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COPYRIGHT, 1912 and 1913, 




Printed at The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Matt., U. S. A. 



Adrianople, A Correspondent at, Cyril 

Campbell 846 

Alice and Education, F. B. R. Hellems . . 256 
America, The Religion of, William Canon 

Barry 469 

American Control of the Phillipines, Ber- 
nard Moses 585 

American Religion, Reasonable Hopes of, 

George A. Gordon 824 

American Wage-Earner Again, The, . . 286 

Amulet, The, Mary Antin 31 

Answering of Abiel Kingsbury's Prayers, 

The, Virginia Baker 837 

Atonement, Josiah Royce 406 

Balkan Crisis, The, Roland G. Usher ... 128 
Before the Canal is Opened, Arthur Ruhl . 10 
Benjamin, Judah P., Gamaliel Bradford, Jr. 795 
Book-Publishing and its Present Tenden- 
cies, George P. Brett 454 

Both Sides of the Servant Question, Annie 

Winsor Allen 496 

Brains and Buying, Elizabeth C. Billings . 768 

Breath of Life, The, John Burroughs , . 546 

Capitalistic Government, The Collapse of, 
Brooks Adams 433 

Censured Saints, The, [Reviews], George 
Hodges 506 

Chinese Republic, A Plea for the Recogni- 
tion of the, Ching Chun Wang ... 42 

Christian Unity, Franklin Spencer Spalding 640 

Collapse of Capitalistic Government, The, 
Brooks Adams 433 

Confederate Portraits, Gamaliel Bradford, 

J. E. B. Stuart . 98 

Judah P. Benjamin 795 

Confessions of One Behind the Times, The, 
An Old Timer 353 

Constantinople hi War-Time, H. G. Dwght 443 

Correspondent at Adrianople, A, Cyril 
Campbell 846 

Cost of Modern Sentiment, The, Agnes 
Repplier 610 

Courts and Legislative Freedom, The, 
George W. Alger 345 

Dangers of War in Europe, The, Guglielmo 
Ferrero 1 

De Senectute, Henry Dwight Sedgioick . . 163 

Defense of Purism in Speech, A, Leila 
Sprague Learned 682 

Dickinson, Emily, The Poetry of, Martha 
Hale Shackford 93 

Down-and-Out, Letters of a . . . . 190, 368 

Emotion and Etymology, Yoshio Markino 479 
Entertaining the Candidate, Katharine 

Baker 277 

Epic of the Indian, The, Charles M. Harvey 1 18 
Evening at Madame Rachel's, An, Alfred 

De Mussel 76 

Farmer and Finance, The, Myron T. Her- 
rick 170 

Guam, The Magic of, Marjorie L. Sewell . 649 

Idyllic, Robert M.Gay 566 

Indian, The Epic of the, Charles M. Har- 
vey ... , 118 

Industrial Peace or War, Everett P. Wheeler 532 

Insects and Greek Poetry, Lafcadio Hearn . 618 

Labor Unions, The Negro and the, Booker 
T. Washington 756 

Lawyer and Physician: A Contrast, G. M. 
Stratton 46 

Legislative Freedom, The Courts and, 
George W. Alger 345 

Lessons of the Wilderness, John Muir . . 81 



Letters of a Down-and-Out . . . 190, 368 

Life of Irony, The, Randolph S. Bourne . . 357 

Machine-Trainers, The, Gerald Stanley Lee 198 
Magic of Guam, The, Marjorie L. Sewell . 649 
Magic Shadow-Shapes, Robert M. Gay . . 419 
Massey Money, The, Cornelia A. P. Comer 320 
Money Trust, The, Alexander D. Noyes . 653 
Monroe Doctrine, The : an Obsolete Shib- 
boleth, Hiram Bingham 721 

Mother City, The, Zephine Humphrey . . 789 

Nationalism in Music, Redfern Mason . . 394 

Need, The, Zona Gale 744 

Negro and the Labor Unions, The, Booker 

T. Washington 756 

Newest Poets, Two of the,' Robert Shafer . 489 

Out of the Wilderness, John Muir ... 266 

Passing of a Dynasty, The, Francis E. 

Leupp , t .... 296 

Philippines, American Control of the, Ber- 
nard Moses 583 

Philippines by way of India, The, H. 

Fielding-Hall 577 

Plea for the Recognition of the Chinese 

Republic, A, Ching Chun Wang ... 42 
Poetry of Emily Dickinson, The, Martha 

Hale Shackford 93 

Precision's English, Ellwood Hendrick . . 686 

President, The, E. S 289 

Public Utilities and Public Policy, Theodore 

N.Vail 307 

Purism in Speech, A Defense of, Leila 

Sprague Learned 682 

Real Socialism, Henry Kitchell Webster . . 634 

Real Yellow Peril, The, J. 0. P. Bland . . 734 
Reasonable Hopes of American Religion, 

George A. Gordon 824 

Recent Reflections of a Novel-Reader . . 688 
Religion of America, The, William Canon 

Barry 469 

Renton's Mother, Laura Spencer Portor . 596 

Science and Mysticism, Havelock Ellis . . 771 

Second Death, The, Josiah Royce ... 242 

Sense of Smell, The, Ellwood Hendrick . . 332 
Servant Question, Both Sides of the, Annie 

Winsor Allen 496 

Social Order in an American Town, The 

Randolph S. Bourne 227 

Speech, A Defense of Purism in, Leila 

Sprague Learned 682 

Stuart, J. E. B., Gamaliel Bradford, Jr. . . 98 

Studies in Solitude, Fannie Stearns Davis . 806 
Sunrise Prayer-Meeting, The, Rebecca 

Frazar 140 

Syndicalism and its Philosophy, Ernest 

Dimnet 17 

Tele-Victorian Age, The, John H. Finley . 539 
Three- Arch Rocks Reservation, Dallas Lore 

Sharp 338 

Turkish Pictures, H. G. Dwight .... 624 

Two of the Newest Poets, Robert Shafer . 489 

United States versus Pringle, The, Cyrus 

Guernsey Pringle 145 

Van Cleve and his Friends, Mary S. Watts 

53, 208, 378, 516, 668, 812 

Vicarious, Edith Ronald Mirrielees . . . 237 

Way of Life, The, Lucy Huffaker .... 110 
Well-Regulated Family. A, C. F. Tucker 

Brooke 556 

What Industries are Worth Having? F. W. 

Taussig 701 

What Shall We Say? David Starr Jordan . 137 
When Hannah var Eight Yar Old, Kath- 

erine Peabody Girling 786 

Why it was W-on-the-Eyes, Margaret 

Prescott Montague 462 

Wished-for Child, The, Laura Spencer 

Portor 178 

Yellow Peril, The Real, J. 0. P. Bland . . 734 

Zion Church, Elsie Singmaster .... 401 


Cage, The, Arturo M. Giovannitti . . . 751 

Faith, Fannie Stearns Davis 400 

In Memoriam, Leo: a Yellow Cat, Margaret 

Sherwood 226 

Late Return, The, Katharine F. Gerould . 487 

O Sleep, Grace Fallow Norton .... 45 
Old Man to an Old Madeira, An, S. Weir 

Mitchell , .426 

'Rest is Silence, The,' Mabel Earle ... 255 

Silver River, The, Grace Fallow Nor- 
ton 617 

Souls, Fannie Stearns Davis 117 

To a Motor, Louise Imogen Guiney . . . 531 

To an Orchid, Grace Hazard Conkling . . ^337 

To the Watcher, Rabindranath Tagore . . 681 

Willy Pitcher, George Sterling 811 




Letters of a Down-and-Out . . . 190, 368 
The Confessions of One Behind the Times 353 
Recent Reflections of a Novel-Reader . 688 

Adams, Brooks, The Collapse of Capitalis- 
tic Government 433 

Alger, George W., The Courts and Legisla- 
tive Freedom 345 

Allen, Annie Winsor, Both Sides of the 
Servant Question 496 

Antin, Mary, The Amulet 31 

Baker, Katharine, Entertaining the Candi- 
date 277 

Baker, Virginia, The Answering of Abiel 
Kingsbury's Prayers 837 

Barry, William, Canon, The Religion of 
America 468 

Billings, Elizabeth C., Brains and Buying . 768 

Bingham, Hiram, The Monroe Doctrine: 
An Obsolete Shibboleth 721 

Bland, J.O. P., The Real Yellow Peril . . 734 

Bourne, Randolph S. 

The Social Order in an American Town . 227 
The Life of Irony 357 

Bradford, Gamaliel, Jr. 
Confederate Portraits; 

J. E. B. Stuart 98 

Judah P. Benjamin 795 

Brett, George P., Book-Publishing and its 
Present Tendencies 454 

Brooke, C. F. Tucker, A Well-Regulated 
Family 556 

Burroughs, John, The Breath of Life . . 546 

Campbell, Cyril, A Correspondent at Adri- 

anople 846 

Comer, Cornelia A. P., The Massey Money 320 

Conkling, Grace Hazard, To an Orchid . ". 337 

Davis, Fannie Stearns 

Souls 117 

Faith 400 

Studies in Solitude 806 

De Musset, Alfred, An Evening at Madame 
Rachel's 76 

Dimnet, Ernest, Syndicalism and its Philo- 
sophy 17 

Dwight, II. G. 

Constantinople in War-Time .... 443 
Turkish Pictures . 624 

E. S., The President 289 

Earle, Mabel, 'The Rest is Silence ' ... 255 
Ellis, Havelock, Science and Mysticism . . 771 

Ferrero, Guglielmo, The Dangers of War in 
Europe 1 

Fielding-Hall, H., The Philippines by way 

of India 577 

Finley, John H., The Tele-\ 7 ictorian Age . 539 
Frazar, Rebecca, The Sunrise Prayer- 
Meeting 140 

Gale, Zona, The Need 744 

Gay, Robert M. 

Magic Shadow- Shapes 419 

Idyllic 566 

Gerould, Katharine Fullerton, The Late 

Return 487 

Giovannitti, Arturo M., The Cage ... 751 
Girling, Katherine Peabody, When Hannah 

var Eight Yar Old 786 

Gordon, George A., Reasonable Hopes of 

American Religion 824 

Guiney, Louise Imogen, To a Motor . . . 531 

Hall, H. Fielding, See Fielding-Hall, H. 

Harvey, Charles M., The Epic of the Indian 118 

Hearn, Lafcadio, Insects and Greek Poetry 618 

Hellems, F. B. R., Alice and Education . . 256 
Hendrick, Ellwood 

The Sense of Smell 332 

Precision's English 686 

Herrick, Myron T., The Farmer and 

Finance 170 

Hodges, George, The Censured Saints, 

[Reviews] 506 

Huffaker, Lucy, The Way of Life .... 110 

Humphrey, Zephine, The Mother City . . 789 

Jordan, David Starr, What Shall We Say? . 1 37 

Learned, Leila Sprague, A Defense of 

Purism in Speech 682 

Lee, Gerald Stanley, The Machine-Trainers 198 
Leupp, Francis E., The Passing of a 

Dynasty 296 

Markino, Yoshio, Emotion and Etymology 479 

Mason, Redfern, Nationalism in Music . . 394 

Mirrielees, Edith Ronald, Vicarious ... 237 
Mitchell, S. Weir, An Old Man to an Old 

Madeira 426 

Montague, Margaret Prescott, Why it was 

W-on-the-Eyes 462 

Moses, Bernard, American Control of the 

Philippines 585 

Muir, John. 

Lessons of the Wilderness 81 

Out of the Wilderness 266 

Norton, Grace Fallow 

O Sleep 45 

The Silver River 617 

Noyes, Alexander D., The Money Trust . 653 



Old Timer, An, The Confessions of One 
Behind the Times 353 

Portor, Laura Spencer 

The Wished-for Child 178 

Renton's Mother 596 

Pringle, Cyrus Guernsey, The United States 
versus Pringle 145 

Repplier, Agnes, The Cost of Modern Senti- 
ment 610 

Royce, Josiah 

The Second Death 242 

Atonement 406 

Ruhl, Arthur, Before the Canal is Opened . 10 

Sedgwick, Henry Duright, De Senectute . . 163 

Sewell, Marjorie L., The Magic of Guam . 649 
Shackford, Martha Hale, The Poetry of 

Emily Dickinson 93 

Shafer, Robert, Two of the Newest Poets 489 
Sharp, Dallas Lore, Three-Arch Rocks 

Reservation . 338 

Sherwood, Margaret, In Memoriam, Leo: a 

Yellow Cat 226 

Singmaster, Elsie, Zion Church .... 401 

Spalding, Franklin Spencer, Christian Unity 640 

Sterling, George, Willy Pitcher .... 811 
Stratton, G. M., Lawyer and Physician: A 

Contrast 46 

Taussig, F. W., What Industries are Worth 
Having? 701 

Usher, Roland, G., The Balkan Crisis . . 128 

Vail, Theodore N., Public Utilities and 
Public Policy 307 

Washington, Booker T., The Negro and the 
Labor Unions 756 

Watts, Mary S., Van Cleve and his Friends 

53, 208, 378, 516, 668, 812 

Webster, Henry Kitchell, Real Socialism. A 
Story 634 

Wheeler, Everett P., Industrial Peace or War 532 


Best-Dressed Nation, The 428 Monstriferous Empire of Women, The . . 711 

Case of the Ministers, The 571 New Year's Gift from the Battlefield, A . 713 

Cheerful Workman, The 431 

On Adopting One's Parents 280 

Dickens Discovery, A 574 On the Gentle Art of Letter-Reading . . 856 

Excitement of Writing, The 427 Poetfy of Syndicalism, The 853 

Publisher and the Book, The .... 854 

From Concord to Syria 284 

Rock and the Pool, The 430 

Gratitude 718 

Great American Poet, A 719 Social Spot Cash 143 

Song of Deborah, The 713 

Leo to his Mistress 576 St. David Livingstone ,857 

Literature and the World-State . . . 716 

Letter-Reading, On the Gentle Art of . . 856 What would Jane say? 282 


JANUARY, 1913 



IF one among the many liberal states- 
men and thinkers who, during the first 
half of the nineteenth century, suffered 
and struggled for the destruction of 
the absolutism which ruled the old 
world, were to-day permitted to revisit 
the earth, what a surprise would be in 
store for him! 

A permanent peace was the precious 
gift promised to the nations by those 
writers and philosophers who, during 
the century just past, strove to shift 
authority from the Court to the Parl- 
iament, from the King to the People, 
and whose aim it was to subject govern- 
ment to supervision by a free press, 
and by a strong and enlightened public 
opinion. It was a cardinal point of their 
philosophy that the wars which deso- 
lated Europe during the second half of 
the seventeenth century were brought 
about by ambitious rulers, jealous 
courtiers, and intriguing ministers, the 
more inclined to waste the blood and 
treasure of the people, since the latter 
could not protest, much less struggle. 
Therefore, when the day should come 
that the people, fitted for self-govern- 
ment, should assume the right to over- 
see, criticise, and advise the govern- 
ment, it was argued that they would 
no longer intrust their most vital in- 
VOL. in -NO. i 

terests to an absolute monarch and an 
aristocracy trained to the use of arms, 
nor would they allow kings and courts 
to squander their blood and treasure to 
satisfy royal caprices and a senseless 
thirst for glory. War, then, would be- 
come more and more rare; for a spirit 
of aggression and conquest is not char- 
acteristic of free peoples. They would 
consent to it only in order to defend 
themselves against those nations, still 
under the bondage of tyrants, which 
were led against their will into offensive 
warfare. Liberty, parliamentary insti- 
tutions, and peace, these would be the 
fruits of a single tree which all Europe 
would garner at the same time. 

It is now about fifty years since all 
the European states, Russia excepted, 
came of age and acquired the right to 
express their will and criticise the pol- 
icy of their governments. For better 
or worse, representative institutions, 
in one form or another, have taken 
root in nearly all the countries of Eu- 
rope, and carry forward their work, 
even if slowly. Peace, therefore, ac- 
cording to the prophecies of the doc- 
trinaire liberals of 1848, should reign 
throughout Europe by the will and au- 
thority of the people and in despite of 
bellicose governments and rulers, cease- 
lessly in search of adventure, both by 
virtue of ancient tradition, and on 


account of their education and their 

Such was the expectation. What 
of the realization? On every hand we 
see governments and kings struggling 
against their people and against pub- 
lic opinion. It is the people who are 
fired with a desire for war, while their 
governments, together with their sov- 
ereigns, devoted to the preservation 
of peace, resist as long as they can the 
pressure of public opinion, even at the 
risk of losing that popularity for which 
they so eagerly strive. 

Last year, Italy gave the world a 
singular example of this phenomenon. 
It is no secret that the government 
and the King were very reluctant to 
undertake the conquest of Tripoli. The 
difficulty of finding a decent pretext 
for declaring war on Turkey; the ex- 
pense and manifold dangers of such an 
expedition; the solicitude not to dis- 
turb the economic and political equi- 
librium of internal affairs, attained 
after so much labor; the great uncer- 
tainty as to the value of the territory 
to be conquered, justly gave the govern- 
ment pause. It is even said in Rome 
that the King defined Tripoli as 'the 
dry leaf of Africa.' I am unable to 
testify to this, for rumors are always 
rife in regard to important matters and 
it is impossible to verify them. Certain 
it is, however, that even if the phrase 
attributed to the King is one that he 
never uttered or even dreamed of, the 
words remain an eloquent proof of the 
existence, in high circles, of hesitation 
and misgiving in the face of the re- 
sponsibility of such an enterprise. And, 
indeed, the Italian government would 
have been unworthy of ruling the 
destinies of a great nation if it had not 
hesitated before the dangers and un- 
certainties of an undertaking whose 
outcome was problematical. Regard- 
less of its own desire, however, the 
government was forced to overcome 

its hesitation and yield unwillingly to 
the pressure brought to bear upon it by 
the people. 

