rougher the
better, and that as to the dangers he was curious.
Now, afoot, heavy laden, they have passed the
fringe of the forest, and begun the ascent of a rough
stony trail, climbing and descending the hills in a
winding obscure way. Five miles in, they cross a "bark
road/' so called, a ragged gash through the woods
with stumps of trees, loose boulders and corduroy for
roadbed. Strewn along the way of the road lie huge
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
naked hemlocks stripped of bark for the tanneries to
southward. No trail beyond this road; the real hard
work, the stern hardship begins in the utter wildness
of ancient fallen trees, tangled wildwood, precipitous
ravines, the crossing of raging torrents feeders of the
Moose River roaring under masses of forest wreck-
age, involving high danger in the crossing, their wa-
ters .dark brown, forbidding, foaming brown-white;
detours to be made around impassable rock out-crop-
pings; wadings through cedar swamps; a bit of smooth
needle-carpeted floor, for relief at times; many pant-
ing rests, many restarts, grimly wending their way be-
tween close-set uprearing shafts of mighty hemlocks,
and tamaracks, with recurring narrow vistas quickly
closing as the trampers cross a plateau, and then again
descent and climb and hardship, hidden danger of fall-
ing aged trees, no warning but the groan, then a crash
and trembling earth ; so pass four weary ones through
a long August day, amid cathedral gloom, the roaring
and the stillness of primeval forest.
By sundown they have made ten miles. A hasty
cam p no tent, a quick fire coffee, bacon, hardtack,
water from canteens; a small tamarack felled, its deli-
cate fragrant boughs laid thick for a bed, a circle
of smudge-fires, and shortly, four humans, in soaking
boots, and clothing soaked with sweat and spray, sleep
the instant sleep of exhaustion, in the dark of the
moon, in the pitch black forest, as the circle of smudge
fires faintly smoulders.
At early dawn the trapper blows no horn, he rings
no bell, but in bright good humor emits the awful
siren of the screech-owl; the dead turn in their slum-
ber-graves. Once more the dead jump up. Camp-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
fire lighted, hurry-up, fires -trod out, packs again on
sore backs, stiff legs start and shortly limber. That
day six miles of going, and again death-asleep* Next
day four miles of easy going as they reach the margin
of a wide basin or valley, with level floor and stop
at one end of a sumptuous lake, resting placid and
serene as a fathomless mirror upheld by forest walls.
At this point is a limited natural clearing; nearby is
the shack, a large rough-hewn affair of unbarked sap-
ling logs ; and, bottom up, in the deep shade are found
canoe and paddles. It is early afternoon. They take
their ease, lying awhile on the green sward, then spread
boots and clothing in the sun to dry, bathe in the
cool shallows safe from the icy spring-fed deep of the
lake, resume half-dried boots and clothes and leisurely
arrange the camp. Meanwhile the trapper, tall and
lank, brings in a brace of partridge. Now all is joy,
the pains forgot, the prize attained they burst into
raucous song to the effect that they are "dreaming
now of Hallie."
Louis, musket in hand, walked to the edge of the
shore, stopping not far from the timber wall. The
lake, to his eye, appeared three miles long and three-
quarters wide. He raised his gun and fired straight
ahead. Instantly set in an astounding roar. It
smashed, dashed and rolled sonorously along the mighty
wall, suddenly fainting into an unseen bay, then rolling
forth again into the open, passing on like subdued
thunder; from the beginning scattering wild echoes,
which in turn re-echoed criss-wise and cross-wise, an
immense maze of vibrations, now passing slowly in
decrescendo into a far away rumble and nearby trem-
bling, fainting, dying, as the forest sternly regained its
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
own f and primal stillness came. This display was too
dramatic, even for Louis. Once was enough. It
seemed too much like an eerie protest, the wildly pas-
sionate rejoinder of a living forest disturbed in its
primal solitudes of contemplation. Yet the stupen-
dous rhythm, the orchestral beauty of it all, sank deep
in Louis's soul, now become as one with nature's mood.
He wandered from the camp, wishing to be alone,
where he might be himself, solitary, in nature's deep,
and commune with venerable immensities that gave
forth a voice of haunting stillness which seemed to
murmur and at times to chant of an unseen, age-long,
immanent, eternal power, which Louis coupled as one
with a gentle, sensuous, alluring power to whose mov-
ing song of enchantment he had trembled in response,
within a bygone springtime in the open.
The brief camp-life was much the usual thing. Game
was scarce, but small speckled trout could be scooped
up in quantity from a slow, deep rivulet in a nearby
beaver meadow.
Came time to return. The trapper said he could
lead them back by an easier way, but it meant a detour
of thirty miles to Lyons Falls. They made the distance
in three days. They had been away ten days all told ;
and Louis was exultant that he had made as good a
showing as the farm-boy twins.
All too soon came the hour to begin the journey
homeward. Good-byes were said some of them
wistful.
At Albany, Grandpa revealed a plan he had cher-
ished in secret : They were to take the day-boat down
the Hudson to New York. Louis was profuse in grati-
tude as he p re-figured coming wonders which he was
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
to see with his very own eyes, and appraise with his
own sensibilities. And so it was, as Louis passed al-
most directly from the sublimity of forest solitudes
to the grandeur of the lower Hudson. As they passed
West Point, Grandpa said that he had once taught
French at the United States Military Academy, and
that his pleasure there had been to swim the Hudson,
across and back every morning before breakfast.
Grandpa's stock immediately jumped many points, for
Louis held prowess in high honor. As they passed
the Palisades Louis was astounded as Grandpa ex-
plained their nature huge basalt crystals standing on
end. The life on the river all the way down had
greatly entertained him; now he came in sight of
greater shipping and entered an immense ioating
activity.
Of New York Louis saw but little ; and when Grand-
pa said it was here they landed when he with his family
came from Geneva, Louis took the information deafly,
not even inquiring when and why they had moved to
Boston. Grandpa felt the hurt of this indifference.
Here was this boy, his own cherished grandson, whose
fourteen living years had been filled to overflow with
vivid episodes, with active thoughts, with dreams, mys-
teries, prophetic intuitions and rude industrious practi-
calities, all commingled; here was this boy, ignorant,
grossly innocent and careless of the vicissitudes and
follies of a seething human world. He shuddered mo-
mentarily at the chasm that lay between them. For
Grandpa all too well knew the profound significance of
a wholly truthful story of any human life, told continu-
usely, without a break, from cradle to old age, could it
be known and recorded of any other than one's self. He
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
knew that the key to the mystery of human destiny
and fate lay wrapped and lost within these lived but
unrecorded stories. He knew also that Louis was now
paying in ignorance the penalty of a sheltered life.
Then he told Louis another secret: They were to
leave on a Fall River boat and traverse the length of
Long Island Sound. Thus, Louis, in renewed joy
and ecstasy made his first long trip on the salted sea.
Then duly came Boston, Wakefield and the romantic
journey's end,
* * *
Louis still had time to brush up rapidly for the high
school examinations. He had chosen the English High
rather than the Latin High. He was accustomed to
thinking and acting for himself, seldom asking advice.
His thoughts in mass were directed ever toward his
chosen career; and he believed that the study of Latin
would be a waste of time for him; the time element
was present always as a concomitant of his ambitions.
He wished always to advance in the shortest time com-
patible with sure results. He had no objection to
Latin as such, but believed its study suitable only to
those who might have use for it in after-life. He had
a keen gift for separating out what he deemed essential
for himself.
On September third, his birthday, he received a let-
ter from Utica, filled with delicate sentiments, encourag-
ing phrases, and concluding with an assurance that the
writer would be with him in spirit through his high
school days.
The English and Latin High Schools, in those days,
were housed in a single building, rather old and dingy,
on the south side of Bedford Street; a partition wall
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
separating them, a single roof covering them. The
street front was of granite, the side walls of brick.
There were brick-paved yards for the recess half-hour
with overflow to the street and a nearby bakery. It
was a barn-like, repellant structure fronting on a lane
as narrow as the prevailing New England mind of
its day.
Louis passed the examinations and his name was en-
tered in the year book 1870-71.
He was among those about forty in all assigned
to a room on the second floor, presided over by a
"master" named Moses Woolson. This room was
dingy rather than gloomy. The individual desks were
in rows facing north, the light came from windows
in the west and south walls. The master's platform
and desk were at the west wall; on the opposite wall
was a long blackboard. The entrance door was at the
north, and in the southwest corner were two large
glass-paneled cabinets, one containing a collection of
minerals, the other carefully prepared specimens of
wood from all parts of the world.
The new class was assembled and seated by a moni-
tor, while the master sat at his desk picking his right
ear. Louis felt as one entering upon a new adventure,
the outcome of which he could not forecast, but sur-
mised would be momentous.
Seated at last, Louis glanced at the master, whose
appearance and make-up suggested, in a measure, a
fanner of the hardy, spare, weather-beaten, penurious,
successful type apparently a man of forty or under.
When silence had settled over the mob, the master
rose and began an harangue to his raw recruits ; indeed
he plunged into it without a word of welcome. He
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
was a man above medium height, very scant beard,
shocky hair, his movements were panther-like, his fea-
tures, in action, were set as with authority and pugna-
city, like those of a first mate taking on a fresh crew.
He was tense, and did not swagger a man of pas-
sion. He said, in substance: "Boys, you don't know
me, but you soon will. The discipline here will be
rigid. You have come here to learn and I'll see that
you do. I will not only do my share but I will make
you do yours. You are here under my care ; no other
man shall interfere with you. I rule here I am mas-
ter here as you will soon discover. You are here as
wards in my charge; I accept that charge as sacred;
I accept the responsibility involved as a high, exacting
duty I owe to myself and equally to you. I will give
to you all that I have; you shall give to me all that
you have. But mark you: The first rule of discipline
shall be SILENCE. Not a desk-top shall be raised, not
a book touched, no shuffling of feet, no whispering, no
sloppy movements, no rustling. I do not use the rod,
I believe it the instrument of barbarous minds and
weak wills, but I will shake the daylight out of any
boy who transgresses, after one warning. The second
rule shall be STRICT ATTENTION: You are here to
leam, to think, to concentrate on the matter in hand,
to hold your minds steady. The third rule shall cover
ALERTNESS. You shall be awake all the time body
and brain; you shall cultivate promptness, speed, nim-
bleness, dexterity of mind. The fourth rule: You
shall learn to LISTEN; to listen in silence with the whole
mind, not part of it; to listen with your whole heart,
not part of it, for sound listening is a basis for sound
thinking; sympathetic listening is a basis, for sympa-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
thetic, worth-while thinking; accurate listening is a
basis of accurate thinking. Finally you are to learn
to OBSERVE, to REFLECT, to DISCRIMINATE. But this
subject is of such high importance, so much above your
present understanding, that I will not comment upon
it now; it is not to be approached without due prepara-
tion. I shall not start you with a jerk, but tighten the
lines bit by bit until I have you firmly in hand at the
most spirited pace you can go." As he said this last
saying, a dangerous smile went back and forth over
his grim set face. As to the rest, he outlined the curric-
ulum and his plan of procedure for the coming school
year. He stressed matters of hygiene; and stated that
a raised hand would always have attention. Lessons
were then marked off in the various books all were
to be "home lessons" and the class was dismissed for
the day.
Louis was amazed, thunder-struck, dumb-founded,
over-joyed! He had caught and weighed every word
as it fell from the lips of the master; to each thrilling
word he had vibrated in open-eyed, amazed response.
He knew now that through the years his thoughts, his
emotions, his dreams, his feelings, his romances, his
visions, had been formless and chaotic; now in this
man's utterances, they were voiced in explosive con-
densation, in a flash they became defined, living, real.
A pathway had been shown him, a wholly novel plan
revealed that he grasped as a banner in his hand, as
homeward bound he cried within: At last a Man!
Louis felt the hour of freedom was at hand. He
saw, with inward glowing, that true freedom could
come only through discipline of power, and he trans-
lated the master's word of discipline into its true in-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
tent: Self Discipline of self power. His eager life
was to condense now in a focusing of powers: What
had the words meant; "silence," "attention," "prompt-
ness," "speed," "accurate," "observe," "reflect," "dis-
criminate," but powers of his own, obscurely mingled,
unco-ordinated, and, thus far, vain to create? Now,
in the master's plan, which he saw as a ground plan,
he beheld that for which, in the darkness of broad
daylight, he had yearned so desperately in vain; that
for which, as it were with empty, outstretched hands,
he had grasped, vaguely groping; as one seeing
through a film, that for which he had hungered with
an aching heart as empty as his hands. He had not
known, surely, what it was he wished to find, but
when the master breathed the words that Louis felt
to be inspired: "You are here as wards in my charge;
I accept that charge as sacred; I accept the respon-
sibility involved as a high exacting duty I owe to myself
and equally to you. I will give to you all that I
have, you shall give me all that you have/' a veil
was parted, as it were by magic, and behold! there
stood forth not alone a man but a TEACHER of the
young.
On board the train for Wakefield, Louis took ac-
count of himself; he viewed the long, loop-like journey
he had but recently completed, still fresh and free in
memory's hold. He had gathered in, as though he
had flung and drawn a huge lassoo, the Berkshires,
the Mohawk and its valley, Little Falls, the Black
River, the Moose River, the primeval forest, and the
Falls, the Hudson, the Catskills, the Palisades, New
York Harbor, Long Island Sound; he had voyaged
by rail, by river, and by sea. All these things, these
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
acts, with their inspiring thoughts and emotions and
reveries he had drawn into himself and shaped as one
single imposing drama, ushering in a new and greater
life. Or, in a sense reversed, his "child-domain/ 1
holding, within the encircling woods, his ravine, his
rivulet, his dam, his lovely marsh, his great green
field, his tall, beauteous, slender elm; land of his de-
light, paradise of his earth-love, sequestered temple of
his nature-worship, sanctuary of his visions and his
dreams, had seemed at first, and hopefully, to extend
itself progressively into a larger world as far as New-
buryport and Boston, there, however, to stop, to re-
main fixed and bound up for seven long years, held
as by a sinister unseen dam, the larger, urgently grow-
ing Louis, held also back within it, impatient, repressed,
confined, dreaming of power, storing up ambition,
searching for what lies behind the face of things, agi-
tated and at times morose, malignant. When, of a
sudden, the dam gives way, the child-domain so far
enlarged, rushes forth, spreading over the earth, carry-
ing with it the invisible living presence of Louis's ar-
dent soul, pouring its power of giving and receiving
far and wide over land and sea, encompassing moun-
tains and broad valleys, great rivers, turbulent water-
falls, a solemn boundless forest enfolding a lustrous
lake, and again a noble river mountain-banked, an
amazing harbor, and the great salt waves of the sea
itself.
Thus were the boundaries extended; thus were the
power and splendor of Mother Earth revealed in part;
thus was provided deep and sound foundation for the
masterful free spirit, striding in power, in the open,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
as the genius of the race of purblind, groping, striving,
ever hoping, ever dreaming, illusioned mankind.
And thus it seemed to Louis that he was becoming
stronger and surer of himself. Reverting to the words
of the master, he dared affirm that this very power
was within him, as a ward in his charge; that he
must accept that charge as sacred; that he must accept
the responsibility involved as a high exacting duty he
owed to himself and equally to it; that he must give
to it his all, to insure that it might give to him its alL
And Louis now saw dearly and in wonder, that a
whim of his Grandpa, not the Rice Grammar School,
had prepared him to meet Moses Woolson on fair
terms. With confident assurance he awaited the begin-
ning of what he foresaw was to be a long and arduous
disciplinary training, which he knew he needed, and
now welcomed.
That evening he told Grandpa what he thought of
Moses Woolson and his plan; and Grandpa, with
inward seeing eyes, smiled indulgence at his grandson
seated on his knee, one hand about his neck, as he
mused aloud: "My dear child, allowing- for the rosy
mist of romance through which an adolescent like your-
self sees all things glorified, I will say that in the
whole wide world it is true there may be found a few
such men as you portray; but as a venerable and pru-
dent Grandpa I shall reserve the right to wait awhile
that we may see how the ideal and the real agree.
But you go at it just the same, regardless of what
may be passing in the back of my bald head." And
Louis laughed, and kissed and hugged his Grandpa,
and settled to his lessons, as grandma knitted by the
student lamp, as uncle Julius thrummed away on a
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
helpless guitar and sang the melancholy sentimental
ditties of the day* and as Grandpa, in slippers, gazed
with incredulity at a boy on the loor oblivious of
them all.
As it has but little import in this story, we shall
pass over the breaking-in period of Moses Woolson's
class, and begin an exposition of Moses Woolson*s plan
and method, and Louis's responses thereto at that pe-
riod the master himself had forecast as u when I have
you firmly in hand at the most spirited pace you can
go." Suffice it to say that with great skill in intensive
training he had brought them to this point within three
months.
The ground work of his plan was set forth in his
opening address, and is now to be revealed in its
workings in detail.
The studies on which Louis set the highest value
were Algebra, Geometry, English Literature, Botany,
Mineralogy and French language. All these subjects
were to him revelations. Algebra had startled him;
for, through its portal he entered an unsuspected world
of symbols. To him the symbol x flashed at once as
a key to the unknown but ascertainable. Standing
alone, he viewed this x in surprise as a mystic spirit
in a land of enchantment, opening vistas so deep he
could not see the end, and his vivid imagination saw
at once that this x, expanded in its latent power, might
prove the key to turn a lock in a door within a wall
which shut out the truth he was seeking the truth
which might dissolve for him the mystery that lay be-
hind appearances. For this x, he saw, was manipu-
lated by means of things unknown.
Thus he saw far ahead; looking toward the time
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
when he would be mature. Geometry delighted him
because of its nicety, its exactitude of relationships, its
weird surprises all like fairy tales, fairy tales which
could be proved, and then you said: Q.E.D. He
began to see what was meant by a theorem, a postulate,
a problem, and that proof was a reasoned process based
on certain facts or assertions. It was well for him,
at the time, that he did not perceive the Euclidian
rigidity, in the sense that he had noted the fluency of
Algebra. As to Botany, had he not always seen trees
and shrubs and vines and flowers of the field, the
orchard and the garden?
Now he was learning their true story, their most
secret intimacies, and the organization of their world.
He loved them all the more for this. Mineralogy
was new and revealing, the common stones had begun
as it were, to talk to him in their own words. Con-
cerning French he was ardent, for he had France in
view. English literature opened to him the great
world of words, of ordered speech, the marvelous
vehicle whereby were conveyed every human thought
and feeling from mind to mind, from heart to heart,
from soul to soul, from imagination to imagination,
from thought to thought; and to his ever widening
view, it soon arose before him as a vast treasure house
wherein was stored, in huge accumulation, a record
of the thoughts, the deeds, the hopes, the joys, the
sorrows, and the triumphs of mankind.
Moses Woclson was not a deep thinker, nor was
Moses Woolson erudite or scholarly, or polished in
manners, or sedate. Rather was he a blend of wild
man and of poet But of a surety he had the art
of teaching at his finger tips and his plan of procedure
[164]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
was scientific to a degree, so far beyond the pedagogic
attainments of his day that he stood unique, and was
cordially hated by his craft as lambs might fear and
hate a wolf. Today men would speak of such a man
as a u human dynamo,'' a man ninety-nine per cent "effi-
cient." His one weakness was a temper he all too
often let escape him, but his high strung, nervous make-
up may be averred in part extenuation, for this very
make-up was the source of his accomplishment and
power: He surely gave in abundance, with overflow-
ing hands, all that he had of the best to give.
His plan of procedure was simple in idea, and there-
fore possible of high elaboration in the steady course
of its unfolding into action and results. For conveni-
ence it may be divided into three daily phases seemingly
consecutive, but really interblended; first came severe
memory drill, particularly in geometry, algebra, French
grammar and in exact English; this work first done
at home, and tested out next day in the school room.
Second, (first, next day) a period of recitation in which
memory discipline and every aspect of alertness were
carried at high tension. At the end of this period
came the customary half-hour recess for fresh air and
easing up. After recess came nature study with open
book. Chief among them Gray's "School and Field
Book of Botany" Louis's playground; then came a
closing lecture by the Master.
Thus it may be said, there was a period of high
tension, followed by a period of reduced tension, and
this in turn by a closing period of semi or complete
relaxation, as the master reeled off in easy, entertain-
ing talk, one of his delightful lectures. It was in
the nature studies, and in these closing lectures, par-
[165]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
ticularly those In which he dwelt upon the great out-
of-doors, and upon the glories of English literature,
that the deep enthusiasms of the man's nature came
forth undisguised and unrestrained, rising often to the
heights of Impassioned eloquence, and beauteous
awakening Imagery. These lectures, or rather, in-
formal talks covered a wide range of subjects, most
of them lying beyond the boundaries of the school
curriculum.
Thus, in a sense, Moses Woolson's school room par-
took of the nature of a university quite impressively
so when Professor Asa Gray of Harvard came occa-
sionally to talk botany to the boys. He did this out
of regard for Moses Woolson's love of the science.
The unfailing peroration of these lectures every one
of them, was an exhortation In favor of "Women's
Rights," as the movement was called at the time; for
Moses Woolson was a sincere and ardent champion
of womankind. On this topic he spoke in true nobility
of spirit.
But the talks that gripped Louis the hardest were
those on English literature. Here the master was
completely at his ease. Here, indeed, he revelled, as
it were, in the careful analysis and lucid exposition of
every phase of his subject, copious in quotatoin, de-
lightfully critical In taking- apart a passage, a single
line, explaining the value of each word in respect of
action, rhythm, color, quality, texture, fitness, then put-
ting these elements together in a renewed recital of
the passage which now became a living moving utter-
ance. Impartial in judgment, fertile in illustration and
expedient, clear in statement, he opened to view a
new world, a new land of enchantment.
[166]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
One day, to Louis's amazement, he announced that
the best existing history of English literature was writ-
ten by a Frenchman, one Hyppolite Taine by name.
This phenomenon he explained by stating that the ine
French mind possessed a quality and power of detach-
ment unknown to the English; that Monsieur Taine
further possessed that spiritual aspect of sympathy, that
vision, which enabled him to view, to enter freely and
to comprehend a work of art regardless yet regardful
of its origin In time or place; and he rounded an anti-
thesis of French and English culture in such wise as
to arouse Louis's keenest attention, for the word cul-
ture, had hitherto possessed no significance for him;
It was merely a word ! Now his thoughts, his whole
being floated o'er the sea to distant France, whereupon
he arose from his seat and asked Moses Woolson what
culture really meant, and was told it signified the genius
of a people, of a race. And what was meant by the
genius of a people? It signified their innate qualities
and powers of heart and mind; that therefore their
culture was their own expression of their Inmost selves,
as individuals, as a people, as a race. Louis was mag-
nificently bewildered by this high concentration. He
seemed to be in a flood of light which hid everything
from view; he made some sheepish rejoinder, where-
upon Moses Woolson saw his own mistake.
He came down from his high perch to which he
had climbed unwittingly, for it was dead against his
theory and practice to talk above the heads of his boys.
He thereupon diluted the prior statement with a sim-
ply worded illustration, and Louis was glad to find his
own feet still on die ground. Then Louis put the
two aspects of the statement side by side again, and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP JN IDEA
"culture 1 * became for him a living word a sheer veil
through which, at first, he could but dimly see; but
living word and sheer living veil had come from with-
out to abide with him. It seemed indeed as though
Moses Woolson had passed on to him a wand of en-
chantment which he must learn to use to unveil the
face of things. Thus Louis dreamed.
By the end of the school year Moses Woolson
through genius as a teacher, had turned a crudely prom-
ising boy into, so to speak, a mental athlete. He had
brought order out of disorder, definition out of what
was vague, superb alertness out of mere boyish ardor;
had nurtured and concentrated all that was best in the
boy; had made him consciously courageous and inde-
pendent; had focussed his powers of thought, feeling
and action; had confirmed Louis's love of the great
out of doors, as a source of inspiration; and had cli-
maxed all by parting a great veil which opened to the
view of this same boy, the wonderland of Poetry.
Thus with great skill he made of Louis a compacted
personality, ready to act on his own initiative, in an
intelligent purposeful way. Louis had the same capa-
city to absorb, and to value discipline, that Moses
Woolson had to impart it, and Louis was not a bril-
liant or showy scholar. He stood well up in his class
and that was enough. His purpose was not to give
out, but to receive, to acquire. He was adept in the
art of listening and was therefore rather silent of
mood. His object was to get every ounce of treasure
out of Moses Woolson. And yet for Moses Woolson,
the master and the man, he felt neither love nor af-
fection, and it is quite likely that the master felt much
the same toward him. What he felt toward the man
[168]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
was a vast admiration, he felt the power and the vigor
of his intense and prodigal personality. It is scarcely
likely that the master really knew, to the full extent,
what he was doing for this boy, but Louis knew it;
and there came gradually over him a cumulative re-
ciprocity which, at the end, when he had fully realized
the nature of the gift, burst forth into a sense of obli-
gation and of gratitude so heartfelt, so profound, that
it has remained with him in constancy throughout the
years. There may have been teachers and teachers,
but for Louis Sullivan there was and could be only
one. And now, in all too feeble utterance he pleads
this token, remembrance, to the memory of that ONE
long since passed on.
Meanwhile a cloud no bigger than a man's hand
arose into the clear blue above the horizon of Henri
List's placid life. Early in 1871 Anna List, his wife,
his prop, his anchor, his life's mainstay, was taken with
her first and last illness. Louis was forbidden her
room. All was quiet; furtive comings and goings;
whispered anxious words. The cloud arose, darkened
the world and passed on. One morning, it was told
that he, Louis, might see her. He went directly to her
room, opened the door, and entered. The white shades
were down and all was light within. On the bed he
saw extended an object fully covered by a sheet. He
advanced, drew aside the sheet, rashly pressed his lips
upon the cold forehead, drew back as though stung.
Standing erect he gazed steadfastly down upon rigid
features that seemed of unearthly ivory.
Grandmamma had vanished!
[169]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
What signified this cold menace he now scanned?
This stranger in the house whence Grandmamma had
gone forever?
What meant this effigy, this ivory simulacrum that
had come here in her stead?
It could not see, it could not hear, it could not feel,
it could not move, it could not speak, it could not love!
Grandmamma had vanished!
She had passed on with a great cloud that had cast
its shadow.
And here, now before him lay a counterfeit, where
once she was.
An object, a nothing, a something and a nothing,
which Louis could not think or name; an ivory mask
which repelled, which instantly he rejected, as a ghastly
intrusion.
And they had said that he would see his Grand-
mamma I
Ah I then, was this petrified illusion his Grand-
mamma?
They liedi
His true Grandmamma was in his heart and would
remain there till his own end should come. Whatever
this object before him might be, it was not Gran'ma !
His Grandmamma had vanished!
He replaced the shroud. Dry-eyed, and as one filled
with a cold light, he left the room.
Never before had Louis seen what Death, the cloud
no bigger than a man's hand, leaves behind it as it
passes overhead and vanishes.
* * *
An upright white marble slab, in the cemetery, at
the point of the promontory that juts into Lake Quan-
[170]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
napowitt, says to the stranger wandering therein, that
ANNA, wife of Henri List died 2 April, 1871, aged
66 years.
In this laconic statement the cynic hand of Henri
List is clearly seen, even as at the funeral service in the
u spare room" he was prostrate in an overwhelming
iood of hysteria and tears, even as Louis stood by,
gazing at him in wonder that a strong man could be
so weak; even as Louis, cold and harshly irritated by
the Baptist minister, whose sensuous words in praise
of human bloodshed, he cursed. Driven to despera-
tion by the whining quartet, he rushed into the open,
sat under a tree and damned them all to perdition.
Why had he been dragged into this gross orgy of
grief? Could he not be left alone and in peace, to
revere in memory that grandmamma who still lived
on within his heart? The others with their noisy and
their mercenary grief would soon forget. He, never.
As thus he raged, a peach tree in full bloom in the
garden caught his eye. He hastened to it as to a
friend, in dire need. Its joyous presence in the garden
gave him courage, for spring again was singing her
great song. The air was vocal in a choir of resurrec-
tion. Here indeed was resurrection and the life. It
seemed to him not in the least incongruous that his
beloved had vanished into that great life whence she
came whence he had come; and that as Life was
within him, so was his beloved within him as life within
a life to be treasured evermore.
Thus near the peach tree in full bloom, Louis's tor-
tured mind was stilled. He accepted death as an
evanishment, he accepted Life as the power of powers.
It seemed, indeed, as standing near his friend, gazing-
[171]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
fondly round about and upward through the invisible
firmament, that this great power, Life, in gesture and
In utterance through the song of spring, had set its
glowing rainbow in the passing cloud as a token of a
covenant that the pure of eye might see. And Indeed
It seemed to him as quite lucid that the cloud with the
glowing rainbow in Its heart might well stand forever
as a symbol of a token of a covenant between Life,
and Man's proud spirit, and the Earth. Thus Louis
dreamed. And it seemed as though a small voice com-
ing from afar, said: "If one must dream let the dream
be one of happiness.'*
For the second time the house of Henri List had
collapsed and gone down. This time in fragments.
Soon the farm was sold. Julia, she of flaming hair,
bewitching fairy tales, and temper of Iseult, cook and
companion for nine long years, vanished in turn; Julius,
the son, now twenty-five, offered a place, "in Philadel-
phia/ 1 went there; his father followed.
Louis found welcome and shelter with the next door
neighbors, the John A. Tompsons, whose son George
for years had been his playmate. And the earth re-
sumed its revolution about Its own private axis as be-
fore; day following night as usual. Daily, George
Tompson went to "Tech" to pursue his studies in
railway engineering. Daily, Louis paid his renewed
respects to Moses Woolson. Daily, John A. Tompson
returned from Boston at an exact hour, removed his
hat, walked to a glass cabinet, took exactly one stiff
swig of Bourbon straight, smacked his lips, twinkled
his eyes, sank into an easy chair which had remained
[ 172 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
in the same place for exactly how many years no one
knows, dozed off for exactly ten minutes, arose,
stretched his short muscular body, smiled widely, dis-
playing false teeth, dyed-black side whiskers and mous-
tache, a fine high forehead and dark fine eyes with as
merry a twinkle as one could wish ; then he went forth
to see if each cultivated tree and shrub and bush and
vine were exactly where they were in the morning.
This man, gifted with extraordinary deftness of hand
and a high-spirited intelligence, became a wonder and
an inspiration to Louis, who spent the following two
years in this charming household where epicureanism
prevailed.
That spring and summer, Louis botanized and
mineralized with incessant ardor, and he saw what it
signified that each thing should have a name, and what
order and classification meant in the way of organized
intelligence, and increased power of manipulation of
things and thoughts. His insight into the relation-
ship of function and structure deepened rapidly. A
thousand things now began to cohere and arrange into
groups which hitKerto had seemed disparate and wide
apart. To be sure, Moses Woolson was the impelling
cause and it was up to Louis to do the work and to
search and find and see these things objectively and
clearly for himself. Thus logical connections began
to form a plexus in his growing mind, beside which
also upgrew a sense of equal logic and order in action.
Now, John A. Tompson had this faculty of order and
delicate precision in so marked a degree that Louis
kept a close eye on his doings. In the fall Louis re-
turned to the English High School and entered the
Second Class under a sub-master named Hale. Mr,
[ 173 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Hale was a scholar and a gentleman, a shining light
of conscientious, conventional, virtuous routine.
With that clear and ruthless faculty, which boys
possess, of spotting the essentials of their elders, Louis
at the first session so sized up Hale; and dismay and
despair swept through him in an awful wave of de-
pression ; it seemed as though the light of life had gone
out. What was this tallow dip to the hot sun of
Woolson. What could this mannikin accomplish?
What could this respectable and approved lay figure
do for one who had been trained intensively for a
year by Moses Woolson? Let us therefore quickly
draw the veil; and forget.
At the end of this school year, George Tbmpson
asked Louis why he did not try for "Tech." And
Louis replied that he supposed that he must first finish
"High." "Nonsense," said George, "You can pass
easily." And thus encouraged, Louis passed easily.
It should be mentioned that at the time of the great
Chicago fire, Louis received prompt word that the
family were safe and sound beyond the reach of its
fearsome ravages. And also Louis's faithful corre-
spondence with those far away must not be overlooked.
Thus he now felt safe and strong to face in * "Tech"
his first adventure, as prelude to an architectural career.
[174]
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CHAPTER X
Farewell to Boston
DURING the two years Louis dwelt in the home
of the John A. Tompsons, in Wakefield, he
was very busy in thought and deed. A certain
materialistic clarification of intellect was proceeding
within a new light which enabled him to see things
superficially and to share in that state of illusion con-
cerning realities which was the common property of
the educated and refined. The dreams of childhood
that form of mystical illumination which enables the
little one to see that upon which the eyes of its elders
seldom focus were thereby eclipsed; and, in one less
romantic and willful by nature, would have vanished
permanently from active consciousness in the usual and
customary way. For this very period of imaginative
childhood is by most adults relegated to obscurity ; and
if referred to at all, dismissed as inconsequential and
"childish." But childhood, thus banished, remains
sequestered within us unchanged. It may be obscured
by an overlay of our sophistication, our pride and our
disdain; we, the while, unaware that to disdain our
fertile childhood is precisely equivalent to disdain of
our maturity. Hence the illusion that we are no longer
the child; the delusion that we are any other than
grown children. For where lives the man who does
not firmly believe in magic and in fairy tales ; who does
not worship something with a child-like faith, who does
not dream his dreams, however sordid or destructive,
however high, however nobly altruistic? And Louis
thus dared to disdain and eclipse his own childhood.
[175]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
For was he not rising now like a toy balloon into the
rarefied atmosphere of intellect? And what had in-
tellect to do with childhood? Intellect, indeed, was
the cachet of manhood, in whose borderland he was
now wandering, making ready to cross the frontier,
some day to enter what men called "real life." This
mood began when Louis was well settled in the Massa-
chusetts Institute of Technology familiarly known
as "Tech" pursuing his special course in Architecture.
To John A. Tompson's tutelage Louis owed many
pirouettes, particularly some knowledge and some un-
derstanding and misunderstanding of the great ora-
torios. Under the sway of their beauty, the sensuous
allure of the sacred music, Louis would return again
and again to his childhood's sensibilities and faith. But
there came a telling change when he had acquired from
John A. some knowledge of their structure, some defi-
nition and labelling of the wondrous chords and modu-
lations that had exalted him to an agony, and had
borne him along in a great resplendent stream of song,
which became a stream of wonder upon wonder, that
men had made these things had made them all out
of their heads. And in this maze of hero-worship he
had dreamed again and again his natal dream of power,
of that power within man of which no one had told
Mm; for he had heard only of the power of God. And
in this special dream he had in truth and noble faith
seen man as magician bringing- forth from nothingness,
from depths of silence of a huge world of sleep, as
though, by waving of some unknown unseen wand, he
had evoked this sublime, this amazing fabric; which
equally would pass away and vanish with the sound of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the last note, even as the bare thought of such passing
left a haunt within.
It was then John A. Tompson, he of the precise,
the articulate, the exact, the meticulous, the hard in-
telligence who bit by bit led Louis on. He dispelled
for him the music-world of enchantment wherein simple
faith had seen the true substance and value of results;
he substituting therefor a world of fact and technique.
It was all subtly done, bit by bit. The first effect of
this was to arouse in Louis a new interest an interest
in technique in the how. John A. Tompson, himself,
indeed loved these oratorios, with a fanaticism pecu-
liarly his own, somewhat as though he were impersonat-
ing a machinist's vise. He clung to them indeed as
though imagining he was a shipwrecked mariner and
they a saving raft; yet he was quiet and gleeful amid
the dangers of the open sea of sound.
He used to grit his teeth when he was pleased and
he frequently was pleased when on shore he was giving
Louis a hypodermic of technique. Louis's utter inno-
cence of music's artful structure, form and content was
John A.'s joy, his secret delight. Thus Louis learned,
concerning chords, that the one in particular that had
overwhelmed him with a sort of gorgeous sorrow was
called the dominant seventh, and another that seemed
eerie and that gave him a peculiar nervous thrill and
chill was named the augmented fifth. Louis had been
very curious concerning these two chords ; and further-
more he was insistent to know why certain parts of the
music filled him with joyful, inspiriting and triumphant
pleasure, while other parts made him sad even to mel-
ancholy and despair. He was told that these opposites
were known as the major and the minor modes and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
he was much concerned too, regarding what he later
learned were the diatonic and the chromatic scales
and further concerning that strange swaying- and turn-
ing of surging harmonies that it was a movement
technically known as a modulation from one key into
another. Now Louis became avariciously curious con-
cerning all the remaining technicalities and names, and
amassed them as one might collect precious curios. It
seemed to him that in giving names to all these sounds
and movements he had heard and felt; it was much like
giving names to the flowers and shrubs and trees he
had loved so well. But this difference he marked:
That while his plants and trees in spite of names lived
on in mystery, and slept their winter sleep, to be again
awakened by the call of Spring, giving names to music
had dispelled the mystery, and had caused its sweet
enchantments one by one to pass in defile into a group
of words, which might mean much or nothing accord-
ing as one first had felt the living power without their
aid. That the danger was that music might become
enslaved to the intellect and might nevermore be free.
For as he began to see the full bulk of the mechanics,
the mechanisms, and the tyranny of rules he became
alarmed that music might die. For he could not yet
see that here also, spite of names, the mystery, die
enchantment would live on even though it be in winter
sleep, and, at imagination's rousing call, again and
again would renew its onward flow of rejuvenescence,
and thus retain its magic power to stir the heart.
Thus Louis learned a modicum concerning music. A
very trifle, to be sure. For he lived in Puritan New
England where large utterances of joy and faith in the
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Earth, of faith in Life, of faith In Man, were few and
far between.
Nevertheless he had now definitely entered the cul-
tural world, within which were the blest, without which
were the damned. The world of intellectual dissec-
tion, surgery and therapeutics; the world of theory , of
conjecture, of analysis and synthesis; the world of Idea,
of Abstraction, of tenuity, of minute distinctions and
nuances, filled with its specific belief in magic, its own
superstitions, Its aberrations, its taboos, denials and
negations, and yet equally a world of vast horizons,
of eagle-eyed range, of Immense powers of ethereal
flight to the far and the near, seeking the stars to
know them, seeking the most minute to know It, search-
Ing the invisible to inquire what may be there, ever
roaming, ever inquiring, inquisitive, acquisitive, accu-
mulating a vast fund of the how and why, wherewith
to record, to construct, to upbuild; and yet, withal, in
giant service to the willful power of Imagination with-
out whose vitalizing spark it could not stir; while in
the fullness of its strength it can no more than carry
on the heart's desire.
The living relationship of Intellect and Instinct has
far too long been overlooked. For Intellect is recent,
and neuter, and unstable in itself, while Instinct is
primordial and procreant: It is a power so vast, so
fathomless, so omnipresent, that we ignore it; for it is
the vast power of all time that sleeps and dreams; it is
that power within whose dream we dream, even as
in our practical aspect, our hard headed, cold-blooded,
shrewd, calculating suspicious caution we are most ob-
viously dreamers of turbid dreams, for we have pinned
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
our faith to Intellect; we gaze in lethal adoration upon
a reed shaken by the wind.
About this time flamboyantly arose Patrick Gilmore
with his band and his World Jubilee. Then Louis
discovered there had been in existence music quite other
than oratorio, hymn, sentimental songs of the hoi pol-
loi and burnt-cork minstrels, or the classic grindings
of the hurdy-gurdy.
He found it refreshing and gay, melodious above all.
When he heard full bosomed Parepa sing in colora-
tura, he could scarcely keep his seat; never was such
soprano heard in oratorio, and when the elder Strauss
like a little he-wren mounted the conductor's stand,
violin in hand, and dancing, led the orchestra through
the lively cadence of the Blue Danube, Louis thought
him the biggest little man on earth ; and when it came
to the "sextette" from Lucia, Louis roared his ap-
proval and listened just as eagerly to the inevitable en-
core. And the "Anvil Chorus" oh, the Anvil Chorus !
And so on, day by day, night by night from glorious
beginning to glorious end. He had heard the finest
voices in the world, great orchestral out-pourings, im-
mense choruses. But he was, above all, amazed at the
power of the single voice, when trained to perfection
of control. He felt again with delight its unique qual-
ity, its range, its fluency, its flexibility, its emotional
gamut, its direct personal intimate appeal; he felt a
soul, a being, in the single voice, the heartful, the
perfect instrument whereby to interpret and convey
every state of feeling and of thought; and he was glad
indeed.
This blossoming of music exotic to all he had known
hitherto, made him glad, made him gay, relaxed his
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
sobriety, refreshed his outlook on life. It filled Mm
with a new consciousness of beauty; of a beauty that
seemed free and debonair, like a swan in the pool, like
rain on the roof, like roses on a garden wall, with
groves, and a turquoise sky; like bold and joyous
horses, saying ha! ha! and like unto furtive gentle
creatures of wood and stream, and like curling breakers
when close by, or the tossing of trees in a hearty gale*
More excitement: Came the great conflagration of
9 and 10 November, 1872. Louis saw this terror
from its trifling beginning a small flame curling from
the wooden cornice of a building on the north side of
Summer street There were perhaps a half dozen per-
sons present at the time. The street was night-still.
It was early. No fire engine came. Horses were sick*
"epizootic" was raging. Engines must be drawn by
hand. All was quiet as the small flame grew into a
whorl and sparks shot upward from a glow behind;
the windows became lighted from within. A few more
people gathered, but no engine came. Then began a
gentle purring roar. The few became a crowd but no
engine came. Glass crackled and crashed, flames burst
forth madly from all windows, and the lambent dark
flames behind them soared high, casting multitudes of
sparks and embers abroad, as they cracked and
wheezed. The roof fell, the floors collapsed. A hand-
drawn engine came, but too late. The front wall tot*
tered, swayed and crumbled to the pavement, exposing
to view a roaring furnace. It was too late. The city
seemed doomed. With this prelude began the great
historic fire. Louis followed its ravages all night long.
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It was a magnificent but terrible pageant of wrathful
Ire before whose onslaught row after row of regi-
mented buildings melted away. As far as the eye could
reach all was consuming fire, and dire devastation; an
inferno, terrible and wonderful to look upon. Louis
went here and there* retreating as the holocaust ad-
vanced ever northward. All the city seemed doomed,
but it was not. All hope seemed lost, but it was not.
The end came at last; courageous, weary and worn
men triumphed, after agonies of hope and despair.
What a terror, what a holocaust, what ruin of men,
what downfall, what instant collapses of fortune, what
a heavy load to meet and bear, what a trial and a test.
Yet a proud spirit, the eternal spirit of man rose to
the height of the call of calamity. The city was re-
built. For Louis it was a terrifying experience; so
sudden, so overwhelming, so fatalistic, so cruel.
When the ruins cooled Louis found it difficult to
locate the streets. They seemed labyrinthine, lost in
a maze of wreckage and debris; bit by bit he found
his strange way about. At night he was put on guard
duty as a member of the M. I. T. battalion. Clad in
full uniform with Springfield rifle and fixed bayonet
at right shoulder, he walked his beat from Tremont
street to Pleasant street as far as opposite the tower of
the Providence Depot, and return. For hours in the
night, all alone, he walked his beat and saw not a soul.
At first It was novel and exciting, but as nothing hap-
pened, he became weary from loss of sleep, bored by
the monotonous to and fro, and glad to be relieved.
He had two nights of this. Then came a show of
order throughout the city and the great work of clear-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
ing and upbuilding, in due time began. He returned
to his studies in Tech.
He had liked military drill; he had had two years
of it at "High." He liked the exercise, the sense of
order and precision, the neat evolutions and the com-
pact team work of the many cadets. But he considered
it as discipline in play. He had no thought of war
other than to loathe it, as the wild dream of madmen
who stood safely behind the evil. For Louis, long since
had begun to sense and to discern what lay behind
the veil of appearances. Social strata had become
visible and clear, as also that hypocrisy of caste and
cant and "eminence" against which his mother, time
and time again, had spoken so clearly, so vehemently
in anger and contempt. Her ideal she averred was a
righteous man, sound of head, clean of heart, a truth-
ful man too natural to lie or to evade. These outbursts
of his mother sank deep into the being of her son; and
in looking back adown the years, he has reason justly
to appraise in reverence and love a nature so transpar-
ent, so pure, so vehement, so sound, so filled with a
yearning for the joy of life, so innocent-ecstatic in
contemplation of beauty anywhere, as was that of the
one who bore him forth, truly in fidelity, to be and to
remain life of her life. Thus the curtain of memory
ever lifts and falls and lifts again, on one to whom
this prayer is addressed. If Louis is not his mother's
spirit in the flesh, then words fail, and memory is vain.
Upon his entry into "Tech" Louis felt a marked
change in atmosphere from that of "High." It was
now an atmosphere of laissez faire, of a new sort of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
freedom. Tuition paid s the rest he found was up to
him. There was no special regularity of hours or of
attendance. He might exert himself or not as he saw
fit. He might learn as much or little as he chose.
There was no discipline further than this: That one
was expected to conduct himself with decorum and
with a reasonable degree of application. It was broadly
assumed that the student was there in his own interest
and would apply himself accordingly.
The school was housed in Rogers Hall, adjoining,
on the south, the Museum of Natural History, at
Boylston and Berkeley streets. The quarters were
pleasant and airy, the long drafting-room or atelier
facing broadside to the south. There was also a Li-
brary and a Lecture Room. At this date the school
was comparatively new, having been opened in 1865.
Louis therefore was among its early students. This
one building housed the Institute entire.
The School of Architecture was presided over by
Professor William R. Ware, of the Boston architec-
tural firm of Ware & Van Brunt. Among the im-
portant works of this firm were the Memorial Build-
ing at Harvard, and the large Railway Station at Wor-
cester. Professor Ware was a gentleman of the old
school; a bachelor, of good height, slender, bearded in
the English fashion, and turning gray. He had his
small affectations, harmless enough. His voice was
somewhat husky, his polite bearing impeccable and
kind. He had a precious sense of quiet humor, and
common sense seemed to have a strong hold on him.
Withal he was worthy of personal respect and affec-
tion. His attainments were moderate in scope and
soundly cultural as of the day; his judgments were clear
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and just. The words amiability and quiet common
sense sum up his personality; he was not Imaginative
enough to be ardent.
His assistant, Eugene Letang, was a diplome of the
Ecole National des Beaux Arts, Paris, and specifically
an ancien of the atelier libre of Emil Vaudremer, ar-
chitect, a winner of the Grand Prix de Rome.
This man Letang was sallow earnestness itself; long
and lean of face with a scanty student beard. Let us
say he was thirty. He had no professional air; he was
a student escaped from the Beaux Arts, a transplanted
massier as it were of the atelier , where the anciens, the
older students, help the nouveaux, the younger set,
along. He was admirably patient, and seemed to be-
lieve in the real value of the work he so candidly was
doing; and at times he would say: "From discussion
comes the light." So here was a student absorbed in
teaching students, while Professor Ware conserved the
worldly pose and poise of the cultural Boston of the
time, creating and maintaining thus an air of the
legitimate and approved.
There were perhaps not over thirty students, all
told, in the architectural course, and Louis found them
agreeable companions. Some of them were University
graduates and therefore older than he and much more
worldly wise, in their outlook. And there were as
well a few advanced students. A few were there as
rich men's sons, to whom the architectural profession
seemed to have advantages of tone. Arthur Roche was
one of these. A few were there as poor men's sons.
They worked hard to become bread-winners. Among
these was William Roche Ware, nephew of the Pro-
fessor, and George Ferry of Milwaukee. What cer-
[IBS]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
tain others were there for, including Louis, Is a some-
what dubious surmise. But Louis began to like com-
panionship for the first time. Hitherto he had been
entirely neglectful of his school comrades* caring neither
who nor what they were as persons. Here, however,
there was space, freedom of movement and continued
personal informal intercourse. So Louis began to put
on a bit of swagger, to wear smart clothes, to shave
away the down and to agitate a propaganda for inch-
long side whiskers. A photograph of that date shows
him as a clean-cut young man, with a rather intelligent
expression, a heavy mop of black hair neatly parted for
the occasion, a pearl stud set in immaculate white, and
a suit up to the minute in material and cut. But in-
asmuch as in this photograph he neither moves nor
speaks, we are free to infer that, being young, there
may be either something or nothing of real value there.
Louis, however, knew more about that picture than
the picture knew or could convey of him. For mem-
ory, reviving, he knew all his past ; and this does not in
the least appear in the picture, nor what was of abid-
ing significance in that past. So Louis posed a bit, sens-
ing the reflected prestige and social value of a student at
"Tech." But he did not altogether make a nuisance of
himself, not a complete nuisance, for he was toppy
rather than vain.
Louis had gone at his studies faithfully enough.
He learned not only to draw but to draw very well.
He traced the "Five Orders of Architecture" in a
manner quite resembling copper plate, and he learned
about diameters, modules, minutes, entablatures, col-
umns, pediments and so forth and so forth, with the
associated minute measurements and copious vocabu-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
lary, all of which Items he supposed at the time were
intended to be received in unquestioning faith, as eter-
nal verities. And he was told that these "Orders"
were "Classic," which Implied an arrival at the goal
of Platonic perfection of idea.
But Louis by nature was not given to that kind of
faith. His faith ever lay In the oft-seen creative power
and glory of man. His faith lay indeed In freedom.
The song of Spring was the song In his heart These
rigid "Orders'* seemed to say, "The book Is dosed;
Art shall die." Then it occurred to him: Why five
orders? Why not one? Each of the five plainly tells
a different story. Which one of them shall be sacro-
sanct? And if one be sacrosanct the remaining four
become invalid. Now it would appear by the testi-
mony of the world of scholarship and learning that the
Greek is sacrosanct; and of all the Greek, the Parthe-
non is super-sacrosanct. Therefore there was and has
been in all time but the unique Parthenon; all else is
invalid. Art is dead. And it should not be forgot that
the unique Parthenon was builded by the ancient Greeks,
by living men. It was physically up reared in an exact
spot on the Acropolis at Athens, a timely demonstra-
tion of Greek thought concerning ideas.
Now after centuries of ruin the Parthenon is dead;
therefore all is invalid, Art Is dead. This line of
reasoning amused Louis quaintly. It seemed to him
romantic; much like a fairy tale. And this is all that
he gathered from the "Orders" that they really
wore fairy tales of the long ago, now by the learned
made rigid, mechanical and Inane in the books he was
pursuing, wherein they were stultified, for lack of com-
mon sense and human feeling. Hence he spent much
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
time in the library, looking at pictures of buildings
of the past that did not have pediments and columns.
He found quite a few and became acquainted with
"styles'* and learned that styles were not considered
sacrosanct, but merely human. That there was a dif-
ference in the intellectual and therefore social scale,
between a style and an order. Professor Ware did
not press matters thus; he did not go so far as to
apotheosize the cognoscenti and the intelligentsia. He
himself was quite human and in a measure detached.
The misfortune was that in his lectures on the history
of architecture he never looked his pupils in the eye,
but by preference addressed an audience in his beard,
in a low and confidential tone, ignoring a game of spit-
feall underway. Yet a word or a phrase reached the
open now and then concerning styles, construction and
so forth, and at times he went to the blackboard and
drew this and that very neatly. Louis picked up some-
thing of all this melange, but his thought was mostly
on the tower of the New Brattle Street Church, con-
ceived and brought to light by the mighty Richard-
son, undoubtedly for Louis r s special delight; for was
not here a fairy tale indeed! Meanwhile there were
projets to be done and Eugene Letang surely earned
his pay in the sweat of his brow. Prof. William Ware
did the higher criticism and frequently announced he
had no use for "gim~crack" roofs.
Thus passed the days, the weeks, the months in a
sort of misch-rnasch of architectural theology, and
Louis came to see that it was not upon the spirit but
upon the word that stress was laid, even though it
were a weighty matter of sprinkling or immersion. He
began to feel a vacancy in himself, the need of some-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
thing more nutritious to the mind than a play of mario-
nettes. He felt the need and the lack of a red-blooded
explanation, of a valiant idea that should bring life to
arouse his cemetery of orders and of styles, or at least
to bring about a danse macabre to explain why the
occupants had lived and died.
Moreover, as time passed he began to discover that
this school was but a pale reflection of the Ecole des
Beaux Arts; and he thought it high time that he go to
headquarters to learn if what was preached there as
a gospel, really signified glad tidings. For Louis felt
in his heart that what he had learned at "Tech" was
after all but a polite introduction to the architectural
Art, as much as to say, "I am glad to meet you/'
He reflected with a sort of despair that neither im-
maculate Professor Ware nor sweaty, sallow, earnest
Eugene Letang was a Moses Woolson. Ah, if but
Moses Woolson had been versed in the story of archi-
tecture as he was in that of English Literature, and
had held the professorship; ah, what glowing flame
would have come forth to cast its radiance like a rising
sun and illuminate the past. But why dream such
foolish dreams?
Louis made up his mind that he would leave "Tech"
at the end of the school year, for he could see no future
there. He was progressive, aggressive and impatient.
He wished to live in the stream of life. He wished to
be impelled by the power of living. He knew what he
wanted very well. It behooved him he thought before
going to the Beaux Arts, to see what architecture might
be like In practice. He thought it might be advisable
to spend a year in the office of some architect of
standing, that he might see concrete preparations and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
results; how, in effect, an actual building was brought
about. So he said a warm good-bye to Boston, to
Wakefield (to Ms dear South Reading of the past),
to all his friends, and made straightway for Phila-
delphia where he was to find his uncle and his grandpa.
On the way he stopped over in New York City for a
few days. Richard M. Hunt was the architectural
lion there, and the dean of the profession. Louis
called upon him in his den, told him his plans and
was patted on the back and encouraged as an enter-
prising youngster. He listened to the mighty man's
tale of his life in Paris with Lefuel, and was then
turned over to an assistant named Stratton, a recent
arrival from the Ecole to whom he repeated the tale of
his projects.
Friend Stratton was most amiable in greeting, and
gave Louis much time, receiving him in the fraternal
spirit of an older student toward a younger. He
sketched the life in Paris and the School and in clos-
ing asked Louis to keep in touch with him and be sure
to call on him on the way abroad. Thus Louis, proud
and iniated, went on his joyous way to face the world.
He arrived in Philadelphia in due time, as they say.
He had noticed in New York a sharper form of
speech, an increase of energetic action over that he
had left behind, and also a rougher and more arrogant
type of life Stratton had mentioned that Louis, on his
arrival in Philadelphia, should look up the firm of
Furness & Hewitt, architects, and try to find a place
with them. But this was not Louis's way of doing.
Once settled down in the large quiet village, he began
to roam the streets, looking quizzically at buildings
as he wandered. On the west side of South Broad
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
street a residence, almost completed, caught his eye
like a iower by the roadside. He approached, exam-
ined It with curious care, without and within. Here was
something fresh and fair to him, a human note, as
though someone were talking. He Inquired as to the
architect and was told: Furness & Hewitt. Now, he
saw plainly enough that this was not the work of
two men but of one, for he had an Instinctive sense
of physiognomy, and all buildings thus made their
direct appeal to him, pleasant or unpleasant.
He made up his mind that next day he would enter
the employ of said Furness & Hewitt, they to have
no voice in the matter, for his mind was made up.
So next day he presented himself to Frank Furness
and informed him he had come to enter his employ.
Frank Furness was a curious character. He affected
the English in fashion. He wore loud plaids, and a
scowl, and from his face depended fan-like a marvelous
red beard, beautiful in tone with each separate hair
delicately crinkled from beginning to end. Moreover,
his face was snarled and homely as an English bull-
dog's. Louis's eyes were riveted, in infatuation, to this
beard, as he listened to a string of oaths yards long.
For it seems that after he had delivered his initial fiat,
Furness looked at him half blankly, half enraged, as at
another kind of dog that had slipped in through die
door. His first question had been as to Louis's experi-
ence, to which Louis replied, modestly enough, that he
had just come from die Massachusetts Institute of
Technology in Boston. This answer was the detona-
tor that set off the mine which blew up in fragments
all the schools in the land and scattered the professors
headless and limbless to the four quarters of earth and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
hell. LOEIS, he said, was a fool. He said Louis was
an idiot to have wasted his time in a place where one
was filled with sawdust, like a doll, and became a
prig 7 a snob, and an ass.
As the smoke blew away he said: "Of course you
don't know anything and are full of damnable con-
ceit."
Louis agreed to the ignorance ; demurred as to con-
ceit; and added that he belonged to that rare class who
were capable of learning, and desired to learn. This
answer mollified the dog-man, and he seemed intrigued
that Louis stared at him so pertinaciously. At last
he asked Louis what in hell had brought him there,
anyway? This was the opening for which Louis had
sagaciously been waiting through the storm. He told
Frank Furness all about his unaided discovery of the
dwelling on Broad street, how he had followed, so to
speak from die nugget to the solid vein; that here
he was and here he would remain; he had made up
his mind as to that, and he looked Frank Furness in
the eye. Then he sang a song of praise like a youthful
bard of old to his liege lord, steering clear of too
gross adulation, placing all on a high plane of accom-
plishment. It was here, Louis said, one could really
learn. Frank Furness admitted as true a part of what
Louis had said, waving the rest away as one pleasantly
overpraised, and said: Only the Greeks knew how to
build.
"Of course, you don't want any pay,' 1 he said To
which Louis replied that ten dollars a week would be
a necessary honorarium.
"All right," said he of the glorious beard, with
something scraggy on his face, that might have been a
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THE, AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
smile. "Come tomorrow morning for a trial, but I
prophesy you won't outlast a week." So Louis came.
At the end of that week Fumess said, "You may stay
another week, 1 ' and at the end of that week Fumess
said, "You may stay as long as you like." Oh what a
joy! Louis's first task was to retrace a set of plans
complete for a Savings Institution to be erected on
Chestnut street. This he did so systematically and
in so short a time that he won his spurs at once. IE
doing this work he was but carrying out the impul-
sion of Moses Woolson's training in accuracy and
speed; and Moses Woolson followed him thereafter
everywhere.
The other members of the firm was George Hewitt,
a slender, moustached person, pale and reserved, who
seldom relaxed from pose. It was he who did the
Victorian Gothic in its pantalettes, when a church
building or something of that sort was on the boards.
With precision, as though he held his elements by
pincers, he worked out these decorous sublimities of
inanity, as per the English current magazines and other
English sources. He was a clean draftsman, and be-
lieved implicitly that all that was good was English.
Louis regarded him with admiration as a draftsman,
and with mild contempt as a man who kept his nose
in books. Frank Furness "made buildings out of his
head." That suited Louis better. And Furness as a
freehand draftsman was extraordinary. He had Louis
hypnotized, especially when he drew and swore at the
same time.
But George Hewitt had a younger brother named
John, and John was foreman of the shop. He was a
husky, smooth-faced fellow under thirty. Every fca-
[193]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
tare In his dean cut, rather elongated face* bespoke
intelligence and kindness, in fact a big heart. He had
taken a fancy to Louis from the start. He^ was the
"practical man" and Louis ran to him for advice when-
ever he found himself in a tight place. John was
patience itself and made everything clear with dainty
sketches and explanatory notes. These drawings were
beautiful and Louis frankly told him so. He begged
John to teach him "touch" and how to make ^ such
sketches, and especially how to "indicate" so crisply.
This John did. In fact, it was not long before he had
made of Louis a draftsman of the upper Crust, and
Louis's heart went out to lovable John in sheer
gratitude.
In looking back upon that time Louis Sullivan gives
thanks that it was his great good fortune to have made
his entry into the practical world in an office where
standards were so high where talent was so mani-
festly taken for granted, and the atmosphere the free
and easy one of a true work shop savoring of the guild
where craftsmanship was paramount and personal.
And again he goes back to the day of Moses Woolson
and his discipline. We may say in truth that Moses
Woolson put him there. For without that elastic alert-
ness and courage, that grimness Moses Woolson im-
parted, it is sure that Louis would not have broken
through the barrier of contempt in that first interview.
Louis worked very hard day and night. At first
he had lived with his grandpa and uncle in West Phila-
delphia. But soon he decided to move into town to
be nearer the office and to be freer to study into the
small hours. His relaxation on Sundays was Fair-
mount Park and a walk up the rough road of the
[194]
PLATE 20. Prudential Building, SW corner of Church
and Pearl Streets, Buffalo, N. Y. 1894-95.
Formerly the Guaranty Building, Terra cotta
defaced by cleaning, 1955.
PLATE 21. Prudential Building (see Plate 20). Door-
way, east facade.
PLATE 22. Prudential Building (see Plate 20). Column
and capital, east facade.
:
fi
* ,
.
: '^r : :/ j 'j%
-';;tft
; J.j ,_jWff.JLJB|,.:;,w,<L,, , JZ3Z3i;: ,fc J^,, . )-J^;,|f|
^ I (I ' v^:ll*f ',
PLATE 23. Gage Building (at right), 18 South Michi-
gan Avenue, Chicago. 1898-99. Remodelled.
Louis Henri Sullivan; Holabird & Roche,
associates.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
Wissahickon valley, a narrow beauteous wilderness
such as Louis had never seeiij and with which he was
completely charmed. He loved the solitude through
which the Wissahickon purled its way. The com-
panionship of the wild was soothing to him. The isola-
tion gave him comfort and surcease. Thus passed a
hot summer.
* * *
The offices of Furness & Hewitt occupied the entire
top floor of a new, brick, four-story building at the
northeast corner of Third street and Chestnut.
One day in September, it was very warm, all win-
dows were open for air, the force was wearily at
work. As they worked, there came through the open
windows a murmur, barely noticed at first; then this
murmur became a roar, with wild shouting. Then,
all to the windows. Louis saw, far below, not pave-
ment and sidewalks, but a solid black mass of frantic
men, crowded, jammed from wall to wall. The offices
of Jay Cooke & Co. were but a short distance south on
Third street. Word came up that Jay Cooke & Co.
had just closed its doors. Louis saw it all, as he could
see down both Chestnut street and Third. Chestnut
westward from Third also was a solid mass. The
run on the banks had begun. The devastating panic
of 1873 was on, in its mad career. Louis was shocked,
appalled at the sight. He was too young, too inex-
perienced, to understand what it really meant, even
when told it was a panic in finance, that credit had
crumbled to dust, that men were ruined, and insane
with despair; that this panic would spread like wild-
fire over the land leaving ruin in its wake everywhere.
[ 195 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
And still he could not understand what had brought
It about.
The office held steady for a while; there was work
on hand which had progressed so far that it must be
completed.
One day In November Frank Furness said: "Sulli-
van* I'm sorry, the jig is up. There'll be no more
building. The office now is running dry. YouVe
done well, mighty well. I like you. I wish you might
stay. But as you were the last to come it is only just
you should be first to go." With that he slipped a bill
into Louis's hand, and wished him farewell and better
days.
Within a week Louis took the Pennsylvania train
for Chicago. He saw the great valley of the Susque-
hanna ; surmounted the huge Alleghenies ; passed along
the great descending Horse-Shoe Curve, the marvel of
the day; and then night fell. He was aroused and
broadened by what he had seen. It was all new. His
map was enlarged. So was his breadth of view; his
inner wealth.
Next morning he was utterly amazed and bewildered
at the sight of die prairies of northern Indiana. They
were startling In novelty. How could such things be 1
Stretching like a floor to the far horizon, not a tree
except by a watercourse or on a solitary "island." It
was amazing. Here was power power greater than
the mountains. Soon Louis caught glimpses of a great
lake, spreading also like a floor to the far horizon,
superbly beautiful in color, under a lucent sky. Here
again was power, naked power, naked as the prairies,
greater than the mountains. And over all spanned the
dome of the sky, resting on the rim of the horizon far
[196]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
away 00 all sides, eternally calm overhead, holding an
atmosphere pellucid and serene. And here again was
a powerj a vast open power, a power greater than the
tiny mountains. Here, in full view, was the light of
the world, companion of the earth, a power greater
than the lake and the prairie below, but not greater
than man in his power : So Louis thought.