Those who were in Italy during the 
summer of 1911 witnessed the following 
extraordinary phenomenon. Within 
the space of a few weeks, in the midst 
of European peace, a quiet, thrifty, 
industrious people, accustomed to the 
comforts, conveniences, and safeguards 
of modern civilization, a people whose 
country had been spared the horrors of 
war for forty-five years, and for whom, 
therefore, war was as the memory of 
some distant historical event, some re- 
volution, or famine, this people sud- 
denly burst forth into such a blaze of 
militant excitement that the govern- 
ment was reduced to choosing between 
the alternatives of satisfying it and of 
succumbing to it. The war in Tripoli 
was made by the people and those 
newspapers which were the people's 
organs, and so great was their combined 
eagerness that the conservative and 
monarchical papers even went so far 
as to upbraid the King because of his 
supposed hesitation and reluctance, 
and openly reminded him that nowa- 
days the sovereign is but the servant of 
the people, and that when the people 
demand war he must satisfy them; or, 
if he lack courage, why then he may 

The Italio-Turkish War in Tripoli 
has brought about a great Balkan war. 
Bulgaria, Servia, Greece, and Monte- 
negro are engaged in a concerted at- 
tack upon Turkey. Their armies are 
realizing a victorious campaign* At the 
moment of writing the European pow- 
ers are in a state of great uneasiness. 
If the rulers of the four states alone 
were the arbiters of the situation Eu- 
rope might rest easy. The governments 
understand perfectly that the Balkan 
war, just now, may let loose such a 
storm as to be a great present danger, 
whatever its ultimate result, to those 


smaller states not always on the best 
terms with one another. But in Servia, 
Greece, Bulgaria, even in Montene- 
gro, it is not governments alone, but 
parliaments and newspapers, which ex- 
press the will of the people. It is the 
people who demand war. While the 
government hesitated, they accused 
it of cowardice, and restively awaited 
the order for mobilization. From the 
outset their impatience was so great, 
and so publicly expressed, that the gov- 
ernments dared not oppose it, openly 
relying solely upon a temporizing pol- 
icy. Throughout Europe it was no se- 
cret that these would have to give in 
sooner or later. 

The most typical case of present-day 
conditions is, perhaps, that of the 
German Emperor. When William II 
ascended the throne, Europe expected 
nothing less than to see a new Barba- 
rossa burst into the arena of European 
politics. Strange legends were current 
about him: some said he had sworn 
never to drink a glass of champagne 
until Champagne should be annexed to 
the German Empire; others, that his 
one ambition was to cover his name 
with glory, and that his warlike as- 
pirations were boundless. This was 
common talk, and the newspapers of 
the day printed it. Twenty-four years 
later the Emperor could boast, as he 
did not long ago to a French friend of 
mine, alluding to the Morocco incident 
and the crisis of 1905, 'History will re- 
cognize that Europe owes her peace 
to me.' And history will, doubtless, 
recognize this pacific disposition of his 
in the future more than his people do 
now. For the past few years the Ger- 
man Emperor has not been so popular 
as he was during the first ten years of 
his reign. The reasons would be too 
many to give here, but one is his con- 
stant and determined pacific policy. 
He has invariably tried to reconcile 
himself with France rather than to seek 

occasion for another war. On this ac- 
count a portion of his people accuse 
him of loving peace overmuch and 
therefore of following a weak and vacil- 
lating policy, letting slip opportunities 
which might never present themselves 

So in Germany, the sovereign, Ho- 
henzollern though he be, loves peace 
more than his people, whose criticism 
of him is that he will not squander their 
blood and treasure, but wishes, at all 
costs, to save the one and the other. 


Such, more or less accurately, is the 
situation in all the European states; a 
paradoxical situation, unforeseen, and 
full of danger. The international bal- 
ance of power, which it must ever be 
remembered is, in Europe, the result of 
weary centuries of effort and struggle, 
may at any moment be threatened by 
one of those 'heat-waves' which pass 
over nations, and which, even if they 
do not bring about a general war, oblige 
governments to increase military ex- 
penditure to a ruinous extent. What 
are the causes of this condition of af- 
fairs, and how can it be explained? 

The inexperience of a generation 
which has never seen a war, and the 
innate, inherited tendencies of the pop- 
ulace, are certainly among the causes 
which underlie this condition. In the 
nineteenth century, Europe expected 
too much from the progress of demo- 
cracy and the natural proclivities of 
the masses. As the masses have gradu- 
ally acquired consciousness of them- 
selves, and gained a certain influence in 
the state, it appears clearly that they 
are more conservative, more faithful 
to tradition, more tenacious of ancient 
ways of thought, more like the gener- 
ations which preceded them, than the 
poets and philosophers and reformers 
of the nineteenth century gave them 


credit for being. Revolutionary ideas, 
novel sentiments which are to change 
the character of a civilization, spread 
more easily in those small aristocracies 
which are endowed with broad culture 
and accustomed to the world and so- 
ciety, than they do among a populace 
confined within a narrow circle of ex- 
periences, and fearful of doing what its 
grandfathers and great-grandfathers 
never did. Now in the history of the 
world war is as old as man himself; 
and peace, a lasting peace, as the nor- 
mal condition of the life of a people, is 
the painful and recent acquisition of 
our modern civilization. War, there- 
fore, exercises a morbid fascination on 
the imagination of the masses, especial- 
ly when they have not had to undergo 
its hardships, and have no conception 
of the fearful suffering it entails. 

In fact, we now see in Europe, that 
the Christian and humanitarian edu- 
cation of centuries has not succeeded 
in eradicating from the masses their 
warlike propensities, while a prolong- 
ed season of peace, with the omnipres- 
ence of newspapers, and the super- 
ficial instruction of the elementary 
schools, easily deceives the popular im- 
agination by representing war under 
a romantic aspect, as a kind of national 
sport, creating at once entertainment 
and glory. One should see with how 
much eagerness, interest, and excite- 
ment the peasants and artisans and 
poorest villagers of Italy read the pa- 
pers which describe episodes of the 
Tripoli war. What the newspapers re- 
late to their readers, day by day, is 
not a hurried summary of events, but 
a thrilling popular romance or legend. 
Conventional it may be, lurid in color, 
rough in outline; but never mind: the 
imagination of the people must now, 
each day, work itself up to a high pitch 
of excitement, and cares for neither con- 
tradictions nor improbabilities in the 
tales it feeds on. It takes delight in this 

false image of war, and thus keeps up 
its patriotic and warlike fervor. This 
state of mind is, of course, keener and 
deeper in Italy just now, than among 
other European states, because Italy 
is fighting; l but among them all are to 
be found the germs of this elemental 
and romantic love of war. 

What is now happening in Europe 
proves that a long period of peace may 
produce in nations a spirit of impru- 
dence and levity which renders them 
careless about playing with the dangers 
of war. A long peace, the inexperience 
of the masses, a literature which falsely 
exalts the heroic in war, and exagger- 
ates its influence among the populace, 
are insufficient in themselves to ex- 
plain the warlike impulses of public 
opinion in the eyes of the world, but 
they afford a partial explanation of 
the phenomenon. These movements 
are too dangerous, and give rise to too 
many complications among the dif- 
ferent governments, for us to believe 
that they are merely the result of a 
deranged public opinion. 

Observing at close quarters the pol- 
icy of European governments, it is easy 
to see that this warlike spirit would 
not be so strong and deep in the 
masses were it not pertinaciously fos- 
tered by the newspapers, and by the 
political parties they represent, by the 
wealthy classes, and by the nobility, 
who have so much influence in Europe, 
even where, as in France, they have 
lost political power, or in Italy, where 
they are losing it. In all the countries 
of Europe it is the upper classes, or a 
portion of the upper classes (and in this 
portion I include the moneyed classes, 
the aristocracy, and that part of the 
professional class which comes most in 
contact with the nobility) who strive 
in every way to excite the belligerent 

1 Signer Ferrero wrote this essay shortly be- 
fore the treaty of peace between Italy and 


spirit of the artisans, and of the popu- 
lace, even at the cost of bringing about 
a terrible war, and of forcing the people 
into a hostile attitude toward the gov- 
ernment and its ruler. 

The reason why a portion of the 
upper classes have adopted this dan- 
gerous and violent policy, descend- 
ing even to the lowest methods of 
propaganda, the reason why this pol- 
icy succeeds and finds numerous and 
enthusiastic supporters among the 
wealthy and the cultured, among busi- 
ness men, manufacturers, men of let- 
ters, and University professors, who all 
help to excite and inflame the masses, 
is a deep-seated one. It must be sought 
in the great political and social up- 
heaval produced in European society 
by the spread of democratic and social- 
istic ideas among the working classes, 
their rapidly increasing ambitions and 
demands; and by the spirit of inde- 
pendence and criticism which, develop- 
ing rapidly, has separated the masses 
from the influence and patronage of 
the classes, organizing the populace 
into parties, and impelling them to a 
policy different from the rich man's 
policy, and often opposed to it. This 
phenomenon is so vital and important 
that it needs to be analyzed even if 
only in a cursory fashion. 

In Europe the political influence and 
social prestige of birth and wealth, 
while still great, are rapidly diminish- 
ing. The fruits of the French Revo- 
lution are still ripening. Everywhere 
the classes opposed to the aristocracy 
tradespeople, artisans, and peasants 
are organizing and taking an interest 
in public affairs. They are learning to 
read the papers, and to make use of 
their political rights. They are begin- 
ning to demand explanations, to dis- 
cuss and criticise those various forms 
of authority which formerly they blind- 
ly obeyed that of the capital which 
employs them in the factories and the 

fields, that of the priest who speaks 
to them in the name of God, and that 
of the government which, in the name 
of the king, makes the laws which are 
their guaranties of law and order. 

Naturally, none of these ancient 
forms of authority can any longer 
maintain their former position and 
privileges. The practices of religious 
and monarchical forms are those which 
are most deeply affected by this 
change in the masses. In eighteenth- 
century Europe an atheistic aristo- 
cracy ruled over a pious and bigoted 
people; now, on the contrary, the 
upper classes have become religious 
and mystical; while the people, especi- 
ally in the cities, neglect the churches 
and break away from that religion 
which for so many centuries educated 
them to respect the aristocracy. Roy- 
alty itself imposes little respect, and 
no awe, upon the multitude. Even in 
Germany the Emperor is constantly 
and bitterly criticised by political par- 
ties, both in the newspapers and in pub- 
lic meetings. He is especially blamed 
for still keeping up the appearance of 
a real monarch whose will is law, and 
who wishes to have the full power of a 
genuine authority felt throughout the 
state. The kings of Belgium and of 
Italy have succeeded in escaping from 
the adverse criticism of their people, 
but how? By standing aside, by the 
great simplicity and modesty of their 
habits of life, by the utmost approach- 
ability, and by mildness in the exer- 
cise of their authority, trying thus to 
render acceptable a popular monarchy, 
homely and simple, from which eti- 
quette is banished, and which does not 
disdain to put itself on a level with its 

The old-fashioned monarchy, based 
on divine right, is trying to become de- 
mocratic; and with it the government, 
the press, and a large portion of the 
cultured world. The common effort of 


all these factors is to level themselves 
down in order to satisfy the aspirations, 
prejudices, and desires of the people. 
This is a wholly natural tendency be- 
cause, in proportion as the lower classes 
and the populace crowd into cities and 
acquire education and organization, 
they become the predominant polit- 
ical force. This is the inevitable result 
of political liberty, of the spread of edu- 
cation and universal or quasi-universal 
suffrage. The journals cater to the 
public which supports them, for, since 
the middle and lower classes are more 
numerous than the upper, they form 
a more important clientele. It is there- 
fore not surprising if in all countries the 
greater part of the press should become 
the organ of the numerically large class 
which supports it, rather than of the 
rich and cultivated, but numerically 
small aristocracies. 

In proportion as suffrage is extend- 
ed, and the number of electors in- 
creases, elective institutions have to 
modify their tactics, and necessarily 
end by favoring the greatest numbers. 
All over Europe the upper classes have 
consented to the extension of the 
franchise, in the hope that, through 
their own preponderant influence, 
they may coerce the increased number 
of voters. But, sooner or later, their 
calculations have everywhere proved 
to be wrong. Under various names par- 
ties are forming, or have already been 
formed, which, by stirring up the pas- 
sions of the masses, or by rousing their 
greed, or by means of some promised 
advantage, have succeeded in sepa- 
rating some portion of the artisan or 
laboring classes from the patronage of 
the wealthy. Thus by their own sheer 
strength of numbers, these parties have 
striven to acquire influence with the 

Thus the press, parliamentary in- 
stitutions, and public opinion, which, 
until within the last fifty years, were 

almost wholly under the controlling 
influence of the aristocracy, are now 
rapidly slipping from its control. Nor 
does public service, whether in the 
higher ranks or the lower, escape a 
similar fate. Until within the last fifty 
years the chief offices of state, civil or 
military, were held with few exceptions 
by men in the higher walks of life. 
This is no longer the case. On the one 
hand, with the growing number of of- 
ficials, the aristocracy is unable any 
longer to fill the increased number of 
positions; on the other hand, with the 
increase of wealth in the middle class, 
its facilities for study, and its ambition 
to rise, there is a rapid increase in the 
number of persons who attempt suc- 
cessfully to attain the highest places. 
All over Europe, even in the most aris- 
tocratic states, the official world is 
made up from the two opposing ranks; 
a method which is often a source of 
weakness to the government because 
each party brings into the combination 
widely differing ideas and a spirit of 
rivalry and jealousy. 

So, even in Europe, the people are 
waking, and democracy is making rapid 
strides, to the detriment of the privi- 
leged classes which for so many centu- 
ries ruled almost unchecked. But these 
classes are not going to allow them- 
selves to be ousted without a struggle. 
Too weak to defend themselves openly, 
they are trying to preserve their influ- 
ence by arousing in the masses a patri- 
otic and warlike spirit. Patriotic en- 
thusiasm, the fighting spirit, hatred of 
a national enemy, on these the aristo- 
cracy have been obliged to fall back. 
Their old allies have begun to fail them. 
Religion has been weakened, the mon- 
archy has become popularized, and the 
governments lack the strength to op- 
pose the political action of the major- 
ity. In order to separate at least a por- 
tion of the middle class and populace 
from the growing influence of demo- 


cratic and socialistic ideas, the privi- 
leged classes have fallen back upon a 
new line of defense. 

At this point of my argument the 
reader may justly observe that if the 
trouble I have described is indeed the 
deep-seated cause of such a serious 
condition of things, the aristocracy, 
by their policy, would deserve to be 
stripped of their privileges at the hands 
of the lower and middle classes. Un- 
der such circumstances, the reader's 
sole regret would be that their feathers 
should be slowly plucked. By a mean 
and egotistical spirit that, for selfish 
reasons, seeks to check a social evolu- 
tion which, though it impaired their 
power, would yet be generally benefi- 
cial, are not aristocrats exposing Europe 
and its civilization to the risks of a 
fearful calamity? Has not the middle 
class which for so many centuries 
was content to serve and worship small 
and powerful oligarchies contribu- 
ted through its organization, its educa- 
tion, and its aspirations after power, 
to the moral betterment of the world? 
Has not its rise to power aided in the 
suppression of abuses, excesses, and 
impositions so frequent in the days 
when the world was ruled by absolute, 
all-powerful governments, subject to 
no check or control? Does not demo- 
cracy the pride of our civilization 
consist essentially in the awakening of 
the political conscience? Is not our 
civilization grander and richer than 
the ages which preceded it, just be- 
cause each man feels himself to be a 
tiny but active atom in the great body 
politic? This is a natural train of 
thought. But he who so judges this 
serious condition cannot have under- 
stood it, and runs the risk of giving a 
superficial opinion of its meaning. 

That the belligerent policy of the 
European aristocracy is partially influ- 
enced by a selfish dread of losing popu- 
larity and power, there can be no doubt. 

But if this policy were simply the re- 
sult of selfishness it would not be very 
dangerous. Its greatest strength and 
greatest danger lie in the fact that it 
has succeeded in convincing and car- 
rying with it those very classes of the 
lower and middle order against whose 
interests and ambitions it was direct- 
ed. Now, one cannot presume too 
much either on the blindness or the in- 
telligence of men, nor can one believe 
that one party is so able and adroit 
as to hoodwink another and induce it 
to act wholly against its own interests. 
One part of the community cannot 
move the whole. A minority cannot 
move the majority of a great nation, 
if side by side with its own interests 
it cannot also do battle for interests 
which are higher and more universal. 
This is precisely what is happening in 
Europe, and unless this difficult point 
is understood, it is impossible to un- 
derstand the present situation. 

Let me make my remarks quite clear. 
The first effect or result which marks 
the accession to power of a new party is 
invariably a relaxation of discipline. 
Whoever acquires power, whether an 
individual, or a class, or a party, wishes 
to enjoy it, and the first and most imme- 
diate method of enjoying it is to abuse 
it. This abuse may take the form of 
lax application of the laws generally, 
or it may express itself through a dis- 
regard of the severer ones. Only as a 
result of long practice, and of experi- 
ence of the dangers resulting from an 
abuse of power, does a governing class 
or party gradually learn that it must 
willingly, and without attempt at eva- 
sion, undergo severe self-discipline; 
that it must be the first to set an exam- 
ple of obedience to the laws which it 

As institutions, politics, and cus- 
toms have become progressively more 
democratic, the consequent relaxation 
of discipline has become, during the 



last fifteen years, the most conspicu- 
ous social phenomenon in Europe. 
Everywhere the same spectacle is ex- 
hibited. In political parties, in great 
public and private undertakings, in 
manufacturing, in the church and reli- 
gious sects, even in families, the feel- 
ing for passive obedience and silent 
respect is vanishing. Everybody, down 
to the humblest citizen, must discuss, 
criticise, advise, argue, refute, and give 
his own opinion. Everywhere author- 
ity is more and more involved in a 
network of customs, laws, rules, and 
precedents limiting the power of the 
government over the governed. 