The train neared the city; it broke into the city;
it plowed its way through miles of shanties dishearten-
ing- and dirty gray. It reached its terminal at an open
shed. Louis tramped the platform, stopped, looked
toward the city, ruins around him; looked at the sky;
and as one alone, stamped his foot, raised his hand and
cried in full voice:
THIS is THE PLACE FOR ME!
That day was the day before Thanksgiving in the
year Eighteen Hundred Seventy-three.
[197]
CHAPTER XL
Chicago
HEARD and seen by all stands the word PER-
SONALITY, in solitary and unique grandeur,
Heard and seen by all stands the word Per-
sonality, eminent, respectable, much admired.
Heard and seen by all in the crowd it calls together,
and through which it deftly wanders like a shrewd
hunch-back, the word personality, now a dwarf gri-
maces salaciously.
And now it is a word on fire; a tiger in the jungle;
a python hanging from the limb, very still.
How deep, how shallow is that which we call the
soul.
How monstrous, how fluent, how vagrant and timo-
rous, how alert are the living things we call words.
They are the giants and the fairies, the hob-goblins and
the sprites; the warrior and the priest, the lowly and
the high; the watch-dog and the sheep; the tyrant and
the slave, of that wonder-world we call speech.
How like hammers they strike. How like aspens
they quiver. How like a crystal pool, a rivulet there-
from, becomes a river moving sinuously between the
hills, growing stronger, broader as its affluents pour in
their tributary power; and now looms the estuary, and
the Ocean of Life.
Words are most malignant, the most treacherous
possession of mankind. They are saturated with the
sorrows of all time. They hold in most unstable
equilibrium the vast heritage of man's folly, his despair,
Ms wrestling with the angel whose name is Fate; his
[198]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEM
vanity, his pride before a fall, his ever-resurrecting
hope arising as a winged spirit from the grave of
disaster, to flit in the sunshine for a while, to return
to the dust and arise again as his civilizations, so labo-
riously built up, have crumbled one by one. And yet
all the beauty, all the joy, all the love that maa has
known, all his kindness, all his yearnings, all his dreams
for better things ; his passionate desire for peace and an
anchorage within a universe that has filled him with
fear and mystery and adoration ; his daily round of toil,
and commonplaces; his assumption of things as they
are; his lofty and sublime contemplations, his gorgeous
imageries; his valor, his dogged will, his patience in
long suffering, his ecstacies, his sacrifices small and
great even to the casting aside of his life for a
thought, a compassion, an ambition all these are held
bound up in words; hence words are dangerous when
let loose. They may mean man's destruction, they
may signify a way out of the dark. For Uight is a
word, Courage is a word, and Vision is another. There-
fore, it is wise to handle words with caution. Their
content is so complex and explosive; and in combina-
tions they may work beautiful or dreadful things.
All these thoughts have flowed from the one word,
Personality, with which we began.
At Louis's age upon reaching Chicago, personality
meant little as a formal word* He recognized by sight
and feeling, by observing action and appearances, many
of the phases of the powers of man upon which a word
is built for use.
For words in themselves he had come to form a
passing aversion, since he had noted their tendency to
eclipse the vibrant values of immediate reality. There*
[199]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
fore, he preferred to think and feel and contemplate
without the use of words. Indeed, one of his favorite
pastimes was deliberately to think and feel and con-
template without the use of words, to create thus a
wordless universe, with himself, silent, at the center
of It all. Thus came about a widening darity;^an
increased sensitiveness to values; a separate isolation
of the permanent and the ephemeral; and it seemed,
also, as though within his small, self-created silence he
listened to the strident noises of the world as coming
from without. All this Louis did with buoyant jocu-
larity, for fun, for "practice" as he called it. And yet
now and then a word came to him of a sudden, in sur-
prise, a sort of keyword that unlocked, that opened and
revealed. Among such was the word self-expression,
which gave him a rude shock of hilarity and wonder.
He said: What! which expressed quite well what he
meant.
For the first week in the strange city, Louis was the
prodigal returned; and the fatted calf was offered up
in joy. The next week he spent in exploration. As
everybody said: "Chicago had risen phoenix-like from
its ashes.' 1 But many ashes remained, and the sense
of ruin was still blended with ambition of recovery.
Louis thought it all magnificent and wild: A crude
extravaganza : An intoxicating rawness: A sense of
big things to be done. For "Big" was the word. "Big-
gest" was preferred, and the "biggest in the world"
was die braggart phrase on every tongue. Chicago had
had the biggest conflagration "in the world." It was
the biggest grain and lumber market "in the world."
It slaughtered more hogs than any city "in the world."
It was the greatest railroad center, the greatest this,
[200]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and the greatest that. It shouted itself hoarse in
reclame. The shouters could not well be classed with
the proverbial liars of Ecclesiastes, because what they
said was true ; and had they said, in the din, we are the
crudest, rawest, most savagely ambitious dreamers and
would-be doers in the world, that also might be tree.
For with much gloating of self-flattering they bragged :
"We are the most heavily mortgaged city in the world/'
Louis rather liked all this, for his eye was ever on the
boundless prairie and the mighty lake. All this froth-
ing at the mouth amused him at first, but soon he saw
the primal power assuming self-expression amid na-
ture's impelling urge. These men had vision. What
they saw was real, they saw it as destiny.
The elevated wooden sidewalks in the business dis-
trict, with steps at each street corner, seemed shabby
and grotesque ; but when Louis learned that this meant
that the city had determined to raise itself three feet
more out of the mud, his soul declared that this resolve
meant high courage; that the idea was big; that there
must be big men here. The shabby walks now became
a symbol of stout hearts.
The pavements were vile, because hastily laid; they
erupted here and there and everywhere in ooze. Most
of the buildings, too, were paltry. When Louis came
to understand the vast area of disaster, he saw dearly
and with applause that this new half-built city was a
hasty improvization made in dire need by men who did
not falter. And again spread out in thought, the
boundless prairie and the mighty lake, and what they
meant for men of destiny, even as the city lay stretched
out, unseemly as a Caliban,
[201]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
In spite of the panic, there was stir; an energy that
made him tingle to be in the game.
So he bethought him he would enter the office of
some architect; for a few buildings showed talent in
design, and a certain stability* Outstanding among
these was the Portland Block, a four-story structure of
pressed brick and sandstone at Washington and Dear-
bom Streets. So he inquired concerning the architect
of this structure and was told the name was Jenney:
Major Jenney; or in full, Major William Le Baron
Jenney. There were still some buildings under way,
or arranged for, on the momentum of pre-panic days,
though the town was otherwise badly hurt, A great
fire, and a panic in finance, certainly made load enough
for any community to carry, but Chicago, hard hit,
bore up bravely.
Louis learned incidentally that the Portland Block
had in fact been designed by a clever draftsman named
CudelL This gave him a shock. For he had supposed
that all architects made buildings out of their own
heads, not out of the heads of others. His experience
in the office of Furness & Hewitt, in Philadelphia, it
seems, had given him an erroneous idea. Yet the new
knowledge cheered him in this hope: That he might
some day make buildings out of his head for architects
who did not have any heads of their own for such
purpose.
He had once supposed that the genius for creating
ugliness was peculiarly a Yankee monopoly; but he
later found in New York and Philadelphia that almost
all the buildings in these cities were of the same crass-
ness ^of type; a singularly sordid, vulgar vernacular in
architectural speech. So when he found the same thing
[302]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
almost universally in evidence In Chicago, he assumed
that this illiteracy was general, and a jargon peculiar
to the American people at large. The only difference
he could see between the vernacular of the East and
that of the West was that one was older and staler;
and he cited Fifth Avenue, New York, as an instance,
It is true that, scattered through the east were archi-
tects of book-attainment in fair number, and a few of
marked personality and red blood particularly one
Henry Richardson, he of the strong arm and virile
mind sole giant of his day. In Chicago there were
two or three who were bookish and timid, and there
were some who were intelligently conscientious in the
interest of their clients. Among the latter may be men-
tioned Major Jenney. The Major was a free-and-easy
cultured gentleman, but not an architect except by cour-
tesy of terms. His true profession was that of engi-
neer. He had received his technical training", or
education at the Ecole Polytechnique in France, and
had served through the Civil War as Major of Engi-
neers. He had been with Sherman on the march to
the sea.
He spoke French with an accent so atrocious that
it jarred Louis's teeth, while his English speech jerked
about as though it had St. Vitus's dance* He was mon-
strously pop-eyed, with hanging mobile features, sen-
suous lips, and he disposed of matters easily in the
manner of a war veteran who believed he knew what
was what. Louis soon found out that the Major was
not, really, in his heart, an engineer at all, but by
nature, and in toto, a bon *vwant y a gourmet. He lived
at Riverside, a suburb, and Louis often smiled to see
him carry home by their naked feet, with all plumage,
[203]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
a brace or two of choice wild ducks, or other game
birds, or a rare and odorous cheese from abroad. And
the Major knew his vintages, every one, and his sauces,
every one; he also was a master of the chafing dish
and the charcoal grille. All in all the Major was effu-
sive; a hale fellow well met, an officer of the Loyal
Legion, a -welcome guest anywhere, but by preference
a host. He was also an excellent raconteur, with a
lively sense of humor and a certain piquancy of fancy
that seemed Gallic. In his stories or his monologues,
his unique vocal mannerisms or gyrations or gymnastics
were a rich asset, as he squeaked or blew, or lost his
voice, or ran in arpeggio from deep bass to harmonics,
or took octaves, or fifths, or sevenths, or ninths in
spasmodic splendor. His audience roared, for his sto-
ries were choice, and his voice, as one caught bits of it,
was plastic, rich and sweet, and these bits, in sequence
and collectively had a warming effect. The Major
was really and traly funny. Louis thought him funny
all the time, and noted with glee how akin were the
Major's thoughts to the vertiginous gyrations of his
speech. Thus we have a semblance of the Major's
relations to the justly celebrated art of architecture.
The Major took Louis in immediately upon appli-
cation, as he needed more help. And to the fact that
Louis had been at "Tech" he attached the highest
importance as alumni of any school are apt to do;
so much for temperamental personality.
There was work enough In the office to keep five
men busy and a boy, provided they took intervals of
rest, which they did. In the Major's absences, which
were frequent and long, bedlam reigned. John Edel-
maun would mount a drawling table and make a howl-
[204]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JN
Ing stump speech on greenback currency* or single tax,
while at the same time Louis, at the top of his voice,
sang selections from the oratorios f beginning with his
favorite, "Why Do the Nations so Furiously Rage
Together 55 ; and so all the force furiously raged to-
gether in joyous deviltry, and bang-bang-bang. For
a moment Louis quieted the riot and sang, "Ye people
rend your hearts, rend your hearts, but not your gar-
ments," whereupon there followed a clamor of affronts
directed toward Elijah the Prophet. The office rat
suddenly appears: "Cheese it, Cullies; the Boss!",
which in high English signifies: "Gentlemen, Major
William Le Baron Jenney, our esteemed benefactor,
approaches!" Sudden silence, sudden industry, intense
concentration. The Major enters and announces his
pleasure in something less than three octaves. Thus
the day's work comes out fairly even. For "when they
work they work; and when they don't they just don't."
On the stool next to Louis sat patient Martin Roche,
now, and for many years, of Holabird & Roche.
There was a tall, fleshy, mild-voiced American-Ger-
man who had taught school; and a rachitic, sharp-
faced, droll, nasal Yankee, who drawled comic
cynicisms and did the engineering. u The old man,"
he would say, "is some engineer. . . . Like the Al-
mighty, he watches the 'sparrow's fall,' but when it
comes to the tons he's a 1-e-e-t-l-e shy now and then,
and sometimes then and now. You fellows work for
glory, but I just work for coin." And then he rasped
in song: "And as I said be-f-o-o-o-r, don't fall in
love with a groceryman what keeps a grocery store,"
and thus he cackled on, as he figured strains; this time,
he said, on a basis of three sparrows, while Louis
[205]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
hummed: "And as I said before, don't fall in love
with a groceryman what keeps a grocery store."
John was the foreman. By nature indolent, by
vanity and practice very rapid. He laughed to scorn
and scattered to dust those that were slow; and would
illustrate, in roseate tales, how fast he had done this
and that. It speedily became evident that John was
a hero-worshipper, as John blandly worshipped John
in the presence of all; and Louis casually remarked
that John's unconsciousness of his own personality was
remarkable to the point of the fabulous and the legend-
ary, whereupon they became fast friends.
Louis had instantly noted in John a new personality;
brawny, twenty- four, bearded, unkempt, careless, his
voice rich, sonorous, modulant, his vocabulary an over-
lowing reservoir. A born orator he must talk or
perish. His inveterate formula was, "I myself" did
was said am think know to the sixteenth
decimal and the nth power of egoism. It gradually
dawned upon Louis that he had run across a
THINKER, a profound thinker, a man of immense
range of reading, a brain of extraordinary keenness,
strong, vivid, that ranged in its operations from satur-
nine intelligence concerning men and their motives, to
the highest transcendentalisms of German metaphysics.
He was as familiar with the great philosophers as with
the daily newspapers. As an immediate psychologist,
lever before or since has Louis met his equal in vital-
ity, in verity, and in perspicacity of thought. He, John,
mew all that all the psychologists had written, and
nuch, of his own discernment, that they but recently
aave begun to unveil. Louis found in John a highly
gifted talker, and John found in Louis a practised
[206]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHJ OF AN IDEA
listener, so their bond of union may be summed up
in the token "I myself."
One day John explained his theory of suppressed
functions; and Louis, startled, saw in a flash that this
meant the real clue to the mystery that lay behind
the veil of appearances. Louis was peculiarly subject
to shock from unexpected explosion of a single word;
and when the word "function 51 was detonated by the
word "suppressed," a new, an immense idea came sud-
denly into being and lit up his inner and his outer
world as one. Thus, with John's aid, Louis saw the
outer and the inner world more clearly, and the world
of men began to assume a semblance of form, and of
function. But, alas, what he had assumed to be a
single vast veil of mystery that might perhaps lift of
a sudden, like a cloud, proved in experience to be a
series of gossamer hangings that must slowly rise up
one by one, in a grand transformation scene, such as he
had viewed when, as a small boy, he saw "The Forty
Thieves," where all was transformed into reality by
a child's imagination. Now would it be possible for
him, through the reverse power of imagination, to
cause the veils of the hidden world to rise and reveal?
On this threshold, for a passing moment, he faltered.
Then resurging courage came.
Louis soon noticed that while he himself had a clear
program in life, John had none. That all this talk,
while of deep import to him, was for John merely
luxurious self-indulgence and a luscious hour with pa-
rade of vanity ; that he, the elder, regarded the younger
with patronage, much as a bright child, but a tyro
in the active world; while Louis saw that John was
[207]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
merely drifting. In this regard each kept his thoughts
to himself, while encouraging the other.
In Philadelphia, one hot summer's evening, Louis
had gone to the Academy of Music to hear a Thomas
Concert. During the course of the program he had
become listless, when of a sudden came the first bars
of a piece so fiery, that, startled, all alert, he listened
in amazement to the end. What was this? It was
new brand new. The program now consulted, said :
Forspiel, Third Act, Lohengrin Richard Wagner.
Who was Richard Wagner? Why had he never heard
of him ? He must look him up ; for one could see at a
glance that this piece was a work of genius.
He mentioned this episode to John Edelrnann,
shortly after they had become acquainted; and John
said: Why, at the North Side Turner Hall, Hans
Balatka and his fine orchestra give a concert every
Sunday afternoon, and Hans is introducing Wagner
to Chicago; let's go. They went.
Louis heard the Pilgrims' Chorus and raved.
They went every Sunday afternoon until Spring. There
followed in course, the Forspiel to Lohengrin, to Die
Meistersinger, to the Flying Dutchman, the Ride of
the Walkyrie, the amazing fabric of the overture to
Tristan und Isolde, the immense solemnity of Sieg-
fried's Tod, the exquisite shimmering beauty of the
Waldweben.
Louis needed no interpreter. It was all plain to him.
He saw it all. It was all as though addressed to him-
self alone. And as piece after piece was deployed,
before his open mind, he saw arise a Mighty Person-
ality a great Free Spirit, a Poet, a Master Crafts-
man, striding in power through a vast domain that was
[208]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
his own, that imagination and will had bodied forth out
of himself. Suffice it as useless to say Louis be-
came an ardent Wagnerite. Here, indeed, had been
lifted a great veil, revealing anew, refreshing as dawn,
the enormous power of man to build as a mirage, the
fabric of his dreams, and with his wand of toil to make
them real. Thus Louis's heart was stirred, his courage
was ten-folded in this raw city by the Great Lake In
the West.
Yet John had the good sense to caution Louis to let
the philosophers alone for a while; to let them He in
possession paraphrasing Siegfried's Dragon as
each had merely built an elaborate scaffolding, but no
edifice within, and each was more concerned with the
symmetry of his scaffold than with aught else, unless it
be to scorn the flimsy scaffoldings of others. He said
that Schopenhauer showed some intelligence, because
he was a man of the world, while the others were more
like spiders, weaving, in the gloom of obscurantism,
festoons of cobwebs in their dens, far from the light
of the world of men and things. That Louis had bet-
ter let the ding an sich the ultimate thing alone, and
keep his eyes on the world as it is ; that he would find
plenty to interest him there, and that if he had the eye-
sight he would find a great romance there, also a great
tragedy. That quoting Carlyle, he said: "The eye
sees that which it brings the power to see" ; which again
shocked Louis; for the thought rose up: Maybe the
veil is not without, but covers my own eyes; as John
went on, preaching of the world of men and their
significance, for worth or ill, in the social order, Louis
again was shocked at the words "social order."
But their talks were not always so strenuous and dis-
[209]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
turbing; for John was mercurial an inventor of self-
moods a poseur, infatuated with the pessimistic atti-
tudinizing he assumed at will, for the sake of the sen-
sation of gazing into the mirror of his thoughts which
reEected the image of one he deemed the greatest phi-
losopher and psychic of all time, still unknown to the
world. But John had many other moods, as many as
he chose to summon, and on the whole, he was jolly
bombastic, much alive, and in public, loud of speech in
an over-weening beggary to attract attention, and
thereby feed his hungry vanity. But withal he was
Louis's warm friend, and showed it by a devotion and
self-sacrifice singular in one so absorbed in self wor-
ship. And be this said here and now: The passing
years have isolated and revealed John Edelmann, as
unique in personality among fine and brilliant minds.
Be assured he will not turn in his grave, unless in bliss,
should he hear it said that he was the benefactor and
Louis the parasite and profiteer.
They were both fond of exercise, and frequented the
gymnasium. John, though not so very tall, was huge
in bulk and over-muscled. He excelled in feats of
strength, while Louis was dexterous and nimble in
lighter work. As spring approached, John talked more
and more about the "Lotos Club," whose members had
boat houses on the bank of the Calumet, near the
bridge where the L C. R. R. crosses. He spoke of a
"Great Chief," one William B. Curtis by name, who
had founded the Club, who had beaten Dr. Winship
at heavy lifting; was a champion all-round athlete, and
had chosen the club name because of a bed of Lotus
not far down the sluggish stream. He had said briefly,
he preferred the Greek word Lotos to the Latin Lotus.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
So in the spring the two went to live in John's boat-
house. There were three other houses, one occupied
by said William B. Curtis, who, when asked, said his
middle name was Bill, and "Bill 11 he was called.
Louis was simply wild with joy over this new life. He
was now actually a member of a real athletic club. He
had never been a member of any club. And these
young men, all older than he, were heroes in his eyes, if
not demi-gods ; they showed such skill in performance,
and were so amiable toward a youngster. The mighty
"Bill" was 38, so he said. He was the man of brains
who never bragged. He was too cynical to brag, and
deadly literal in speech. As a mathematician he had
revised Haswell. His brain was hard, his manner hu-
man. He knew his anatomy, and had devised special
exercises to develop each separate muscle in his body.
So when in the sunlight he walked the pier for a
plunge, he was a sight for the Greeks, and Louis was
enraptured at the play of light and shade. He had won
a barrel full of medals and he said he kept them there.
By a strange paradox he detested display. He had
no vanity. He had a quizzical sense of humor which
he displayed when he said the dub was no club, because
there were no dues, no entrance fees, no by-laws. All
that was needed in an applicant was a sound constitu-
tion and a paper shell. And yet he said he had named
the Club the Lotos because of his love of flowers, and
the nearby presence of the lotos field. His brain was
remarkably well stocked with varied information of
the so-called higher sort, but he seldom talked of such,
except briefly in derision. He was the exact opposite
of John, but with an equal egoism which he kept under
cover, and which passed as modesty although he
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
cared not in the least. All this Interested Louis, who
was beginning to observe men as Individuals, and to
study personalities; to observe In particular the work-
ing of men's brains; for he had begun to notice, with
keen and growing interest, that the thoughts of a man
corresponded exactly to his real nature. So Louis dis-
cerned In Bill a highly trained mind, self-centered and
selfish In its nature. Louis guessed that the man had
a past; that at least there was something hidden. So
he spoke to John, who said: "You are right. Bill is
not in athletics for fun, but for his health. Medals
Interest him only as tokens of condition. When he was
a young man he was attacked by consumption. The
doctors gave him up. Bill took to open air exercise.
With his scientific brain you can imagine how systema-
tically he went about it. He effected a cure ; but now
he has only one lung would you guess it?" Briefly
to complete the story of this man, the most remarkable
that has ever appeared in the field of amateur athletics,
he became editor of "Wilkes Spirit of the Times" and
remained such for years. At the age of 63 he, with a
companion, was making the ascent of Mt. Washington
when a blizzard overtook them near the summit. The
bodies were found a quarter of a mile apart.
The effect of Bill Curtis upon Louis was not merely
that of a magnificent athlete and man of brains, but
primarily, and most valuably that of exemplar in the
use of the imagination and the will, doggedly to carry
out a program. That a consumptive should have risen
to become a great athlete, was enough for him. The
livbjg fact profoundly and permanently strengthened
Louis's courage in carrying out his own program.
Though Louis did not especially warm up to the man,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
because their natures were not sufficiently alike, he has
never forgotten what he then owed to the force of
example of a clear brain. So Louis added "Bill" to
his growing collection of personalities.
In the carrying out of his own program Louis's
thoughts turned definitely toward^ France; which
meant, specifically, the Ecole des Beaux Arts. He
wished now to go to the fountain head of theory. Of
practice he had enough for present purpose.
Thus on 10 July, 1874, he sailed from New York on
the steamship Britannic, on her maiden trip eastward.
Before she left her pier there were grand doings aboard
flowers, speeches, high society. For she was pro-
claimed u The Pride of the Seas." She displaced three
thousand tons. She was headed for Liverpool.
Prior to leaving, Louis called again upon his friend
Stratton in New York, and was given further pointers
first of all, to call at the American Legation.
Louis found the ocean trip disappointing and stupid,
with exception of the ship's great vertical engines and
deep stoke-hole, the various apparatus, and the work-
ing of the ship by officers and crew, which he studied
carefully, as he had become much interested in engi-
neering.
While Louis was leaning on the railing, watching,
with vague emotion, his native land fade in the mist,
and sink from sight, as though irrevocably lost, he felt
a pang of nostalgia; the sea seemed so lonely after
brisk excitement. Near by at the rail were others also
watching the land disappear. As it became dim, a
grating voice spoke out: "Thank God we have seen
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the last of the damned Yankees." The words were
said in savage bitterness and contempt. Another voice
agreed. Louis turned to the left and saw two short
swarthy men, black bearded, black eyed. For a mo-
ment Louis thought it would be nice to throw them both
overboard. He looked at them, wide-eyed, with some-
thing of the sort in view, and they talked on in lower
tones. Louis was puzzled by the speech. Why
u damned Yankees" he asked himself. Why this
hatred, this anathema? The phrase sounded racial;
it stuck in his mind like a burr. It was said with such
conviction as to seem impersonal; as though included
in something larger. Never had he heard such viru-
lence addressed to his own people. He pondered long
over this; were the "Yankees" a hated people? If so,
who hated them?
Louis did not know a soul aboard. He was proud
of the ship, proud to be on it, but he was lonesome,
and no one paid the slightest heed as he prowled up
and down, in and out. The weather was fair all the
way. The waves seemed eternally to roll and roll,
without crests. A vast expanse of water, dark blue,
almost black; the circular horizon always present and
only fifteen miles away. Never had his world seemed
so small in fact, yet so limitless and grim in suggestion.
He seemed to be always at the top of the world, al-
ways in the self-same spot, always in the midst of dead-
ening monotony; day after day not a sail in sight, not
a sign of a storm. Day after day confined to a solitary
ship moving on through a wilderness of water, the ves-
sel rhythmically rolling and heaving in its course, night
and day, night and day ; would it never end ? Laughter,
aboard, had long since ceased. Where was the ro-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
mance of the high seas? The end came in a total lapse
of ten days. The waters turned blue and then green.
The boat came to a stop off Queenstown. Enshrouded
in heavy mist, Louis saw a coast line of mountains or
high hills. This is all he ever saw of Ireland.
The way along St. George's Channel seemed glori-
ous. The clear, deep waters, and the glimpses of coast
line restored his spirits as he felt his normal condition
of clarity return. Here at last was an old world,
which, as a new world he was to discover. How high
his hopes, how buoyant his thoughts, as they swung
into the Mersey. England carne near to him, and
nearer, then slowly nearer, then in contact, as the ship
came to dock. Then came all the bustle and the joyous
greetings about him, as Louis pressed his foot on Eng-
lish soil. Ah, what fluttering emotion, the overflow
of bubbling youth. At last, at last, he had arrived
where for years he had dreamed to come, and the
broad Atlantic now lay between him and his native
land. Now was to come that Great Adventure, which,
as a joyous youth sans peur he faced with elation, and
a confidence known only to pure fools. He stayed but
a day or two in Liverpool, for his immediate objective
was London. He was at pains to make it a daylight
ride, for he wished to give his eyes all the treat of
novelty.
And what he saw was a finished land something
that had ripened through the centuries. This finished
land impressed him with a sense of the far-away. It
did not seem to vibrate; and, sub audite, came to him
a stream of ancient tales. He found quiet, unobtrusive
charm in the countryside, he noted patches of crops
arranged with a precision, an inch by inch economy of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
pressions thrust suddenly upon him, so many seeming
contradictions and paradoxes, that time was needed for
the turbid mixture to settle, to clarify, and to reveal a
dominant idea.
Thus Louis reached the shores of France much puz-
zled as to England.
He had sailed from Dover to Dieppe.
In the course of the passage, all the transcendental
curves, known and unknown to mathematics, were re-
vealed to him by the packet, which distorted and twirled
the very heavens, in its can-can with the sea.
As they moved into the little harbor of Dieppe,
what was left of Louis gazed at the quaint city with
acceptance and delight. How different from England.
What a change in physiognomy. How cheerful the
aspect a delicate suggestion not so much of age as of
mediaevalism ; he had read about it in many books a
surviving fragrance of romance. But on the way
through Normandy, Louis was equally startled, at the
rigid spacing of trees, at the dinky chateaux, new-made,
stuck here and there as though forming the heads of
pins. All was clean, all was stiff. But the farms and
the cattle were a revelation, especially the cattle
never had he seen such.
As the train passed through Rouen, twilight was
under way, and the spire of the Cathedral seemed to
float in the air as though there were no earth.
Arrived in Paris after night- fall, Louis saw the
streets aglow. He boarded a fiacre, and shouted to
the cocker:
* Hotel Saint Honore!
PLATE 24. Carson Pirie Scott & Co., 1 South State
Street, Chicago. 1899-1 904-. Entrance at State
and Madison Streets.
PLATE 25. Carson Pirie Scott & Co. (see Plate 24). Detail of
iron over entrance at State and Madison Streets.
cast
CHAPTER XII.
Paris
A FTER a brief stay at the Hotel St. Honore, Louis
A% found permanent quarters on the seventh floor
of a rooming hotel, at the southeast corner Rue
Monsieur le Prince and Rue Racine, in the Latin Quar-
ter. Nearby were the "Boule Miche" toward the east,
the Odeon, the Luxembourg Palace and its gardens to
the southwest From this lofty perch which he always
reached on the run, two steps at a time, the City of
Paris spread before him to the north, and on the small
balcony, reached by casement doors, he would some-
times sit in the twilight and be caught by the solitary
boom of the great bell of Notre Dame.
Early he had discovered that the French of his High
School, for excellence in which he had taken first prize
in a matter of course way, was not quite the colloquial
French he now heard, spoken with exasperating rapid-
ity and elision. As to the bill of fare, the Menu, at
the first attempt he perspired awhile In anguish, then
put his finger on a line at random, and set down the
result in a special notebook* He must learn current
French in a hurry. He engaged a teacher to come
every day at a fixed hour. When on the streets, he
walked close to the people ahead, to catch every word;
in this way his ear caught up words, locutions, intona-
tions, and emphasis; and soon he began to feel he was
on the way, even though he did not understand a tenth
of what he heard.
He early visited the American Legation, complied
with requirements, received information and advice,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
was told to buy certain textbooks, and was referred to
a certain Monsieur Clopet as the very best tutor in
mathematics. At the Legation he made the startling
discovery that the Beaux Arts entrance examinations
were to begin in six weeks; and furthermore, he had
scanned the Program of Admission, and was startled
again at the range of subjects he was not up on. Was
he downhearted? Not a bit. It was a certainty he
would pass because he must pass. He had come to
Paris from far-away Chicago with that sole end in
view; so why argue? He knew it meant six weeks of
the hardest work he had ever done. He figured on
eighteen hours a day. He knew he was in physical
condition. He would allot one hour each day to gym-
nasium work, and keep on simple diet. What stood
uppermost in his mind and gave him self-reliance to face
any task, was his assurance : Had he not been trained
in discipline and self-discipline by Moses Woolson?
Had he not been trained and tried by that great teacher
in the science and the art of thinking, of alertness, of
dose attention and quick action, in economy of time,
in sharp analysis, in the high values of contemplation ?
He lost no time in calling upon Monsieur Clopet.
He was greeted in simple gracious words, by a small
dark man, who, to Louis's joy, spoke only French. The
preliminaries over, Monsieur Clopet asked: "And
what are the books you have under your arm?' 1 Louis
replied: "Books I was told at the American legation
I would need." "Ah, yes, let me see them." He took
the books, selected a large work on Descriptive Geom-
etry, and began to turn the pages. "Now observe:
Here is a problem with five exceptions or special cases;
here a theorem, three special cases ; another nine, and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
so on and on, a procession of exceptions and special
cases. I suggest you place the book in the waste basket;
we shall not need of It here; for here our demonstra-
tions shall be so broad as to admit of NO EXCEP-
TION!"
At these amazing words Louis stood as one whose
body had turned to hot stone, while his brain was
raging. Instantly the words had lashed, there arose
a vision and a fixed resolve; an instantaneous inquiry
and an instant answer. The inquiry: If this can be
done in Mathematics, why not in Architecture? The
instant answer: It can, and it shall be! no one has /
will/ It may mean a long struggle; longer and harder
than the tramp through the forest of Brown's Tract.
It may be years from now, before I find what I seek,
but I shall find it, if otherwhere and otherwise, with or
without guide other than my flair, my will and my
apprehension. It shall be done! I shall live for that!
no one, no thing, no thousand shall deter me. The
world of men, of thoughts, of things, shall be mine.
Firmly I believe that if I can but interpret it, that
world is filled with evidence. I shall explore that
world to seek, to find. I shall weigh that world in a
balance. I shall question it, I shall examine and cross-
examine, I shall finally interpret I shall not be with-
held, I shall prevail!