Now, this critical and democratic at- 
titude of mind must not be considered 
as an evil in itself. All over the world, 
extreme conservatives, who look upon 
order and disorder, discipline and the 
lack of it, as contrary and incompatible 
conditions, are inclined so to regard it. 
In this they are wrong. Rightly speak- 
ing, in the evolution of a state from 
order and discipline to disorder and 
anarchy, such as would render life in- 
tolerable and progress impossible, the 
transitions are all gradual. Each one 
of the stages may seem dangerous to 
those who compare it to the most 
strictly ordered of the stages which 
preceded it; but if fairly judged, the 
condition of things is, on the contrary, 
quite tolerable in itself, and admits of 
reasonable adjustment. Its possible 
disadvantages are accompanied by 
many indirect advantages. 

All forms of liberal government give 
rise to a certain disorder which is com- 
pensated for by increased initiative, 
energy, and dignity in the individuals 
who live under it, and by the keener, 
deeper sense of personal responsibil- 
ity which it generates among men. 
^ Therefore if Europe, like the United 
States, were to live in one great con- 
federation, fearing no serious danger 
from without, it might, like America, 

quietly consider the inevitable draw- 
backs of a free government and the 
difficulties involved in the gradual 
transfer of power from the upper to 
the lower classes. In Europe, demo- 
cratic disorder is far from being so 
great as of itself to threaten a social 
calamity, and moreover, with us as well 
as in America, the increased liberty of 
every class begets an increase of ener- 
gy and initiative. But Europe is like a 
great camp wherein seven great pow- 
ers and a certain number of smaller 
ones live side by side, armed to the 
teeth, and yet at the same time in 
dread of war. Furthermore, in every 
state, the sad, universal, constant, al- 
most tragic subject of consideration 
for serious and thoughtful men is this : 
May not this undisciplined, critical 
spirit which is spreading among the 
people, even though it may legitimate- 
ly liberate the energies of a nation, 
diminish its military strength, whether 
for offense or defense? May not these 
democratic ideas weaken a nation in 
the face of its rivals? Of course, his- 
tory tells us of nations/ racked by 
internal convulsions, throwing them- 
selves with overwhelming force upon 
enemies beyond their border and com- 
ing off victorious. Rightly or wrong- 
ly, however, the general opinion of 
thinking men in Europe is that the 
military miracles of the French Revo- 
lution are an exception rather than a 
rule, and appear only under condi- 
tions of extreme danger. Usually, when 
a people, torn by anarchy, rushes into 
war, it either abuses its victories, or 
is itself destroyed. In a word, a peo- 
ple may face the trial of war with 
greater assurance in direct proportion 
as the masses are content to follow the 
ruling class without criticism or mur- 
mur of discontent. Doubtless, if this 
lawless, critical spirit of liberty were 
spread equally throughout all coun- 
tries it would not cause much anxiety, 


because the effect would be every- 
where identical. But how is it possible 
to ascertain whether this be so? 

Nowadays, the European states are 
scrutinizing one another anxiously; but 
lawlessness is not, like merchandise 
for export or import, susceptible of 
exact appraisal, and its study may be 
carried on far more easily in one's own 
country than in a distant, foreign 
land. In face of the impossibility of 
calculating, with any approach to ac- 
curacy, whether this evil is as great at 
home as it is abroad, the desire grows 
in every nation to check its progress 
as much as possible. Moreover, since 
a patriotic and warlike spirit is a cer- 
tain though dangerous specific against 
lawlessness, there is an ever-increas- 
ing number of people in all classes, 
even in the middle class, whose ambi- 
tion is checked by such a spirit, who 
work zealously to stimulate it in the 
masses, under the firm conviction that 
by so doing they are benefiting their 
country and increasing its greatness 
and its power. 

This belligerent state of mind now 
agitating Europe is the last phase of 
that great struggle which began with 
the French Revolution, between con- 
servatives and liberals, between the 
principle of authority and the idea of 
liberty, between the state and demo- 
cracy. What the outcome will be is 
hard to say. If the time should come 
when organized armies should be no 
more, but when whole peoples armed 
with fearful instruments of destruc- 

tion should hurl themselves upon one 
another the very thought of it 
would be appalling to us. Yet no less 
serious does the possibility appear to 
the eyes of many Europeans. They 
are fearful lest the democratic and 
socialist movement of the middle and 
lower classes will continue to progress 
swiftly; and lest, as the democratic 
movement spreads, there spread with 
it the conviction that the discipline of 
obedience to constituted authority is 
everywhere growing weaker. Europe is 
not America. Every European state 
has its own traditions of culture, and 
its own political and military duties, 
which it could not live up to if its con- 
stitution were to become as democratic 
as that of the United States. 

Standing between the alternatives 
of war on the one hand, and of lawless- 
ness on the other, the European nations 
are all equally bewildered, in doubt 
which way to turn, while the approach- 
ing crisis is all the more serious be- 
cause thinking men are giving up poli- 
tics for business. This neglect of public 
duties by the class which once bore 
the entire responsibility is one of the 
most regrettable results of industrial 
development and universal wealth. I 
trust the day may never come when 
Europe will be forced to realize that 
it would have been better for her if 
she were less rich but more wise, if 
she were endowed with less machinery 
and capital, but with more powerful, 
more stable, and more enlightened 



NEXT year, if all goes well, the Pan- 
ama Canal will be opened. The dream 
of four centuries will be realized, the 
greatest engineering task of our time 
accomplished, and the Pacific and At- 
lantic made one. 

You can see now the great ships mov- 
ing through, flags flying and bands 
playing, where yesterday the lonely 
traveler hurried across the treacherous 
jungle with a shiver, and looked behind 
him for the enemy lurking in every 
shadow. You can almost hear the rum- 
ble and hum of that mighty spirit 
our tremendous and baffling modern 
spirit which, with all its superficial 
hardness and irreverence, works mira- 
cles of practical humanity that the old 
days never knew or dreamed of. 

The gate will open between two hap- 
py oceans, new friendliness with our 
South American neighbors will begin 
to stir, new streams of north and south 
trade to flow. But there will be one 
discord in the harmony of the cosmic 
lute. The nation nearest to the Canal, 
the one, indeed, through whose land it 
was built, will not join in the common 

There are more poets in Colombia, 
perhaps, than in all South America put 
together, but none of them will sing of 
the steam-shovels or of the triumphs of 
modern engineers. The journalists of 
Bogota write better Spanish, perhaps, 
than do those of Santiago or Buenos 
Aires, but they will speak of us only as 
the * Hannibal at our Gates/ or the 
'Yanki Huns and Vandals.' Colom- 
bia is nearer to us in actual miles than 


any other South American country. In 
her cities are people as cultured and 
charming as any in Latin America. 
She has coffee, sugar, cocoa, rubber, 
woods, cattle, minerals, and vast unde- 
veloped resources that need our ma- 
chinery and capital and creative energy. 
Naturally, we should be the best of 

Yet the Canal, far from bringing 
Colombia nearer, has only pushed her 
farther away. She is more remote than 
she was fifty years ago, when a progres- 
sive Colombian turned instinctively to 
the United States for examples of the 
humanity, tolerance, and progress he 
would have his countrymen emulate; 
more remote than she was when Sant- 
iago fell, in our war with Spain, and 
the people of Bogota came crowding 
about the American legation to cheer 
our minister and our flag. 

It is a long way from the Isthmus up 
to Bogota, and the thrill of achieve- 
ment there dies out before it has 
crossed the intervening jungles and 
mountains. The Colombians do not 
feel it at all. They know that the Isth- 
mus is still on their coat-of-arms, but 
that the Isthmus itself is gone. They 
still, so it seems to them, have the 
treaty of 1846, according to which the 
United States guaranteed Colombia's 
sovereignty over the Isthmus, and 
agreed that this promise should be 
'religiously observed.' They have lost 
their sovereignty and the most valu- 
able thing, potentially, that they own- 
ed, and they hate those responsible, as 
only a proud and helpless people can 



hate those by whom they believe they 
have been robbed. 

This is a fact which Americans must 
face as they consider the possibilities 
which the Canal will bring. Whatever 
the original rights and wrongs of the 
question, this is a matter of present ex- 
pediency which stands squarely in front 
of us now. The taking of the Isthmus 
is just as live an issue to-day in Colom- 
bia as it was nine years ago, when the 
famous * fifty-mile order' was issued 
which prevented Colombia from put- 
ting down an uprising in her own terri- 
tory, and made possible the recogni- 
tion of the independence of Panama. 
Scarcely a day certainly not a week 
7- passes in Bogota, in which it is not 
made the subject of more or less vir- 
ulent editorials and the motive for 
misunderstanding and misrepresenting 
everything American. 

And if it is a live issue for Colombi- 
ans, it is no less so for every American 
who is trying to grow coffee or to raise 
cattle or to work a mine in Colom- 
bia, or who would like to venture his 
energy and capital and skill in the 
country's development. This is a plain 
statement of fact, the common know- 
ledge of all who have taken the trouble 
as the writer has to go down to 
Colombia and find out what Colom- 
bians and Americans living in, or inter- 
ested in, Colombia think. 

Of course history cannot be turned 
back. No sensible person thinks of giv- 
ing up the Canal Zone. It is as much 
ours now, for all practical purposes, as 
if it had originally been a county of 
Massachusetts. The real issue is, what, 
if anything, is going to be done '-to 
remedy the intolerable condition which 
now exists between the theoretically 
friendly people of the United States 
and Colombia a condition which af- 
fects our relations not only with Co- 
lombia, but with all Latin America? 

From examination of this question, 

two influences, which have made up 
many people's minds for them, had 
better be eliminated at once. It is not 
fair to assume that Colombia was right 
merely because Mr. Roosevelt in 
such utterances, for instance, as *I 
took the Isthmus and let Congress de- 
bate' seemed, to many, wrong. Nor 
is it fair to assume that our moral debt 
to Colombia if s,uch existed has 
been somehow wiped out by the bril- 
liance of our mechanical achievement 
at Panama. 

At the time that Colombia lost her 
province of Panama, people said just 
as ninety-nine out of a hundred Amer- 
icans will say to-day that it was a 
' pretty raw deal.' They said this good- 
humoredly, with a smiling shake of the 
head, implying their admiration for the 
man who 'did things,' and their guess 
that, after all, this one was somehow 
justified. The rawness of the deal was 
so generally admitted, indeed, that 
everything short of granting Colom- 
bia's request that the matter be sub- 
mitted to The Hague was done to 
neutralize it. Secretary of State Hay, 
in his letter to the Colombian minister, 
refusing this request, said that our gov- 
ernment recognized 'that Colombia 
has, as she affirms, suffered an appre- 
ciable loss,' this included not only 
the Isthmus itself, but her income of 
$250,000 a year from the Panama Rail- 
road and the reversionary rights in the 
railroad, which was to become her pro- 
perty in 1967, 'and this government 
has no desire to increase or accentuate 
her misfortunes, but is willing to do 
everything in her power to ameliorate 
her lot.' 

Mr. Root, the next Secretary of 
State, was sent on his splendid pil- 
grimage of conciliation all the way 
round South America. When this em- 
bassy of good-will really seemed to 
have accomplished something, and our 
brilliant successes on the Isthmus were 


an added cause for treating Colombia 
with the consideration due a weaker 
neighbor, through whose misfortune we 
had benefited, Mr. Roosevelt, speaking 
before the students of the University 
of California, made the astounding de- 
claration that he had ignored precedent 
and simply taken the Isthmus. 'If I 
had followed traditional conservative 
methods/ he was quoted as saying, 'I 
would have submitted a dignified state 
paper of probably two hundred pages 
to Congress, and the debate on it 
would have been going on yet. But I 
took the Canal Zone and let Congress 
debate: and while the debate goes on 
the Canal does also.' 

The effect of such a declaration, 
carrying all the force of the words 
of a chief executive and crystalizing 
instantly the vague distrust of the 
United States felt throughout the 
South American republics, need not be 
explained. To the inevitable protests 
which this speech brought out, Mr. 
Roosevelt replied that the taking of the 
Isthmus was 'as free from scandal as 
the public acts of Washington or Lin- 
coln'; that * every action taken was 
carried out in accordance with the 
highest, finest, and nicest standards of 
public and governmental ethics'; and 
that * any man who at any stage has op- 
posed or condemned the action taken 
in acquiring the right to dig the Canal 
has really been the opponent of any 
and every effort that could ever have 
been made to dig the Canal.' 

If there is any one thing true about 
the taking of the Isthmus, it is that it 
was an act of expediency about which 
serious Americans may legitimately 
differ. There were other ways in which 
the privilege of building a canal might 
have been acquired without virtually 
breaking a treaty and committing an 
act of war. Apart from the cruel dis- 
courtesy to a helpless neighbor, the as- 
sertion that those who disagreed with 

any detail of our government's action 
in the matter, were opposed to the 
Canal itself, caused many otherwise 
cool-headed people simply to throw up 
their hands and assume the worst. 
While such assumptions are human, 
and not unnatural in those who fail to 
recall Mr. Roosevelt's way of seeing all 
colors as either black or white, they are 
scarcely sound. If a lady is trying to 
commit a hold-up and it is Colonel 
Roosevelt's contention that Colombia 
was trying to hold up the United States 
her moral guilt is not changed by 
the fact that she is lame and suffering 
from anaemia, and that her victim, 
after knocking her down and taking 
away her most valuable possession, 
concludes by enthusiastically jumping 
up and down on her neck. 

As a matter of fact, as every one 
knows, our government was tried and 
exasperated beyond ordinary endur- 
ance. The shilly-shallying and ineffi- 
ciency, to put it mildly, with which the 
negotiations were dragged along by 
Colombia would have weakened the 
patience of Job, let alone that of an 
impetuous altruist like our former Pre- 
sident. Civilization, so to speak, was 
waiting; a work that would benefit the 
whole world was at stake. As grabs go, 
this was very mild, indeed; few treaty 
violations were ever so justified. 

If it is unsound to assume, because 
of irrelevant prejudice, that Colombia 
is right, it is equally unsound to assume 
that the brilliance of our work on the 
Isthmus necessarily proves her wrong. 
You see that wonderful achievement, 
the keen, dependable men, pushing 
their work with as loyal a devotion as 
if they were soldiers carrying the flag 
into the enemy's fire, until the least im- 
portant Jamaica negro on the job has 
an air of personal pride and enthusiasm 
in the work. You see the jungle soft- 
ened and made human until little sta- 
tions along the railroad seem like pieces 



of Ohio or California. You catch the 
thrill of battle in the very air, and the 
thing sweeps you off your feet. 

After all, what are the croaks of a 
few backward Colombians in the face 
of a thing like this? They never would 
have built the Canal. The Isthmus 
was worth nothing to them. Why 
waste time in sentimentality? The end 
justifies the means. The idea seems to 
be and it is a new idea for Americans 
that a moral wrong is righted pro- 
vided the Gatun locks are built high 
enough; that sanitation can wipe out 
an unpaid debt; that if our honor has 
fallen, the famous steam-shovels of 
Bucyrus, Ohio, can shovel it up again. 

This idea may be an accepted and, 
indeed, respectable one in many parts 
of the world. It has not, hitherto, been 
the American idea. I believe that very 
few Americans who know anything of 
their Latin American neighbors, or 
know what happened on the Isthmus, 
accept it at all. The difficulty here, as 
so often in the case of our relations 
with South Americans, is that people 
do not know. 

There is no need of going back here 
over the long and complicated story. 
Both sides have been set forth with suf- 
ficient warmth, and more or less inac- 
curacy, in several magazines, and most 
of it can be found more fully told 
and without the prejudice in easily 
accessible Senate documents and re- 
cords of foreign relations. Briefly, we 
wanted to build the Canal and to build 
it through the Isthmus. The Spooner 
law directed the President to take the 
Nicaragua route, if satisfactory ar- 
rangements could not be made with 
Colombia in *a reasonable time.' And 
while it is not necessary to accept Co- 
lombia's notion that the Spooner law 
was a mere political expedient to drive 
her to a bargain, it was generally known 
at the time that the President vastly 
preferred the Panama route. 

Colombia, naturally, wanted the 
Canal built, too. She had wanted it for 
years and, long before the French un- 
dertook it, unsuccessfully tried to get 
us to build it. The Hay-Herran Treaty, 
apparently embodying her own sugges- 
tions of what the treaty should be, was 
drawn up and submitted to both gov- 
ernments. Our Senate ratified it, the 
Colombian Senate rejected it. That 
this was injudicious however it may 
have been within Colombia's legal 
rights is generally admitted. Co- 
lombians themselves admit it; indeed, 
too late to do any good, they gladly 
would have passed it. 

Mr. Roosevelt asserts that Colombia 
was trying to hold us up, and with 
characteristic informality describes the 
presidents of that country as a * suc- 
cession of banditti'; a comment, by 
the way, which the Colombians un- 
accustomed to employing, in public 
semi-official references about other na- 
tions, the colloquialisms used by stump- 
speakers toward their opponents in the 
heat of political campaigns accepted 
literally, and with complete seriousness. 
From this it was but a brief step to the 
popular assumption that an American 
president had called all Colombians 
bandits; so that now, in Bogota, a 
charming young lady, pouring tea for 
her guests in her own drawing-room, 
will be pointed out to you with the iron- 
ical comment, 'One of our banditti!* 

The Colombians, on their side, say 
that the treaty called for an alienation 
of territory which was unconstitutional, 
and that they could not pass the treaty 
without first amending their constitu- 

That the fairly evident determina- 
tion of the United States with its 
fabulous riches to have the Isthmus 
at any price, may well have dazzled 
some of the Colombian statesmen, no 
one acquainted with the occasional 
weaknesses of our own boards of alder- 



men, and even legislatures, would ven- 
ture to deny, whatever may have been 
the facts. On the other hand, the diffi- 
culties in the way of a prompt ratifica- 
tion of the treaty were much more than 
are realized by those unfamiliar with 
Colombian geography and politics, and 
the peculiar embarrassments of that 

Colombia was staggering up from a 
civil war which had cost her nearly a 
hundred thousand lives, in a condi- 
tion of weakness and unrest from which 
she is just now beginning to get on her 
feet. The whole country was like an 
irritable, neurotic invalid. It was the 
most difficult thing in the world for any 
government to take such a vital step as 
that of surrendering the sovereignty of 
the Isthmus and that is what per- 
petual control practically amounted to 
without furnishing enough political 
capital to the opposition to start seri- 
ous trouble. 

Bogota which, so far as the gov- 
ernment is concerned, is Colombia 
is one of the remotest capitals in the 
world. It takes from ten days to a 
month for letters to get from the coast 
to the capital. News from the outside 
world comes only in the briefest round- 
about cables, or in foreign newspapers 
a month old. That quick, journalistic- 
ally intelligent public opinion which 
forms over night in a country like ours, 
is impossible there. It is a city of poets 
and politicians and wordy theorists; 
at once slow-moving and punctilious, 
and, because of the country's isolation 
and weakness, sensitive and proud. 

To acquire so valuable a possession 
as the Isthmus at such a time was a 
task calling for great patience, the 
nicest consideration, and understand- 
ing sympathy. If an ordinary drummer 
wants to sell a steam-pump to a Span- 
ish-American, he knows that he must 
proceed with a certain courtesy and 
formality, which would be unnecessary 

at home. With what more than tact, 
whatever the incidental irritations, 
ought not a power like ours to have 
proceeded toward a helpless Latin 
neighbor with whom we were on terms 
of complete peace, whose sovereignty 
on the Isthmus we had guaranteed by 
a treaty 'to be religiously observed/ 
when we desired to acquire the most 
valuable thing she owned, and still to 
continue her friend. 

What actually happened, of course 
everybody knows. Even before the 
Colombian Senate met to consider the 
treaty, Colombia was curtly warned 
that no amendments would be per- 
mitted. Three days after the treaty had 
been rejected the * revolution ' broke out 
in Panama. There had been many of 
these squabbles before, for the coast 
cities have always thought themselves 
ill-used by the central government, and 
while several other revolts would have 
given more ground for recognizing 
Panama's independence, the landing of 
a few marines had sufficed to keep the 
railroad running without serious inter- 

Whether the squelching of this trou- 
ble would have been the few minutes' 
work that Colombians believe, there is 
no definite means of knowing, inas- 
much as the Colombian troops were 
not allowed to act. One day before the 
uprising, indeed, when nothing had oc- 
curred outwardly to change the friend- 
ly relations between Colombia and the 
United States, President Roosevelt 
had issued his ' fifty-mile order ' prohib- 
iting the landing of the Colombian 
troops, not only on the Canal Zone, 
but within fifty miles of Panama. The 
troops already within this zone were 
not allowed to proceed to Panama, and 
on November 6, less than two days 
after the rebels issued their proclama- 
tion of independence, the President re- 
cognized the new republic. A French 
citizen interested in the canal com- 



pany was promptly received as Min- 
ister from Panama, and the money that 
was to have been paid to Colombia 
went to the revolutionists. And at the 
same time Colombia lost her annual in- 
come of $250,000 from the Panama 
Railroad and her reversionary rights in 
it, for it was to go to her outright in 

In view of the frank 'I took the 
Isthmus,' it is unnecessary to indulge 
in academic theorizing over these as- 
tonishing events. And there is, indeed, 
much to be said by those who willingly 
grant that they constituted an act of 
war. It was by an act of war that we 
acquired Texas, for instance. This gave 
us practical ownership of the Zone, 
and it is undoubtedly more convenient 
to own a man's land than to rent it, 
however advantageous the terms. 
Measured by the ethical standards ac- 
cepted by powerful nations in the fight 
for trade and territory, rather than by 
those in use in civilized private life, or 
by what we like to think is the Amer- 
ican spirit of justice and fair play, the 
coup d'ttat was a brilliant success. 

Even from the point of view of expe- 
diency, however, it left something to 
be desired. We were able to start the 
Canal a little sooner than we could have 
done otherwise, and practically to own 
the Zone outright. But we made ene- 
mies of a people who had hitherto been 
our friends, and we aroused a distrust 
throughout Latin America. In Co- 
lombia itself, the country nearest to 
us and the Canal, few Americans 
would think now of investing their 
time or money. The American who ran 
the street railroad in Bogota was 
forced by a boycott to sell out and 
leave the country. On the Magdalena 
River boats and in Bogota, a few weeks 
since, I met Americans who had come 
to examine the country's possibilities, 
cattle-raising (to which the opening 
of the Canal ought to give a great 

boom), coffee, mining, and so on. They 
did not see how they could go ahead at 
present. The country has endless pos- 
sibilities, its riches have scarcely been 
scratched, but no American, without 
unusual influence behind him, would 
care to risk investment until at least 
some sort of entente cordiale is arrived 

Nor is it any less practical a mat- 
ter for the American already on the 
ground. Suppose he owns a coffee 
plantation and his workmen get into 
trouble as sometimes happens in 
these remote, sparsely-settled neigh- 
borhoods with the workmen of a 
neighboring finca. One side knocks 
somebody down, somebody pulls a gun, 
before you know it there is a fine little 
row. In one such case I knew of, the 
squabble developed until the peons of 
one plantation regularly invaded the 
other and so frightened the workmen 
there that they left en masse. They had 
been brought down from the interior at 
considerable expense, and double wages 
had to be paid to fill their places. 
What chance has this American, or any 
American, in any of the hundred 
squabbles or contested issues that may 
arise, of getting justice? 

These are practical matters, things 
that make trouble for ministers and 
consuls, scare-head stories for news- 
papers, and now and then, in extreme 
cases, give cruisers their sailing orders. 
They, in themselves, are sufficient 
cause for our doing something to rem- 
edy the present intolerable situation, 
with the Treaty of 1846, guaran- 
teeing Colombia's sovereignty in the 
Isthmus, still in force, so far as Co- 
lombia is concerned, while as a matter 
of concrete fact Panama is now a se- 
parate republic and the Canal Zone is 

It is the less concrete what those 
who ignore Latin-American civiliza- 
tion will doubtless call the merely senti- 



mental arguments that seem to me 
strongest and most moving. 

The present situation, no doubt, in- 
conveniences a few American citizens. 
The real bitterness of the thing lies in 
the contrast between what might and 
ought to be the relations between this 
great, free, hopeful, kindly nation of 
ours and its struggling neighbor to the 
south, and what those relations are. 
We might be an inspiration and a help 
to Colombia; the different civiliza- 
tions, temperaments, and ideals, no" 
less than the different material re- 
sources, ought to meet and supple- 
ment one another; but how shabby and 
shameful is the true state of affairs! 

Colombia is not, in some ways, a 
very pleasant place for Americans to 
visit to-day. With whatever personal 
courtesy the individual is received 
and it is the same which he will meet 
all over South America it is not an 
agreeable awakening to find America 
regarded, in the aggregate, much as 
the Finns or Persians regard Russia. 

America seems very far away, in 
that venerable mountain capital, buried 
behind hundreds of miles of Andean 
walls and tropical rivers, from the sea 
and the northern world. Every one, as 
the saying goes, is a poet or a politician 
in Bogota. There is plenty of time to 
read and write, to nourish and refine 
a grievance. Into that atmosphere of 
repose, of old-fashioned culture and 
courtesy, the warmth and kindness and 
beauty of our American life scarcely 
penetrate. Vaguely, threateningly, out 
of the distance, comes the dull roar 
of millions of machines, shrieking ex- 
press-trains, avid, swarming, irrever- 
ent crowds, the hoarse breath of the 
* Giant of the North,' as they call us, 
a figure which suddenly took shape 
in the phrase, 'I took the Isthmus/ 
and was heard all up and down the 
Latin world. 

You pick up your evening paper and 

learn that 'the Americans, who have 
no ideal except that of the dollar, can- 
not understand how a poor people 
could be so foolish as not to sell their 
sovereignty for ten million dollars. 
For, of course, the Yankee nation, wor- 
shiping material success, ignorant of 
honor/ and so on. Or there is a dis- 
patch from Colon that the Americans 
are going to buy that city and add it to 
the Zone. Panama does not want to 
sell, but the United States insists on 
buying, and, of course, there's an end 
of it. How convenient it would be if 
everybody could act in this way, if we 
all had money! A man goes to a widow 
for instance, and says, * I want to buy 
your house.' The widow answers that 
she does not wish to sell her house, that 
she has lived in it for many years and is 
very fond of it. That, of course, makes 
no difference to the millionaire. 'Sell 
me your house or I'll take it!' says he, 
and 'I took the Isthmus!' is quoted 

Many of these papers are irrespon- 
sible wasps, which would sting their 
own kind as relentlessly, did we not of- 
fer an easier target. The free press in 
Latin America has a venomousness of 
which we know little at home yet it 
undoubtedly reflects a bitterness and a 
conviction of injustice shared by every 
man, woman, and child, so to speak, in 
Colombia, who can think at all. 

The precise form which any friendly 
agreement should take is a matter to be 
decided by statesmen, not by reporters. 
I am merely stating here a situation 
with which the average American does 
not concern himself, for the simple rea- 
son that generally he is not aware of it. 
Undoubtedly many Colombians have 
exaggerated notions of the indemnity 
which might be paid. To them the 
splendid ' States ' look somewhat as the 
Twentieth Century Limited might look 
to a lame man on foot. A little steam 
clipped from that whizzing meteor, a 



few score millions more or less, would 
make all the difference in the world to 
Colombia, and would never be missed. 

They are like one of their country- 
men, an old government clerk, who 
came to one of our consuls. He had 
heard of the millions Rockefeller was 
giving away, and had written a long, 
ceremonious letter asking that a few 
thousands be set aside for him. 'Is 
the letter properly written?' he ask- 
ed. 'Yes,' replied our consul, 'but I'm 
afraid you will never get the money.' 
He explained that such sums were 
supervised by a committee of steely- 
hearted analysts, who scrutinized each 
application through a microscope, and 
probably would n't be moved by the 
casual request of a perfectly healthy, 
and somewhat indolent, old gentleman 
of Colombia. The old clerk listened 
carefully, emitted a slow, sad * Si ? ' and 
shuffled away, tearing his letter into 
longitudinal strips. 

Or, again, if an indemnity were paid 

for such concrete losses as that of the 
Panama Railroad, it would probably be 
desirable to appoint a non-partisan 
commission, and perhaps to specify the 
purpose for which the money was to be 
spent, a railroad from Bogota down 
to the Pacific, for instance, in order 
that the country itself, and not merely 
its politicians, might be benefited. The 
boundary between Colombia and Pan- 
ama is yet to be settled satisfactorily, 
another business of such a treaty, 
and the manner of conducting the whole 
negotiation from one side is almost as 
important as the matter of it. Certain- 
ly here is a case in which we * can afford 
to be generous ' whether we are fol- 
lowing mere expediency or a notion, 
perhaps archaic, of noblesse oblige. No- 
thing might come of our attempt, but 
we could at least show our South Amer- 
ican neighbors and the world, that 
neither time nor the grim necessities of 
modern life have changed the American 
spirit of justice and fair play. 



The French Syndicat, corresponding 
as every one knows to the Trade- 
Union, is an association resting on 
cooperative interests. Nothing is more 
familiar, and the legal details varying 
with the countries matter little. One is 
not generally so clear about the mean- 
ing of the word Syndicalism. Some 
people take it to denote an industrial 
organization, others fear that it may 
VOL. in -NO. i 

mean a rehandling of society, others 
regard it as a synonym of revolution, 
or of a dark international conspiracy, 
every now and then revealing its exist- 
ence in occurrences of an outrageous 

The most enlightening introduction 
to a question is invariably its histor- 
ical perspective, and the philosophy 
of Syndicalism is so elemental that it 
needs little else than its environment 
to appear perfectly perspicuous. That 



French Syndicalism should be chosen 
for such an expose, rather than any 
other parallel manifestation, ought not 
to be thought surprising; physicians 
have a charming way of speaking of a 
disease fully answering the classical 
descriptions as a ' finely characterized 
disease/ une belle maladie, and French 
Syndicalism, whether one studies it 
with sympathy or the reverse, is the 
most complete in development and, if 
I may so say, the most perfect in tone. 


The history of Syndicalism in France 
is nothing else than the transformation 
of a political into a social question. It 
is remarkable that the Revolution of 
1789, which had its origin in a litera- 
ture as antagonistic to economic as to 
political inequality, had no immediate 
effects on the situation of the working- 

The Third Estate which, in Sieyes's 
famous speech, had so far been nothing, 
and should be everything, might well 
harp constantly on the rights, griev- 
ances, power, and so forth, of the 
people; it was not the people. It con- 
sisted, as the French parliaments still 
consist, of leisured or professional men 
whom little else than social distinctions 
separated from the aristocracy. Those 
men were full, indeed, of Rousseau's 
ideas on the bettering of the inferior 
orders, but this bettering ought to be 
in their own hands, not in those of the 
people; and the net result of the Revo- 
lution as it appeared after the tre- 
mendous interlude of the Empire 
was a constitution and a parliamentary 
system very similar to those of Eng- 
land, but a complete ignoring of the 
millions whom nobody had yet had the 
genius to call in a phrase charged 
with significance and possibilities 
the Fourth Estate. During the years 
from 1815 to 1845 the working-classes 

were as completely ignored in France as 
under Louis XIV; not being electors 
they were nil. 

The Revolution of 1848 coming after, 
or simultaneously with, the works of 
the great Socialists, Saint-Simon, Fou- 
rier, Proud'hon, Leroux, and having 
had for its immediate cause an agi- 
tation in the world of labor, with the 
characteristic motto, * Every man en- 
titled to work/ ought to have changed 
this state of affairs. In reality it did 
not. Blanqui, who was the brother of 
an economist and might have known 
better, reaped no other fruit from his 
revolutionary efforts than the forma- 
tion of a political party, le parti popu- 
laire, which the Second Empire was 
soon to crush, and which only reap- 
peared after fifteen years in the mild, 
and once more purely political, form of 
a Republican party. The workman 
was not taken injto account as a work- 
ing man, but as a voting man. His 
importance lay in his capacity to sup- 
port bourgeois deputies possessed of 
democratic ideas. 

The Second Empire was a time of 
extraordinary prosperity. French com- 
merce and industry increased during 
those eighteen years in an amazing 
proportion; the wages rose accordingly, 
and as the influence of France abroad 
was also greater than it had been since 
1815, one may say that there was gen- 
eral happiness in the country. Yet, 
with the development of industrialism, 
soon appeared the inconveniences in- 
herent in it : the feeling infinitely 
less sharp in agricultural communities 
that the master stands apart from 
the men; the bondage in which the 
machine holds the workman, making it 
compulsory for him to answer all its 
motions by corresponding action; the 
captivity for a certain number of hours 
in the cheerless precincts of a factory. 
And the atmosphere peculiar to indus- 
trial milieus began to make itself felt. 



The legislation had not kept up 
with the speedy development of the 
mechanical industries. It ignored 
strikes; and when the first and very 
rare attempts at striking were made, 
the authorities found themselves un- 
prepared to deal with them. The con- 
sequence was that they enforced the 
contract binding the men to their em- 
ployer and made work compulsory. 
It was not until the very last years of 
the Second Empire that the right to 
strike was recognized legally. In the 
mean time, the workmen had not only 
developed their class feeling, but they 
had founded secret societies called So- 
cietfe de Resistance, half syndicates, 
half ramifications [of the Internation- 
ale, which were their first effort to- 
ward self-organization. Shortly after, 
Karl Marx, inquiring into the moral 
conditions created by the modern 
economic development, pointed out in 
clear language the vital distinction 
between the class and the party, and 
stated definitely that the class-fight 
was the only object that the workmen 
could propose to themselves. 

Yet many years elapsed before the 
proletariat, as it began to be called, 
became sufficiently conscious to think 
of managing its own affairs. It seems 
incredible that in a country where the 
Labor vote was already so considerable 
it was not until 1884 fourteen years 
after the foundation of the Republic 
that the Syndicates were made legal, 
and not until 1901 that a law on Asso- 
ciations that most urgent of instru- 
ments in a republic was passed. 
The country was absorbed in mere 
politics, mostly of an anti-clerical char- 
acter, which I have not the space to 
review, but which the reader ought to 
bear in mind as the background of 
French history between the years 1877 
and 1905. Electioneering rhetoric of 
the cheapest description was sufficient 
to keep the workmen away from their 

own interests during the greatest part 
of that interval, and when they did be- 
gin in earnest to look after themselves 
they were so used to politicians that 
they could not help seeking their assist- 
tance to do their thinking for them. 
This period of the history of labor 
is called by the Syndicalists of to-day 
the democratic era. 


What the Syndicalists mean by the 
Democracy is nothing else than the 
action of the Socialist deputies in the 
French Chamber. It may be as well 
to say at once that surprising as 
it seems at first they never use the 
word without a shade of contempt. It 
was about 1885 that M. Jules Guesde 
first shocked the country with a popu- 
lar expose of the Marxist doctrine, and 
the avowed intention to change the 
basis of society by substituting coop- 
eration for capitalism, and the freedom 
of associations for authority. Some 
ten years afterward a young deputy, 
M. Jean Jaures, who, in a preceding 
chamber, had been a moderate Repub- 
lican, was returned on a glaringly So- 
cialistic ticket, and became the centre 
of a then very small Socialist group in 
Parliament. His talent as an orator, 
his power of assimilating the most 
intricate matters, his remarkable tac- 
tics as a parliamentary leader, are 
well-known and need not be enlarged 
upon. His success in his new position 
was immediate. Endowed with prodi- 
gious activity and energy, he went all 
over the country, and addressed large 
audiences in all the industrial cities of 
France, with such success that in the 
Chamber elected in 1902, he and his 
friends simply became the regulators 
of the government's action. 