During the immense seconds of this eidolon, Louis
found himself shaking hands with Monsieur Clopet in
parting, promising to join his class on the morrow.
This he did. The class consisted of about twenty
young men, mostly French, a few from other lands, no
Englanders, no other American. Louis wished an ex-
clusively French atmosphere he was beginning feebly
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
to think In French and wished no disturbance of the
process. He had told his French tutor that he knew
the grammar by heart and could conjugate all the Irre-
gular verbs; that what he wished, and he wished It
done In a hurry, was to acquire the language of the
man on the street first of all, to acquire what fluency
he might In the short time before him, to increase his
vocabulary, a hundred new words memorized every
day. It must be talk, talk, talk, and read, read, read,
to each other daily papers, general history in partic-
ular, read aloud to each other, read and correct, talk
and correct, and hammer away In the sweat of their
brows. His tutor could not long stand the pace and
begged to be excused. Louis got another, wore him
out. The third one stuck. He saw into Louis's plan
and It amused him greatly, so much so that he joined
in, jovially, and made a play of it. A petit verre
started him off nicely. He possessed a rare art of con-
versation, was full of anecdote, personal incident and
reminiscence, knew his Paris, had the sense of comedy
to a degree, looked upon life as a huge joke, upon all
persons as jokes, and upon Louis as such in particular
he would amuse himself with this frantic person. At
once he spoke to Louis en camarade, meux copain, as
one Frenchman to another. He made running com-
ments on the news of the day, explained all sorts of
things Louis was beginning to note In Paris life, put
him in the running. He had a gift of mimicry, would
imitate the provincial dialects and peasant jargon, with
fitting tone and gesture, and, taking a given topic or
incident, would relate it in terms and impersonations
ranging in series from gamin to Academician. In these
moods he was simply "killing." And when Louis told
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
a story, he would mimic It delightfully. But the man
knew his French, and spread out the language before
Louis in a sort of landscape which awoke Imagination.
At times he would wax eloquent concerning his mother
tongue, as he revealed Its resources and its beauty. Its
clarity, its precision, its fluidity, and he earnestly ad-
vised Louis that he must without fail go each Sunday
to the Church of St. Roch, there to hear In the ser-
mon the marvelous beauty of the language, as uttered
there by one who, through life-long discipline, had at-
tained to its perfection of form and vocal melody.
This tutor man suited Louis; he was wholly human,
and well versed. Also well built, well under middle
age, seldom sat for long, but paced the floor, or lolled
here or there by moments. His voice was suave, his
manner frank and free. He had an air, was well bred.
He was either an unconscious or a crafty teacher, a
rara avis, he knew how to get results. The dally lesson
lasted one hour, and Louis dally plowed on, at high
tension.
At Monsieur Clopet's class he was well received by
the young gentlemen there. He returned their saluta-
tions and an atmosphere of savoir faire prevailed. All
were hard put to it to keep up their notes as a lecture
progressed. Monsieur Clopet was gentle, polished,
forceful. "One must work; that is what one is here
for." As a drill master he was a potent driver, as an
expounder he made good his word to Louis in a method
and a manner, revealing, inspiriting, as he calmly un-
folded, step by step, a well reasoned process in his
demonstrations which were so simple, so inclusive, so
completely rounded as to preclude exception; and there
was not a book in sight; but ever in sight was Mon-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
sieur Clopet, making something teachable out of what
at first seemed an abstraction In three dimensions,
Louis was especially pleased at the novelty of saying
je dis "I say*' at the beginning of a demonstration.
It humanized matters, brought them home, close up,
a sort of challenge. How much more intelligent and
lively to begin: "I say the sum of the angles of any
triangle equals two right angles" than the formal im-
personal statement: "The sum of the angles of any
triangle equals two right angles." The latter statement
one may take or leave. The former Is a personal as-
sertion and implies, "I will show you." In fact, it was
this "I say" and this "I will show you" that made up
the charm of Monsieur Clopet's teaching method. For
Louis had but little use for what is called "proof."
In his secret heart he did not believe that anything
could be proved, but believed as firmly that many
things might be shown. From long practice as listener
and observer, he had reached this conclusion, and as
time went on, in his studies he became convinced that
aE abstractions were assumptions that abstract truth
was a mirage. As Monsieur Clopet's course covered
mainly descriptive geometry and the science of arith-
metic, with plain and solid geometry as incidentals,
Louis met his bugbear in this very science of arithmetic.
He seemed to bump his head against invisible walls,
a blockade which seemed to hold him a prisoner to in-
ner consciousness, Instead of the free open of outward
consciousness a working of the intellect detached
from reality therefore detached from life; but it was
an examination requirement, so Louis stuck to the tread-
mill and learned how, by "rigorous logic," it might be
proved that two and two make four. It was not that
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
he lacked the sense that the study of numbers had Its
charm, and might exercise a fascination for those who
had a mathematical career In view. It was against
what he deemed the impertinence of rigid logic that
he rebelled, for once we assume an abstraction to be
real, he thought, we lose our anchorage which Is In
the real.
At the end of the first half hour Monsieur Clopet
always called a recess. From his pocket he drew forth
his pouch and his little book of rice papers ; so did the
others. There was sauntering, spectacular smoking and
conversation. The cigarette finished, work was re-
sumed, Louis thought this gay, Immediately procured
the findings, and learned to "roll his own. n After
recess the students were put through their paces at the
blackboard for the final half-hour.
For Louis all this was exhilarating. He soon felt he
was making sure headway. His fellow pupils were
nost amiable, and began to remark upon his Improving
French. Early in the game, however, they had taken
liim in hand regarding his attire, for Louis had made
bus first appearance clad in a flannel suit, a white cap
ind white canvas shoes. They were serious about it.
"We would have you know, friend, you are not prop-
erly dressed. You are a student now, an aspirant for
the Beaux Arts. Only the working classes wear tilt
casquette* Gentlemen wear the chapeau, and only
sporting people wear such clothes and shoes. You shall
iress like a student and be one of us." As soon as It
:ould be done, Louis appeared in tall silk hat, an In-
fant beard, long tall coat, and trousers of dark ina-
rerial, polished shoes, kid gloves, and jaunty cane.
Louis felt self-conscious, but he was met with so vol-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
uble a chorus of approval that he changed his tone,
studied carefully the student manner so as to be one
of them they were such good fellows.
Swiftly fled the days; thus moved the work; nightly
Louis sat in his room on the seventh, at his small desk,
a candle at each side, black coffee and wet towel as
aids. He codified the Clopet notes, arranged his French
vocabulary, read history by the hour, for he knew this
latter would be highly important; and so it went day
and night work, work, work. About midway in the
game Louis's brain seemed to be overcome by a fog.
Everything was blurred as in a mist, his memory lost
its grip. His knowledge of athletics told him he had
overtrained and run stale. A three days' change of
scene and complete diversion put him right; memory
returned, the mist lifted; after that, no trouble.
The great day of the Examinations was now near at
hand. Louis's French tutor had cautioned him to be
careful not to use slang when addressing the professors ;
and Monsieur Clopet had said in open class, "I don't
know as to the rest of you, but there is one among you
who will pass brilliantly in his mathematics, and he is
an American."
So, several days before the examinations, which were
to begin early in October, Louis stopped all work,
relaxed completely, and, in a state of confidence amused
himself with the sights and sounds of Paris, and enjoyed
a few long sleeps. He wandered here and there and
everywhere, immensely amused and satisfied. Paris
seemed made for him. All was really new to him, but
did not seem strange or alien as had England. The
people seemed rather like his own people of the Mid-
dle West; more cultured, more polite, more refined, to
226]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
be sure, but withal, a certain temperamental likeness
he believed to exist between raw Chicago and finished
Paris. He believed he had observed a similar affinity
between Boston and London. To Louis's view the
barrier of language was most unfortunate, for the two
peoples at large appeared to possess the same light-
hearted spirit of adventure. Paris, though filled with
historic monuments did not seem old; it gave rather
an impress of ever self-renewing youth and Its people
seemed light hearted.
Wherever he went he found the city well ordered
and cleanly, with architectural monuments everywhere;
and in the parks and gardens he went through the old
experience of surprise that the children could speak
French so well. In the Luxembourg Gardens he
watched them in groups with their nurses and peram-
bulators and toys, and to him the children were like
flowers and the nurses stately flowers, and the babble
and child laughter and twittering made delicate and
merry music. Never had he seen such child-happiness,
such utter joy in living; and he felt convinced this must
be the child-key to France. Window-shopping also
was his keen delight as he traversed the boulevards
and the Rue de la Paix. He even ventured to enter,
and was not met with scowls nor did he hear a word
equivalent to the "damned Yankees." The crowds
upon the boulevards were varied, interesting and cos-
mopolite. Yes, there was an atmosphere; this atmo-
sphere was Paris; Paris was to be his home; its air
of hospitality, of world-welcomer and host, found in
him a ready and a heartfelt response.
In the French language Louis had by now acquired
a very fair degree of ease, and a vocabulary sufficiently
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
covering the colloquial and the literary for his present
purpose. His accent was good and on the way to be-
coming Parisian. Thus, prepared, with all his hard,
gruelling work back of him, he felt at ease, but with a
due sense of the close call he had had six weeks ! Had
he been trained by any teacher other than Moses Wool-
son, in his high school days, and had he not all his life
been in fine physical condition which means no nerves
it is doubtful if he could have stood the strain of
preparation.
The examinations were to be, severally, written,
drawn, and oral. They were to cover a period of
three weeks. The number of candidates for admis-
sion was large, covering all departments.
The great trial was now under way. The free hand
drawing, the mechanical drawing, and an esquisse en
loge of a simple architectural project, went smoothly
enough for Louis; perhaps with some difficulty for
others. The real test for him would lie in the oral
examinations, which were conducted in little amphi-
theatres, a professor presiding, and all aspirants free
to come and go, as they did in a steady stream. Louis
himself had been one of these wanderers awaiting his
turn. The candidate under fire thus was by no means
lonely; indeed, he deeply wished to be alone with his
inquisitor.
Came Louis's turn for mathematics. For audience
he had some twenty strange faces, all rather scared.
The examining professor, elderly and of quiet poise,
received him most courteously as a stranger in the land,
a guest of France, and an aspirant to the Beaux Arts;
that it was a pleasure to welcome him, that he need not
feel in the least embarrassed, that the inquisition would
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN
proceed at a moderate pace, and that Louis was free
to solve any problem In any way he liked, the objective
being solely to discover the extent of his understand-
ing, not of his memory. Then the examining professor
settled to the work. For over an hour Lord knows
how long It was he put Louis through a steady gruel-
ling always kindly, however such as Louis had
never known, never dreamed of, never believed could
be so* In the midst of It he recalled Monsieur Clopet's
"I don't know about the rest of you" and he came of
a sudden into his true stride, which he held to the end.
For, after a heart-breaking crisis, he suddenly found
himself actually thinking In terms of mathematics, and,
accordingly, lost all fear, relaxed and let his mind go
free. From beginning to end he did not make a iuke.
At the close, the examining professor, who had become
quite interested when he found he could Increase the
difficulties, pressed Louis's hand and said: "I felicitate
you, Monsieur Sullivan: you have the mathematical
imagination which is rather rare* I wish you well. 1 *
Now, of all things Louis might have said he did not
possess, the mathematical Imagination would head the
list in a large way. He knew, in a small way, he had
been charmed in his high school by the novelties of
the ideas set forth in geometry and algebra. But there
they were simply discipline, founded categorically on
the books. And in the books was no Imagination that
he could discern. Perhaps, after all, it was the free-
dom of Monsieur Clopet's classroom and Louis's en-
thusiasm at each beautiful demonstration, and the many
pointed questions he asked of Monsieur Clopet, that
had led the latter to speak as he did concerning "an
American." However this may be, Louis found the
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
open world of mathematics; that It was possible to think
in such terms as it was possible to think in French
for doing this latter, also, was an act of imagination.
And now from the secret places of this new world
there came a Siren call which perturbed Louis sadly for
many years. Toward this new world Louis turned
many a wistful thought thereafter: It was a land of
Romance.
Now came the questioning in History, and Louis
was equally startled at the method. He was well pre-
pared according to the books, which he had visualized
into a moving picture, but he was not prepared for the
shock.
Three questions only, were asked the replies cov-
ered one hour and a half of constant talking. Louis
had supposed that questions and answers would be
categorical, after the manner of procedure he had been
taught in America, where, to epitomize, it might be
said the chief interest centered around the exact date
of the discovery of America. Now Louis felt the earth
leave him, as the first question came : "Monsieur, will
you be kind enough to tell me the story of the Hebrew
People ?" Then the earth came back, but the question
remained immense. Still the situation was not alto-
gether infelicitous, for Louis had read considerably
in the Bible, and had heard far more than he had
read in spite of the fact that John Edelman had
cautioned him that no one should read the Bible before
the age of mental maturity, which he had placed at
forty, and was reserving that treat for himself. So
Louis began safely with the desert tribes, the sojourn
in Egypt, the wandering in the desert, carrying the
story down to the destruction of Jerusalem, and the
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captivity. He also sketched the patriarchal age s the
prophets in captivity, the final triumph of ritual over
inspiration and righteousness. The charm of this ex-
amination lay in the fact that Louis was encouraged
by the examining professor to give a pictorial and
rather dramatic recital, and the professor's frequent
questioning concerning what Louis had said and as to
why he thought thus or so. He, for instance, asked
Louis what had impressed him most vividly in the
story of the Jews, and Louis said: The emergence and
vivid personality of Jehovah, their God.
The next question now followed : "I would like an
account of the ten emperors of Rome." Another half-
hour of talk as Louis covered the ground, from the
bookish point of view, and made a few remarks on Ms
own account, which led the professor to say: "You do
not seem to be in sympathy with Roman civilization."
"No," said Louis, "I feel out of touch with a civiliza-
tion whose glory was based on force."
Then came the third question: "Monsieur, I see you
have a certain faculty, a bit crude as yet, of making
word pictures, of discerning something real beneath the
glamour of the surface, which it is the particular busi-
ness of the true historian to uncover. Now, therefore,
as this is to be the last question, do your best and give
me an intimate account of the times of Francis First."
Louis did this with joy. On account of Leonardo's
part in it, he had studied the period with especial care
and devotion. He had seemed to live in this time, and
with its people, its manners, its customs, its thoughts,
it stood forth for him as a very present picture of the
past.
At the close the examining professor smiled. He
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
said: "The object of these examinations is not to ascer-
tain an array of facts devoid of shaping context, but to
discern the degree of intelligence possessed by the candi-
date; to ascertain his capacity for interpretation, and
if he possess, to any perceptible degree, the faculty of
constructive imagination without which the pursuit of
history is merely so much wasted time. I am agreeably
surprised at times to find this latter quality present,
and in you it is vivid, amazing and rash. To be sure
you are not expected to be profound in historic knowl-
edge, but you have shown me, in your faithful way,
that instinctively, you know how to go about it, so I
say: Continue, continue. After some years you will
begin to understand a little, and as you mature, you
may perhaps feel inclined to turn the teachings of
history upside down. I can now do no less for your
gratification and as well my own, than to give you the
highest rating, and to wish you happiness. I shall
doubtless have been long gone hence before your studies
shall have matured into a valuable and personal idea ;
a contribution to the knowledge of mankind, but
courage, courage, and Adieul"
Thus Louis, in Paris, spent an hour and a half an-
swering three history questions. At home he would
have been asked perhaps five times as many questions,
all categorical in nature, and would have been through
with them in a half an hour. It was this immense
difference in matter and manner, especially as applied
to mathematics and history, that opened Louis's eyes
to the quality and reach of French thought; to its
richness, its firmness, its solidity, and above all, the
severity of its discipline beneath so smooth a surface.
Examinations over, Louis received his card of ad-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
mission to the school, good until the age of thirty*
"Then he made his entree Into the atelier of Monsieur
Emil Vaudremer, practicing architect. He much pre-
ferre3 an atelier libre or free independent to the
official ateliers of the Ecole. There were a number of
such ateliers, under the care of architects of distinction,
men who had been winners of the Grand Prix de Rom>
veritable 'Polar Star of the Ecole. As Eugene
Letang had come from the Atelier Vandremer^ it
seemed but natural that Louis should feel at home
there.
The Director of the Ecole gave out the program of
a three-months projet; the twenty-four-hour sketches
were made en loge, and filed as briefs; whereupon, to
Louis's surprise, everybody vanished. So Louis be*
thought him to vanish.
During his preparatory work he had discovered
three small volumes by Hippolyte Taine devoted to the
Philosophy of Art in Greece, in Italy, and in the Neth-
erlands. From these works he derived three strong
impressions, novel shocks: First, that there existed
such thing as a Philosophy of Art; second, that accord-
ing to M. Taine's philosophy the art of a people is a
reflex or direct expression of the life of that people;
third, that one must become well acquainted with that
life in order to see into the art. All this was new
and shining. He, knew it was true of Boston and
Chicago. In the volume on Italy, however, occurred
a statement which struck Louis as of most sinister In*
port for him: It alarmed him. It was to this effect:
That, concerning the work of Michael Angelo in the
Sistine Chapel, the Last Judgment was obviously done
on momentum^ as compared with the vigor of the ceil-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
Ing. Now Louis had never trusted the care of his eye-
sight to anyone, nor did he now propose to entrust It
In M. Taine's keeping. He was averse to taking things
on say-so. It was his pride that he could see. But,
could his eye detect so subtle a change in the work of
a great artist as was implicated In the word momentum
and which M. Taine had said was obvious? He had
many sinkings at the heart because of this. He must
go to Rome, to verify; for the worth of his whole
scheme seemed to rest In this delicate balance. It was
vital. There must be no doubt. He must, beyond
question, be sure of the quality of his eyesight. To
Rome he went, quaking but courageous.
The Sistine Chapel! One steady sweep of the eye!
It was easy oh, so easy! So self-evident! Thus a
cumulating agony ended forever in a supreme moment
of relief; and Louis knew, once and for all, that he
could see anything that eye could see. He would not
have used the word momentum an academic word
he would have called it the work of a man powerful
even In old age. Louis spent three days in Rome two
of them in the Sistine alone there, almost all the time.
Here he communed in the silence with a Super-Man.
Here he felt and saw a great Free Spirit. Here he
was filled with the awe that stills. Here he came face
to face with his first great Adventurer. The first
mighty man of Courage. The first, man with a Great
Voice. The first whose speech was Elemental. The
first whose will would not be denied. The first to cry
YEA ! in thunder tones. The first mighty Craftsman.
The man, the man of super-power, the glorified man,
of whom he had dreamed in his childhood, of whom
he prophesied in his childhood, as he watched his big,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
strong men build stone walls, hew down trees* drive
huge horses his mighty men* his heroes, his demi-
gods; a powerful presentiment which he had seen and
felt in the glory of the sunrise; which he had heard
in the voice of spring; and which, personiied through
the haze of most mystical romantic trances, he believed
in, he had faith in that faith which is far removed
from fancy, that faith which is near its source and
secure*
Now was he in that veritable dreamed-of Presence.
Here was that great and glorious personality. Here
was power as he had seen it in the mountains, here was
power as he had seen it in the prairies, in the open sky,
in the great lake stretching like a floor toward the
horizon, here was the power of the forest primeval.
Here was the power of the open of the free spirit of
man striding abroad in the open. Here was the living
presence of a man who had done things in the benefi-
cence of power. And Louis gazed long and long, as
one enthralled. And with his own eyes, with his own,
responses, he discerned more and more. There seemed
to come forth from this great work a mystery; he
began to see into it, and to discern the workings of a
soul within. From beneath the surface significance
there emerged* that which is timeless, that which is
deathless, that which in its immensity of duration, its
fecundity, its everpresent urge, we call LIFE. And
in this great outpouring which encompassed him, he
saw the Dreamer at his work. For no hand, unaided,
could do this; no intellect unaided could do this; Im-
agination alone could do this ; and Imagination, looked
into, revealed itself as uncompromising faith in Life,
as faith in man, and especial faith in his wondrous
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
powers. He saw that Imagination passes beyond rea-
son and Is a consummated act of Instinct the primal
power of Life at work. Thus Louis pondered as he
viewed o'er and o'er the Persian Sibyl. Forty-nine
years have come and gone since a youth of eighteen
thought these thoughts without words; alone in the
Sistine.
"There mas a Child went forth every day"
* * *
Louis saw Florence and does not know how he came
to break the golden chains that bound him there, a too
willing captive. It needed full six weeks to part a net
that seemed but of gossamer; or was it the fragrance
of Lotus Land?
And the rocky coast of the Riviera, alive with beauty
and with color implanted by the hand of man near the
water's edge, on the crags which came down from the
foot of the mountains to indent the sea precious spots
in memory's hold. And the solid blue sea, with sky as
solid blue ineffable blue wondrous blue Mediter-
ranean and Riviera sea and mountain range, a reve-
lation and a piercing joy how could such things be?
Then on to Nice, to Paris and hard work again.
Louis was keyed for every form of anticipated effort;
keen and anxious to observe, to analyse, to compare ; to
start on the second phase of his program, the purport
of which was to ascertain what the Great School had
to give, what Monsieur Vaudremer had to give, and
to get close to the glowing heart of French Culture,
as nearly as he might. It was his purpose to live, in
fact; tp absorb, to contemplate. He felt he had no
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
time to lose, that he must press on. Insatiable curiosity
urged him.
He went back to his old quarters on the seventh,
with Its northward spreading view. Nightly he sat
long at his desk, a candle at each side, and* pondering
his books of history slowly he persuaded the peoples of
the past to come forward to meet him until they
seemed of his own day, and he of theirs, in a dramatic
moving present, a spectacle, a processional of the races
and the nations, whose separate deeds seemed to flow
from their separate thoughts, and whose thoughts and
deeds seemed, as he himself progressed, toward them,
to coalesce into a mass movement of mankind, carrying
the burden of a single thought. What was that
thought? He did not know. He could not see. But
he knew it was there, he could feel it in the atmospheric
depths of the centuries, a single ever-present thought,
which since the beginning had been the Lodestar of
the Man of the past. Thus became vaguely outlined
an image of Man as a vast personality, within which
were gathered all the powers, all the thoughts of the
races, all vicissitudes of the civilizations a presence
which seemed to move steadily, silently, across the
depths, onward into the modern day, indistinct but real,
following the turn of each leaf of the Calendar. This
strange presence he had evoked Louis could not banish,
it seemed to be immense and to stir immediately behind
the veil of appearances. He would some day locate
this phantasm, he said, and meet it as real; for in it, he
said, was that secret men called truth. Thus history
became for Louis a moving drama, and he sole spec-
tator. And it was in this sense that he studied the
history of architecture not mreely as a fixation here
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and there in time and place, but as a continuous out-
pouring never to end, from the infinite fertility of
man's imagination, evoked by his changing needs.
These were hours of deepest contemplation, the begin-
ning of his self-education.
The Atelier Vaudremer gave on a courtyard,
reached by a passageway leading from the Rue de Bac,
about a mile west of where Louis lived. It was at
the ground level, a rough affair, like a carpenter's shop,
large enough to accommodate about twenty young
ruffians. Here it was the work was done amid a cross
fire of insults, and it was also here that Monsieur Emil
Vaudremer came to make his "criticisms." He was
one of the dark Frenchmen, of medium size, who car-
ried a fine air of native distinction; a man toward whom
one's heart instantly went out in respectful esteem bor-
dering on pride and affection. His personality was
calm, deliberate yet magnetic, a sustained, quiet dignity
bespeaking a finished product. His "criticisms" were,
therefore, just what one might expect them to be, clear,
clean-cut, constructive, and personal to each student,
in each case, with that peculiar sympathy with the
young which comes from remembrance of one's own
youth. Always, however, he was disciplinarian, and
one felt the steady pressure. Louis thought the exigent
condition that one hold to the original sketch in its
essentials, to be discipline, of an inspired sort, in that
it held one firmly to a thesis.
Monsieur Vaudremer otherwise Le Patron, had to
his credit as executed works, the Church of the Sacred
Heart, of. Mont Rouge, and the Prison Mazzas. He
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN
was considered, therefore, a rising and highly promis-
ing young member of his profession he was forty-five.
This condition may be better understood when it Is
made known that winners of the Grand Prix are usually
close under thirty.
Louis entered heart and soul into the atelier life,
with all Its tumult and serious work, and its curious
exacting etiquette at the times of arrival and departure.
He now spoke French well enough to be treated en
camarade, and the package of thieves* slang, which he
carried in his sleeve and sprinkled on occasions, raised
his standing to one of esteem, to such extent that he
no longer was required to carry wood for the stove or
clean the drawing boards. The intimate life of the
atelier with its free commingling of the younger and
the older students seemed to Louis invaluable in its
human aspects, so much so that he became rather more
absorbed in the work of others than in his own, for he
always felt himself to be in the position of observer.
The Atelier, the School, came to be for him but part of
a larger world called Paris, and Paris but a part of a
larger world called France, and France but a part of
a larger world called Europe, all in contradistinction to
his native land ; the continuously finished as against the
raw or decadent. The sense of stable motion he noted
everywhere. As time went on it became clearer and
clearer to him what the power of culture meant. He
began to realize that Paris was not of a day, but of
busy and sad centuries. He studied carefully all its
monuments and each seemed to speak to him of Its
own time. He attended unforgettable midnight masses
at Notre Dame ; he spent many hours in the museums ;
he followed closely the exhibits at the School, espe-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
dally the exhibits of the second or higher class. He
familiarized himself thoroughly with the theory of the
School, which, in his mind, settled down to a theory
of plan, yielding results of extraordinary brilliancy, but
which, after all, was not the reality he sought, but an
abstraction, a method, a state of mind, that was local
and specific; not universal. Intellectual and aesthetic,
it beautifully set forth a sense of order, of function,
of highly skilled manipulation. Yet there was for him
a fatal residuum of artificiality, which gave him a secret
sense of misery where he wished but too tenderly to
be happy. And there came the hovering conviction
that this Great School, in its perfect flower of tech-
nique, lacked the profound animus of a primal inspira-
tion. He felt that beneath the law of the School lay
a law which It ignored unsuspectingly or with fixed
intention the law he had seen set forth in the stillness
of the Sistine, which he saw everywhere in the open of
life. Thus crept over him the certitude that the book
was about to close; that he was becoming solitary in
his thoughts and heart-hungry, that he must go his way
alone, that the Paris of his delight must and should
remain the dream of his delight, that the pang of in-
evitable parting was at hand.
[240]
PLATE 26, St. Trinity Russian Greek Orthodox Church, Exterior.
1121 North Leavitt Street, Chicago. 1903.
PLATE 27. St. Trinity Church (see Plate 26). Interior
view toward the altar.
CHAPTER XIII
The Garden City
THERE was a time a city some three hundred
thousand strong stood beside the shore of a great
and very wonderful lake with a wonderful hori-
zon and wonderful daily moods. Above the rim of its
horizon rose sun and moon in their times, the one
spreading o'er its surface a glory of rubies; its com-
panion, at the full, an entrancing sheen of mottled sil-
ver. At other times far to the west in the after-glow
of sunset the delicate bright crescent poised in farewell
slowly dimmed and passed from sight Around this
city, in ever-extending areas, in fancied semi-circles, lay
a beauteous prairie, born companion of the lake; while
within this prairie, at distances of some seven to twelve
miles from the center of the Garden City, were dotted
villages, forming also an open-spaced semi-circle, for
each village nestled in the spacious prairie, and within
its own companionable tree growth. To the north
and west of the city there grew in abundance lofty elms
and oaks ; to the south the section-line dirt roads were
double rowed with huge willows all swayed toward the
northeast as the summer winds year by year had set
them when sap was flowing strong; while scattered
through this tract were ancient cottonwoods rising
singly or in groups, in their immense and venerable
strength. Further to the south, where the soil becomes
sandy, there appeared fantastic dwarf pines and scrub
oaks, while at the Lake Shore, neighboring them,
stretched a mile or more of heavy oak groves that
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
might be called a forest. Within It were winding trails ;
within It one seemed lost to the world.
The city Itself was more than a large village It was
a village grown robust with an Impelling purpose. In
and near Its central business district, residences held
their own, and churches sent up their spires on Court
House Square. There were few tramways. Horse-
and-buggy was the unit; and on the Grand Boulevard
fine victorias, blooded high-steppers noisily, caparisoned
in shining brass, liveried driver and footman, were
daily on view to the populace wealth was growing
breathlessly. The business section passed Insensibly in-
to the residential, then began tree growth and gardens
the city bloomed in its season. In winter was the old
time animation which came with heavy, lasting snows,
with cutters, jangling bells, and horses of all shades
and grades, and the added confusion of racing; for
everybody who was anybody owned at least one horse.
And then again came equinoctial spring; crocuses ap-
peared; trees, each after its kind, put forth furtive
leaves; for "April Showers" all too often were but
chilling northeast rains. Indeed there was no Spring
rather a wave-motion of subsiding winter and protest-
ing summer. But in June the Garden City had come
again into its own. From a distance one saw many a
steeple, rising from the green, as landmarks, and in
the distances the gray bulk of grain elevators.
The Garden City was triparted by a river with two
branches; thus it had its three back yards of urgent
commerce, where no gardens grew; and as well, its
three shanty-towns.
On occasion, when a spell of hard weather had held
the lumber fleet in port, one on watch might see the
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
schooners pour in a stream from the river mouthy
spread their wings, and in a great and beautiful flock,
gleam in the sunlight as they moved with favoring wind,
fan-like towards Muskegon and the northern ports.
The summer was dry. During September the land
winds blew hot and steadily.
The legend has it that a small flame, in shanty town,
destroyed the Garden City in two awful nights and
days. The high winds did their carrier's work. The
Garden City vanished. With it vanished the living
story, it had told in pride, of how it came to be.
Another story now began the story of a proud people
and their power to create a people whose motto was
"I will" whose dream was commercial empire. They
undertook to do what they willed and what they
dreamed. In the midst of the epic of their striving,
they were benumbed by the blow of a great financial
panic, and when Louis returned from Paris the effect
of this blow had not wholly passed though the time
was nearing. The building industry was flat. Finding
thus no immediate use for his new-fangled imported
education, and irking at the prospect of idleness, he
bethought him to see what others might be doing in
their lines, and at the same time get the lay of the land,
something he had not found time to do during his first
visit. Daily he made his twenty miles or more in the
course of a systematic reconnaisance on foot. When
this adventure had come to its end, he knew every nook
and corner of the city and its environs, and had dis-
covered undisturbed all that had formed the prairie
setting of the living Garden City, and all that had
remained undestroyed.
Curiosity seemed to be Louis's ruling passion ; always
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
he was seeking, finding something new, always looking
for surprise sensations, always welcoming that which
was fresh and gave joy to the sight. He had a skill
In deriving joyful thoughts from close observation of
what Is often called the Commonplace. To him there
was nothing commonplace everything had something
to say. Everything suggested it be listened to and In-
terpreted. He had followed the branches of the
Chicago River, had located the lovely forest-bordered
River Des Plaines, and the old-time historic portage.
Had read Parkman's vivid narrative of La Salle and
the great Northwest, and his wonder stories of Mar-
quette and Joliet, and he shared in mind the hardships
of these great pioneers. Thus he came to know the
why and wherefore of the City; and again he said:
This is the Place for me! This remnant scene of ruin
Is a prophecy!
In a while the pulse of industry began the slow
feeble beat of revival, and the interrupted story of
imagination and will, again renewed its deep refrain in
arousing energy. The Garden City had vanished with
its living story. That tale could not be twice told;
that presence could not be recalled. It had gone for-
ever with the flames. Hence a new story must be told.