During the Combes ministry, the 
prime minister made everything sub- 
servient to the Socialistic opinion and 


the Socialist vote, and it can safely be 
said that during those three years M. 
Jaures actually governed France. He 
was anti-clerical, and the confiscation 
of church property along with the sep- 
aration of church and state were ac- 
complished; he was an anti-militarist, 
and the War and Navy budgets were 
most unwisely lightened with the com- 
plicity of those two extraordinary 
ministers, General Andre and M. 
Pelletan; peace and war were in his 
hands, a great deal more than in 
those of the Foreign Minister, and 
as his followers as well as his theories 
made it imperative for him to be the 
champion of peace, peaceful the gov- 
ernment was until the apparition of 
the Kaiser off the coast of Morocco 
on a threatening man-of-war obliged 
them to make their choice between the 
risk of standing for French dignity at 
all costs and the shame of giving up the 
Foreign Minister, M. Delcasse. The 
influence of M. Jaures, as well as the 
gravity of the situation, decided the 
matter at once : M. Delcasse was thrown 

Meanwhile, three of M. Jaures's po- 
litical friends, MM. Millerand, Briand, 
and Viviani, had acquired so much 
influence in the Chamber, and the Soci- 
alist group who backed them was re- 
garded as so formidable, that the gen- 
tlemen mentioned were able, one after 
the other, to seek and take office in va- 
rious cabinets; and although they were 
anathematized by some of their friends 
for so doing, their progress was none 
the less the Socialist progress. 

How is it that this triumph of the 
Socialist deputies was looked upon as 
no triumph at all by the Socialist 
workmen? How is it that the very 
name Socialist was gradually dropped 
by them, left exclusively to M. Jaures 
and his group, and replaced by the 
term Syndicalist? 

If the reader will look once more 

over the Socialist achievements as I 
have just described them, he will notice 
that they were of a purely political 
character. From being an unimport- 
ant individual, M. Jaur&s had risen to 
the position of a leader, without whom 
the hypnotized government dared not 
breathe; from being nothing else than 
very intelligent Socialists, MM. Mille- 
rand, Viviani, and Briand had become 
State Ministers, had moved into pal- 
aces, and had seemed to think it all 
very natural. In the mean time their 
notions had undergone a change; they 
understood what government means, 
and they advocated the loyalty and 
order without which no government 
can be. 

What good did it all do to the pro- 
letarians who had elected them ? M. 
Jaures promised, year after year, to 
draw up * extensive legislative texts, 
which would prepare the legal trans- 
formation of the capitalist into a social- 
ist commonwealth'; but that epic in 
articles and clauses never was forth- 
coming, and the most urgent measures 
for instance, the Association law, 
the Income Tax law, the Weekly Rest 
law, the Old-Age Pension law, and 
the rest, which were in operation in a 
backward monarchy like Prussia, 
could not be passed by the parliament 
in which M. Jaures had for years been 


This state of things could not but 
be a great disenchantment for the 
workmen; the more so as there was a 
great enchantment for them in differ- 
ent quarters. The Syndicates, since 
the law which had made them legal in 
1884, had grown and multiplied. They 
had promptly ceased without wait- 
ing for any legal permission to live 
in isolation. The Syndicates of the 
same industry in the whole country 


were bound in federations, some of 
which la FMraiion du Livre, for 
instance, and the Mining Federation 
already vied with the most prosper- 
ous English unions. In the industrial 
districts, the local Syndicates met in 
Bourses du Travail, which served at 
the same time as information offices, 
popular universities, mutual or coop- 
erative societies, and the like, and 
were of daily use to the workmen. 
There were yearly congresses, to which 
foreign syndicalists were soon invited, 
and which the least effort transformed 
into international congresses. 

All this had been accomplished by 
plain workmen who had seen their 
work spread under their hands, and 
had not been afraid of their growing 
responsibilities. The comparison be- 
tween their success and the barren- 
ness of their deputies' action was sure 
to impose itself sooner or later on 
their minds, and to result in the split 
I have spoken of. At the same time, 
familiar intercourse with sister organ- 
izations abroad, just in the years when 
the Dreyfus Affair had weakened pa- 
triotism to an incredible degree, could 
not fail to lower the barriers which 
tradition had raised between the work- 
men of different languages, and make 
more impassable those between the 
workmen and the bourgeois and them- 
selves; the class feeling which had long 
been latent found itself suddenly per- 
fect in an almost perfect class-organ- 
ization. A class philosophy and a class 
literature were on the eve of being 
born, in fact, only needed expression; 
but before finding expression they 
found a living embodiment in the Gen- 
eral Labor Confederation. 

This famous Confederation Generale 
du Travail generally called for brev- 
ity's sake the C. G. T. was founded 
about 1900 by a young man of thirty 
who was to die shortly afterwards, 
Fernand Pelloutier. Judging from the 

admiration of such a man as M. Sorel, 
Pelloutier, whom we only know by one 
little volume, L'Histoire des Bourses 
du Travail, must have been a genius. 
At all events this obscure clerk seems 
to have been the first to arrive at the 
full conception of a radical severance 
of the workmen from the rest of soci- 
ety, and of a revolutionary organism 
whose spirit and working fascinate by 
their simplicity. 

The C. G. T. is nothing else than a 
federation of the federations and of 
the Bourses du Travail. Its seat is at 
the Paris Bourse du Travail, a large 
building just off the Place de la Re- 
publique. It has no legal recognition, 
and most jurists even contend that its 
existence is absolutely illegal and that 
it is an abuse to tolerate it in a national 
building. Its expenses are borne by 
the various federations, and do not ex- 
ceed fifty thousand francs ten thou- 
sand dollars a year. Its members 
are the secretaries of the federations, 
one of whom is called General Secretary 
of the C. G. T. It possesses a weekly 
paper, La Voix du Peuple, in close 
connection with which is evidently the 
daily La Bataille Syndicaliste. 

As to its doctrines, they are found 
not only in these papers but in a more 
scientific organ, Le Mouvement Social- 
iste, to which I shall have to advert 
further on, in a number of pamph- 
lets written mostly by the various sec- 
retaries, Griffuelhes, Pouget, Pierro 
Niel, and others, in the accounts of the 
yearly congresses, and, night after 
night, in the addresses delivered in the 
syndicates, popular universities, and 
so forth. What these doctrines the 
doctrines of Pelloutier amount to is 
not difficult to say: they are the plain, 
undisguised, and almost invariably 
sober, preaching of the class-fight. 

The separate existence of the work- 
men as a class of pariahs, which under- 
lay the concepts of the preceding gen- 


eration of French Socialists, and which 
Marx had once or twice formulated in 
his books, is dwelt upon as the one 
great fact on which the workmen's at- 
tention should be fixed. The proletariat 
has its existence apart in every country, 
and consequently constitutes on the 
globe a separate class, not only com- 
pletely independent of the others, but 
even free from the traditional restraints 
embodied in patriotism. On one side 
are 'the masters, that is, the robbers: 
on the other are the slaves, the despoil- 
ed.' What is, in fact, Capital? How 
is it formed? Is it not by constantly 
and methodically taking from labor? 
Syndicalism is only the recognition 
by the workmen of this extraordinary 
state of things, on the one hand; and 
on the other, recognition of the fact 
that their common spoliation is enough 
to give them unity. 

This, as I said above, was implied 
in the works of the great Socialists, 
Proud'hon, for instance. But while 
the Socialists placed their hopes of 
seeing all wrongs righted in the enact- 
ment of severe laws tending more and 
more to equalize privileges and duties, 
the Syndicalists distrust the law and 
its supporters quite as much as they do 
capital, and wage the same war against 

The notion of the state is all very 
well theoretically, but in reality what 
is the state? Nothing else than the rul- 
ing parties, that is to say, politicians. 
Wherever there are politicians there is 
confusion instead of clarity, and the 
confusion is greater in a democracy 
like the French Republic than in any 
other form of government. In a strict 
monarchy of the German or Russian 
type the distinction of the classes is 
obvious, whereas in a democracy the 
fictitious and perfectly farcical equal- 
ity of men considered as citizens 
and not as economic values obscures 
it hopelessly. 

Parliamentarianism rests on compro- 
mises: the Socialist candidate makes 
the same promises to his bourgeois 
electors that the bourgeois candidate 
makes to his Socialist constituents. 
Experience shows also that the politi- 
cal masters act on exactly the same 
principles as industrial masters, and 
ought to be treated in the same way. 
'I think it very useful,' says M. Sorel, 
'to lick the orators of democracy and 
the representatives of government/ 
The so-called social laws on which M. 
Jauresand his friends plume themselves 
so much are mostly frauds. What are 
the Conseils du Travail if not a strata- 
gem to put the representatives of the 
workmen under the thumb of those 
of the capitalists? What are the pro- 
spective regulations of strikes if not a 
roundabout way to get rid of strikes? 
What good will accrue to the people 
from the law concerning Old- Age Pen- 
sions? The pittance which the work- 
man secures for his old days by con- 
tributing all his life to the fund is only 
a portion of his own money; the rest 
remains in the treasury of the state 
to support all sorts of institutions, 
an army among the number, which 
are simply directed against him. 

The Syndicalists are violently op- 
posed not only to wars but to the exist- 
ence of an army. The army in their 
opinion is the living demonstration of 
the paradox of a civilization in which 
those who have every advantage do 
nothing, and those who bear all the 
burdens get no reward. An army is 
useful only in two cases: in time of 
peace when there is a strike, and then 
the proletarians in uniform are em- 
ployed against the proletarians in plain 
clothes; in time of war, when a few 
financiers think it necessary to have 
their interests protected by force, and 
then again thousands of men are de- 
stroyed for a cause not their own, and 
even opposed to it. Whatever the 


workmen do in support of the state is 
invariably found ultimately to turn 
against them. 

What then should they do? Reso- 
lutely look upon the classes above them 
as enemies and treat them accordingly. 
Open warfare being out of the question 
so long as only about three hundred 
thousand men are connected with the 
C. G. T., they must be content for the 
present with what is feasible. Their 
first duty is to increase their numbers 
and strengthen their organization, that 
is to say, help in bringing over as many 
as they can to the Syndicates. There 
is no phrase that the leading Syndical- 
ists repeat so often and in such an ear- 
nest tone as, * Do the humble and hum- 
drum syndicate work.' In fact, the 
day on which the whole world of labor 
shall be enlisted and disciplined in 
syndicates will also be that of its abso- 
lute supremacy : overpowering numeri- 
cal superiority is insufficient so long as 
organization is wanting; but the mo- 
ment some sort of unity is given to 
numbers, resistance on the part of the 
minority becomes impossible. 

Syndicates of an aggressive charac- 
ter are not the only form of organiza- 
tion advocated by the C. G. T. The 
workmen are dupes not only when they 
work for the bourgeois, but also when 
they consume and pay for the goods 
manufactured by the capitalists. All 
the money they spend foolishly in this 
way ought to be devoted to the estab- 
lishment of cooperative societies which 
must become in time formidable rivals 
of their bourgeois competitors. For 
the market is, after all, one thing with 
the proletariat, and it is only because 
so many poor club together that there 
are a few rich. 

Syndicalists feel convinced that in 
the long run no time can be named, 
as everything depends on the rapidity 
of the grouping process, and its speed 
may accelerate in a catastrophic man- 

ner the cooperative movement will 
suffice to reverse the present economic 
conditions and bring about the grad- 
ual and almost invisible disappearance 
of capitalism; but their warlike spirit 
is not content with that. Capitalism 
ought not only to be undermined, it 
ought also to be stormed. The great 
hope, the great vision, which haunts 
and delights them is that of the final 
storming, which they call the Great 
Strike. When all the world of labor has 
become syndicalist, when there are 
no fools left to fight against their own 
interest, one fine evening le grand 
soir a universal strike shall be de- 
creed. Next day there will be no bakers 
to make bread, no butchers to kill 
meat, no colliers to dig up coals, no 
railwaymen to take bourgeois about. 
In a few days of this awful stagna- 
tion, capitalism will realize that gold 
in itself is nothing while labor is every- 
thing, and the machines 1 will be either 
made over to, or quietly appropriated 
by, the workmen. 

This is the dream. The Syndicalists 
think it should be made possible, and 
openly teach the ways and means. The 
Great Strike must be prepared for 
by numberless local strikes weaken- 
ing capital and strengthening the pro- 
letariat. The C. G. T. is a school 
for striking, with professional strike- 
organizers called delegates by the Syn- 
dicalists and grSviculteurs by the news- 
papers. The delegate starts strikes 
where there is no syndicate, as the 
workmen are infallibly compelled to 
unite during strikes, and seldom resume 
work before making their accidental 
union endurable in the shape of a syn- 
dicate. Where there are unions, strikes 
are made more formidable by coali- 
tions and by the pecuniary assistance 
which the C. G. T. obtains from the 
federations. Striking may take vari- 

1 In the Syndicalist terminology all the instru- 
ments of production are called machines. 


ous shapes, which the Syndicalist pub- 
lications detail carefully. Boycotting 
the industries which refuse to admit 
syndicate workmen is one variety of 
strike; sabotage is another: it means the 
repeated injury to tools and machines, 
or the deliberate hindrance of work. 
This was practiced on a large scale dur- 
ing the railway agitation in 1910, and 
it was thanks to it that the hairdressers' 
men could dictate terms to apparent- 
ly unconquerable masters. In short, 
the theory and practice of strikes 
seems to have been brought to perfec- 
tion by the C. G. T. 

As to its effects, you can see them in 
issue after issue of the Voix du Peuple. 
About thirty per cent of the strikes 
seem successful, and they never result 
in possible damage for the workmen. In 
September, 1911, a large manufacturer 
in the north of France stopped work 
at an hour's notice, on the mere po- 
lite injunction of a C. G. T. delegate. 
Fighting would have been impossible. 
Such facts will evidently become more 
and more numerous as the syndical 
organization spreads more widely. The 
syndicalist machinery is perfect, and 
it requires only initiative enough to 
put it in operation everywhere. 

This then, is the history of the past 
and present of Syndicalism. Before 
trying to foresee its future, we should 
say a word about the philosophers who 
have made it the object of their medi- 

The best known are Lagardelle, 
Berth, and, above all, Georges Sorel, 
whose productions have appeared chief- 
ly in the very intellectual review called 
Le Mouvement Socialiste. 

It was inevitable that the contribu- 
tions of such thinkers eminently 
honest, and one of them powerful 
should influence the most intelligent 

Syndicalists, but the common charac- 
teristic of these philosophers is that 
while they take unbounded interest in 
the organization of labor, they firmly 
believe in the necessity for it to stand 
apart and unsophisticated, and would 
gladly be forever unknown to the very 
men they are constantly studying. It 
would take a great deal more space 
than I have to do them justice and 
disentangle a somewhat artificial ele- 
ment from their fundamental ideas, 
but I can indicate a few essential 

To begin with and it is one of 
their aspects I regret the most not to 
be able to deal with adequately they 
are wonderfully solid in appearance 
and tone, but they have not always 
been so, and Sorel especially has pass- 
ed through a number of intellectual 
phases. One was not born in France 
with impunity in the days when Renan 
and Berthelot were at their height. 
The characteristic of that period was 
a very unphilosophical belief in science 
and an accompanying mistrust of met- 
aphysics, resulting in a dangerously 
narrow art of thinking, and a complete 
lack of anything like an art of living. 
All the intellects which grew in that 
atmosphere and were not hopelessly 
stunted by it have had to struggle to- 
ward a broader, more human logic 
than that in which they had been edu- 
cated, and above all, toward a moral 
doctrine that would steady them 
through life. This took them years. 

Georges Sorel and his friends are 
often called Bergsonians, and, in fact, 
the former has made a careful study 
of Bergson's books and has many 
points in common with him; but I 
imagine that he would have reached his 
chief positions without him and owes 
him little more than an occasional 
confusing terminology. He spent prac- 
tically all his time until he was fifty 
doing technical work in a factory, get- 


ting used to the realities of economics, 
and, as he became thus practical and 
positive, cleansing his mind from the 
thick dust of fallacies it had accumu- 
lated since boyhood. Like everybody 
else he was full of ideas from outside, of 
theories built on inadequate historical 
analyses, especially of the tremendous 
overgrowth of ideology which the Re- 
volution produced. 

He gradually came to mistrust and 
reconsider all his notions; he went back 
to history, chiefly in the footsteps of 
Renan, and learned the influence of 
pure ideas in the great historical move- 
ments, the transformation of the an- 
cient world through Christianity, for 
instance, while he became more and 
more convinced of the preeminence of 
materialistic influences in the develop- 
ment of economics. He noticed that all 
the modern French systems of politics 
and social philosophy were built on 
the notion of progress as conceived by 
D'Alembert and the other Encyclopae- 
dists : he tested their apparent clarity, 
found it wanting, and later gave the 
results of his inquiry in a most sug- 
gestive little book, Les Illusions du 
Progres. All his reading and thinking 
brought him to the conclusion that the 
logic of social philosophers and politi- 
cians was moonshine, misleading in- 
ferences with a semblance of solidity 
which it took ages to expose, and which 
in the mean time stood in the way of 
an accurate view of realities. Gener- 
alizations were all dangerous; living 
facts alone were fruitful, and one could 
never be long enough face to face with 

The reader must see at once the 
relationship between these views and 
the Bergsonian intuition, that is, the 
effort to understand reality, not by 
standing apart from it, but by lending 
one's self to its flow. 

About the time when Sorel reached 
these conclusions he met Fernand 

Pelloutier. I have never seen anybody 
who laid sufficient stress on the influ- 
ence which this meeting must have had 
on Sorel. Here was Pelloutier, a young 
man of twenty-eight, who had never 
lived apart from the world of labor, 
had been a stranger to politics, to sys- 
tems and theories of any kind, yet had 
been sufficiently intelligent in the 
simple and beautiful meaning of this 
word to connect the forces of the 
workmen with the living organism of 
Syndicalism and could see rather 
than deduce the far-reaching conse- 
quences of its existence: its opposition 
to present society; its goal, the Great 
Strike; its method, striking and strik- 
ing again with the heroism of persever- 
ance; and its final success, the substi- 
tution of cooperation for capital. The 
mind of Pelloutier was in itself a dem- 
onstration of the superiority of intui- 
tion over systems and deductions. 

Another conclusion forced itself. As 
Pelloutier was above philosophers, the 
world of labor was above the schools of 
politicians. Jaures and his friends were 
mere logicians, clinging like leeches 
to a reality which had its life apart 
from them; they played nowadays the 
part which the Encyclopaedists had 
played before the Revolution, and 
their influence was as baleful. This is 
the intellectual origin of Sorel's sym- 
pathy with the Syndicalist movement. 

This sympathy has another aspect, 
corresponding to the moral develop- 
ment of the philosopher. As I said 
above, Sorel was bred in the determin- 
ism of Renan, Taine, and Berthelot, 
that is to say, in a distinctly negative 
system of ethics. His own nature was 
sufficiently noble to keep him above 
the materialism which comes too often 
in its train. But he was not far ad- 
vanced in life before he saw the ter- 
rible effects on society of a doctrine 
making man the only judge of his own 


The generation of M. Sorel the 
men who are now sixty has been the 
prey of all that awaits moral, even 
more than intellectual, uncertainty. 
The indifference to motives, the igno- 
rance of a rule of life, the good-hu- 
mored condoning of deliberate in- 
dulgence, the skepticism even of the 
naturally good, making them almost 
ashamed to be good, the complicity of 
millions of readers with a host of im- 
moral writers, the careless admission 
of national decadence consequent on 
depopulation and enervation, have all 
been rife until a very recent period, 
and have all been produced by phil- 
osophical doubt succeeding religious 

The only remedy must be some sort 
of intellectual basis, an idea strong 
enough not to be undermined by the 
low modern infiltrations. M. Sorel 
himself needed no personal prop; he 
was naturally above compromises. In 
default of a philosophy he had charac- 
ter. His poet was Corneille; his heroes 
were the Catholic saints, or even the 
Jansenists, with their purity and obsti- 
nacy; his Socialist was Proud 'hon, 
because Proud 'hon built society on 
love, but the love of one woman; but 
neither Proud'honnor the Catholic doc- 
trine of sacrifice, nor the idealism of 
Corneille, was likely to appeal to the 
modern man and transform his materi- 
alism. Socialism the Socialism of 
Jaures which he was to treat later on 
with such contempt for a time at- 
tracted him, but it was because of its 
apparent interest in the humble and 
persecuted and its corresponding ap- 
parent self-denial. The moment he 
found that the Dreyfusist movement 
was in reality a conspiracy of greed and 
ambition, and that the Socialist doc- 
trine rested ultimately on what he calls 
a * belly philosophy,' he withdrew. 

Here again his acquaintance with 
Pelloutier was a.n illumination, The 

young clerk had nothing but scorn for 
politics and the politicians, he never 
gave a thought to the possibility of his 
rising above his sphere and becoming a 
bourgeois deputy; his life was consumed 
in an obscure work of organization 
which precluded brilliant speeches, the 
empty but pleasant activity of elec- 
tioneering, the long periods of rest 
after partial success. 

Pelloutier knew that he was working 
for an ideal which he would never see 
realized. Not only was he consumptive 
and doomed to speedy death, but, the 
object he had been the first to conceive 
was beyond the span of even the long- 
est life; no man of his generation, or 
even of the next, would see the Great 
Evening and the Great Strike. All they 
could hope was to see the Syndicalists' 
net gradually spread in their hands, 
and the great Syndicalist weapon 
strike become more familiar to the 

But this daily routine was fruitful in 
positive results, and these results were 
not merely the success of a propaganda. 
Pelloutier and Sorel saw that by per- 
suading the workmen to band together 
with a view to a final and decisive, if 
far-away, action, they called forth the 
noblest energies latent in the people, 
and long extinguished among the bour- 
geoisie. Poor laborers gladly gave of 
their own for the support of the Syn- 
dicates, or joined in strikes which ap- 
parently had no immediate interest for 
them, out of mere love for their class, 
and supported by the hope perhaps 
the mirage of its final victory. M. 
Sorel has often likened this state of 
mind to that of the early Christians 
when their great hope was the Advent 
of Christ and the Establishment of his 
Kingdom. But as the primitive church 
had lost by becoming protected instead 
of persecuted, Sorel realized that, if 
ever the syndicates grew rich and pow- 
erful they would probably become in- 


fected with, the faults of power and 
wealth selfishness and indolence 
and lose their original virtue. A long 
series of articles in Le Mouvement Soci- 
aliste, reprinted since under the title of 
Reflexions sur la Violence, was a de- 
fense of the warlike virtues called forth 
by the pregnant idea of the Great 
Strike. Since the days of 1790 when 
the French armies marched, full of the 
revolutionary ideal, no mass of men 
had appeared possessed of such a noble 
spirit as the Syndicalists. 

This spirit, in Sorel's opinion, was 
evidently what mattered the most. In 
the same book he confessed openly that 
he did not believe in the possibility of 
the Great Strike, and looked upon it 
as a myth. He treated at great length 
of the nature and influence of myths: 
they were half ideas, half images, and 
as such partook of the power of both 
the reason and the imagination, and 
imposed themselves on the minds of 
even the simplest; but after a time 
their purely imaginative aspect lost 
its brilliance and they were gradually 
forgotten. So the very basis of Syndi- 
calism was in one respect only a fasci- 
nating illusion. 

The frankness of this analysis show- 
ed obviously that Sorel was more inter- 
ested in Syndicalism than he expected 
the Syndicalists to become interested 
in him. In other words, he was less a 
man of action than a philosopher cu- 
rious of the motives of action, and he 
no more believed in Syndicalism than 
in Christianity : both doctrines attract- 
ed him by the purity of their spirit, 
by the heroism they entailed, not at all 
by their future. After all, he was little 
more than a sort of Nietzschean seek- 
ing the rarity of an aristocratic atti- 
tude where it was likely to be found. 

When the present writer first made a 
careful inquiry into the philosophy of 
Sorel, 1 he wondered why such tenden- 
1 Vide The Forum, November, 1909. 

cies did not turn him toward a political 
doctrine widely different from Syndi- 
calism in object, but strikingly similar 
in spirit. The school known as the 
Neo-Royalists had their myth, which 
was the restoration of the pre-revolu- 
tionary Monarchy; they stood for vio- 
lence, and lost no occasion to say that 
they would seize the first opportunity 
to make a coup d'etat; their intellect- 
ual training was practical, historical, 
and positivist like his own; finally they 
had in common with him a speculat- 
ive attachment to Christianity which, 
however, left their chief leaders in 
religious unbelief. There was in them 
all there was in the Syndicalists, and 
less chance of losing sight of their aim. 
Everything must appeal to him in 
those quarters. These previsions have 
been confirmed. M. Sorel may not be 
more of a Royalist than he was a Syn- 
dicalist, but his sympathies have gone 
that way, and his name is frequently 
mentioned in the Neo-Royalist publica- 
tions, as it used to be, and even still is, 
every now and then, in the Syndicalist 
periodicals. Meanwhile, he superin- 
tends the publication of a series for the 
defense of higher culture, in which both 
his former and his recent tendencies 
are easily reconciled. 


Little space remains for the last part 
of this exposition, in which we ought 
not to prophesy, or even to state the 
probable destinies of Syndicalism, but 
merely to describe its chances as they 
appear from the relation between its 
present conditions and the evolution 
of the public spirit in France. 

In 1908, when the postal strike led 
men to realize the formidable power of 
association, the C. G. T., or at any 
rate, the more revolutionary elements 
in the C. G. T., seemed to be at their 
highest. Nobody who followed that 


brief drama will ever forget how not 
only the government, which till then 
had been uniformly weak, but even 
the Parliament, so far respected, 
fell at once into insignificance. The 
distinction between the Democracy 
and the proletariat, on which Sorel 
lays so much stress, was made tangible 
at a meeting of the strikers at which 
the well-known M. Buisson, and a few 
other Socialist deputies, had thought 
they would be welcomed as usual. 
They were simply hooted off the plat- 
form, and the meeting was conducted, 
as well as the strike itself, by a few 
delegates of the C. G. T., among whom 
was the famous Pataud. It appeared 
clearly, not only that the government 
was defenseless against one single syn- 
dicate, but that the Socialist members 
of the Chamber, who had been so far 
a sort of very useful buffer between 
the workmen and their political mas- 
ters, had been definitely thrown back 
among the bourgeoisie. Pataud and 
his friends, workmen as they were, 
negotiated with the government on 
equal terms, and would have dictated 
to them if M. Clemenceau, who was 
then prime minister, had not cleverly 
put them off, or, as they said, taken 
them in. 

The experience produced a tremen- 
dous sensation, to be compared only to 
the shock received two or three years 
earlier on the dismissal of M. Delcasse 
from the Cabinet, and the revelation 
of the havoc made in the Army and 
Navy by M. Pelletan and General 
Andre. The country realized the weak- 
ness of parliamentarianism, and knew 
that it had been leaning for years on 
a woefully broken reed. The Cham- 
ber itself lost at once all of the superb 
pride which thirty years* absolute pow- 
er in a country republican only in ap- 
pearance had given it, and declared 
itself content with legislating instead 
of governing. 

Meanwhile the members of the gov- 
ernment which had never been trained 
to govern were bethinking themselves, 
and M. Briand gave the result of their 
meditations in a celebrated address at 
Lisieux. Modern nations, he said, had 
to confront the new fact of association. 
Association was the feature of the day, 
and could not be disregarded. The 
Syndicates, in very few years, had 
prospered so that nobody could ignore 
them, and the best policy was to give 
them their share. What the share was, 
he pointed out in general terms, but 
sufficiently clearly for anybody to 
understand that he was ready to give 
them the right to legal possession, and 
the right to say something in the de- 
bates concerning their professional in- 
terests. All this meant the beginning, 
or at any rate the dawn, of the decen- 
tralization for which the best intel- 
lects had prayed so many years, but it 
might mean also the preliminaries of 
surrender to the C. G. T. 

Many people believed this. Day af- 
ter day the conservative papers point- 
ed out that the strong, united, intel- 
ligent government which had been so 
long desired, actually existed in France, 
but sat at the Bourse du Travail and 
not at the Elysee. A combination of 
the railwaymen, the postal clerks, and 
the electricians would suffice to switch 
authority from one place to the other. 
No revolution could be easier. The 
Syndicalists believed it, too. Their de- 
cision turned quickly into arrogance, 
and Pataud stopped the electricity in 
Paris three or four times in one win- 
ter, just as the Negro band-master 
stopped the music * for to show his au- 
thority.' It is only when one studies 
the history of Syndicalism in detail 
that the difference between the intim- 
idating sobriety of the theories, as 
set forth not only by Sorel or Lagar- 
delle, but even by Griffuelhes, and 
the raw violence of inferior Syndical- 


ists, appears. La Bataille Syndicaliste 
is as near mere anarchy as Les Re- 
flexions sur la Violence is near true 

For some time after the Lisieux 
speech the Syndicalists affected to 
treat the overtures of M. Briand as 
the treachery of a turn-coat, and they 
vaunted their anti-patriotism more 
openly than ever. But the ringleaders 
who harped on this high string were 
no more the whole of Syndicalism than 
Syndicalism is the whole of the labor 
world. A warning came to them first 
from Germany, where the C. G. T. was 
excluded from the international con- 
gresses on account ipf its anti-patriotic 
attitude. Then some powerful syndi- 
cates, which so far had kept away from 
the C. G. T. (the Book Syndicate and 
the Miners' Unions among the number), 
joined it, but being experienced and 
rich, infused wisdom into it. Then it 
appeared that if materialism can occa- 
sionally nerve itself for a violent action 
its natural bent is much more toward 
a diminution of effort, and that Briand 
had seen the disposition of the Syndi- 
cates pretty accurately when he had 
come toward them with an olive- 
branch at Lisieux. In most workmen 
the wish to become a bourgeois lives 
more or less dormant. The truth of 
this appeared glaringly in the conver- 
sjon of no less a person than Pataud, 
who, after finding some resistance 
among his brethren and some on the 
part of the police, gave up agitating, 
first for lecturing, and finally for a most 
unromantic situation in the champagne 
trade. In short, what with excessive 
violence on the part of some Syndical- 
ists, and a return to balance on the part 
of some others, the C. G. T. does not 
appear to-day nearly so formidable in 
its unity, or so full of belief in the Great 
Strike, as it was four years ago. 

As these transformations took place 
among Syndicalists, another was notice- 

able in the public spirit of the French 
nation at large. The danger from the 
strikes and the danger from Germany 
combined to awaken people to the ne- 
cessity of a stronger national attitude. 
Energy in the resistance both to agita- 
tors like Pataud and to browbeaters 
abroad, after seeming long impossible, 
suddenly became the order of the day. 
Anti-militarism, which had been ram- 
pant in the last ten years, positively 
vanished. Its manifestations are now 
confined to the lowest anarchist organs. 
In the summer of 1911, when a war 
with Germany was regarded as almost 
inevitable, the prospect was viewed 
without any reluctance, even in indus- 
trial districts where a few years ago it 
would have caused furious protests. 

This decision could not exist without 
an accompanying change in the cur- 
rent principles. It would take a vol- 
ume to describe the rapid modifica- 
tion, but it is a fact that the return to a 
saner view of authority, of the subor- 
dination of the individual to collective 
interests, of the necessity of self-sacri- 
fice, etcetera, has been so marked as to 
nullify the logic of Socialist material- 
ism, strong as it might still appear to 
crude intellects. The France of to-day 
is completely different from the disor- 
ganized country which saw the Drey- 
fusist disruption, and apparently never 
minded; and the change is the more 
striking from being especially notice- 
able among the rising generation. An 
hour's conversation with any intelli- 
gent young man belonging to the 
classes in which skepticism and dilet- 
tantism used to be strongest, leaves no 
doubt that a new public spirit has 
made its reappearance in a new and 
bracing atmosphere. 

In these conditions, the element of 
disorder inseparable from the motion 
of the C. G. T. is not likely to find 
favor, even with the average workman. 
The fact that all the bandits who, for 



several weeks, scoured the environs of 
Paris, waylaying motorists, plunder- 
ing banks and massacring police were 
either members of the C. G. T., one 
of them even a delegate, or were 
found in possession of Syndicalist liter- 
ature, acted as a revelation. The violent 
agitators whom Sorel admired so much 
seem bound to be thrown back into 
the mere anarchical milieus, while the 
bulk of Syndicalists will turn more and 
more toward Reformism. Meanwhile, 
strong governments, gaining where the 
now despised Chamber loses, will pro- 
bably find themselves in a position to 
pass effective legislation about the 
Syndicates. The dangers to society 
arising from the existence of mortmain 
are universally known, and no outcry 
will follow their removal. It will seem 
incredible to people born and brought 
up in a period less troubled than ours 
that corporations professedly profes- 
sional ever boasted openly about treat- 
ing the rest of the world as enemies, 
and actually prepared war against it. 

In conclusion, we may say that all 
that Sorel detested which is all that 
M. Briand hoped for when he delivered 
his Lisieux address is likely to hap- 
pen. Nothing can break the impulse 
which the Syndicalist movement has 
now taken, and nobody with a sense of 
fairness can be sorry for it. There will 
be more and more syndicates, and it 
is inevitable that their development 
will in time largely modify the eco- 
nomic and to a certain extent 
the present political conditions. But 

the Syndicates, growing in an atmos- 
phere very different from that in which 
they were born, will also be different. 
They will forget the mythical and a 
present violent aspect of their creed; 
they will strive after immediate im- 
provement; they will be peace-loving 
and matter-of-fact. 

Sorel says that if it is so, they will 
only create a variety of the very un- 
interesting bourgeois whom he hates: 
materialistic, self-indulgent, and cow- 
ardly. But this conclusion is not at all 
certain. The transformation in the 
public spirit which I mentioned above 
may be deep enough to restore idealism 
in spite of peace. /The logic of such 
movements in Catholic countries in- 
variably points to religious renovation. 
And what would be Catholicism gal- 
vanized once more into a social force 
in a society based on authority on the 
one hand and on a cooperation organ- 
ization on the other? The answer may 
be startling, but I think it is inevitable. 

Catholicism plus cooperative insti- 
tutions that is, after all, an idealist 
spirit united to the most effective means 
of social and material improvement 
amounts to a repetition of the mediae- 
val experiment coming round in un- 
doubtedly favorable conditions. Will 
this be? Nobody knows; but I would 
not leave the reader with a pessimistic 
conclusion when a totally different one 
appears more likely. In France, at 
least, the crisis in the growth of Syn- 
dicalism is over, and the materialism 
which made it formidable is speedily 
losing its venom. 



WHEN Yankel was left a widower, his 
pious relatives felt that the Lord had 
stretched out his hand to remove an 
obstacle from the path of a godly man. 
This reflection cast no reproach on the 
memory of YankePs wife. No one 
spoke of Peshe Frede except with re- 
spect and pity. She had been a good 
wife as good as God willed to have 
her. During the six years of her mar- 
ried life she had never given her hus- 
band any cause of complaint save one, 
and that was a matter for sorrow ra- 
ther than complaint. Peshe Frede had 
no children, and what are prosperity 
and harmony and mutual devotion to 
a childless pair, in a community where 
parenthood is the great career? Their 
life was like a stage set for a play, but 
the characters never came on. 

Yankel was away a great deal, look- 
ing after his lumber business, and 
whenever he came home he found his 
house in order, his favorite dishes 
steaming in the oven, and Peshe Frede, 
trim and smiling, ready to preside over 
his comfort. But there was a stillness 
in the orderly rooms that loving words 
failed to dispel, and Yankel had to 
exercise all the arts of kindness to wipe 
the guilty look out of Peshe Frede's 

No doubt it was harder on her, who 
had to stay at home with folded 
hands; and yet the mothers of Pol- 
otzk, while commiserating her barren 
lot, said she was greatly to be envied, 
because her husband kept her in honor 

and kindness and made light of their 
common disappointment. When she 
died, and the period of mourning was 
spent, Yankel's friends began to look 
forward to his second marriage, cer- 
tain that God would reward him at 
last for his unmurmuring patience. 