Naught else than a new story could be told. Not
again would the city be the same. It could not be the
same men could not now be what they were. It was
the approach of this new story that excited Louis; he
would bide his time. He worked briefly now, at Inter-
vals, in the office of this or that architect, until he had
nearly covered the field. These men were mostly of
the elder generation, whose venerable clients clung to
them for Auld Lang Syne. They were men of homely
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
make-up, homely ways. Louis found them very hu-
man, and enjoyed their shop-talk, which was that of the
graduate carpenter. He did not demur because they
were not diplomes of the Beaux Arts. He preferred
them as they were ; much of their curious wisdom stuck
to him. They were men of their lingering day. To-
them Louis was a marvel of speed. Indeed one of the
younger of them, who laughed like a goat, remarked
to his partner: "That Irish-man has ideas I"
He was a caustic joker and a man of brains, this
same Frederick Baumann. Educated in Germany to
the point of cynicism, he was master of one Idea which
he embodied in a pamphlet entitled "A Theory of Iso-
lated Pier Foundations,' 1 published in 1873. The logic
of this essay was so coherent, its common sense so
sound, that its simple idea has served as the basis of
standard practice continuously since its day. All honor
therefore to Frederick Baumann, man of brains, ex-
ploiter of a new idea, which he made up out of his head.
His vigorous years reached on to ninety-five, and as
each one of them passed him by in defile, the world
and its people seemed to his sharp, mirthful eye, to grow
more and more ridiculous a conviction that gave him
much comfort as his vertebrae began to curve. Louis
met him frequently of evenings, at the gymnasium, and
liked to talk to him to get his point of view, which he
found to be not bitter, but Mephistophelian. He was
most illuminating, bare of delusion, and as time went
on Louis came to regard him as a goat-laughing teller
of truths out of school but he, Louis, did not forget.
Reliable text books were few in those days. Due to
this fact Louis made Trautwine's "Engineers 1 Pocket
Book" his Bible, and spent long hours with it. The
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
engineering journals kept close track of actual current
doings, and thus Louis found himself drifting towards
the engineering point of view, or state of mind, as he
began to discern that the engineers were the only men
who could face a problem squarely; who knew a prob-
lem when they saw It. Their minds were trained to
deal with real things, as far as they knew them, as far
as they could ascertain them, while the architectural
mind lacked this directness, this simplicity, this single-
ness of purpose It had no standard of reference, no
bench-mark one might say. For he discerned that in
truth the science of engineering is a science of reaction,
while the science of architectural design were such a
science to be presupposed must be a science of action.
Thus Louis arranged in his mind the reciprocal values
of the primary engineering and the primary architec-
tural thought, and noted the curious antagonism exist-
ing between those who professed them. The trouble
as he saw it was this : That the architect could not or
would not understand the real working of the engineer-
ing mind because it was hidden in deadly literal atti-
tude and results, because of the horrors it had brought
forth as misbegotten stigmata; while the engineer re
garded the architect as a frivolous person of small rule-
of-thumb consequence. And both were largely right;
both professions contained small and large minds
mostly small or medium. Nevertheless they were all
human beings, and therefore all ridiculous in the
Mephistophelian sense of Frederick Baumann.
About this time two great engineering works were
under way. One, the triple arch bridge to cross the
Mississippi at St. Louis, Capt. Eades, chief engineer;
the other, the great cantilever bridge which was to cross
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the Chasm of the Kentucky River, C Shaler Smith,
chief engineer, destined for the use of the Cincinnati
Southern Railroad. In these two growing structures
Louis's soul became immersed. In them he lived.
Were they not his bridges? Surely they were his
bridges. In the pages of the Railway Gazette he saw
them born, he watched them grow. Week by week he
grew with them. Here was Romance, here again was
man, the great adventurer, daring to think, daring to
have faith, daring to do. Here again was to be set
forth to view man in his power to create beneficently.
Here were two ideas widely differing in kind. Each
was emerging from a brain, each was to find realiza-
tion. One bridge was to cross a great river, to form
the portal of a great city, to be sensational and architec-
tonic. The other was to take form in the wilderness,
and abide there; a work of science without concession.
Louis followed every detail of design, every measure-
ment; every operation as the two works progressed
from the sinking of the caissons in the bed of the Mis-
sissippi, and the start in the wild of the initial canti-
levers from the face of the cliff. He followed each,
with the intensity of personal identification, to the
finale of each. Every difficulty encountered he felt to
be his own; every expedient, every device, he shared
in. The chief engineers became his heroes; they
loomed above other men. The positive quality of
their minds agreed with the aggressive quality of his
own. In childhood his idols had been the big strong
men who did things. Later on he had begun to feel
the greater power of men who could think things; later
the expansive power of men who could imagine things ;
and at last he began to recognize as dominant, the will
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of the Creative Dreamer: he who possessed the power
of vision needed to harness Imagination, to harness the
intellect, to make science do his will, to make the emo-
tions serve him for without emotion nothing.
This steadfast belief in the power of man was an
unalloyed childhood instinct, an intuition and a child-
hood faith which never for a day forsook him, but
grew stronger, like an indwelling daemon. As day by
day passed on, he saw power grow before his eyes, as
each unsuspected and new world arose and opened to
his wonder eyes; he saw power intensify and expand;
and ever grew his wonder at what men could do. He
came in a manner to worship man as a being, a presence
containing wondrous powers, mysterious hidden pow-
ers, powers so varied as to surprise and bewilder him.
So that Man, the mysterious, became for him a sort of
symbol of that which was deepest, most active in his
heart. As months passed and the years went by, as
world after world unfolded before him and merged
within the larger world, and veil after veil lifted, and
illusion after illusion vanished, and the light grew ever
steadier, Louis saw power everywhere ; and as he grew
on through his boyhood, and through the passage to
manhood, and to manhood itself, he began to see the
powers of nature and the powers of man coalesce in
his vision into an IDEA of power. Then and only then
he became aware that this idea was a new idea, a
complete reversal and inversion of the commonly ac-
cepted intellectual and theological concept of the Na-
ture of man.
That IDEA which had its mystical beginning in so
small a thing as a child's heart, grew and nurtured
itself upon that child's varied consistently continuing
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and metamorphosing experiences in time and place, as
has been most solicitously laid bare to view in detail* in
the course of this recital. For it needs a long long
time, and a rich soil of life-experience, to enable a
simple, single idea to grow to maturity and solid
strength. A French proverb has it that "Time will
not consecrate that in which it has been ignored/* while
the deep insight of Whitman is set forth in the line,
"Nature neither hastens nor delays."
Louis's interest in engineering as such, and in the
two bridges in particular, so captivated his imagination,
that he briefly dreamed to be a great bridge engineer.
The idea of spanning a void appealed to him as master-
ful in thought and deed. For he had begun to discern
that among men of the past and of his day, there were
those who were masters of ideas, and of courage, and
that they stood forth solitary, each in a world of his
own. But the practical effect of the bridges was to
turn Louis's mind from the immediate science of en-
gineering toward science in general, and he set forth,
with a new relish, upon a course of reading covering
Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, and the Germans,
and found a new, an enormous world opening before
him, a world whose boundaries seemed destined to be
limitless in scope, in content, in diversity. This course
of reading was not completed in a month, or a year,
or in many years ; it still remains on the move.
What Louis noted as uppermost in the scientific
mind, was its honest search for stability in truth.
Hitherto he had regarded his mathematics as an art;
he had not followed far enough to see it as a science.
Indeed he had hitherto regarded every constructive hu-
man effort as an art, and to this view he had been held
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
through the consistent unfolding of the Idea. Inevi-
tably this view was to return in time ; through the chan-
nels of science itself. For that which at once impressed
Louis as new to him and vital, was what was known
as "The Scientific Method" He saw in it a power of
solution he long had fruitlessly been seeking. His key
to an outlook took shape in the scientific method of
approach to that which lay behind appearances; a
relentless method whereby to arrive at the truth by
tireless pursuit. He now had in his hands the instru-
ment he wanted. He must learn to use it with a crafts-
man's skill. For the scientific method was based on
exact observation from which, by the inductive system
of reasoning, an inference was drawn, an hypothesis
framed, to be held tentatively in "suspended judgment"
until the gathering of further data might raise it to the
dignity of a theory, which theory, if it could stand up
under further rigorous testing, would slowly pass into
that domain of ordered and accepted knowledge we
fondly believe to be Truth. Yet science, he foresaw,
could not go either fast or far were it not for Imagina-
tion's glowing light and warmth. By nature it is rigid
and prosaic and Louis early noted that the free spirits
within its field were men of vision masters of imagina-
tion, men of courage, great adventurers men of one
big, dominant idea.
* * *
In the course of Louis's daily working life, condi-
tions were steadily improving. His engagements in
offices grew longer, he began to prosper. The quality
of work was improving. He had passed the day of his
majority, and was now looking out for himself. His
success in this regard made him proud. He was a
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
man now, and he knew it. He knew he was equipped
to hold his own In the world. He had made a repu-
tation as a worker, and consorted now with a small
aristocratic group of the highest paid draftsmen. They
met at lunch in a certain favored restaurant. They
talked shop; but Louis kept his major thoughts to him-
self. His plan was, in due time to select a middle-aged
architect of standing- and established practice, with the
right sort of clientele; to enter such an office* and
through his speed, alertness and quick ambitious wit,
make himself so indispensable that partnership would
naturally follow. But this was merely a broad plan.
He had no direct selection in mind, but was looking
the field over from the corner of his eye. He was in
no hurry. He believed in the motto: "Be bold but
prudent." He wished events to shape themselves.
Now John Edelmann returned. During the dull
spell he had been away in Iowa trying to play the
game of farming. The game played him instead. He
showed up at lunch one winter day, clad a I'outrance
as a farmer, for his usual theatrical effect Instantly
the room was filled with sound as he lustily proclaimed
the joys of farming in Iowa, twenty miles from no-
where.
He entered the architectural office of a firm named
Burling & Adler. The single, very large square office
room he flooded with language; he literally "ate up"
the work, as he spouted. Naturally he joined the
aristocratic lunch-club, and made things lively. As
usual he monopolized the conversation, unless rudely
interrupted. One need not surmise to whom the sound
of his voice was music from the spheres. He cut
loose on his latest fad single tax and lauded Henry
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
George in superlatives. He drew the long bow, he
colored all things rosy, told Irish stories well in the
broad brogue, and on the whole wa^ a nuisance en-
tertaining and agreeable.
One day, after lunch, John asked Louis to come over
to the office to meet Adler, of whom he had spoken at
times. Louis went along to please John. They en-
tered the large bare room, drawing tables scattered
about ; in the center were two plain desks. Those who
had business came and went unceremoniously. Both
partners were present and busy. Louis thus had time
to size them up. Burling was slouched in a swivel
chair, his long legs covering the desk top ; he wiggled
a chewed cigar as he talked to a caller, and spat into
a square box. He was an incredible, long and bulky
nosed Yankee, perceptibly ageing fast, and of mani-
festly weakening will one of the passing generation
who had done a huge business after the fire but whom
the panic had hit hard.
Further away stood Adler at a draftsman's table,
full front view, well lighted. He was a heavy-set
short-nosed Jew, well bearded, with a magnificent
domed forehead which stopped suddenly at a solid
mass of black hair. He was a picture of sturdy
strength, physical and mental.
Louis was presented first to Burling who reached
out a hand and said "Howdy," in the distrait manner
age so frequently bears toward strangely sprouting in-
comprehensible youth, separated by the gulf of years.
Next, John led Louis to Adler whose broad serious
face, and kindly brown efficient eyes, joined in a rich
smile of open welcome. It did not take many ticks
of the clock to note that Adler' s brain was intensely
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN
active and ambitious* his mind open, broad* receptive 3
and of an unusually high order. He was twelve years
Louis's senior, and in the pink of condition. Louis
was of the exuberant age. Adler thought highly of
John. The talk was brief and lively; Adler said nice
things, questioned Louis as to his stay at the Beaux
Arts. The little talk ended, Louis left ; John remained
in his preserve. This was the last that Louis saw of
Adler for many moons. He was pleased to have met
him and to have reason heartily to respect his vigorous
personality. But he was no part of Louis's program,
hence he soon faded from view, and became almost
completely forgotten. Louis was satisfied with things
as they were going. He was ambitious but cautious;
he was waiting for the right man to show up. He did
not remain too long in any one place, and each time
increased his salary.
Meanwhile his days were for work; his nights for
study, for reflection, and gradual formulation of ideas
subsidiary to the main Idea he was consciously now
working out alone. This form of solitude did not
disturb him. He saw that a Clopet demonstration
meant a matter of years of work and growth. He was
disturbed, however, by the elusive quality of the main
thought he was pursuing, which seemed to recede and
grow larger even as he grew abler to deal with it.
On a recent Christmas his father had given him a
copy of John Draper's work on "The Intellectual
Development of Europe," in two volumes; still a nota-
ble work of the day. This he read and reread with
absorbing interest, passing over its controversial trend,
for the "war between science and religion" as it was
called, was still raging. The broad division of the
[253]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
work Into an "Age of faith," and an "Age of reason"
held his Interest, as he saw set forth the emergence
and the growth of science as the spirit of man sought
and found freedom In the open. This coincided with
his own belief, that man's spirit must be free that his
powers may be free to accomplish In beneficence. He
had discovered, to his annoyance, that in the archi-
tectural art of his day, the spirit of man was not free,
nor were his powers so liberated and so trained that
he might create In beneficence. Not only this, but
that for centuries it had been the case that art
had been belittled in superstitions called traditions
and lived on by virtue of a thin and baseless faith
and John Edelmann's theory of suppressed functions,
recurred to him as broadly set forth, in confirmation,
in Draper's heavy work. Further than this, Louis
felt as a result of reading Draper, that his thoughts
concerning architecture must broaden into a perfected
sympathy with mankind. That Man, past and pres-
ent, must and would become more and more signifi-
cant, would be found to have filled a greater role
than any art, than any science. That man, perhaps
and probably was the only real background that gave
distinction to works appearing in the foreground as
separated things, or perhaps was it the invisible spirit
of mankind that pervaded all things, all works, all
civilizations, and Informed them with the sense of
actuality? 'That his, Louis's true work, was now and
henceforth to lie in the study of what man now thought,
and had thought through the centuries. Thus the task
for him grew larger, and the time required, longer
for he was still in the plastic formative groping stage.
In Darwin he found much food. The Theory of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
Evolution seemed stupendous. Spencer's definition im-
plying a progression from an unorganized simple,
through stages of growth and differentiation to a highly
organized complex, seemed to fit his own case* for
he had begun with a simple unorganized idea of benef-
icent power, and was beginning to see the enormous
complexity growing out of it, and enriching its mean-
ing while insistently demanding room and nurture for
further growth, until it should reach that stage of
clarity through the depths of which the original idea
might again be clearly seen, and its primal power
more fully understood. Thus, Louis, while still in a
haze, felt the courage to go on. He had been reading
the works of men of matured and powerful thought,
'way beyond his years; but what he could grasp he
hung on to. He felt the enthusiasm of one who is
on the way, and who senses that his goal is real.
One day John Edelmann, who meanwhile had en-
tered into partnership with a man named Johnson,
who did school work, sent for Louis to come over that
evening said he had something to say. And this was
his story: That Adler had cut loose from Burling, set
up independently, and, in collaboration with George
A. Carpenter, a resourceful promoter, had put through
the New Central Music Hall, now nearing completion,
and had other work on hand. The time was early in
1879. John urged that this was Louis's opportunity.
That Adler had all the strong points, but was feeble
in design and knew it. That he had talked the matter
over several times with Adler, that Adler was cautious-
ly and eagerly interested, but timid in making advances.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
Louis saw the point at once. So they made a second
call on Adler. There ensued a mutual sizing up at
close range, very friendly indeed. And it was then
and there agreed that Louis was to take charge of
Adler's office, was to have a free hand, and, if all
went well for a period, and they should get along
together, there was something tangible in the back-
ground. Louis took hold and made things hum. Soon
there came into the office three large orders ; a six-story
high grade office building the Borden Block; an up-
to-date theatre, and a large substantial residence. Louis
put through this work with the efficiency of combined
Moses Woolson and Beaux Arts training. It was his
first fine opportunity. He used it. He found in Adler
a most congenial co-worker, open-minded, generous-
minded, quick to perceive, thorough-going, warm in
his enthusiasms, opening to Louis every opportunity to
go ahead on his own responsibility, posting him on mat-
ters of building technique of which he had a complete
grasp, and all in all treating Louis as a prize pet a
treasure trove. Thus they became warm friends.
Adler's witticisms were elephantine. He said one day
to Louis:
"How would you like to take me into partnership?"
Louis laughed.
"All right," said Adler, "draw up a contract for five
years, beginning first of May. First year you one
third, after that, even."
Louis drew up a brief memorandum on a sheet of
office stationery, which Adler read over once and
signed.
On the first day of May, 1880, D. Adler & Co.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
moved into a fine suite of offices on the top floor of
the Borden Block aforesaid. On the irst day of May*
1881, the firm of Adler & Sullivan, Architects, had
its name on the entrance door. All of which signifies,
after long years of ambitious dreaming and unremitting
work, that at the age of 25, Louis EL Sullivan became
a full-fledged architect before the world, with a repu-
tation starting on its way, and In partnership with a
man he had least expected as such ; a man whose repu-
tation was solidly secured in utter honesty, fine intel-
ligence and a fund of that sort of wisdom which at-
tracts and holds. Between the two there existed a
fine confidence and the handling of the work was
divided and adjusted on a temperamental basis each
to have initiative and final authority in his own field,
without a sharp arbitrary line being drawn that might
lead to dissension. What was particularly fine, as we
consider human nature, was Adler's open frank way
of pushing his young partner to the front.
Now Louis felt he had arrived at a point where he
had a foothold, where he could make a beginning in
the open world. Having come into its responsibil-
ities, he would face it boldly. He could now, undisf-
turbed, start on the course of practical experimentation
he long had in mind, which was to make an archi-
tecture that fitted its functions a realistic architecture
based on well defined utilitarian needs that all prac-
tical demands of utility should be paramount as basis of
planning and design; that no architectural dictum, or
tradition, or superstition, or habit, should stand in the
way. He would brush them all aside, regardless of
commentators. For his view, his conviction was this :
That the architectural art to be of contemporary im-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
mediate value must be plastic; all senseless conventional
rigidity must be taken out of it; it must intelligently
serves it must not suppress. In this wise the forms
under his hand would grow naturally out of the needs
and express them frankly, and freshly. This meant
in his courageous mind that he would put to the test
a formula he had evolved, through long contemplation
of living things, namely that form follows function,
which would mean, in practice, that architecture might
again become a living art, if this formula were but
adhered to.
The building business was again under full swing,
and a series of important mercantile structures came
into the office, each one of which he treated experi-
mentally, feeling his way toward a basic process, a
grammar of his own. The immediate problem was
increased daylight, the maximum of daylight. This
led him to use slender piers, tending toward a masonry
and iron combination, the beginnings of a vertical sys-
tem. This method upset all precedent, and led Louis's
contemporaries to regard him as an iconoclast, a revo-
lutionary, which was true enough yet into the work
was slowly infiltrated a corresponding system of artistic
expression, which appeared in these structures as novel
and to some repellent, in its total disregard of accepted
notions. But to all objections Louis turned a deaf ear.
If a thousand proclaimed him wrong, the thousand
could not change his course. As buildings varying in
character came under his hand, he extended to them
his system of form and function, and as he did so his
conviction increased that architectural manipulation, as
a homely art or a fine art must be rendered completely
plastic to the mind and the hand of the designer; that
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21.
o .tj
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8 H
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15
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
materials and forms must yield to the mastery of Ms
imagination and his will ; through this alone could mod-
em conditions be met and faithfully expressed. This
meant the casting aside of all pedantry, of all the arti-
ficial teachings of the schools, of the thoughtless ac-
ceptance of inane traditions, of puerile habits of un-
inquiring minds; that all this mess, devoid of a center
of gravity of thought, and vacant of sympathy and
understanding, must be superseded by a sane philosophy
of a living architecture, good for all time, founded on
the only possible foundation Man and his powers.
Such philosophy Louis had already developed in broad
outline in the course of his many dissatisfactions and
contemplations. He wished now to test it out in the
broad daylight of action, and to perfect its form and
content. This philosophy developed will be set forth
in these closing chapters.
It is not to be supposed that Louis arrived directly
at results as though by magic. Quite the contrary, he
arrived slowly though boldly through the years, by
means of incessant thought, self correction, hard work
and dogged perseverance. For it was his fascinating
task to build up a system of technique, a mastery of
technique. And such a system could scarcely be ex-
pected to reach its fullness of development, short of
maturity, assuming it would reach its fullness then, or
could ever reach it; for the world of expression is limit-
less; the theory so deep in idea, so rich in content, as
to preclude any ending of its beneficent, all-indusire
power. And we may here recall Monsieur Clopet, the
book of descriptive geometry that went into the waste
basket, and the thunderclap admonition : "Our demon-
strations shall be such as to admit of no exception."
[259]
CHAPTER XIV
Face to Face
IF with open mind one reads and observes indus-
triously and long; if in so doing one covers a wide
field and so covering reflects in terms of realism,
he is likely, soon or late, to be brought to a sudden
consciousness that Man is an unknown quantity and
his existence unsuspected.
One will be equally amazed to note that the philoso-
phers, the theologians, of all times turned their backs
upon Man; that, from the depths of introspection,
fixing their gaze in all directions save the real one, they
have uniformly evolved a phantasm, or a series of
phantoms, and have declared such to be man in his
reality and such reality to be depraved. A small
feature, however, was overlooked by them in the neg-
lect to observe that their man, in his depravity, had
created the gods. Their insistent view of man a
further product of their phantasy lay in the dogma,
protean in form, that man is creature.
Meanwhile the real man was always at their elbow,
or moving in groups or multitudes about them, or even
looking them in the eyes and holding converse with
them. But they did not see him ; he was too near, too
commonplace too transparent The gods were far
away and could be understood.
The mighty man of war also turned his back. Yet
the wise man, the warrior and the priest differed in no
valid sense from the multitude enfolding them as in
a genesis ; for man in his state of depravity as creature,
created these also, as his demigods.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN
Thus man, not knowing himself, and none else
knowing him, lived as a mirage, within a world of
mirage which he fancied real. It was real for him;
for such is the habit of man's imagination in playleg
tricks with him in his credulity.
The careful reader and observer again may be as-
tonished to note that to the multitudes imaginations
as such, is unknown that the multitudes are uncon-
scious of this power within themselves. Hence the
reader, the observer, who is not so completely uncon-
scious of himself, becomes aware of the imposing phe-
nomenon that the huge and varied superstructures of
the civilizations of all times have rested for support
on so tenuous a foundation as the fabric of the radiant
dream of the multitudes. That in such dream he will
clearly see Imagination playing Its clandestine role.
The mass imagination of the multitudes Is thus seen
to be the prime impelling and sustaining power In the
origins and growth of the civilizations. Let the mass
imagination withdraw Its consent, withhold Its nourish-
ing acquiescence and faith, then the civilization founded
thereon begins to wither at the top, emaciates, atrophies
and dies. One will further note that such changes
in the mass imagination, In the mass dream, are of
highly varied origins ; but once under way, are beyond
recall.
One also minutely notes that the tricks of Imagina-
tion are universal and beyond numbering In variety,
permeating all phases of the social fabric. Hence man's
vagaries and follies and cruelties are beyond computa-
tion; yet all these betrayals and cajolings and trick-
eries flow from the same single source, namely the indi-
vidual, unconscious that his Imagination is Incessantly
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
at work. Because he is not acquainted with its nature,
and unaware that he is its puppet, his waking hours
are a continuing dream of inverted Self.
It is the mass dream of inverted self, populous with
fears overt and secret, that forms the continuous but
gossamer thread upon which are strung as phantom
beads all civilizations from the remotest past of record
to that of the present day and hour. As we follow
back upon this thread one end of which is delicately
attached to our own inverted secret thoughts, we find
it unchanging from end to end, regardless of environ-
ment; the civilizations it passes through and upholds
on its way are but local manifestations and exhibits.
This intense and continuing preoccupation with in-
verted self makes it clear why man has turned his
back on man, and why man is still unknown to him-
self and unsuspected.
So long as imagination slyly tricked him into self
deprecation, self debasement and the slavery of the
creature conviction, or into the opposite, megalomania,
with its unquenchable thirst for blood, for plunder,
and dominion ; or with siren song beguiled him through
the portals of a closed world of abstraction, he could
not know himself, and the neighbor must remain a
stranger to be feared, despised, or placated.
Indeed, until we come as pioneers, to seek out and
know imagination as such, to view it clearly defined
as an erratic and dangerous power, to be controlled;
until we have observed with realistic clarity its multi-
farious doings from black magic upward to mighty
deeds of hand and head and heart, we shall remain
remote from man's reality, and from the splendor of
his native powers. * * *
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN
One who has made the rough pilgrimage through the
jungled Infirmities of philosophy, of theology* and
through the wilderness of turbid dream-words uttered
by the practical man who deals In cold, hard facts; one
who as pioneer worked his troubled way through the
undergrowth of culture with its acceptances, its pre-
conceptions and precious finalities; one who, led on by
a faith unfaltering, at last arrives at the rendezvous
with Life, here testifies the natural man as sound to the
core and kindly, yet innocent of himself as the seat of
genius, as container of limitless creative powers of
beneficence.
Solely on the strength of this faith was begun the
story of a child-dream of power.
Wlierefore we may now inquire: What are these
powers, and what is the reality we affirm to be man?
He is none other than ourselves divested of our
wrappings. If we in imagination divest ourselves of
our wrappings we may see that he is ourselves. If we
remove our blinders we shall see more clearly. If we
look out between the bars of our self-imprisonment, we
may note him nearby, walking familiarly in the Garden
of Life. Undoubtedly he is ourselves, he is our youth,
he is our spirit, he is that within us which has yearned
for frank utterance how long and still yearns.
It is appalling to think he is ourselves ; to wake from
our dreams and see him. Yet will it not be inspiriting
to find him at our elbow no longer a stranger no
longer to be feared? To know that he is like us all?
To feel the widening sense, as we regard him, that he
stands not only as our explanation, but as our self-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
revelation. True, he Is not at all what we had sup-
posed and what we have affirmed. Yet will he be
grimly recognized as he comes into view to our
amaze, for he is precisely that which we have denied.
We may be shocked at first, retreat, and disclaim;
for denial of the power of life is our habit of old. We
have other habits of old woven into weird grotesqueries.
These are among our wrappings.
Inasmuch as man has been affirmed herein as sound
and kindly, let us examine him. Rest assured we shall
find naught in him that is not truly in ourselves and
was not there in latency at birth.
To begin: He is a Worker and a Wanderer in
varied ways. With his bodily powers he may go here
and there, he may move objects about, he may change
the order of things. Here at the onset we find a por-
tentous power the power to change situations; he can
make new situations. With his ten fingers he can do
wonderful things, make things he needs, make acces-
sory things to extend his muscular powers. Thus he
manipulates he further changes situations. He
changes his own situations, he creates an environment
of his own. One sees here the Adventurer, the Crafts-
man, the Doer, ever growing in power. Thus man's
first collective power within himself is the power to
aspire, to work to wander to go from place to place
near and far to return to his home.
Now comes into view that power we call Curiosity
and coupled with it the power to inquire. Man's
power to inquire we call a mental power, to distinguish
it from his somatic power. It may have had a begin-
[264J
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
ning. It can have no end. The result of inquiry we call
knowledge; its high objective we call science. The
objective of science is more knowledge, more power;
more inquiry, more power.
Now, If to the power to do we added the power to
inquire. Man, the worker, grows visibly more compact
in power, more potent to change situations and to
make new situations for himself. The situation may
be a deep gorge in a wilderness; the new situation
shows a bridge spanning the chasm in one great leap.
Thus it is that man himself, as It were, leaps the chasm,
through the adventurous co-ordination of his power to
inquire and his power to do. And thus the natural
man ever enlarges his range of beneficence. His life
experiences are real. He reverses the dictum "I think:
Therefore I am." It becomes in him, / am: Therefore
I inquire and do!
It is this affirmative "I AM" that is man's reality.
Wherefore warrior, philosopher and priest turned
their backs. This "I am" they could not see, could not
suspect, even as it stood at their elbow regarding them
with ordinary human eyes. For it had been settled
long ago on abundant evidence that man is creature
and depraved.
In the history of mankind there are recorded two
great INVERSIONS. The first, set forth by the Naz-
arene to die effect that love is a greater power and
more real than vengeance. The second, proclaimed
the earth to be a sphere revolving in its course around
the sun. These affirmations were made in the face of
all evidence sacred to the contrary. Who could feel
the earth revolving? Who could fail to see the sun
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
rise and set? What but blood could satisfy, or an
eye for an eye?
Hence man's powers were not seen as himself, nor
himself as his powers. Such recognition would Involve
a reversal and inversion both of sacred lore and com-
mon sense.
In reactive consequence of age-long self-repression
and self-beguilement the world of mankind is now pre-
paring its way for a Third Inversion. The world of
heart and head is becoming dimly sentient that man
in his power is Free spirit Creator. The long dream
of inverted self is nearing its end. Emerging from
the heritage of mystical unconsciousness and phantasy,
the world of mankind is stirring. Man's deeds are
about to become conscious deeds in the open. The
beauty, the passion, the glory of the past shall merge
into a new beauty, a new passion, a new glory as man
approaches man, and recognizing him, rejoices in him
and with him, as born in power.
Never in man's time has there been such sound war-
rant for an attitude of Optimism as in our own, the
very present day. Yet to him who in myopic fear looks
but at the troubled surface, there appears equal war-
rant in the phantasy of Pessimism. What a price man
shall have paid for freedom ! For freedom from the
thrall of his parlous imagination ! For freedom from
the strangle hold of his own phantasmal self!
* * *
He who has lived, alive, during the past fifty years
has viewed an extraordinary drama. He who starting
young, shall live through the coming fifty years will
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
move within the action and scene shifting of a greater
drama.
The gravitation of world thought and dream is shift-
ing. Out of the serial collapses of age-long feudalism
is arising a new view of man. For man's powers in
certitude, approach the ininite. They are bewilder-
ing amazing in diversity. They unfold their intimate
complexity to our view as an equally amazing solidar-
ity, as we hold, steadfast, to the realistic concept of
man as free spirit as creator even as the vast com-
plexity in the outworking of the feudal thought sim-
plifies into a basic concept of self-delusion and self-fear.
Our portrayal is not yet wholly clear. Let us go on.
There lies another power in man. That power is
MORAL : Its name is CHOICE I Within this one word,
Choice, lies the story of man's world. It stands for the
secret poise within him. It reveals as a flashlight all
his imagings, his phantasies, his wilful thoughts, his
deeds, from the greatest to die least, even in this glid-
ing hour we call today. This one wordy Choice, stands
for the sole and single power; it is the name of the
mystery that lies behind the veil of all human appear-
ances. A word that dissolves the enigma of men's
deeds. A word, a light that not only illuminates all his
obvious works, all the inner springs and motives of his
civilizations, but a light whose rays reach within the
sanctuary of the secret thought of each and all, thus
revealing the man of the past and the man of today,
starkly in personal status as a social factor of benefi-
cence or woe. Need we know man's thoughts? View
his works, his deeds; they tell his choice.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Implicit in true freedom of spirit lies a proud and
virile will. Such glorious power of free will to choose,
envisages beneficent social responsibility as manifest
and welcome. Here now stands in full light Man erect
and conscious as a moral power. The will to choose
aright lifts him to the peak of social vision whence he
forecast new and true situations.