A year passed after his second mar- 
riage, and Sorke, the nineteen-year- 
old bride, began to droop 'under the 
weight of the accumulated silence of 
her orderly house. A second year 
passed without hope; a third year ran 
its empty course. Yankel was thank- 
ful to remember that even in his 
secret soul he had never thought of di- 
vorcing Peshe Frede at the end of ten 
years, as by the Jewish law he would 
have had a right to do. It was he who 
was doomed, and not the wife. He 
lavished on Sorke even greater tender- 
ness than he had spent on Peshe Frede, 
for now he had to atone for, as well as 
comfort, the empty heart. 

Late on one afternoon in October, 
Sorke was sitting by the window, her 
head bent over one of those embroid- 
ery-frames that had become the sym- 
bol of her unwelcome leisure. When 
it was too dark to work, she wound 
the thread around her needle and 
folded her hands in her lap. There 
was nothing to see on the street; still 
Sorke remained in her place, a vanish- 
ing image against the twilight gloom. 
Why should she move? There was no- 
thing waiting to be done. Chronic in- 
ertia had produced in her a weird 
power of remaining motionless. Even 



her thoughts were paralyzed. The 
stillness was like a wall around her. 
The irregular sounds that came from 
the kitchen brought no suggestion of 
current activity; they were the sounds 
that had filled her ears from the be- 
ginning of time. 

Suddenly she jumped up, with a 
startled cry. From the empty gloom 
outside a face had sprung, a dark, 
bearded, laughing face, close beside 
her window. She ran to the door. Her 
husband sprang up the steps to meet 

'Yankel!' she cried, in a voice half 
way between surprise and reproach. 

'Sorele! 1 I startled you. How are 
you, little wife?' 

'I did n]t expect you till the end of 
the week. How are you, Yankel?' 

'Fine! and mighty glad to get home, 
after two weeks of knocking about the 
dirty villages.' 

'Two weeks and three days/ Sorke 
soberly corrected. ' You went away on 
a Monday morning, and this is Wed- 

Yankel laughed. 

'I forgot that you count the days. 
Well, you like to be surprised? But 
why are you sitting in the dark? Here; 
let 's light the lamp. Let me see if my 
little wife is all there/ 

There was something pathetic in 
the interest with which Sorke watched 
her husband's trifling activity. She 
seemed glad to be caught up in the cur- 
rent of his energy. And Yankel, who 
had learned by experience the signs of 
a lonely woman's moods, put his ten- 
der hands on her shoulders and stud- 
ied her upturned face in the lamp- 

Sorke's eyes had that look of uncon- 
scious beseeching that had haunted 
him all the years of his married life: 
the look of one who has found no an- 
swer to the questions of life. Peshe 
1 Diminutive of Sorke. 

Frede had looked at him that way, and 
now Sorke Sorke, whose eyes were 
so merry three years ago. 

'You have been lonely, Sorele. 
What have you been doing? Tell me 
everything while we have tea/ 

Sorke was glad to be relieved of her 
husband's scrutiny. She did not wish 
to make him sad on his return. She 
called to the housemaid to prepare the 
samovar, and herself set out the glass- 
es on a tray. 

Yankel watched her quiet move- 
ments through the open door of their 
bedroom, while he removed his heavy 
boots and washed the grime of travel 
from his face and hands. It seemed 
to him she was paler than usual, and 
he divined that the bits of neighbor- 
hood gossip she repeated in answer to 
his questions had no real interest for 

'It's good to be at home,' he said, in 
his hearty manner, as he stretched his 
legs under the table opposite Sorke. 
'Are you sure you did n't expect me? 
It seems to me you 're all dressed up/ 

Sorke looked down on her gown, 
which was indeed one she seldom wore. 

'I had nothing to do, so I dressed 
up. Do you remember this dress?' 

'Is n't it a new one?' 

She smiled. 

'Ask a man about clothes! This is 
the dress I wore when we visited your 
Aunt Rachel, the Passover before we 
were married/ 

'What! three years ago? How did 
you keep it so new? You are a very 
careful little woman/ 

'It is n't that. I have so many 
dresses that I can't wear them out/ 
She lifted her head with a movement 
strange to her, a sort of subdued im- 
patience. 'Yankel, what's the use of 
having so many dresses?' 

He stared at her. 'I swear by my 
beard and earlocks that I'm the only 
husband in Polotzk who ever heard 



such a speech from his wife. Too 
many dresses ! Well, well ! what next ? ' 

But Sorke would not meet his tone 
of raillery. He had surprised her in 
the depths of her melancholy, and her 
trouble cried out to be recognized. 
Loneliness and brooding had unsettled 
her nerves. Yankel's cheerful, almost 
boisterous, manner jarred her into 
something like rebellion. 

'Too many dresses, yes, and too 
. many things of all sorts. We have so 
much of everything, and what's it all 
for? I can never get to the bottom of 
the linen chest some of the things 
have never been used. The parlor is 
fixed up like a furniture store there 
is n't a scratch or stain on anything. 
And look at my clothes! I've given 
away enough for a poor bride's trous- 
seau; I never wear out anything. 
What's the use of so many things? I 
wish we were poor. At least I 'd have 
something to do, then.' 

Her tone was almost vehement. Her 
color had risen; the beseeching look in 
her eyes was burned away by a gleam 
of protest. 

Yankel watched her in mute sur- 
prise. He understood the inner mean- 
ing of her frivolous complaint, perhaps 
better than she did herself, but he had 
become so accustomed to her gentle 
patience that he did not at once know 
how to meet her sudden outburst. 

Sorke waited a moment for him to 
speak, then went on, in a quieter man- 

* Really, Yankel, J think people are 
happier when they are n't so well off. 
I'd rather do patching and darning 
than this everlasting fancy-work.' She 
cast a look of distaste at the embroid- 
ery-frame in the corner. * I want some- 
thing real to do. I don't think you 
know how many hours there are in the 
day, you're so busy with your affairs 
and seeing people and traveling. If I 
were n't ashamed, I 'd like to take les- 
VOL. in -NO. i 

sons on the clavier, or something like 
that, to fill up the time.' 

'Why don't you?' 

Sorke looked her surprise. 

'A married woman take lessons? 
Everybody would point at me. I'm 
supposed to be busy with housekeep- 
ing. Busy?' She smiled sadly. * I stay 
in bed till I'm lame from lying; I go to 
market, I stop wherever two women 
have their heads together, I eat my 
dinner, I dress myself as for a holi- 
day; and it's only noon! Sometimes I 
turn the house upside down, closets 
and drawers and everything, just to 
have something to do.' She clasped 
her hands pleadingly. * Yankel! I've 
asked you a dozen times, I ask you 
again : send away the maid, and let me 
do the housework. I '11 be happy as a 
queen with my arms in the dough- 

She ended with a little smile, but 
Yankel continued to look gravely at 

'You might try it for a while,' he 
said at length, * but it would n't con- 
tent you long.' 

Sorke suppressed a sigh. Her hus- 
band's words showed her that he knew 
her innermost thoughts, still she made 
another feeble effort to disguise them. 

'I'd like it,' she said, in her normal 
tone; but she could not meet his ear- 
nest gaze. 

Yankel got up and took a few steps 
across the room. With his hands in his 
pockets, he leaned against a tall chest 
opposite the table, and looked so long 
at Sorke that she felt oppressed by his 

Her cry for something to do had 
gone to his heart like a subtle accusa- 
tion. This was his second fruitless 
marriage. What atonement had he 
made this woman for her empty exist- 
ence? No wonder she cried out at last 
at the gilded dross with which he had 
tried to beguile her. 


' Sorele, I have tried to be good to 

It was all he found to say in self-ex- 
cuse, but there was a world of sadness 
in his tone. Sorke's heart was struck 
with compunction. She went over to 
him with penitent haste. 

'Yankel,' she said, earnestly, plead- 
ingly, * don't look at me like that. You 
have been good to me always, al- 
ways. There is n't another husband 
like you in Polotzk. Why, all the wo- 
men envy me! You must n't mind 
my foolish words. Don't you know 
that a spoiled wife always has some 
complaint? Oh, Yankel! I deserve to 
be cudgeled for my silly talk.' 

She drew close to him, with one 
hand on his cheek. Tears of remorse 
were in her eyes. Yankel put his hand 
over hers, but did not speak. 

'What are you thinking, Yankel? 
Won't you forgive me?' 

'I'm thinking that I'm a very selfish 

'You selfish!' Sorke laughed. 'Your 
worst enemy would n't say that.' 

He freed himself from her touch, and 
spoke from a little distance. 

'Sorke, I ought to set you free to 
take another husband.' 


Gesture and tone expressed her hor- 
ror. Yankel put out a hand to her at 

'I did n't mean to shock you, Sorele. 
I can never make up to you for for 
what you miss. Eight years I lived with 
Peshe Frede, may she rest in peace! 
and since our marriage three years have 
passed. Sorele, you are young and 
fresh as a maiden. Why should you be 
doomed along with me?' 

Sorke dropped to her knees, her full 
dress billowing up about her. 

' Yankel, I beg you, unless you mean 
to divorce me, never say these things 
to me again.' 

He raised her and held her close. 

'You must n't kneel. I '11 never think 
of divorce unless you ask for it.' There 
came a look into his eyes that made 
Sorke hold her breath. 'Sorele, my 
wife, I love you.' 

At that word, so foreign to the ears 
of orthodox Polotzk, Sorke hid her 
face. That he should find the word 
and she understand it, was a double 
miracle. For among the pious Jews of 
their time romantic love was unknown, 
being constantly anticipated by the 
marriage-broker. What Sorke knew of 
love and love-making she had learned 
from vague rumors emanating from 
venturesome circles where forbidden 
books were read. In her confusion un- 
der her husband's ardor, there was 
more than a trace of shame. 

'Sorele, Sorele,' repeated Yankel, 'I 
love you.' 

The wife of three years allowed her- 
self to be embraced, with a sense of 
yielding to forbidden things. A strange 
thrill shot through her body, leaving 
her faint and dazed. 

' Oh, Yankel!' she whispered, bury- 
ing her face on his arm, ' I feel so so 
strange. You are you make me feel 

'Do I? Do I?' 

He held her away from him and 
looked at her steadily, breathing 
through dilated nostrils. Her long 
lashes swept her flaming cheeks. She 
wavered toward him, but he would 
not meet her movement. At last, with 
a little gasp of emotion, she threw her 
arms around his neck. In the void left 
by her maternal failure, the exotic flow- 
er of love had sprung up, that heathen 
love for which there was no name in 
the vocabulary of the orthodox. 

'Are you happy, Sorele?' 

His breath was warm on her neck. 
She nestled closer, but did not speak. 

'Are you?' he persisted. 

'I don't know why I'm happy all of 
a sudden.' 



She spoke unwillingly, with a sort of 
childish pout. He raised her head and 
compelled her look. 

' You are so beautiful, Sorele. If you 
did n't wear a wig, you 'd be like a 
bride just before the wedding. Take 
it off. You have pretty hair/ 

His fingers began to fumble with the 
hairpins. She caught them playfully. 

'Don't, Yankel. Don't look like 
that, and don't say such queer things. 
What makes you?' 

'I don't know, myself. Have I ever 
seen you before? You look new to me.' 

She laughed like a child. Suddenly 
he pressed her closer to him, and kissed 
her again and again. The skull-cap 
fell from his thick brown curls. He 
looked like a youth of twenty. 

'My wife, my wife!' he murmured; 
and Sorke ceased to struggle. 

They were facing each other through 
a trembling mist of passion, the man 
and wife who had blundered on the 
tricks of love neglected by the customs 
of their race; and lo! it was only a more 
cunning disguise for the ultimate pur- 
pose which the conventions of their 
world had scarcely masked. 

' If God would only grant us a child 
now!' whispered Sorke, summing up 
in one word both her old and her new 
ideas of bliss. 


A month or so later they were again 
sitting close together in the lamplight, 
Yankel having just returned from a 
short trip. As soon as the door was 
shut on the inquisitive housemaid, 
they had drawn up their chairs to the 
fire, with that new instinct of mutual 
approach which was the sign of their 
belated love. But Yankel was not 
bent on love-making this evening. 
With an elation that seemed unwar- 
ranted by the prosaic facts he was re- 
citing, he was giving Sorke a minute 

account of his return journey, and 
she, divining from his manner that 
he was leading up to some important 
revelation, listened with growing cu- 

'So there we were, six versts from 
the railroad station, the wagon in the 
ditch on top of the miserable horse, 
and the stupid peasant boy with just 
sense enough left to scratch his head. 
There was no hope now of catching 
my train; we could n't raise the horse 
without help. After a while my dolt 
got his wits together and bethought 
himself of a little inn, kept by Jews, on 
a branch road half a verst from where 
we were spilled. It was the toughest 
half-mile I ever walked. The mud was 
up to my calves in places, and sticky 
as glue. The inn was a rotten shanty, 
but there were two men on the place, 
and I sent them out to help Stephanka 
raise the horse and wagon. I ordered 
something to eat while I waited, but, 
as I was washing my hands, I saw a 
queer creature, neither man nor beast, 
climb down from the stove ledge, steal 
up to the table, and snatch the loaf 
that was laid out for me. The inn- 
keeper, a dried-up old woman with a 
wry face, caught the creature, beat 
him, and took the bread from him. 
She explained that he was an idiot 
from birth, her only living child, al- 
though she had had eight sound, heal- 
thy children.' 

Sorke shuddered slightly. 

'Poor woman!' she murmured. 

'It's no wonder she looks like a 
witch,' Yankel resumed, 'with such a 
history. It turned me just to look at 
that monster. He was almost naked, 
dressed in a single tattered shirt, 
hairy all over like a beast, with wild 
eyes; and he smelt like a filthy animal.' 

'Oc/i, what a horrid creature! Could 
he talk?' 

'No more than the beasts. He 
whined and jabbered when the inn- 



keeper beat him, and suddenly he 
wrenched himself out of her clutch, 
and as she tried to grab him again, she 
caught hold of something he wore on a 
string around his neck, the string broke, 
and the thing was left in her hand. At 
that the woman seemed terribly upset, 
and wailed and wrung her hands. " It 's 
a sign," she moaned, "a bad sign. Some- 
thing is going to happen." I asked her 
what it was she had torn off the idiot's 
neck, and she said it was an amulet he 
had worn since he was a baby.' 

Yankel interrupted himself to ask a 

'Do you believe in amulets, Sorke?' 

* Believe in amulets? Of course I do. 
All sorts of troubles are cured by amu- 
lets, and they bring good luck, every- 
body knows. But they're getting rare 
now; the rebbes don't do such wonders 
as they used to. The people are too 

Sorke spoke with the simplicity of 
the believer. She came of a family of 
devout Hasidim, who believed in mir- 
acles as they believed in the Law of 

'It may be,' said Yankel, in answer 
to her remark. 'This amulet, now 
where do you think it came from?' 

Sorke shrugged her shoulders. 

'Do I know? Tell me all about 


'Well, the innkeeper's sister gave it 
to the idiot boy when she was dying. 
She took it from her own neck and gave 
it to him. She thought it might cure 
him make him human.' 

'Where did she get it?' 

'She had it from the Rebbe of Ka- 

Sorke jumped in her place. 

'From the Rebbe of Kadino!' she 
exclaimed, in a reverent undertone. 
'An amulet from the Rebbe of Kadino! 
Oh, Yankel, if I could only touch it! 
What did she have it for? Did the 
innkeeper say?' 

'It did n't cure the idiot, you see; 
the innkeeper said he was never any 

'But the Rebbe gave it for some- 
thing different, I suppose. His amu- 
lets never failed. If he were living 
now, I'd have gone to him long ago.' 

Yankel bent close to her. 

'What for, Sorele? what for?' 

She flushed, and her eyes fell. 

'For a cure for barrenness,' she re- 
plied in a low voice. 'He helped many 

Yankel stealthily put his hand into 
his pocket and drew out a small dark 
object, which he gently placed on 
Sorke 's lap. 

Her hands unclasped themselves, 
but remained poised over her lap. She 
looked up with a white face. 

'The amulet!' she whispered. 

Her husband nodded. 

'It was given her for barrenness. 
She had been married six years with- 
out bearing. She made a pilgrimage to 
Kadino, got this amulet from the 
Rebbe, and within the year she had a 

They looked at each other in a si- 
lence heavy with awe. Through the 
little dark object lying on Sorke's lap 
their prayers were to be answered at 
last. The parasite superstition which 
had overgrown the noble tree of the 
faith of the Ghetto yielded a drop of 
honey along with its poisonous sap. 
Yankel and Sorke, sharing between 
them the token of the sainted Rebbe, 
tasted a form of ecstasy that only the 
credulous can know. 

Presently Sorke began to murmur, 
taking up the amulet with reverent 
fingers, pressing it to her bosom, to her 

'Oh, God, dear God! why are You 
so good to me? A little child I shall 
have a little child! What pious deeds 
must I do in return for this? I will feed 
the hungry, I will tend the sick, I will 



give alms, I will fast and pray. God 
has answered my petitions.' 

And Yankel spoke as tensely as she. 

' I did so want a child, Sorke. I had 
got used to wanting I thought I was 
resigned. But lately, since because 
you are so dear to me, I wanted it 
more than ever. No matter where I 
go, I see your face, and still I miss 
something that belongs to you. I can't 
explain it; I'm ashamed of it some- 
times a man to be always thinking 
of what cannot be! But now, if God 
wills What a happiness, Sorele!' 

All that might come with the ripen- 
ing months they would owe to the 
blessed talisman! 


A month passed, two, three, four 
months. They smiled at each other in 
undiminished hope. Sorke wore the 
amulet round her neck day and night, 
except when she made her ritual ablu- 
tions. The thing they longed for would 
surely come to pass. What if they had 
to wait another month, and another? 
It was so much more time in which to 
make their lives pure and holy. They 
had always been counted among the 
pious; now they redoubled their acts 
of devotion and charity. And always 
they knew that the thing they longed 
for would come to pass. 