The Free Spirit is the spirit of Joy. It delights to
create in beauty. It is unafraid, it knows not fear. It
declares the Earth to be its home, and the fragrance of
Earth to be its inspiration. It is strong, it is mighty
in beneficence. It views its powers with emotions of
adventure. Humility it knows not. It dreams a civ-
ilization like unto itself. It would create such a world
for mankind. It has the strength. It sees the strength
of the fertile earth, the strength of the mountains, the
valleys, the far spreading plains, the vast seas, the
rivers and the rivulets, the great sky as a wondrous
dome, the sun in its rising, its zenith, and its setting,
and the night. It glories in these powers of earth and
sky as in its own. It affirms itself integral with them
all. It sees Life at work everywhere Life, the mys-
terious, the companionable, the ineffable, the Immensest
and gentlest of powers, clothing the earth in a pattern
of radiant sublimity, of tenderness, of fairy delicacy
ceaselessly at work. Thus the free spirit feels itself to
be likewise clothed as with a flowing shoulder-garment,
symbol of power akin to the fluent mystery and fecun-
dity of Life. Thus it moves in the open with vision
clear. Thus is man the wonder-worker bound up in
friendship with the wonder-worker Life.
* * #
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Now the real man begins to shape within our vision.
Consider his primary powers: He, the worker, the
inquirer, the chooser. Add to these the wealth of his
emotions also powers. Think how manifold they are,
how colorful; how with them he may dramatize his
works, his thoughts, his choosings ; how he may beautify
his choice. Think of his power to receive; to receive
through the channels of his senses, to receive through
his mystic power of sympathy which brings understand-
ing to illumine Knowledge. Think of what eyesight
means as a power, the sense of touch, the power to
hear, to listen ; and the power of contemplation. Add
these to his cumulating interblending power; then think
again of his enlarging power to act. Deep down within
him lies that power we call Imagination, the power
instantly or slowly to picture forth, the power to act in
advance of action ; the power that knows no limitations,
no boundaries, that renders vivid both giving and
receiving; the inscrutable dynamic power that energizes
all other powers. Think of man as Imagination 1 Then
think of him as Will! Now enrich the story of his
prior-mentioned powers with the flow of imagination
and the steadiness of will. Think anew of his power to
act; of the quantity and quality of this power.
Now think of the freedom such power brings!
Think of the power we call Vision ; that inner sight
which encompasses the larger meanings of its outer
world, which sees humanity in the broad, which beholds
the powers without itself, which unifies its inner and
its outer world, which sees far beyond where the eye
leaves off seeing, and as sympathetic insight finds its
goal in the real.
Now see Man go forth to work, inspired by his vision
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of the outer world, himself made eager by the passion
to live and worthily to do !
See him go forth in certitude as seer, as prophet, as
evangelist, proclaiming his faith in certitude as
worker, to build a new home.
See him, as poet, as troubadour, as he goes forth,
singing the new song, the refreshing song calling in
carols: Awake! ye dreamers all, lift up your heads,
and be your hearts lifted up that Life In splendor may
come in: Ye who dream in the shadows and are sore
perplexed.
Thus the multitudes vibrate, as they dream at the
sound of a song in their dream.
It is the richness of the soul-life of the multitudes
that inspires and at times appalls the observer. For
the multitudes are compact of human beings a vast
ceaseless flow of individuals, each a dreamer, each la-
tent in power, the mass moving noiselessly through
time slowly changing in its constancy of renewal.
Thus though Man now appears before us in glamor
as a maze of powers, we have not yet made his image
clear in full, and in diversity.
While it is plain, when all wrappings are removed,
we shall find all men to be alike in native possession of
essential powers, we are at once confronted by this
paradox: That all men obviously are different; that
no two are alike. In plain words we find each human
being unique. When we say unique, we mean the only
one. Thus each one is the only one. If we have
mused long upon the immense fecundity and industry of
Life, the paradox vanishes: The only one and the all
[270]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
coalesce. The individual and the mass become one, in
a new phase of power whose stupendous potency of
creative art in civilization stuns the sense of possi-
bility.
Now of ens to our mew the Democratic Vista!
Now see unfold the power of the only one in mul-
tiple, and the One become a vast complex of unique
powers inspired of its free spirit and its power of benef-
icence its works now solidly founded on the full emer-
gence of courage the evanishment of fear!
Alas, the world has never known a sound social
fabric, a fabric sound and clean to the core and kindly.
For it has ever turned its back on Man. Through time
immemorial it has, in overt and secret fear of self,
been impotent to recognize the only one, the unique.
Hence wars and more wars, pestilence, famine and
desolation; the rise and crumbling of immense fabrics.
The feudal concept of self-preservation is poisoned
at the core by the virulent assumption of master and
man, of potentate and slave, of external and internal
suppression of the life urge of the only one of its
faith in human sacrifice as a means of salvation.
The only one is Ego the "I am" the unique the
most precious of man's powers, their source and sum-
mation in diversity. Without Ego, which is Life, man
vanishes. Ego signifies Identity. It is the free spirit.
It is not a tenant, it is the all in all. It is present
everywhere throughout man's wondrous being. It is
what we call the spiritual, a term now becoming inter-
changeable with the physical. It is the sign and sym-
bol of man's immense Integrity the "I am that I
[271]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
am. 5 ' To it the Earth, the world of humanity, the
multitudes, the universe become an Egocosm.
Thus to the eye of the earnest watcher, the dual
man of legend and of present mythical belief fades,
incorporeal as a ghost. Departing it leads the ghostly
feudal scapegoat with its burden of sin.
It is man's manifest integrity that reveals him valid
sound to the core. It is this spiritual integrity that
defines him human, that points true to his high moral
power the power of valid choice.
This new vision of man is the true vision of man.
Toward this new truth, this inversion, the world of
mankind slowly turning, vaguely conscious, strives to
articulate that which is as yet too deep, too remote,
too new for its words. But it is not too deep, too
remote or too new for its aspirations.
Thus in portrayal stands Man the Reality: Container
of self-powers: A moving center of radiant energy:
Awaiting his time to create anew in his proper image.
Are then the multitudes infertile? Is genius rare?
Has our traditional education and culture left us whol-
ly blind? Have we forgotten the children Egos at
our elbow? The springtide of genius there ! Shall we
continue to destroy? What is our Choice? How have
we exercised it? How shall we exercise it? Is our
moral power asleep? Are we without faith in our
own?
Whence, then, this story of a child's dream of power?
What shall our dream be ?
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
OUT dream shall be of a civilization founded upon
ideas thrillingly sane, a civilization, a social fabric
squarely resting on man's quality of virtue as a human
being; created by man, the real, in the image of his
fruitful powers of beneficence; created in the likeness
of his aspirant emotions, in response to the power and
glory of his true imagination, the power of his intelli-
gence, his ability to inquire, to do, to make new situa-
tions befitting his needs. A civilization that shall re-
flect man sound to the core and kindly in the exercise
of his will to choose aright. A civilization that shall
be the living voice, the spring song, the saga of the
power of his Ego to banish fear and fate, and in the
courage of adventure and of mastership to shape his
destiny.
Such dream is the vigorous daylight dream of man's
abounding power, that he may establish in beauty and
in joy, on the earth, a dwelling place devoid of fear.
That in the so doing he shall establish an anchorage
within his universe, in courage, in the mighty spirit of
adventure, of masterful craftsmanship, as he rises to
the heights of the new art of all arts, the art of up-
building for the race a new, a stable home.
Plainly the outworking of so sublime a conception
as that of rearing the fabric of a worthwhile civiliza-
tion upon the basic truth of man's reality as a sure
foundation, implies the inversion of a host of fixed
ideas "consecrated by the wisdom of the ages." The
time has come to place the wisdom of the ages in the
balance of inquiry ; to ascertain, when weighed, wherein
it may be found wanting in the human sense. One sure
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
test is sanity, for to be unkind is to be dangerously un-
balanced.
It is also time to test out the folly of the ages, the
multifarious corruption involved in abstract and con-
crete irresponsibility, the abuse of power, the abuse of
die useful, the successive collapses and ruin, the ever
present sense of instability, the all-pervading fear, the
lack of anchorage.
So testing, we shall find that alike the wisdom and
folly of the ages rest in utter insecurity upon a false
concept of the nature of man. For both "wisdom"
and folly have committed and still commit the double
folly of turning away from man in contempt.
Glancing at our modern civilization we find on the
surface crust essentially the same idea at work that
has prevailed throughout the past. Yet if we search
beneath the surface we discern a new power of the
multitudes everywhere at work. It is the power of a
changing dream, of a changing choice; of Life urging
upward to the open the free spirit of man so long self-
suppressed under the dead weight of the "consecrated
wisdom of the ages" and its follies.
* * *
^ The fabricating of a virile, a proud and kindly
civilization, rich in its faith in man, is surely to consti-
tute the absorbing interest of the coming generations.
It will begin to take on its functional form out of the
resolve of choice, and the liberation of those instincts
within us which are akin to the dreams of childhood,
and which, continuing on through the children and the
children of the children, shall be a guide evermore.
For who shall say the child is not the unsullied well-
spring of power!
[274]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
The chief business now is to pave the way for the
child, that it may grow wholesome, proud and stalwart
in its native powers.
So doing we shall uncover to our view the amazing
world of instinct in the child whence arises genius with
its swift grasp of the real.
The great creative art of upbuilding a chosen and
stable civilization with its unique culture, implies
orderly concentration and organization of man's powers
toward this sole end, consciously applied in each and
every one of his socially constructive activities in the
clear light of his understanding that the actualities of
good and evil are resident in man's choice and not
elsewhere. Thus will arise a new Morale in its might !
And let it be well understood that such creative
energy cannot arise from a welter of pallid abstractions
as a soil, nor can it thrive within the tyranny of any
cut and dried system of economics or politics. It must
and will arise out of the heart, to be nurtured in common
honesty by the intelligence, and by that sense of artistry
which does not interfere with the growth of a living
thing but encourages it to seek and find its own befitting
form. Thus the living idea of man, the free spirit,
master of his powers, shall find its form-image in a
civilization which shall set forth the highest craftsman-
ship, the artistry of living joyously in stable equilibrium.
Thus widens the Democratic Fistal
The historic Feudal thought, sought and found its
form in a series of civilizations resting upon a denial
of man by the multitudes themselves, who sought
cohesion in mutual fear of life, and out of the culture
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of fear they created their tyrants. Their unsafe an-
chorage lay in the idea of force, in its convincing out-
ward show of domination, splendor and glory.
In terror of the unknown, in appeal for mediation,
the multitudes passed their immense unconscious power
to those they raised aloft gods or men, and as value
received they created and accepted the status of servi-
tude. Those thus raised aloft became enormously
parasitic, capping- and sapping the strength of the mul-
titudes. As the latter grew in self-sacrifice and poverty,
they became luxurious in that they gave their all in
the name of glory that their children, the great, might
flourish. They staggered beneath the weight of the
mighty they upheld aloft and who came to know them
not other than as beasts to toil or fight. Thus has
the feudal super-power ever undermined its own foun-
dation, ever, in recurring cycle, collapsing and renewing
renewing and collapsing. Times, places, names, local
colors, mechanisms, countenances, change. The idea,
the thought, the fear, persists through the ages.
For us the chief impress of the self-revealing story
of mankind lies in the perception that all sanctioning
power comes from below. From the vast human
plenum we have called the multitudes, it arises gently,
massively, step by step, stage by stage, height upon
height; all of which but signifies the peoples' dreams of
glory taking shape vicariously in their times and places.
The spectacular and imposing groups and summits of
the feudal superstructure have no other base, no other
sanction. Like towering cumulus clouds they float upon
thin air.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
As there are truths that lie within truths, so are
there dreams that lie within dreams. The most ancient
of dreams lies indeed within the feudal dream. This
dream is none other than the dream of the reality of
man.
As truths one by one appear above the surface, ever
more powerful, farther reaching as they come from
greater depths of life, so the great deep dream of man's
free spirit has been moving upward through the feudal
dream. The flair of his powers is now sensing in the
thought of the man of today.
With the great inversion of the Earth and the Sun,
brought definitely about by so small an object as a
telescope which man in his curiosity invented created
to extend his power of eyesight and the daring
thought the dream it stood for; with this shock of
inversion definitely began the greatest of man's adven-
tures upon his Earth.
We in present sense and in retrospect call it the
MODERN.
The feudal flow poured on, the germ of the modern
growing in embryo apace and inexterminable. Inquiry
upon inquiry followed; invention upon invention, dis-
covery upon discovery; and wars and more wars,
tremors, and the downfall of mighty superstitions;
cunning and betrayal raged in abuses of delegated
power, institutions rocked, dogma came forth in the
open, knife and torch in hand the feudal flow went on
in stealth, the modern power grew and ramified; there
was calfti and there was turbulence ; onward flowed the
feudal stream with its new arrangements, its new col-
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
lapses, Its new horrors, Its new deaths, its ^ new resur-
rections, as the power of man's self-determination, the
assertion of his free spirit, none too articulate as yet,
none too sane, clarified in growing strength, its inven-
tions seized upon, its uses turned to abuse, yet goading
the feudal power into titanic writhings, fears and
dreads, desperations, ruses and stratagems, wars and
more wars the dread phantom of awakening multi-
tudes the resolve to foster hate.
Yet man the worker, the inquirer, ever pushed on-
ward in hope. Came the printing press, the mariner's
compass, the power of steam, railroads, great ships, the
discovery and development of new vast hidden riches
of earth, the harnessing of the mystical power of elec-
tricity, the land telegraph, the ocean cable, the tele-
phone, the growth of libraries, the daily papers, the
public schools, the technical schools, the automobile,
vast systems of transportation of all kinds, the radio,
the aeroplane, the mastery of the air, the mastery of
the seas, the mastery of the earth, the increasing mas-
tery of ideas. The immense growth in power of con-
structive imagination and of the will to do. And all
to what end? What may tomorrow and tomorrow
bring forth out of blood-stained yesterday and the flow-
ing yesterdays since History's dawn?
The great drama we herein have called the Modern,
unique in the story of mankind, beginning with a small
telescope, advancing to the radio, to the measurement
of the stars, to the searching out of the utterly minute
in Life's infinitude of variety, to enormous strides in
developments of utility, we may say is in character so
eye-opening as to constitute the first act in the drama
of the universal education of mankind through a series
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
of imposing object lessons, changing situations, shift-
ing scenes. Also, in that act begins the lifting of veils
revealing object lessons coming closer up, and closer,
from beneath the surface of feudal repression, and of
the savage inertia of superstitions born of the habit
of fear, and of unawareness, of dread of the reality of
man; object lessons ever object lessons crowding
upon us.
Among the most startling of these object lessons we
are coming to apperceive the significance of choice its
dire or its joyous man-made results. Slowly in conse-
quence comes forth from the hitherto invisible, and
shapes before us, a presence no gesture can debar, no
noise of words deter, the sublime, the warning, the
prophetic image of man as Moral Power.
Thus clarifies in the dawning light of our modern
day the fuller meaning, the effulgence of the Demo-
cratic Vista; the super-power of Democratic Man.
Moral Power, in the intensity of its choice, in the
full exercise of its purpose to create a world of sanity,
of beauty and of joy, alone can cause to dissolve and
fade into thin air as though it had never been, the
baleful feudal superstition of dominion and blood-
sacrifice.
This moral power residing in the multitudes and
awakening to voice, is what Democracy means.
To envisage Democracy as a mechanical, political
system merely, to place faith in it as such, or in any
abstraction, is to foster an hallucination, to join in the
Dance of Death; to confuse the hand of Esau with the
voice of Jacob. The lifting of the eyelids of the World
is what Democracy means.
* * *
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
The implications of the Democratic Idea branch Into
endless ramification of science, of art, of all industrial
and social activities of human well-being, through
which shall flow the wholesome sap of its urge of self-
preservation through beneficence, drawn up from roots
running ever deeper and spreading ever finer within
the rich soil of human kindness and intelligence. For
kindness is the sanest of powers, and by its fruits shall
Democracy be known. It is of the antitheses that
Feudalism has prepared the way for kindness. Kind-
ness, seemingly so weak, is in fact the name of a great
adventure which mankind thus far has lacked the cour-
age, the intelligence, the grit to undertake. Its manly,
its heroic aspect has been unknown, by reasons of
inverted notions of reality. This form of myopia is
of the feudal view.
In place of myopic ideas, democratic modern thought
uses clear vision. Clear vision leads to straight think-
ing, sound thinking to sane action, sane action to benefi-
cent results that shall endure.
In this sense of sound thinking and dean action all
sciences, all arts, all activities, become sentimentally,
emotionally, dramatically and constructively imbued
with the stirring, the self-propelling impulse of the
democratic idea. Therefore they will all hold in com-
mon a thought whose inexhaustible power will shape a
common end which shall signify in the solidity of its
logic fruitful peace and joy on earth, as equally the
romance of good-will toward men.
Now that we have a clarifying idea of the nature
of man and his powers; now that we behold in him
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
that which lies deepest and surest In ourselves, we may
suggest the nature of a democratic education.
These things it shall do:
It shall regard the child body, the child mind, the
child heart, as a trust.
It shall watch for the first symptom of surviving
feudal fear and dissolve it with gentle ridicule while it
teaches prudence and the obvious consequences of acts.
No child that can toddle bravely is too young to know
what choice means, when presented objectively and
humanly. Thus it shall teach the nature of choice at
the beginning.
It shall allow the child to dream, to give vent to its
wondrous imagination, its deep creative instinct, its
romance.
It shall recognize that every child is the seat of
genius; for genius is the highest form of play with
Life's forces.
It shall allow the precious being to grow in its whole-
some atmosphere of activities, giving only that cultiva-
tion which a careful gardener gives the children shall
be the garden.
It shall utilize the fact that the child mind, in its
own way, can grasp an understanding of things and
ideas, supposed now in our pride of feudal thought to
be beyond its reach.
It shall recognize that the child, undisturbed, feels
In its own way the sense of power within it, and about
it. That by intuition the child is mystic close to
nature's heart, close to the strength of Earth.
The child thus warded will be a wholesome, happy
child. It will forecast the pathway to its maturity.
As from tender age the child grows into robust
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
demonstrative vigor, and ebullition of wanton spirits,
the technic of warding will pass by degrees into the
technic of training or discipline bodily, mentally, emo-
tionally; the imagination, the intellect, organized to
work together; the process of co-ordination stressed.
The idea of the child's natural powers will be sug-
gested a little at a time and shown objectively.
The child by this time is passing out of its reveries ;
life is glowing, very real, very tangible. So shall its
awakening powers be trained in the glowing real, the
tangible, the three R's, made glowing and real to it as
a part of its world. It is here the difference between
welcome work and a task comes into play; the differ-
ence between a manikin and a teacher.
Now arrives the stage of pre-adolescence unro-
mantic urge of hastening vegetative growth; the period
of the literal, the bovine, disturbed at times by pro-
phetic reverie. This is the time for literal instruction.
Now comes the stage of adolescence, when the whole
being tends to deliquesce into instability, vague ideal-
isms, emotions hitherto unknown or despised, bashful-
ness, false pride, false courage, introspection, impulsive-
ness, inhibitions, awkward consciousness of self, yet
with an eye clairvoyant to that beauty which it seeks,
a stirring in the soul of glory, of adventure, of romance.
The plastic age of impressionability, of enthusiasms.
Also the Danger Age; the age of extreme susceptibility
under cover of indifference in self-protection : The age
when thoughts and musings are most secret. The
age that makes or breaks.
This is the crisis where democratic education, recog-
nizing it as such, shall attain to its first main objective
in fixing sound character, in alert intensive training of
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the native power to feel straight, to think straight, to
act straight, to encourage pride in well-doing, to make
so clear the moral nature of choice that the individual
may visualize the responsibilities involved in the con-
sequences of choice. To train the imagination in con-
structive foresight, in the feeling for real things, in the
uses of sentiment, of emotion, in the physical and the
spiritual joy of living; to stabilize the gregarious into
the social sense ; to set forth the dignity of the ego and
all egos.
This is the time to put on the heavy work, to utilize
to the full this suddenly evolving power, the recrudes-
cent power of instinct, to direct this power into worth-
while channels, to prepare adolescents to become worth-
while adults, free in spirit, clean in pride, with footing
on the solid earth, with social vision clear and true.
The later technical trainings shall be imbued of the
same spirit. The varied kinds shall all be set forth as
Specialized yet Unified social activities. Science shall
be thus understood and utilized, the fine arts shall be
thus understood and utilized, the industrial arts, the
arts of applied science, and most urgently the science
and the art of education, all shall thus be understood
and utilized as social functions, ministering to the all-
inclusive art of creating put of the cruel feudal chaos
of cross purposes, a civilization, in equilibrium, for free-
men conscious of their powers, and with these powers
under moral control.
Such civilization shall endure, and even grow in cul-
ture, for it shall have a valid moral foundation, under-
standable to all. It will possess a vigor hitherto
undreamed of, a versatility, a virtuosity, a plasticity as
yet unknown, for all work will be done with a living
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purpose, and the powers of mankind shall be utilized
to the full, hence there shall be no waste.
No dream, no aspiration, no prophecy can be saner.
Man shall find his anchorage in self-recognition.
Thus broadens and deepens to our comprehension
the power and the glory of the Democratic Vista!
[284]
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CHAPTER XV
Retrospect
WHEN Louis Sullivan was in his eighteenth year,
his mind a whorl of ambitious ideas, and at a
time somewhat prior to his departure for Paris,
he had occasion one day to pass in the neighborhood of
Prairie Avenue and Twenty-first Street, Chicago.
There, on the southwest corner of the intersection, his
eye was attracted by a residence, nearing completion,
which seemed far better than the average run of such
structures inasmuch as it exhibited a certain allure or
style indicating personality. It was the best-designed
residence he had seen in Chicago. He crossed over to
examine it in detail, and in passing around the corner
of the building to analyze the other frontage he noticed
a fine looking young man, perhaps ten years his senior,
standing in the roadway absorbed in contemplation of
the growing work. Louis, without ceremony, intro-
duced himself, and the young man said: "Yes; it seems
to me I've heard of you. Glad to meet you. My
name's Burnham: Daniel H. Burnham; my partner,
John Root, is a wonder, a great artist; I want you to
meet him some day; you'll like him. The firm is Burn-
ham and Root. We only started a few years ago. So
far we've done mostly residences; we're doing this one
for my prospective father-in-law, John Sherman; you
know him he's a big stockyards man it's the most
expensive one yet. But I'm not going to stay satisfied
with houses ; my idea is to work up a big business, to
handle big things, deal with big business men, and to
build up a big organization, for you can't handle big
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
things unless you have an organization." And so the
chat went on for an hour. They exchanged enthu-
siasms, prophecies, ambitions, and even confidences.
Louis found Burnham a sentimentalist, a dreamer, a
man of fixed determination and strong will no doubt
about that of large, wholesome, effective presence, a
shade pompous, a mystic a Swedenborgian a man
who readily opened his heart if one were sympathetic.
Soon they were calling each other Louis and Dan, for
Dan said he did not feel at ease when formal ; he liked
to be man to man. He liked men of heart as well as
brains. That there was so much loveliness in nature;
so much hidden beauty in the human soul, so much of
joy and uplifting in the arts that he who shut himself
away from these influences and immured himself in
sordid things forfeited the better half of life. It was
too high a price to pay, he said. He averred that
romance need not die out; that there must still be joy
to the soul in doing big things in a big personal way,
devoid of the sordid. In parting he said spaciously:
"Come around and see John. You two men must have
much in common; he'll welcome you as a kindred spirit.
I'm proud of John as one man can be of another."
Years later, probably in the early eighties, Louis
met John and grew to know him well. At once he
was attracted by Root's magnetic personality. He,
Root, was not of Burnham's type, but red-headed, large
bullet-headed, close-cropped, effervescent, witty, small-
nosed, alert, debonair, a mind that sparkled, a keen
sense of humor which Burnham lacked solidly put
together, bull-necked, freckled, arms of iron, light
blue sensuous eyes; a facile draftsman, quick to grasp
ideas, and quicker to appropriate them; an excellent
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
musician; well read on almost any subject; speaking
English with easy exactitude of habit, ready and fluent
on his feet, a man of quick-witted all-round culture
which he carried easily and jauntily; and vain to the
limit of the skies. This vanity, however, he tactfully
took pains should not be too obtrusive. He was a
man of the world, of the flesh, and considerably of
the devil. His temperament was that of the well
groomed free-lance, never taking anything too seriously,
wherein he differed from his ponderous partner, much
as dragon fly and mastiff. Nor had he one tenth of his
partner's settled will, nor of said partner's capacity to
go through hell to reach an end. John Root's imme-
diate ambition was to shine ; to be the center of admira-
tion, pitifully susceptible to flattery; hence, a cluster
of expensive sycophants and hangers on, in whose laps
it was his pleasure to place his feet by way of reminder,
as he allowed himself to be called "John" by the little
ones. Nevertheless, beneath all this superficial non-
sense Louis saw the man of power, recognized him,
had faith in him and took joy in him as a prospective
and real stimulant in rivalry, as a mind with which it
would be well worth while to clash wits in the promo-
tion of an essentially common cause. Louis, true to his
form of appropriating to himself and considering as
a part of himself the things and personalities he valued
as he had done with Moses Woolson, Michael
Angelo, Richard Wagner, et alii immediately an-
nexed John Root to his collection of assets ; or, if one
so wills to put it to his menagerie of personalities
great and small.
Architecturally, John Root's mania was to be the
first to do this or that or the other. He grasped at
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
novelties like a child with new toys. He thought them
efficacious and lovely then one by one he threw them
away. And the while, Burnham's megalomania con-
cerning the largest, the tallest, the most costly and
sensational, moved on in its sure orbit, as he painfully
learned to use the jargon of big business. He was
elephantine, tactless, and blurting. He got many a
humiliating knock on the nose in his quest of the big,
but he faltered not his purpose was fixed. Himself
not especially susceptible to flattery except in a senti-
mental way, he soon learned its efficacy when plastered
thick on big business men. Louis saw it done repeat-
edly, and at first was amazed at Burnham's effrontery,
only to be more amazingly amazed at the drooling of
the recipient. The method was crude but it worked.
Thus, there came into prominence in the architec-
tural world of Chicago two firms, Burnham & Root,
and Adler & Sullivan. In each firm was a man with
a fixed irrevocable purpose in life, for the sake of which
he would bend or sacrifice all else. Daniel Burnham
was obsessed by the feudal idea of power. Louis Sul-
livan was equally obsessed by the beneficent idea of
Democratic power. Daniel chose the easier way, Louis
the harder. Each brooded incessantly. John Root
was so self-indulgent that there was risk he might never
draw upon his underlying power; Adler was essentially
a technician, an engineer, a conscientious administrator,
a large progressive judicial and judicious mind securing
alike the confidence of conservative and radical, plenty
of courage but lacking the dream-quality of Burnham;
and such he must remain the sturdy wheel-horse of
a tandem team of which Louis did the prancing. Un-
questionably, Adler lacked sufficient imagination; so
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
in a way did John Root that is to say, the imagination
of the dreamer. In the dream-imagination lay Bum-
ham's strength and Louis's passion.
So matters stood in the early eighties and onward.
The practice of both firms grew steadily.
Meanwhile, throughout all the activities of profes-
sional life, Louis never ceased in steady contemplation
of the nature of man and his powers, of the mystery of
that great life which enfolds and permeates us all; the
marvel of nature's processes which the scientists call
laws; and the imperturbable enigma of good and evil.
He was too young to grasp the truth that the fair-
appearing civilization within which he lived was but a
huge invisible man-trap, man-made. Of politics he
knew nothing and suspected nothing, all seemed fair
on the surface. Of man's betrayal by man on a colos-
sal scale he knew nothing and suspected nothing. He
had heard of the State and had read something about
the State, but had not a glimmering of the meaning of
the State. He had dutifully read some books on polit-
ical economy because he thought he had to, and had
accepted their statements as fact He had also heard
vaguely something about finance and what a mystery it
was. In other words, Louis was absurdly, grotesquely
credulous. How could it be otherwise with him ? He
believed that most people were honest and intelligent.
How could he suspect the eminent? So Louis saw the
real world upside down. He was grossly ignorant.
He prospered, so the world was fair. Later he sent
forth his soul into the world and by and by his soul
returned to him with an appalling message.
For long Louis had lived in a fool's paradise; it
was well he so lived in illusion. For had the hideous
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
truth come to him of a sudden, it would have "dashed
him to pieces like a potter's vessel." So he kept on
with his innocent studies, becoming more and more
enamoured of the sciences, particularly those dealing
with forms of life and the aspects of life's urging,
called functions. And amid the immense number and
variety of living forms, he noted that invariably the
form expressed the function, as, for instance, the oak
tree expressed the function oak, the pine tree the func-
tion pine, and so on through the amazing series. And,
inquiring more deeply, he discovered that in truth it
was not simply a matter of form expressing function,
but the vital idea was this : That the function created
or organized its form. Discernment of this idea threw
a vast light upon all things within the universe, and
condensed with astounding impressiveness upon man-
kind, upon all civilizations, all institutions, every form
and aspect of society, every mass-thought and mass-
result, every individual thought and individual -result.
Hence, Louis began to regard all functions in nature as
powers, manifestations of the all-power of Life, and
thus man's power came into direct relationship with
all other powers. The application of the idea to the
Architectural art was manifest enough, namely, that
the function of a building must predetermine and organ-
ize its form. But it was the application to man's
thought and deeds; to his inherent powers and the re-
sults of the application of these powers, mental, moral,
physical, that thrilled Louis to the depths as he realized
that, as one stumbling upon a treasure, he has found
that of which he had dreamed in Paris, and had prom-
ised himself to discover, a universal law admitting
of no exception in any phase or application whatsoever.
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
Thus Louis believed he had found the open sesame,
and that his industry would do the rest. But this inno-
cent and credulous young person was not yet cynical
in inquiry; he was too much of an enthusiastic boy to
suspect that within the social organism were mask-
forms, counterfeit forms, forms with protective colora-
tion, forms invisible except to those in the know.
Surely, he was an innocent with his heart wrapped up
in the arts, in the philosophies, in the religions, in the
beatitudes of nature's loveliness, in his search for the
reality of man, in his profound faith in the beneficence
of power. So he lived in his world, which, to be sure,
was a very active world indeed. And yet, withal, he
had a marked ability to interpret the physiognomy of
things, to read character, to enter into personalities.
He Knew a dishonest man as readily as he knew a
snake if he came in contact with him. Per contra he
knew an honest man and there were many. What
delighted him was to observe the ins and outs of per-
sonality wherein he was especially sensitive and keen
to the slightest rhythms.
One day Louis dropped in to see John Root in his
office in the "Montauk," a large office building recently
completed by his firm. John was in his private room
at work designing an interesting detail of some build-
ing. He drew with a rather heavy, rapid stroke, and
chatted as he worked. Burnham came in. "John,"
he said, "you ought to delegate that sort of thing. The
only way to handle a big business is to delegate, dele-
gate, delegate" John sneered. Dan went out, in
something of a huff. Louis s^w the friction of ideas
between the artist and the merchant; a significant mis-
mating which made him ponder. And he watched
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
through the years the growing of Daniel Hudson Burn-
ham into a colossal merchandiser. Louis at that time
had not grasped the significance of choice, much less its
social and anti-social phases, the ramification of its
effects as a cause, its complete explanation of things
that seemed veiled. Dan Burnham had chosen.
John Root also had chosen, and he had a temper.
He knew at least the value of social prestige. To be
the recognized great artist, the center of acclaim and
reclame was his goal. But John did not live to carry-
out his program to the full, though he had a full grown
moral courage that in Burnham was rudimentary. He
departed this vale of tears, and this best of all possible
worlds, 15 January, 1891, at the age of 41, leaving in
Louis's heart and mind a deep sense of vacancy and
loss. For John Root had it in him to be great, as
Burnham had it in him to be big. John Wellborn Root
in passing left a void in his wake.
For several years there had been talk to the effect
that Chicago needed a grand opera house; but the
several schemes advanced were too aristocratic and
exclusive to meet with general approval. In 1885
there appeared the man of the hour, Ferdinand W.
Peck, who declared himself a citizen, with firm belief
in democracy whatever he meant by that; seemingly
he meant the "peepul." At any rate, he wished to give
birth to a great hall within which the multitude might
gather for all sorts of purposes including grand opera ;
and there were to be a few boxes for the haut monde.
He had a disturbing fear, however, concerning acous-
tics, for he understood success in that regard was more
or less of a gamble. So he sought out Dankmar Adler
and confided.
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The only man living, at the time, who had had
the intelligence to discern that the matter of acoustics
is not a science but an art as in fact all science is
sterile until it rises to the level of art was Dankmar
Adler, Louis's partner. His scheme was simplicity it-
self. With his usual generosity he taught this very
simple art to his partner, and together they had built
a number of successful theatres. Hence Peck, the
dreamer for the populace, sought Adler, the man of
common sense. Between them they concocted a
scheme, a daring experiment, which was this: To
install in the old Exposition Building on the lake front,
a vast temporary audience room, with a huge scenic
stage, and to give therein a two-weeks season of grand
opera, engaging artists of world fame.
This was done. The effect was thrilling. An audi-
ence of 6,200 persons saw and heard; saw in clear line
of vision; heard, even to the faintest pianissimo. No
reverberation, no echo, the clear untarnished tone, of
voice and instrument, reached all. The inference was
obvious : a great permanent hall housed within a monu-
mental structure must follow. This feeling marked the
spirit of the Chicago of those days.
Ferdinand W. Peck, or Ferd. Peck as he was gen-
erally known now "Commodore" at 75, took, on
his slim shoulders, the burden of an immense under-
taking and "saw it through." To him, therefore,
all praise due a bold pioneer; an emotionally exalted
advocate of that which he, a rich man, believed in
his soul to be democracy. The theatre seating 4,250
he called the Auditorium, and the entire structure com-
prising theatre, hotel, office building, and tower he
named the Auditorium Building nobody knows just
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why. Anyway it sounded better than "Grand Opera
House."
For four long years Dankmar Adler and his part*
ner labored on this enormous, unprecedented work.
Adler was Peck's man. As to Louis he was rather
dubious, but gradually came around conceding a
superior aesthetic judgment which for him was in the
nature of a miracle. Besides, Louis was young, only
thirty when the task began, his partner forty-two, and
Peck about forty; Burnham forty Root thirty-six.
Burnham was not pleased; nor was John Root pre-
cisely entranced* It is said the ancient Egyptians held
a belief that man's shadow is a fifth or residual element
of his soul. About this time the earlier days Burn-
ham's shadow seemed to precede or follow him on all
fours with its nose to the ground, as if perturbed. Mr.
Peck had an able board of directors; among them was
a man named Hale, William E. Hale. Mr. Hale's
shadow seemed also perturbed and quadruped. Then
came our old friend of u Tech" and Columbia, Prof.
William R. Ware, whose shadow seemed serene. Then
all shadows disappeared from the scene.
The unremitting strain of this work doubtless short-
ened Adler's life. He did not collapse at the end as
Louis did; rather the effect was deadly and constitu-
tional. Louis's case was one of utter % weariness. He
went to central California. The climate irritated him.
Then he moved to Southern California the climate
irritated him. This was during January and Febru-
ary, 1890. He had friends in San Diego and stayed
there awhile. There he learned, at four o'clock one
morning, what a "slight" earthquake shock is like.
Then on to New Orleans. That filthy town, as it then
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
was, disillusioned him. Here he met Chicago friends.
They persuaded him to go with them to Ocean Springs,
Mississippi, eighty odd miles to the eastward on the
eastern shore of Biloxi Bay. He was delighted and
soothed by the novel journey through cypress swamp,
wide placid marsh with the sails of ships mysteriously
moving through the green, and the piney woods; Bay
St. Louis, so brilliant; more piney woods, then Biloxi
Bay's wide crossing; then, as dusk neared, the little
frame depot with its motley platform crowd ; the crip-
pled hacks, the drive to the old hotel, pigs and cows
wandering familiarly in the streets, all passing into
silhouette, for night comes fast. Ah, what delight,
what luxury of peace within the velvety caressing air,
the odor of the waters and the pines.
With daylight there revealed itself an undulating
village all in bloom in softest sunshine, the gentle
sparkle of the waters of a bay land-locked by Deer
Island; a village sleeping* as it had slept for generations
with untroubled surface; a people soft-voiced, uncon-
cerned, easy going, indolent; the general store, the post
office, the barber shop, the meat market, on Main
Street, sheltered by ancient live oaks; the saloon near
the depot, the one-man jail in the middle of the street
back of the depot; shell roads in the village, wagon
trails leading away into the hummock land; no "enter-
prise," no "progress," no booming for a "Greater
Ocean Springs," no factories, no anxious faces, no glare
of the dollar hunter, no land agents, no hustlers, no
drummers, no white-staked lonely subdivisions. Peace,
peace, and the joy of comrades, the lovely nights of
sea breeze, black pool of the sky oversprinkled with
stars brilliant and uncountable.
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Here in this haven, this peaceful quiescence, Louis's
nerves, long taut with insomnia, yielded and renewed
their life. In two weeks he was well and sound. By
day interesting rambles, little journeys of discovery in
nook and byway, a growing desire to buy, which speed-
ily floated as gossip concerning these Chicago million-
aires, to the sharp ears of a Michigan Yankee who had
settled there a while before, some miles to the eastward.
He called. He said his name was Newcomb Clark,
that he had been Speaker of the House in his State,
and a volunteer Colonel in the Civil War.
"I came here for my health. I've cleared part of
my land and built a house, but my wife is lonely, so
far from town; we need neighbors more than trees.
I've a fine piece of woodland. It's pretty wild, now.
But if you clear it of pines and undergrowth the live
oaks will show. You can set your houses close to the
road that runs along the shore. I'll make the price
right. Would you folks like to see it?"
Us folks certainly would like to see it right away.
The trail wound up and down, crossed a bayou, then
followed the shore, ascended a low bluff, following its
edge, passing by some second growth at the left which
gradually changed character, increased in height and
density. Louis was becoming excited. At last the
Colonel stopped, rose in his light wagon, and with a
broad gesture as though addressing the House, he
said: "This is my land,"
Louis clasped his hand to his heart in an ecstasy of
pain. What he saw was not merely woodland, but a
stately forest, of amazing beauty, utterly wild. Non-
commercial, it had remained for years untouched by
the hand of man. Louis, breathless, worked his way as
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
best he could through the dense undergrowth. He
nearly lost his wits at what he discovered; immense
rugged short-leaved pines, sheer eighty feet to their stiff
gnarled crowns, graceful swamp pines, very tall, deli-
cately plumed ; slender vertical Loblolly pines in dense
masses; patriarchal sweet gums and black gums with
their younger broods; maples, hickories, myrtles; in
the undergrowth, dogwoods, Halesias, sloe plums, buck-
eyes and azaleas, all in a riot of bloom ; a giant mag-
nolia grandiflora near the front all grouped and
arranged as though by the hand of an unseen poet.
Louis saw the strategy. He knew what he could do.
He planned for two shacks or bungalows, 300 feet
apart, with stables far back; also a system of develop-
ment requiring years for fulfillment.
The Colonel made the price right, not over ten times
what he paid. The deed ran thus: Beginning at a
cross on a hickory tree at the beach, thence north, so
many chains (a quarter mile), then east, etc., and
south to the beach, with riparian rights, etc. The
building work was let to a local carpenter. On 12
March, 1890, the comrades light-heartedly looking to-
ward the future, made their way toward Chicago.
This reverie is written in memoriam. After eighteen
years of tender care, the paradise, the poem of spring,
Louis's other self, was wrecked by a wayward West
Indian hurricane.
'Twas here Louis did his finest, purest thinking.
'Twas here he saw the flow of life, that all life became
a flowing for him, and so the thoughts the works of
man. 'Twas here he saw the witchery of nature's fleet-
ing moods those dramas gauged in seconds. 'Twas
here he gazed into the depths of that flowing, as the
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mystery of countless living functions moved silently
into the mystery of palpable or imponderable form.
'Twas here Louis underwent that morphosis which is
all there is of him, that spiritual illumination which
knows no why and no wheref or, no hither and no hence,
that peace which is life's sublimation, timeless and
spaceless. Yet he never lost his footing on the earth;
never came the sense of immortality: One life surely
is enough if lived and fulfilled: That we have yet to
learn the true significance of man; to realize the de-
struction we have wrought ; to come to a consciousness
of our moral instability: For man is god-like enough
did he but know it did he but choose, did he but re-
move his wrappings and his blinders, and say good-bye
to his superstitions and his fear.
Arrived in Chicago, Louis at once went to work
with his old-time vim. Important work was at hand
in other cities as well as in Chicago. The steel-frame
form of construction had come into use. It was first
applied by Holabird & Roche in the Tacoma Office
Building, Chicago; and in St. Louis, it was given first
authentic recognition and expression in the exterior
treatment of the Wainwright Building, a nine-story
office structure, by Louis Sullivan's own hand. He felt
at once that the new form of engineering was revolu-
tionary, demanding an equally revolutionary architec-
tural mode. That masonry construction, in so far as
tall buildings were concerned, was a thing of the past,
to be forgotten, that the mind might be free to face
and solve new problems in new functional forms. That
the old ideas of superimposition must give way before
the sense of vertical continuity.
Louis welcomed new problems as challenges and
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
tests. He had worked out a theory that every prob-
lem contains and suggests Its own solution. That a
postulate which does not contain and suggest its solu-
tion is not in any sense a problem, but a misstatement
of fact or an incomplete one. He had reached a con-
viction that this formula is universal in its nature and
in application. In this spirit he continued his aggres-
sive research in creative architecture, and, simulta-
neously it may seem a far cry his studies in the
reality of man. For he had reached the advanced
position that if one wished to solve the problem of man's
nature, he must seek the solution within man himself,
that he would surely find the suggestion within man's
powers; but, that to arrive at a clear perception of
the problem, he must first remove the accumulated
mythical, legendary overlay, and then dissolve the
cocoon which man had spun about himself with the
thread of his imaginings. This, in considerable meas-
ure, he had succeeded in doing.
The work of the firm had taken Louis over a large
part of the country, as Adler did not care much for
travel. Louis, on the contrary, retained his boyhood
delight in it, and took pains to do as much of it as
possible by daylight. For there was fascination in the
changing scene, in the novel aspects of locality. Thus
in time, and on his own account, he had acquired a
bird's-eye view of the broad aspects of his native land,
having been in all the States except Delaware, Okla-
homa, and the northern parts of New England. And
he came to wonder how many people could visualize
their country as a whole, in all its superb length and
breadth, in its varied topography, its changing flora,
its mountain ranges, its hilly sections, its immense
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
prairies and plains, vast rivers and lakes, deserts and
rich soils, immense wealth within the soil and above
and below it. He visualized its main rhythms as south
to north, and north to south; that in crossing the con-
tinent at various parallels from east to west, or west
to east, one obtained superb cross-sections.
And he dramatized the land and the seasons.
He saw, as a vast moving picture, Spring, coming
from the Gulf, moving gently northward, its Vanguard
awakening that which sleeps; with its joyous trumpets
sounding the call of rejuvenescence, luring forth the
multicolored blossoming of tree and shrub, and herb,
the filigree of verdure growing into opulence; setting
the plow in motion, and the sowing of crops; its vast
frontage, sweeping northward, ever northward toward
the arctic.
In its wake follows sober Summer, ripening the pro-
creative ecstasy of Spring soon the waving grain, the
laden bough, the hour of maturity of Nature's lavish
gifts to Man.
Then the menopause.
Then the reversal, as Winter begins its vast migra-
tion from the polar spaces. It, too, heralds its coming
with trumpets, sonorous in major chords, as the woods
burst into painted flames as the Vanguard moves on,
creeping toward the south with its fires.
And then the modulation into melancholy; grey
skies, leafless trees, brown faded stubble; a modulation
into the minor mode, as winter trombones and violins
sigh and moan with the winds over hill and dale, moun-
tain and plain, and the frost glimmers in the moon-
light, all sap sinks into the ground, a miserere chants,
shrill fifes announce sharp winds, snow flurries,
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
as nature passes into somber resignation. Winter, in
mass, moving south, ever southward, its Vanguard
now lost in the blue waters; its serried ranks sifting
snow flakes in the air till the sleeping- earth lies still
under beauteous coverlet of white within the vast
brooding power that came from the north.
Again the menopause.
Again the call of Spring.
Again a menopause.
Again the flaming banners and the field of white.
Northward and southward, southward and northward,
moving in superb rhythms of alternate urging, o'er the
expanse of what was once a virgin sleeping continent,
now peopled by millions with one language in common,
but no soul, a people unaware, their shadows rum-
maging like swine in the muck of cupidity. A people
of enormous power and devil take the hindmost. A
time of laissez faire and unto him that hath, if he can
grab it, shall be given ; with here and there a soul plead-
ing for kindness, and peace, and sanity.
Louis, through the years, had become powerfully
impressed by two great rhythms discernible alike in
nature and in human affairs, as of the same essence.
These two rhythms he called Growth and Decadence;
and in 1886 he wished to say something about them.
He wished, for the first time, to put his thoughts in
writing; and a convention of The Western Associa-
tion of Architects furnished the pretext and occasion.
He called his essay "INSPIRATION." The thesis fell
into three parts: "GROWTHS: A Spring Song"; "DE-
CADENCE: An Autumn Reverie"; "The INFINITE: A
Song of the Sea"; the transition from part to part
effected by two interludes; the thought sustained to
[301]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
the point of rhapsody, in utterance, lyric and dramatic,
of flowing prose: The POET in solitude, alone with
nature's moods ; first ecstasy, then sorrow and bewilder-
ment, then tragic appeal that the sea might give answer:
Deny me not, Oh sea I for indeed I am come
to thee as one aweary with long journeying
returns expectant to his native land.
Deny me not that I should garner now among
the drifted jetsam on this storm-wash shore,
a fragmentary token of serenity divine.
For I have been, long wistful, here beside
thee, my one desire floating afar on medita-
tion deep, as the helpless driftwood floats,
and is borne by thee to the land.
With the exception of John Root, Paul Lautrup, Rob-
ert Craik McLean, then editor of The Inland Ar-
chitect, now the Western Architect, and perchance
a few others, the effusion did not take. The consensus
of opinion was to the effect that "they" did not know
what Louis was talking about and did not believe
"he" did; that he was plainly crazy, for what had a]
this flowery stuff to do with architecture anyhow?
Louis fully agrees with "them," considering their point
of view. As to McLean, the essay stuck in his red wild
Canadian hair like a burr, through the years. Indeed,
in a pious orgy as late as 1919, he, in his magazine,
wrote this: "Some thirty-five years ago, at Chicago,
a young man read a poetical essay before a group of
architects, representative of the profession in the Mid-
dle West. Few understood the metaphor, but all rec-
ognized the fervor of aspiring and inspired genius that
[ 302 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
produced Louis H. Sullivan's 'Inspiration.' He called
this most remarkable blank versification a 'Spring
Song/ and, though unconsciously, perhaps, it was his
architectural thesis. His executions since that far-away
time, with a remarkable measure of success, have been
expressive of those fundamentals held by his hearers
to be but abstract symbolisms."
What delicious and inspired euphemisms!
Louis regards the work as a bit sophomoric, and
over-exalted, but the thought is sound. Excepting
specifications he did not write again for a number
of years. He was too busy thinking, working; he pre-
ferred the world of action. Still, later on, among the
murals of the Auditorium Theatre, were two in rem-
iniscence, one bearing the legend "O, soft, melodious
Springtime! First-born of life and love!" and its
pendant, inscribed: U A great life has passed into the
tomb, and there, awaits the requiem of Winter's snows."
The drawings of the Auditorium Building were now
well under way. Louis's heart went into this struc-
ture. It is old-time now, but its tower holds its head
in the air, as a tower should. It was the culmination
of Louis's masonry "period."
Referring again to the essay: Louis thought he
would try it on the higher culture. So he sent a
copy to his aged friend, Professor of Latin in the
University of Michigan, who wrote in return: "The
language is beautiful, but what on earth you are talk-
ing about I have not the faintest idea."
Alas, an arm chair and a class room have been
known to shut out the world.
[303]
RETROSPECT
IN Chicago, the progress of the building art from
1880 onward was phenomenal. The earlier days
had been given over to four-Inch ashlar fronts,
cylinder glass, and galvanized iron cornices, with cast
iron columns and lintels below; with interior construc-
tion of wood joists, posts and girders; continuous and
rule-of -thumb foundations of "dimension stone." Plate
glass and mirrors came from Belgium and France;
rolled iron beams rare and precious carne from Bel-
gium ; Portland cement from England. The only avail-
able American cements were "Rosendale," "Louisville"
and "Utica" called natural or hydraulic cements.
Brownstone could be had from Connecticut, marble
from Vermont, granite from Maine. Interior equip-
ments such as heating, plumbing, drainage, and ele-
vators or lifts, were to a degree, primitive. Of timber
and lumber soft and hard woods there was an
abundance. This general statement applies mainly to
the business district, although there were some solid
structures to be seen. And it should be noted that
before the great fire, a few attempts had been made to
build "fireproof" on the assumption that bare iron
would resist fire. As to the residential districts, there
were increasing indications of pride and display, for
rich men were already being thrust up by the mass.
The vast acreage and square mileage, however, con-
sisted of frame dwellings ; for, as has been said, Chi-
cago was the greatest lumber market "in the world."
Beyond these Inflammable districts were the prairies
and the villages.
The Middle West at that time was dominantly agri-
[304]
PLATE 34. William P. Krause Music Store and resi-
dence, 4611 Lincoln Avenue, Chicago. 1922.
Louis Henri Sullivan; William C. Presto,
associate. This was Sullivan's last commission,
executed two years before his death.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
cultural; wheat, corn, other grains, hogs, while cattle
and sheep roamed the unfenced ranges of the Far
Western plains. Lumbering was a great industry with
its attendant saw mills and planing mills, and there
were immense lumber yards along the south branch of
the Chicago River, which on occasion made gallant
bonfires. And it so happened that, as Louis heard a
banquet orator remark, in the spread eagle fashion of
the day, Chicago had become "the center of a vast
contiguous territory."
Great grain elevators gave accent to the branches
of the river. There was huge slaughter at the Stock
Yards, as droves of steers, hogs and sheep moved bel-
lowing, squealing, bleating or silently anxious as they
crowded the runways to their reward. The agon-
ized look in the eyes of a steer as his nose was pulled
silently down tight to the floor ring, in useless pro-
test, the blow on the crown of the skull; an endless
procession of oncoming hogs hanging single file by the
heel a pandemonium of terror one by one reaching
the man in the blood-pit; the knife pushed into a soft
throat then down, a crimson gush, a turn in the trolley,
an object drops into the scalding trough, thence on its
way to the coterie of skilled surgeons, who manipulate
with amazing celerity. Then comes the next one and
the next one and the next, as they have been coming
ever since, and will come.
Surely the story of the hog is not without human
interest. The beginning, a cute bit of activity, tug-
ging in competition with brothers and sisters of the
litter, pushing aside the titman, while she who brought
these little ones to the light lies stretched full length
on her side, twitching a corkscrew tail, flapping the
[ 305 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
one ear, grunting softly even musically as the little
ones push and paw, heaving a sigh now and again,
moving and replacing a foot, iies buzzing about thick
as the barnyard odors; other hogs of the group mov-
ing waywardly in idle curiosity, grunting conversation-
ally, commenting on things as they are; others asleep.
The farmer comes at times, leans over the fence and
speculates on hog cholera; for these are his precious
ones; they are to transmute his corn. Mentally he
estimates their weights; he regards the sucklings with
earnest eyes; he will shave on Sunday next. To him
this is routine, not that high comedy of rural tran-
quillity, in peace and contentment, seen by the poet's
eye, as he hangs his harp upon the willow and works
the handle of the pump, and converses in city speech
with the farmer of fiction and of fact, in the good
old days, as the kitchen door opens suddenly and the
farm wife throws out slops and disappears as quickly.
Such were the home surroundings of the pretty white
suckling, such were to form the background of his
culture; all one family, crops and farmer, weather fair
or untoward, big barn, little house, barnyard and
fields, horses, ploughs, harrows, and their kin; cows,
chickens, turkeys, ducks, all one family, with the little
pig's cousins that romped and played one perhaps
to dream and go to Congress, others to dream and,
when the time should come that their country needed
them, would answer their country's call, it may be to
fill little holes in the ground where poppies grow and
bloom.
Meanwhile the little white suckling grows to full
pig stature, which signifies he has become a hog, with
all a hog's background of culture. He, too, answers
[306]
"THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
his country's call, though himself not directly bent on
making the world safe for democracy. He is placed
by his friends in a palace car with many of his kind,
equally idealistic, equally educated. The laden train
moves onward. At the sidings our hero is watered to
save shrinkage, and through the open spaces between
the slats the train at rest he gazes at a new sort
of human being, men doing this and that; they, too,
answering their country's call, at so much per call,
and he wonders at a huge black creature passing by
grunting most horribly. Again the train moves on,
stops, and moves on. In due time what was once the
pink and white suckling, meets the man with the knife.
But he is not murdered, he is merely slaughtered. Yet
his earthly career is not ended; for soon he goes forth
again into the work much subdivided it is true to
seek out the tables of rich and poor alike, there to be
welcomed and rejoiced in as benefactor of mankind.
Thus may a hog rise to the heights of altruism. It does
not pay to assume lowly origins as finalities, for it is
shown that good may come out of the sty, as out of
the manger. Thus the life story of the hog gains in
human interest and glory, as we view his transfigura-
tion into a higher form of life, wherein he is not dead
but sleepeth. And yet, upon reflection, what about
other pink and whites at the breast today? Are they
to grow up within a culture which shall demand of
them their immolation? or shall they not?
Inasmuch as all distinguished strangers, upon arrival
in the city, at once were taken to the Stock Yards, not
to be slaughtered, it is true, but to view with salutary
wonder the prodigious goings on, and to be crammed
with statistics and oratory concerning how Chicago
[307]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
feeds the world; and Inasmuch as the reporter's first
query would be: "How do you like Chicago?" Next,
invariably: "Have you seen the Stock Yards?" and the
third, possibly: "Have you viewed our beautiful system
of parks and boulevards?" it may be assumed that in
the cultural system prevailing in those days of long ago,
the butcher stood at the peak of social eminence, while
slightly below him were ranged the overlords of grain,
lumber, and merchandising. Of manufacturing, ordi-
narily so called, there was little, and the units were
scattering and small.
Then, presto, as it were, came a magic change. The
city had become the center of a great radiating system
of railways, the lake traffic changed from sail to steam.
The population had grown to five hundred thousand
by 1880, and reached a million in 1890; and this, from
a pitiful 4,000 in 1837, at which time, by charter, the
village became a city. Thus Chicago grew and flour-
ished by virtue of pressure from without the pres-
sure of forest, field and plain, the mines of copper, iron
and coal, and the human pressure of those who crowded
in upon it from all sides seeking fortune. Thus the
year 1880 may be set as the zero hour of an amazing
expansion, for by that time the city had recovered
from the shock of the panic of 1873. Manufactur-
ing expanded with incredible rapidity, and the build-
ing industry took on an organizing definition. With
the advance in land values, and a growing sense of
financial stability, investors awakened to opportunity,
and speculators and promoters were at high feast. The
tendency in commercial buildings was toward increas-
ing stability, durability, and height, with ever better-
ing equipment. The telephone appeared, and electric
[308]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
lighting systems. Iron columns and girders were now
encased in fireproofing materials, hydraulic elevators
came into established use, superseding those operated
by steam or gas. Sanitary appliances kept pace with
the rest.
The essential scheme of construction, however, was
that of solid masonry enclosing-and-supporting walls.
The "Montauk" Block had reached the height of nine
stories and was regarded with wonder. Then came the
Auditorium Building with its immense mass of ten
stories, its tower, weighing thirty million pounds, equiv-
alent to twenty stories a tower of solid masonry car-
ried on a "floating" foundation; a great raft 67 by
100 feet. Meanwhile Burnham and Root had pre-
pared plans for a 16-story solid masonry office build-
ing to be called the "Monadnock." As this was to be a
big jump from nine stories, construction was postponed
until it should be seen whether or not the Auditorium
Tower would go to China of its own free will. The
great tower, however, politely declined to go to China,
or rudely rack the main building, because it had been
trained by its architects concerning the etiquette of the
situation, and, like a good and gentle tower, quietly
responded to a manipulation of pig iron within its base.
Then the "Monadnock" went ahead; an amazing cliff
of brickwork, rising sheer and stark, with a subtlety
of line and surface, a direct singleness of purpose, that
gave one the thrill of romance. It was the first and
last word of its kind; a great word in its day, but its
day vanished almost over night, leaving it to stand as a
symbol, as a solitary monument, marking the high tide
of masonry construction as applied to commercial
structures,
[309]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
The Bessemer process of making "mild" steel had
for some time been in operation in the Pennsylvania
mills, but the output had been limited to steel rails;
structural shapes were still rolled out of iron. The
Bessemer process itself was revolutionary, and the
story of its early trials and tribulations, its ultimate
success, form a special chapter in the bible of modern
industry.
Now in the process of things we have called a flow,
and which is frequently spoken of as evolution a word
fast losing its significance the tall commercial build-
ing arose from the pressure of land values, the land
values from pressure of population, the pressure of
population from external pressure, as has been said.
But an office building could not rise above stairway
height without a means of vertical transportation.
Thus pressure was brought on the brain of the me-
chanical engineer whose creative imagination and in-
dustry brought forth the passenger elevator, which
when fairly developed as to safety, speed and control,
removed the limit from the number of stories. But
it was inherent in the nature of masonry construction,
in its turn to fix a new limit of height, as its ever
thickening walls ate up ground and floor space of ever
increasing value, as the pressure of population rapidly
increased.
Meanwhile the use of concrete in heavy construc-
tion was spreading, and the application of railroad
iron to distribute concentrated loads on the founda-
tions, the character of which became thereby radically
changed from pyramids to flat affairs, thus liberating
basement space; but this added basement space was
of comparatively little value owing to deficiency in
[310]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
headroom due to the shallowness of the street sewers.
Then joined in the flow an invention of English origin,
an automatic pneumatic ejector, which rendered base-
ment depths independent of sewer levels. But to get
full value from this appliance, foundations would have
to be carried much deeper, in new buildings. With
heavy walls and gravity retaining walls, the operation
would be hazardous and of doubtful value. It be-
came evident that the very tall masonry office build-
ing was in its nature economically unfit as ground val-
ues steadily rose. Not only did its thick walls entail
loss of space and therefore revenue, but its unavoid-
ably small window openings could not furnish the
proper and desirable ratio of glass area to rentable
floor area.
Thus arose a crisis, a seeming impasse. What was
to do? Architects made attempts at solutions by car-
rying the outer spans of floor loads on cast columns next
to the masonry piers, but this method was of small
avail, and of limited application as to height. The
attempts, moreover, did not rest on any basic principle,
therefore the squabblings as to priority are so much
piffle. The problem of the tall office building had not
been solved, because the solution had not been sought
within the problem itself within its inherent nature.
And it may here be remarked after years of observa-
tion, that the truth most difficult to grasp, especially
by the intellectuals, is this truth: That every problem
of whatsoever name or nature, contains and suggests
its own solution; and, the solution reached, it is in-
variably jund to be simple in nature, basic, and clearly
allied to common sense. This is what Monsieur Clopet
really meant when he said to Louis in his Paris stu-
rsm
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
dent days: "Our demonstrations will be such as to
admit of no exception." Monsieur Clopet carried the
principle no further than his mathematics, but Louis
saw in a flash the immensity and minuteness of its
application, and what a world of research lay before
him ; for with the passing of the flash he saw dimly as
through a veil, and it needed long years for the vision
to reclarify and find its formula.
As a rule, inventions which are truly solutions
are not arrived at quickly. They may seem to appear
suddenly, but the groundwork has usually been long in
preparing. It is of the essence of this philosophy that
man's needs are balanced by his powers. That as the
needs increase the powers increase that is one reason
why they are herein called powers.
So in this instance, the Chicago activity in erecting
high buildings finally attracted the attention of the
local sales managers of Eastern rolling mills ; and their
engineers were set at work. The mills for some time
past had been rolling those structural shapes that had
long been in use in bridge work. Their own ground
work thus was prepared. It was a matter of vision in
salesmanship based upon engineering imagination and
technique. Thus the idea of a steel frame which should
carry all the load was tentatively presented to Chi-
cago architects.
The passion to sell is the impelling power in Ameri-
can life. Manufacturing is subsidiary and adventi-
tious. But selling must be based on a semblance of
service the satisfaction of a need. The need was
there, the capacity to satisfy was there, but contact
wap not there. Then came the flash of imagination
which saw the single thing. The trick was turned;
[312]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AN IDEA
and there swiftly came into being something new under
the sun. For the true steel-frame structure stands
unique in the flowing of man and his works; a brilliant
material example of man's capacity to satisfy his needs
through the exercise of his natural powers. The tall
steel-frame structure may have its aspects of benef-
idence; but so long as a man may say: "I shall do as
I please with my own," it presents opposite aspects of
social menace and danger. For such is the complexity,
the complication, the intricacy of modern feudal so-
ciety; such is its neurasthenia, its hyperesthesia, its pre-
carious instability, that not a move may be made in
any one of its manifold activities, according to its code,
without creating risk and danger in its wake; as will
be, further on, elaborated.
The architects of Chicago welcomed the steel frame
and did something with it. The architects of the East
were appalled by it and could make no contribution to
it. In fact, the tall office buildings fronting the narrow
streets and lanes of lower New York were provin-
cialisms, gross departures from the law of common
sense. For the tall office building loses its validity
when the surroundings are uncongenial to its nature;
and when such buildings are crowded together upon
narrow streets or lanes they become mutually destruc-
tive. The social significance of the tall building is in
finality its most important phase. In and by itself, con-
sidered solus so to speak, the lofty steel frame makes
a powerful appeal to the architectural imagination
where there is any. Where imagination is absent and
its place usurped by timid pedantry the case is hope-
less. The appeal and the inspiration lie, of course, in
the element of loftiness, in the suggestion of slenderness
[313]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and aspiration, the soaring quality as of a thing rising
from the earth as a unitary utterance, Dionysian in
beauty. The failure to perceive this simple truth has
resulted in a throng of monstrosities, snobbish and
maudlin or brashly insolent and thick lipped in speech ;
in either case a defamation and denial of man's finest
powers.
In Chicago the tall office building would seem to
have arisen spontaneously, in response to favoring
physical conditions, and the economic pressure as then
sanctified, combined with the daring of promoters.
The construction and mechanical equipment soon de-
veloped into engineering triumphs. Architects, with
a considerable measure of success, undertook to give a
commensurate external treatment. The art of design
in Chicago had begun to take on a recognizable char-
acter of its own. The future looked bright. The flag
was in the breeze. Yet a small white cloud no bigger
than a man's hand was soon to appear above the hori-
zon. The name of this cloud was eighteen hundred
and ninety-three. Following the little white cloud was
a dark dim cloud, more like a fog. The name of the
second doud was Baring Brothers.
During this period there was well under way the
formation of mergers, combinations and trusts in the
industrial world. The only architect in Chicago to
catch the significance of this movement was Daniel
Burnham, for in its tendency toward bigness, organi-
zation, delegation, and intense commercialism, he
sensed the reciprocal workings of his own mind.
In the turmoil of this immense movement railroads
were scuttled and reorganized, speculation became
rampant, credit was leaving terra firma, forests were
[314]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
slaughtered, farmers were steadily pushing westward,
and Into the Dakotas; immense mineral wealth had
been unearthed in Colorado, South Dakota, Northern
Wisconsin, Peninsular Michigan, the Mesaba Range In
Minnesota. The ambitious trader sought to corner
markets. The "corner" had become an ideal, a holy
grail. Monopoly was in the air. Wall Street was a
seething cauldron. The populace looked on, with
open-mouthed amazement and approval, at the mighty
men who wrought these wonders ; called them Captains
of Industry, Kings of this, Barons of that, Merchant
Princes, Railroad Magnates, Wizards of Finance, or,
as Burnham said one day to Louis: "Think of a man
like Morgan, who can take a man like Cassatt in the
palm of his hand and set him on the throne of the
Pennsylvania 1" And thus, in its way, the populace
sang hymns to its heroes.