And so it did. One day, returning 
from an absence of eight weeks, Yankel 
was greeted at the gate by a speech- 
less, tremulous Sorke, who blushed the 
news to him before they had got in- 
doors. Shimke, the money-lender, who 
lived in the next house on the right, re- 
ported in the market-place that she 
saw through a crack in the fence how 
Yankel snatched up the blushing wife 
and carried her like a baby into the 

'No wonder/ said the mothers of 
Polotzk, when Sorke's news was out, 

'no wonder the man went out of his 
head at the tidings, after waiting so 
long. Sorke, she will be as one new- 
born. The poor young thing was worn 
almost to a shadow, what with pining 
and fasting and running about from 
one wise woman to another. There 
is n't a remedy she had n't tried. She 
was always thinking of the other one, 
they say Peshe Frede, peace be to 
her soul ! who went childless to her 
grave. Well, God took pity on her, 
and it does one good to think of her 


The months that followed were the 
happiest in Sorke's life. Her husband 
surrounded her with all the comforts 
that his means could command, and 
the matrons of the neigborhood 
watched over her and taught her all 
their maternal secrets. Yankel en- 
gaged a little Gentile girl especially to 
wait on her, 'as if she were a queen,' 
the women said; and as Sorke's time 
drew near, he was unwilling to leave 
her side, sometimes letting his business 
suffer rather than spend a night away 
from home. 

'He's afraid the Messiah will be 
born in his absence,' the neighbors 
laughed, taking note of Yankel's anx- 
iety; but the hearts of the fathers were 
with him, remembering the time when 
they had awaited each his own first- 
born; and the prayers of the women 
were with his wife, as they recalled the 
first fears and shocks and raptures of 

One day, finding himself within a 
few versts of the neglected inn where 
he had come across the magical amulet, 
Yankel was moved to go and report 
the happy effect of the charm. His 
heart was running over with gratitude 
to God and benevolence to all the 
world. He suddenly felt that he had 
not rewarded the woman sufficiently 
for the priceless gift of the amulet. He 
had paid her ten rubles a fortune in 



her eyes; but what was ten rubles in 
return for his blissful expectations? 

The old woman was knitting by the 
window when Yankel's wagon turned 
into the yard. Before he had set a foot 
on the ground, she burst through the 
door, and ran to meet him with ges- 
tures of excitement. 

'Oh, Master Jew, Master Jew!' she 
cried, grasping his arm with her two 
bony hands. 'You have come 
thank God you have come! Every 
day since you were here I've sat by 
the window watching for you. I did 
n't know your name, or where you 
came from, so I could n't send you a 
message. I hoped I would see that 
peasant boy again who upset you in 
the ditch, but he did n't come this way 
nobody ever comes this way it 's 
a castaway corner nothing but an 
accident brought you in the first place. 
You were lost in the big world, and I 
could n't find you.' 

Yankel listened to her with amaze- 
ment. The words came whistling out 
of her toothless mouth like the wind 
through a keyhole. Her drawn cheeks 
were stained purple with excitement. 

'What 's the matter? ' he said, gently 
disengaging his arm. 'What did you 
want with me, that you sat at the win- 
dow, waiting so?' 

'The amulet what have you done 
with the amulet?' 

Yankel thought she repented of her 

'You sold it to me for ten rubles. If 
that was n't enough, I'll give you 
more. That's what I came for to-day.' 

'No, no, I don't want more money,' 
the woman protested. ' See, I have n't 
changed the other bill yet.' She put 
her hand into her bosom and pulled 
out a rag tied up into a knot. 'Here it 
is I was afraid to touch it. What 
have you done with the amulet?' 

Her mysterious insistence began to 
annoy him. 

'It was mine,' he said, with a touch 
of impatience, ' and I did what I want- 
ed with it. You told me it would cure 
barrenness. I gave it to my wife to 
wear. We had been married over three 
years without a child.' 

'And now?' 

The woman's voice was thick with 

'It was with my wife as with your 
sister. Thank God, she expects a child. 
But what ails you, woman?' 

The innkeeper had turned ashy pale. 
She clapped her bony hands together 
and turned her eyes to heaven. 

'God's will be done,' she whispered. 
' It 's too late now. May the Lord save 
her from all evil.' 

Watching her, Yankel felt his heart 
contract with apprehension. He grasp- 
ed her by the arm, and spoke sternly, 
almost fiercely. 

'Listen, woman! If you have any- 
thing to tell me, out with it. What is 
it you're moaning about?' 

The innkeeper collected herself. 

'The warning, Master Jew I for- 
got to tell you the warning. It was so 
long ago my sister's first child is 
himself a father now. I forgot about 
the warning, and you went away and I 
saw you no more until now.' 

Yankel set his teeth and waited for 
her to work round to the point. 

'The Rebbe said that if it was twins, 
one of them would die,' the woman 
said, chanting the words like a text of 
Scripture; 'if it was a boy, all would 
go well; if it was a girl, the mother 
might not live to nurse her.' 

Yankel turned white under his beard. 

'Lord of all!' he cried; 'I gave it to 
my Sorke to wear.' 

At sight of his terror, the woman 
turned comforter. 

'You must have faith, Master Jew,' 
she said. 'What! have you no faith at 
all? It may be a boy, and then all will 
be well. My sister may she rest in 


peace! was not afraid to put it on, 
because she trusted in God/ 

'Did she know?' 

'Sure she did. Am I not telling you 
that the Rebbe gave her this warning 
with the amulet? She trusted in God, 
and He rewarded her. A boy she had 
may all Jewish mothers have the 
like. Everything is in God's hands.' 

But Yankel could not shake off the 
horror that had seized him. ' If it is a 
girl, the mother may not live to nurse 
her.' The words repeated themselves 
in his ear. He climbed back into the 
wagon and ordered his man to drive 
to the railroad station as fast as he 
could. There was a train in an hour. 
He could be in Polotzk before midnight. 
He could see Sorke he could assure 
himself that she was as well as when 
he had left her. 

The innkeeper stood in the road and 
watched him drive off. 

'Don't blame me, Master Jew,' she 
called after him. ' I ' ve sat by the win- 
dow every day watching for you. And 
you must trust in God. It will be a 
boy a boy a boy! ' 

Twenty rods or so below the inn, 
a wild creature broke through the 
thicket by the roadside and ran grin- 
ning and gibbering across the road, 
right under the horse's nose. It was 
the idiot who had worn the amulet be- 
fore Sorke. Yankel shuddered and 
ordered his man to drive faster. The 
country was peopled with hobgoblins. 
On every side he saw evil omens. 


He did not tell Sorke of his visit to 
the inn. He kept his fears to himself, 
and his heart grew heavier as the days 
went by. He redoubled his attentions 
to his wife, watched over her by day, 
and prayed over her by night. In his 
inexperience, he saw signs of approach- 
ing doom in her growing inactivity 

and lassitude, which were, indeed, due 
chiefly to the fact that his attentions 
left her no opportunity for exertion. 
She smiled at him from her easy chair, 
chattered gaily of neighborhood events, 
or fell into sweet abstraction, her hands 
serenely folded in her lap. 

One evening, as she sat on the edge 
of her bed plaiting her soft black hair 
for the night, she watched him arrange 
her pillows as solicitously as a nurse 
might have done. 

'Yankel,' she said, suddenly, 'what 
would you do if you woke up some 
morning and did n't find me here? 
You spend all your time taking care 
of me. What would you do without 

He turned pale at her playful words. 
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. 

'Sorele, don't talk like that! Why 
do you have such fancies? I shall al- 
ways have you God grant it. I 
could n't live without you, Sorele; it's 
a sin to say so, but I could n't.' He 
sat down beside her and took her hand. 
'My wife, you are dearer to me than 
anything else I have, or anything I 
ever could have/ 

Sorke was somewhat awed by his 
earnestness, but her playfulness was 
not all spent. 

'You've forgotten something you're 
going to have,' she said, archly, blush- 
ing slightly at her thoughts. 'You 
would n't give that for other things 
not even for me, perhaps.' 

'Sorele, you are more to me than 
the child I hope to have.' 

She gazed at him with a sort of rev- 
erent wonder, then she sighed. 

'I don't know why God is so good 
to me. I feel as if something must 
happen to us; we are too happy.' 

Once more superstitious terror 
clutched at Yankel's heart. He had 
asked too much of God; he might be 
called upon to part with a portion of 
his riches, that he might learn humil- 



ity. He had had more to be thankful 
for than most men : a happy boyhood, 
with loving parents and good teachers; 
a prosperous manhood, and a digni- 
fied place in the community. Twice a 
pious, well-dowered maid was given 
him to wife. Why was he not content? 
Why had he asked for what God chose 
to withhold? In his love for Sorke it 
had been given him to taste of a bliss 
he had never dreamed of whose ex- 
istence in the world he had not even 
suspected. It was as if for him alone, 
of all the men he knew, this exquisite 
essence of happiness had been distilled 
out of the common elements of life. 
And he had asked for more! He had 
gone meddling with charms for the 
purpose of thwarting God's will. What 
if the Almighty, in his divine displeas- 
ure, should chastise him through the 
thing he valued most of all? 

'Sorele, Sorele!' pleaded Yankel, 
pressing her hands to his heart, * I beg 
of you not to say these things do not 
think them even. Pray with me that 
God will spare you, no matter what 
else He takes from me. You would be 
happy with me, would n't you, even if 
there were no child?' 

* Why, yes, Yankel, I think I would. 
Once I used to be very lonely I 
wanted children, like other women 
but after lately Oh, but we'll al- 
ways be happy! All of us: you and I 
and the baby!' 

The neighborhood was apprised 
that Sorke's hour had come, when, 
early one morning in the autumn, Yan- 
kel was seen dashing out of his gate- 
way in a state of dishevelment, mak- 
ing straight for the quarter where Itke, 
the midwife, lived. Half an hour later 
he was seen returning, this time in a 
droshka, standing up all the way, urg- 
ing the isvostchik to drive faster. The 

familiar face of the midwife bobbed in 
the seat behind him. 

The news was flashed from house 
to house. The women neglected their 
morning tasks, and found excuses to 
go visiting from one end of the street 
to the other, exchanging opinions and 
prophecies as to Sorke 's chances. 

* It's a little soon,' it was said in one 
circle. * Sorke hadn't reckoned to be 
delivered for another week or so.' 

' It was a sudden call, as I live,' said 
Shimke of the watchful eye. * Yankel 
ran out with his sleeves rolled up and 
soapsuds in his beard, did n't have 
time to finish washing, and he was 
pale as a cloth. And did you see the 
droshka flinging around the corner? 
Yankel must have tipped the driver 
well. Bobe Itke was so shaken that 
she could n't finish buttoning her bod- 
ice. I guess Yankel pulled her out of 
bed. God be with her in her need!' 
Shimke finished, piously though am- 

'God be with her!' echoed the gos- 
sips; and one or two applied a corner 
of their kerchiefs to their eyes. 

Before noon there was every sign 
that Sorke's case was going badly. 
Anusha, the little maid, was seen run- 
ning on many errands, and to shouted 
inquiries she answered only 'Bog zna- 
yetr (God knows!) It was observed 
that certain vessels, seldom needed by 
the sprightly mothers of Polotzk, were 
borrowed from a distant quarter. And 
then, most ominous of all signs, the 
well-known carriage of Dr. Isserson, 
the best physician in Polotzk, drew 
up before Yankel 's gate, and remained 
there for hours. Itke, the experienced 
midwife, who had ushered two genera- 
tions of babies into Polotzk, despised 
the doctors with their fussy, elaborate 
ways, and never called them in except 
in desperate cases. No wonder that 
pious old Zelde, who commanded a 
view of the street from her little win- 



dow, noticing the arrival of Dr. Isser- 
son, dropped her knitting, snatched 
up her shawl, and hobbled off to the 
synagogue to pray. 

To the synagogue repaired also Yan- 
kel, driven thither by Itke, who scold- 
ed him for being in the way. It was 
bad enough to have one man around, 
she complained, with an unfriendly 
look at the doctor's back; men were no 
good except to pray. 

And Yankel prayed, and collected 
ten men to recite the Psalms with him, 
and people passing outside the syna- 
gogue heard his voice above the rest; 
and the wailing, pleading tones of it 
melted every Jewish heart. 

One by one the men he had sum- 
moned left the synagogue and returned 
to their vulgar affairs, but Yankel did 
not notice their going. Wrapped in his 
praying shawl, he leaned his arms on a 
lectern by the window and let his soul 
float away from him. He was a fair 
scholar, but never before had he open- 
ed a sacred book with such overmas- 
tering longing to understand. He 
longed to lose his fears, to give up his 
will. He cried to the God of Israel, not 
to secure to him that which he prized, 
but to fill him with the faith that 
would make his portion acceptable to 

* Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and 
He shall sustain thee? 

YankeFs voice gathered volume as 
he chanted, till the Hebrew syllables 
echoed in every corner of the empty 

synagogue. The long shadows trooped 
in, obscuring the polished benches, the 
carved pulpit in the centre, the faint 
frescoes on the wall. A last sunbeam 
slanted down from a little window in 
the women's gallery, drew a prismatic 
flash from the crystal chandelier, 
glinted on the golden fringe of the cur- 
tains before the ark, and expired in the 
smothering shadows. 

' / will abide in Thy tabernacle for- 
ever ; I will trust in the covert of Thy 
wings. 9 

Yankel's voice had lost the tremor 
of passion. His brow was smooth un- 
der the shadow of the praying shawl. 
He closed his eyes and was silent, only 
his body swayed gently with the mel- 
ody of the psalm. 

The printed page was blurred when 
he came to himself with a shock, to find 
a small boy plucking him by the arm. 

* Reb' Yankel, there 's a Gentile girl 
outside wants to speak to you.' 

Through the gloom of the empty 
synagogue he took six long strides to 
the door. Across the yard he flew, the 
praying shawl swelling like a sail 
around him, his boots clicking on the 
paving stones. A small figure was 
standing in the street, barefoot, silent, 
gray as the dusk. It was Sorke's lit- 
tle maid, and her kerchief was pulled 
far over her face. 


Terror and pleading were in his 

* Master, O master! it's a little boy, 
and the mistress will be well.' 




THE Chinese millions have given the 
world the greatest revolution of mod- 
ern times in the most civilized manner 
known to history. We have emanci- 
pated ourselves from the imperial yoke, 
not by brute force, but by sheer reason- 
ing and unparalleled toleration. With- 
in the amazingly short period of four 
months, and without shedding over 
one hundredth part of the blood that 
has been shed in other similar revolu- 
tions, we have transformed our im- 
mense country from an empire of four 
thousand years' standing into a modern 
democracy. After having set this new 
standard of sanity in revolutions, we 
have organized ourselves into the new- 
est Republic, following up-to-date pat- 
terns. Now we come forward with 
hands and hearts open to join the sis- 
terhood of nations, and all we ask is 
that the world will permit us to join its 
company. We are born into the world 
as a nation, and we wish to be register- 
ed as a part of the world. We ask for 
recognition of our Republic because it 
is an accomplished fact. Neither our 
modesty nor our sense of self-respect 
will ever allow us to make another re- 
quest if any party can show us that 
the Chinese Republic is not a fact. 

The recognition of a new nation by 
the family of nations should more or 
less resemble the announcement or 
registration of a newly born child. If 
the baby is actually born with the 
functions of a human being, it is the 
duty of the family and the court, if 


that court is worth having, to acknow- 
ledge the fact. So it should be with the 
recognition of a new government. 

If it is born and bona fide in exist- 
ence, it is incumbent upon the civilized 
nations to acknowledge and admit its 
birth. Of course, the family of nations, 
as the family of some barbarous tribes, 
can ignore or even nullify the birth of 
a newly born; but I feel that we have 
got beyond that stage of' barbarity. 
The law of nations, as in the case of the 
law of the state, has reached or should 
reach such a state of perfection that a 
being should not only have the right 
to exist after it is born, but also the 
right to be born when it is bona fide 
conceived. We are thankful that the 
United States has taken the initiative 
from the beginning of our Revolution in 
preventing foreign powers from inter- 
fering, thus enabling us to be properly 
conceived and born; but since we are 
born we must now ask for recognition. 

Of course there are certain usages 
to be fulfilled in order to be recog- 
nized. But China has fulfilled these 
requirements long ago. So many un- 
deniable evidences exist, and so many 
indisputable arguments have already 
been produced, in respect to interna- 
tional law, that it will be time wasted 
to emphasize this point here. Suffice 
it to say, that facts and the concur- 
rence of best opinion testify that 
China deserves recognition. Indeed, 
the Chinese people, as well as many 
others, would be most happy to know 


in what respect China has not fulfilled 
the requirements to deserve recogni- 
tion. The only reason we have heard up 
to this time is that given by England 
and Russia, namely, that China must 
make a new treaty to give practical 
independence to Tibet and Mongolia 
before she can expect recognition from 
these two countries. Now let us ask, 
how could the making of a new treaty, 
or the granting of independence to 
Tibet and Mongolia, better qualify 
China as a nation? It seems a pity 
that such a retrogressive step should 
be taken, and that the recognition of 
a new government should be made an 
excuse for fraudulent bargaining. 

China to-day is a nation, and the 
Chinese Republic is a fact. If any na- 
tion or individual thinks that China 
is not a nation and the Chinese Repub- 
lic is not a fact, it is their duty to give 
us the evidence. Or, if they do not 
think that the republican form of 
government is good enough for recog- 
nition, then they must point out that 
they have something better in mind. 
As one of the most potent factors to 
prevent a nation from recognizing a 
new government is the fear of offend- 
ing, or the desire to help, t)|e old gov- 
ernment, prolonged delay of recogni- 
tion of the Chinese Republic may mean 
that the Powers hope, or fear, that the 
dissolved