The people rejoiced. Each individual rejoiced in
envious admiration, and all rejoiced in the thought
that these great men, these mighty men, had, with
few and negligible exceptions, risen from the ranks
of the common people : That this one began as a tele-
graph operator at a lonely way-station, and this one
was boss of a section gang on such and such a rail-
road; another started in life as a brakeman; that one
was clerk in a country store; this one came to our
hospitable shores as a penniless immigrant; that one
was a farmer boy; and their hymn arose and rang
shimmering as a paean to their mighty ones, and their
cry went up to their God, even as a mighty anthem,
lifting up its head to proclaim to all the world that
this, their Country, was vastly more than the land of
the free and the home of the brave; it was the noble
[315]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
land of equal opportunity for all; the true democracy
for which mankind has been waiting through the cen-
turies in blood and tears, in hope deferred. This, they
cried, as one voice, is the Hospitable Land that wel-
comes the stranger at its gates. This is the great De-
mocracy where all men are equal and free. All this
they sang gladly as they moved up the runways.
Thus the Land was stirring and quivering in im-
pulses, wave upon wave. The stream of immigration
was enormous, spreading over vast areas, burrowing in
the mines, or clinging to the cities. Chicago had passed
St. Louis in population and was proud. Its system of
building had become known as the "Chicago Construc-
tion." It was pushing its structures higher and higher,
until the Masonic Temple by John Root had raised its
head far into the air, and the word "skyscraper" came
into use. Chicago was booming. It had become a
powerful magnet. Its people had one dream in com-
mon: That their city should become the world's me-
tropolis. There was great enthusiasm and public spirit.
So things stood, in the years 1890, 1891 and 1892.
John Root had said to Louis : "You take your art too
seriously." Burnham had said to Louis: "It is not
good policy to go much above the general level of in-
telligence." Burnham had also said: "See! Louis, how
beautiful the moon is, now, overhead, how tender.
Something in her beauty suggests tears to me."
And Chicago rolled on and roared by day and night
except only in its stillest hours toward dawn. There
seemed to reside in its dreams before the dawn during
these years something not wholly material, something
in the underlying thoughts of men that aspired to reach
above the general level of intelligence and the raucous
[316]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
hue and cry. At least Louis thought so. Then, as
now, was the great Lake with its far horizon, the
sweeping curve of its southern shore, its many moods,
which every day he viewed from his tower windows.
And there was the thought, the seeming presence of the
prairies and the far-flung hinterland. In such momen-
tary trance his childhood would return to him with its
vivid dream of power, a dream which had now grown
to encompass the world; from such reverie he would
perchance awaken to some gossip of Adler, standing
by, concerning the inside story of some of the city's
great men, all of which was grist for Louis's mill, for
Adler was quite literal when he told these anecdotes,
and Louis listened keenly to them, and learned. The
two frequently lunched together. Shop talk was taboo.
But they did not talk about the coming World's Fair,
as authorized by Act of Congress in 1890. It was
deemed fitting by all the people that the four hundredth
anniversary of the discovery of America by one
Christopher Columbus, should be celebrated by a great
World Exposition, which should spaciously reveal to
the last word the cultural status of the peoples of the
Earth; and that the setting for such display should be
one of splendor, worthy of its subject.
Chicago was ripe and ready for such an undertaking.
It had the required enthusiasm and the will. It won
out in a contest between the cities. The prize was
now in hand. It was to be the city's crowning glory.
A superb site on the lake adjoined die southern section
of the city. This site was so to be transformed and
embellished by the magic of American prowess, par-
ticularly in its architectural aspects, as to set forth the
genius of the land in that great creative art. It was
[317]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
to be a dream city, where one might revel in beauty.
It was to be called The White City by the Lake.
Now arose above the horizon the small white cloud.
It came from eastward. It came borne upon the winds
of predestination. Who could fancy that a harmless
white cloud might cast a white shadow? Who could
forecast the shape of that shadow? It was here that
one man's unbalanced mind spread a gauze-like pall of
fatality. That one man's unconscious stupor in big-
ness, and in the droll phantasy of hero-worship, did
his best and his worst, according to his lights, which
were dim except the one projector by the harsh light
of which he saw all things illuminated and grown bom-
bastically big in Chauvinistic outlines. Here was to
be the test of American culture, and here it failed.
Dreamers may dream ; but of what avail the dream if
it be but a dream of misinterpretation? If the dream,
in such a case, rise not in vision far above the general
level of intelligence, and prophesy through the medium
of dear thinking, true interpretation why dream at
all? Why not rest content as children of Barnum,
easy in the faith that one of "them" is born every
minute. Such in effect was the method adopted in
practice while the phrase-makers tossed their slogans
to and fro.
At the beginning it was tentatively assumed that the
firm of Burnham & Root might undertake the work
in its entirety. The idea was sound in principle one
hand, one great work a superb revelation of Ameri-
ca's potency an oration, a portrayal, to arouse that
which was hidden, to call it forth into the light. But
the work of ten years cannot be done in two. It would
require two years to grasp and analyze the problem
[318]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
and effect a synthesis. Less than three years were
available for the initiation and completion of the work
entire, ready for the installation of exhibits. The idea
was in consequence dismissed. As a matter of fact
there was not an architect in the land equal to the
undertaking. No veteran mind seasoned to the strategy
and tactics involved in a wholly successful issue. Other-
wise there might have arisen a gorgeous Garden City,
reflex of one mind, truly Interpreting the aspirations
and the heart's desire of the many, every detail care-
fully considered, every function given its due form,
with the sense of humanity at its best, a suffusing at-
mosphere; and within the Garden City might be built
another city to remain and endure as a memorial, within
the parkland by the blue waters, oriented toward the
rising sun, a token of a covenant of things to be, a
symbol of the city's basic significance as offspring of
the prairie, the lake and the portage.
But u hustle" was the word. Make it big, make it
stunning, knock 'em downl The cry was well meant
as things go.
So in the fall of 1890 John Root was officially
appointed consulting architect, and Daniel Btarnham,
Chief of Construction.
Later, with the kindly assistance of Edward T. Jef-
ferey, Chairman of the Committee on Buildings and
Grounds, Burnham selected five architects from the
East and five from the West, ten in all. Burnham
and Jefferey loved each other dearly. The thought of
one was the thought of both, as it were sometimes.
Burnham had believed that he might best serve his
country by placing all of the work exclusively with
Eastern architects; solely, he averred, on account of
[319]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
their surpassing culture. With exquisite delicacy and
tact, Jefferey, at a meeting of the Committee, persuaded
Daniel, come to Judgment, to add the Western men
to the list of his nominations.
A gathering of these architects took place in Febru-
ary, 1891. After an examination of the site, which
by this time was dreary enough in its state of raw
upheaval, the company retired for active conference.
John Root was not there. In faith he could not come.
He had made his rendezvous the month before. Grace-
land was now his home. Soon above him would be
reared a Celtic cross. Louis missed him sadly. Who
now would take up the foils he had dropped on his
way, from hands that were once so strong? There was
none! The shadow of the white cloud had already
fallen.
The meeting came to order. Richard Hunt, acknowl-
edged dean of his profession, in the chair, Louis Sulli-
van acting as secretary. Burnham arose to make his
address of welcome. He was not facile on his feet,
but it soon became noticeable that he was progressively
and grossly apologizing to the Eastern men for the
presence of tfteir benighted brethren of the West.
Dick Hunt interrupted: "Hell, we haven't come
out here on a missionary expedition. Let's get to
work.' 1 Everyone agreed. Burnham came out of his
somnambulistic vagary and joined in. He was keen
enough to understand that "Uncle Dick" had done him
a needed favor. For Burnham learned slowly but
surely, within the limits of his understanding.
A layout was submitted to the Board as a basis for
discussion. It was rearranged on two axes at right
angles. The buildings were disposed accordingly. By
[ 320 ]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
an amicable arrangement each architect was given such
building as he preferred, after consultation. The
meeting then adjourned.
The story of the building of the Fair is foreign to
the purpose of this narrative, which is to deal with its
more serious aspects, implications and results. Suffice
it that Burnham performed in a masterful way, dis-
playing remarkable executive capacity. He became
open-minded, just, magnanimous. He did his great
share.
The work completed, the gates thrown open 1 May,
1893, the crowds flowed in from every quarter, con-
tinued to flow throughout a fair-weather summer and
a serenely beautiful October. Then came the end.
The gates were closed.
These crowds were astonished. They beheld what
was for them an amazing revelation of the architec-
tural art, of which previously they in comparison had
known nothing. To them it was a veritable Apoca-
lypse, a message inspired from on high. Upon it their
imagination shaped new ideals. They went away,
spreading again over the land, returning to their homes,
each one of them carrying, in the soul the shadow of
the white cloud, each of them permeated by the most
subtle and slow-acting of poisons; an imperceptible
miasm within the white shadow of a higher culture. A
vast multitude, exposed, unprepared, they had not had
time nor occasion to become immune to forms of so-
phistication not their own, to a higher and more dexter-
ously insidious plausibility. Thus they departed joy-
ously, carriers of contagion, unaware that what they
had beheld and believed to be truth was to prove, in
historic fact, an appalling calamity. For what they
[321]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
saw was not at all what they believed they saw, but
an imposition of the spurious upon their eyesight, a
naked exhibitionism of charlatanry in the higher feudal
and domineering culture, conjoined with expert sales-
manship of the materials of decay. Adventitiously, to
make the stage setting complete, it happened by way
of apparent but unreal contrast that the structure rep-
resenting the United States Government was of an
incredible vulgarity, while the building at the peak of
the north axis, stationed there as a symbol of "The
Great State of Illinois" matched it as a lewd exhibit
of drooling imbecility and political debauchery. The
distribution at the northern end of the grounds of many
state and foreign headquarters relieved the sense of
stark immensity. South of them, and placed on the
border of a small lake, stood the Palace of the Arts,
the most vitriolic of them all the most impudently
thievish. The landscape work, in its genial distribution
of lagoons, wooded islands, lawns, shrubbery and
plantings, did much to soften an otherwise mechanical
display; while far in the southeast corner, floating in
a small lagoon or harbor, were replicas of the three
caravels of Columbus, and on an adjacent artificial
mound a representation of the Convent of La Rabida.
Otherwhere there was no evidence of Columbus and his
daring deed, his sufferings, and his melancholy end.
No keynote, no dramatic setting forth of that deed
which, recently, has aroused some discussion as to
whether the discovery of America had proven to be a
blessing or a curse to the world of mankind.
Following the white cloud, even as a companion in
iniquity, came the gray cloud. It overwhelmed the
land with a pall of desolation. It dropped its blinding
[322]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
bolt. Its hurricane swept away the pyramided paper
structures of speculation. Its downpour washed away
fancied gains; its raindrops, loaded with a lethal toxin,
fell alike upon the unjust and the just, as in retribu-
tion, demanding an atonement in human sacrifice. The
thunder ceased to roll, the rain became a mist and
cleared, the storm subsided, all was still. Overhead
hung the gray cloud of panic from horizon to horizon.
Slowly it thinned, in time it became translucent, van-
ished, revealing the white cloud which, in platoons,
unseen, had overrun the blue. Nlow again shone the
sun. "Prosperity" awakened from its torpor, rubbed
its eyes and prepared for further follies.
It is said that history repeats itself. This is not so.
What is mistaken for repetition is the recurrent feudal
rhythm of exaltation and despair. Its progressive
wavelike movement in action is implicit in the feudal
thought, and inevitable, and so long as the feudal
thought holds dominion in the minds of men, just so
long and no longer will calamity follow upon the ap-
pearance of prosperity. The end is insanity, the
crumbling and the passing of the race, for life is ever
saying to Man: "If you wish to be destroyed I will
destroy you." The white cloud is the feudal idea.
The gray cloud, the nemesis contained within that idea.
The feudal idea is dual, it holds to the concept of good
and evil. The democratic idea is single, integral. It
holds to the good alone. Its faith lies in the benefi-
cence of its power, in its direct appeal to life. Its
vision reveals an inspiring vista of accomplishment.
Its common sense recognizes man as by nature sound
to the core, and kindly. It as clearly sees, in the feu-
dal scheme, a continuous warfare as well in so-called
[323]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
times of peace as In sanguinary battle. It views all
this as lunacy, for its own word is kindness. It bases
its faith upon the heart in preference to the intellect,
though knowing well the power of the latter when
controlled. It knows that the intellect, alone, runs
amuck, and performs unspeakable cruelties; that the
heart alone is divine. For it is the heart that welcomes
Life and would cherish it, would shield it against the
cannibalism of the intellect.
From the height of its Columbian Ecstacy, Chicago
drooped and subsided with the rest, in a common sick-
ness, the nausea of overstimulation. This in turn
passed, toward the end of the decade, and the old
game began again with intensified fury, to come to a
sudden halt in 1907. There are those who say this
panic was artificial and deliberate, that the battle of
the saber-toothed tigers and the mastodons was on.
Meanwhile the virus of the World's Fair, after a
period of incubation in the architectural profession and
in the population at large, especially the influential,
began to show unmistakable signs of the nature of
the contagion. There came a violent outbreak of the
Classic and the Renaissance in the East, which slowly
spread westward, contaminating all that it touched,
both at its source and outward. The selling campaign
of the bogus antique was remarkably well managed
through skillful publicity and propaganda, by those
who were first to see its commercial possibilities. The
market was ripe, made so through the hebetude of the
populace, big business men, and eminent educators
alike. By the time the market had been saturated, all
sense of reality was gone. In its place had come deep-
seated illusions, hallucinations, absence of pupillary re-
[324]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
action to light, absence of knee-reaction symptoms all
of progressive cerebral meningitis: The blanketing of
the brain. Thus Architecture died in the land of the
free and the home of the brave, in a land declaring
its fervid democracy, its inventiveness, its resourceful-
ness, its unique daring, enterprise and progress. Thus
did the virus of a culture, snobbish and alien to the
land, perform its work of disintegration ; and thus ever
works the pallid academic mind, denying the real, ex-
alting the fictitious and the false, incapable of adjust-
ing itself to the flow of living things, to the reality
and the pathos of man's follies, to the valiant hope that
ever causes him to aspire, and again to aspire; that
never lifts a hand in aid because it cannot; that turns
its back upon man because that is its tradition; a cul-
ture lost in ghostly mesalliance with abstractions, when
what the world needs is courage, common sense and
human sympathy, and a moral standard that is plain,
valid and livable.
The damage wrought by the World's Fair will last
for half a century from its date, if not longer. It has
penetrated deep into the constitution of the American
mind, effecting there lesions significant of dementia.
Meanwhile the architectural generation immediately
succeeding the Classic and Renaissance merchants, are
seeking to secure a special immunity from the inroads
of common sense, through a process of vaccination with
the lymph of every known European style, period and
accident, and to this all-around process, when it breaks,
out, is to be added the benediction of good taste. Thus
we have now the abounding freedom of Eclecticism,
the winning smile of taste, but no architecture. For
Architecture, be it known, is dead. Let us therefore
[325]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
lightly dance upon its grave, strewing roses as we glide.
Indeed let us gather, in procession, in the night, in the
rain, and make soulful, fluent, epicene orations to the
living dead we neuters eulogize.
Surely the profession has made marvelous improve-
ments in trade methods, over the old-fashioned way.
There is now a dazzling display of merchandise, all
imported, excepting to be sure our own cherished colo-
nial, which maintains our Anglo-Saxon tradition in its
purity. We have Tudor for colleges and residences;
Roman for banks, and railway stations and libraries,
or Greek if you like some customers prefer the Ionic
to the Doric. We have French, English and Italian
Gothic, Classic and Renaissance for churches. In fact
we are prepared to satisfy, in any manner of taste.
Residences we offer in Italian or Louis Quinze. We
make a small charge for alterations and adaptations.
Our service we guarantee as exceptional and exclusive.
Our importations are direct. We have our own agents
abroad. We maintain also a commercial department,
in which a selective taste is not so necessary. Its prov-
ince is to solve engineering problems of all kinds,
matters of cost, income, maintenance, taxes, renewals,
depreciation, obsolescence; and as well maintenance of
contact, sales pressure, sales resistance, flotations, and
further matters of the sort. We maintain also an in-
dustrial department in which leading critics unite in
saying we have made most significant departures in
design. These structures however, are apart from our
fashionable trade. Our business is founded and main-
tained on an ideal service, and a part of that service
we believe to consist in an elevation of the public taste,
a setting forth of the true standards of design, in pure
[326]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
form, a system of education by example, the gradual
formation of a background of culture for the masses.
In this endeavor we have the generous support of the
architectural schools, of the colleges and universities,
of men of wealth, and of those whose perspicacity has
carried them to the pinnacle of eminence in finance,
industry, commerce, education and statesmanship.
Therefore we feel that we are in thorough accord with
the spirit of our times as expressed in its activities, in
its broad democratic tolerance, and its ever-youthful
enthusiasms. It is this sense of solidity, solidarity and
security that makes us bold, inspires us with the high
courage to continue in our self-imposed task. We look
for our reward solely in the conviction of duty done;
our profound belief that we are preparing the way for
the coming generation through the power of our ex-
ample, our counsel and our teachings, to the end that
they may express, better than we ourselves have done,
the deep, the sincere, the wholesome aspirations of
our people and of our land, as yet not fully articulated
by the higher culture, in spite of our best efforts to-
ward that end. This task we are quite aware we must
eventually leave to the young who are crowding upon
us, and we wish them joy in their great adventure when
we relinquish our all.
In the better aspects of eclecticism and taste, that is
to say, in those aspects which reveal a certain depth of
artistic feeling and a physical sense of materials, rather
than mere scene-painting or archaeology, however
clever, there is to be discovered a hope and a forecast.
For it is within the range of possibilities, one may even
go so far as to say probabilities, that out of the very
richness and multiplicity of the architectural phenom-
[327]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
ena called "styles" there may arise within the archi-
tectural mind a perception growing slowly, perhaps
suddenly, into clearness, that architecture in its mate-
rial nature and in its animating essence is a plastic art.
This truth, so long resisted because of the limited
intellectual boundaries and deficient sympathy of aca-
demic training, must eventually prevail because founded
upon a culture of common sense and human recogni-
tion. Its power is as gentle and as irresistible as that
of the Springtime to which it may be likened, or to
sunrise following the night and its stars, and herein
lies beneath the surface and even on the surface the
inspiration of our High Optimism, with its unceasing
faith in man as free spirit ! as creator, possessed of a
physical sense indistinguishable from the spiritual, and
of innate plastic powers whose fecundity and benefi-
cence surpass our present scope of imagination. Dog-
ma and rule of the dead are passing. The Great
Modern Inversion, for which the world of mankind
has been preparing purblindly through the ages, is now
under way in its world-wide awakening. The thought
of the multitudes is changing, withdrawing its consent,
its acquiescence; the dream of the multitudes is meta-
morphosing, philosophy is becoming human and im-
mersing itself in the flow of life ; science is pushing the
spectres back into the invisible whence they came.
The world is in travail, smeared with blood, amid the
glint of bayonets; the feudal idea has reached the pitch
of its insanity, yet by the way of compensation the veils
are lifting rapidly, all the veils of hypocrisy and sinis-
ter intent, all the veils of plausible, insidious speech,
of propaganda, of perfidy, of betrayal. It require*
courage to remain steadfast in faith in the presence oi
[328]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
such pollution. Yet it is precisely such courage that
marks man in his power as free spirit. For beneath
this corruption the enlightened one perceives the ever-
lasting aspirations of mankind, the ever-yearning heart
in its search for kindness, peace and a safe anchorage
within its world, and to such, the compassionate one
gives out words of encouragement and prophecy, even
as the gray clouds hover from horizon to horizon; a
prophecy that this cloud shall melt away, and reveal
aloft a shining white cloud, in the blue, announcing
the new man and the new culture of faith,
It seems fitting, therefore, that this work should
close with the same child-dream in which it began.
The dream of a beauteous, beneficent power, which
came when, winter past, the orchards burst into bloom,
and the song of spring was heard in the land.
That dream has never ceased. That faith has never
wearied. With the passage of the years, the dream,
the faith, ever expanding in power, became all-inclu-
sive; and with the progress of the dream and the faith,
there emerged in confirmation a vague outline, grow-
ing year after year more luminous and clear. When
the golden hour tolled, all mists departed, and there
shone forth as in a vision, the reality of MAN, as Free
Spirit, as Creator, as Container of illimitable powers,
for the joy and the peace of mankind.
It was this unseen nearby presence, messenger of
Life In its flowing, that sang its song of spring to the
child, and the child heard what no one heard; the child
saw what no one saw.
It is questionable how much of social value one who
has had access to the treasures of the past, access to the
[329]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN IDEA
best and the worst in the thought of his day, may leave
behind him in his fruitage, as a quantum an IDEA.
This narrator agrees, in such connection, that the
initial instinct of the child, as set forth, is the basis of
all fruitful ideas, and that the growth in power of
such ideas is in itself a work of instinct; that, if it has
been convincingly shown that instinct is primary and
intellect secondary in all the great works of man, this
portrayal is justified.
It is further the belief of this narrator, in this con-
nection, that if he has succeeded in setting clearly forth
the basic fruitful power of the IDEA permeating and
dominating this narrative of a life-experience, physical
and spiritual, he has done well in thus making a record
in words to be pondered in the heart.
(THE END)
INDEX
Adler, Dankmar 25 Iff
D. Adler & Co. 256
Adler & Sullivan 257, 288
Albany 132
Amesbury 84
Arch bridge, St. Louis 246
Atelier Vaudremer, see
Vaudremer
Auditorium Building 293,
303, 309
Back Bay 107
Balatka, Hans 208
Baring Brothers 314
Baumann, Frederick 245
Bay of Fundy
Bay St. Louis 295
Beadle's Dime Novels 100
Berkshire Hills 130
"Big Ben" 217
Billy (a horse) 46ff
Biloxi Bay 295
Black River 137, 139
Blank, Miss 125
Blue Hills 103
Boardman 68
Boston 10, 15, 43, 90, 91ff,
95, 151, 190
Boston fire 18 Iff
Brimmer School 99
Brown's Tract 151, 128
Burling & Adler 251
Burling 252
Burnham & Root 285ff, 309,
318
Burnham, Daniel Hudson
285ff, 314, 319
California 294
Cantilever bridge, Kentucky
River 247
Carpenter, George A. 255
Charlestown 101
Chelsea 102
Chicago 120, 196, 198ff,
241ff. 285, 298, 304ff
Church of the Sacred Heart,
Mont Rouge 238
Church of St. Roch 223
Clark, Newcomb 296
Clopet, Monsieur 220ff, 311
Convent of La Rabida 322
Cowdrey farm 60
Crystal Lake 101
Curtis, William B. 21 Off
Cudell 202
Dieppe 218
Draper, John 253
Eades, Capt. 246
Eastport 94
Ecole des B^aux Arts 189,
213, 232ff
Edelmann, John 204,. 206ff,
230, 251
England 215ff
English High School 128,
151ff, 173
Faneuil Hall 117
Father, see Sullivan, Patrick
Ferry, George 185
Florence 236
Folly Cove 20ff
"Form follows function"
258
Furness & Hewitt 190
Furness, Frank 191
Garden City (Chicago)
241ff
Geneva 11, 155
George, Henry 252
Gilmore, Patrick 180
Gloucester 101
Grandma, see Mattheus,
Anna
Grandpa, see List, Henri
Gray, Asa 166
Hale 173
Hale, William E. 294
Hay market 217
Head, Eugene 113
Head, Julia 56ff, 62if, 70,
82, 83, 111, 112
Hewitt, George 193
Hewitt, John 193ff
Holabird & Roche 205, 298
Hopkins, Farmer 69
Houses of Parliament 217
Hudson River 132, 155
Hunt, Richard M. 190, 320
Indiana 196
Ipswich 101
Ireland 13
Jamaica Plain 101
Jay Cooke & Co. 195
Jefferey, Edward T. 319
Jenney, Major "William
Le Baron 202
Johnson 255
Julia see Head, Julia
Lautrup, Paul 302
Lefuel 190
Letang, Eugene 185, 188,
233
List, Audrienne see Sulli-
van, Audrienne List
List, Henri llff, 32ff, 42,
50, 59, 96, 129, 169
List, Jennie 12, 129
List, Jules (or Julius) 12,
34, 172
Little Falls 137
Liverpool 215
London 216fl
Look, Alice 110
Lotos Club 210
Luxembourg Gardens 227
Luxembourg palace 219
Lynn 101
Lyonsdale 140
Lyons Falls 138, 154
Maison de Paquis, La 12
Maiden 101
Marblehead 101
Masonic Temple, Boston
116
Massachusetts Institute of
Technology 176
Mattheus, Anna llff, 40,
42, 46, 50, 56, 96, 169
McLean, Robert Craik 302
Melrose 101
Merrimac River 80
Michael Angelo 120, 233fE
Mohawk River 137
Mohawk Valley 133
Monadnock 309
Montauk Block 309
Moose River 137, 139, 152
Mother, see Sullivan,
Audrienne List
Museum of Natural His-
tory, Boston 184
Nahant 101
Newburyport 70, 72fE
New Orleans 294
New York 190, 202
North Reading 101
Ocean Springs 295
Orders of architecture 186
O'Sullivan tribes 36
Panic of 1873 195
Parepa 180
Paris 218, 219ff
Parker, Theodore 42
Park Street Church, Boston
117
Peck, Ferdinand W. 292
Philadelphia 190, 202
Plum Island 85, 88
Portland Block 202
Prison Mazzas 238
Quannapowitt, Lake 101
Railway Gazette 247
Rice School 100
Rice Grammar School 107,
109F, 122
Richardson, Henry 188, 203
Roche, Arthur 185
Roche, Martin 205
Rockport 101
Rome 138, 234E
Root, John Wellborn 285E,
302, 316, 319
Rouen 218
Salem 101
San Diego 294
Saugus 101
Savings Institution, Phila-
delphia 193
Scientific method 250
Sherman, John 285
Sistine Chapel 234
Smith, C. Shaler 247
Somerville 101
South Boston 102, 103
South Reading 9, 25, 101,
107
South Reading Junction 101
State House, Boston 117
Stoneham 26, 101
Stratton 190, 213
St. Paul's 217
Sullivan, Audrienne List 11,
12, 15ff, 72ff, 76, 108,
129
Sullivan, Patrick 1 lif, 77ff,
87, 103, 108
Taine, Hippolyte 167, 233
Tompson, George 172, 174
Tompson, John A. 172F,
176
Trautwine's "Engineer's
Pocket Book" 245
Tyler's Pond 58
Utica 133, 137
Vaudremer, Emil 185, 233,
238
Wainright Building 298
Wakefield 107, 190
Ware, "William Roche 184,
185, 294
West Philadelphia 194
West Point 155
Wheelock, "Fatty" 125
Whittlesey, Anna 129, 140
Whittlesey, Minnie 141ff
Whittlesey, Walter 129,
138, 140
"Wilkes Spirit of the
Times" 212
Wipship, Dr. 210
Woburn 101
Woolson, Moses 157ff, 172E
World Jubilee 180
Other Dover art books!
BROWN DECADES by Lewis Mum ford. Now classic study of the arts in America
from 1865 to 1895 resurrects the "buried renaissance" of American art. Sullivan,
Richardson, Root, Roebling, Marsh, Homer, Eakins, Ryder, maay others are exam-
ined. 2nd revised edition. Bibliography, index. 12 illustrations. 280pp. 5% x 8.
T199 Oothbound $3. SO
T200 Pa per bound $1.65
STICKS & STONIS by Lewis Mumford. Enlarged edition of this famous classic on
American architecture, art, etc. Medieval tradition in New England villages; Renais-
sance influences; Jefferson's classicism; Mechanicsvilles of Poe's time; Brown Dec-
ades, modern machine age, etc. Discussions of Richardson, Sullivan, Wright, others.
21 illustrations. 246pp. 5% x 8. T202 p ope rbound $1.50
THE BOOK OF SIGNS by Rudolf Koch. New unabridged edition, only $1 1 (On the
out-of-print market up to $201) Symbols from ancient manuscripts, medieval cathe-
drals, coins, catacombs, Byzantium, Rome, Saracen Syria. 14 different categories:
cross, monograms, astrological, chemical, runes, etc. Translated by Vyvyan Holland.
Set in Koch's own "magere Deutsche" type. 493 illustrations. 104pp. 6V x 9Vi.
Sewn binding. T162 Paperbound $1.OO
ON THE LAWS OF JAPANESE PAINTING by Henry Bowie. Based on 9 years
study-experience in Late Kano art in Japan, this remains the best guide to the
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great Japanese master. Index. 220 illustrations. 66 plates, xv 117pp. 6Va x 9Yu
T30 Paperbound $1.95
THREE CLASSICS OF ITALIAN CALLIGRAPHY by Oscar Ogg. Full exact reproduc-
tion of 3 most famous Italian Renaissance calligraphic books: Arrighi's OPERINA,
Tagliente's LO PRESENTE LIBRO, Palatine's LIBRO NUOVO. Papal chancery hand
is the basic hand, but scores of alphabets, scrolls, cartouches, borders in the most
varied styles. Historical introduction by Oscar Ogg. Bibliography by A. F. Johnson.
245 full-page plates. 282pp. 6'/a x 9V*. T212 Paperbound $1.95
LETTERING & ALPHABETS by Albert Cavanagh. Unabridged reproduction of
LETTERING by a famous American letterer. Full discussion, analysis, illustration of
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Alphabets may be reproduced without permission! 89 alphabets, 72 examples,
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THE HUMAN FIGURE IN MOTION by Eadweard Muybridge. Largest selection
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This is the autobiography of the early creative years of Louis Henri
Sullivan (1856-1924), the great architect whose work and theories
revolutionized modern American architecture. Generally recognized
as the father of the modern skyscraper, Sullivan has been charac-
trized by Lewis Mumford as "the first mind in American architecture
that had come to know itself with any fulness in relation to its sod,
its period, its civilization."
Written in his later years, this book covers Sullivan's childhood and
early maturity up to the time of the Chicago World's Fair of 1893.
It is not an ordinary record of dates and events, but an uninhibited
revelation, passionately written, of an intensely creative psyche/almost
morbidly sensitive to social forces and values. Provocative in its pro-
fuse shower of ideas and insights, it reveals the growth of the organic
theory of architecture which pervaded his work.
This book is essentially the record of the crystallization of the opinions
and theories which made him a great architect, and an even greater
influence as a theorist to a younger generation. He saw architecture
not as a merger of engineering and economics, but as a spiritualization
of function and form which must both mirror and organize the social
and cultural forces of each epoch. He taught that beauty was not a
style imposed from outside, but an organic unfolding of an inner
essence. His influence upon younger architects has been almost
unbounded, Frank Lloyd Wright habitually deferring to him as "der
Meister."
Unabridged reissue of the 1924 edition. New in this edition: 34 full-
page plates illustrating Sullivan's architecture.
New introduction by Professor Ralph M. Line, University of Illinois.
34 full-page plates. Index, xiv + 335pp. 5% x 8. Paperbound $1.85
THIS DOVER EDITION IS DESIGNED FOR YEARS OF USE
THE PAPER is chemically the same quality as you would find in books priced
$5.00 or more. It does not discolor or become brittle with age. Not artificially
bulked, either; this edition is an unabridged full-length book, but is still easy
to handle.
THE BINDING: The pages m this book are SEWN in signatures, in the method
traditionally used for the best books. These books' open flat for easy reading and
reference. Pages do not drop out, the binding does not crack and split (as is the
case wf*h; many paperbacks held together with glue).
THE TYPE IS LEGIBLE: Margin, are ample and allow for cloth rebindinq.
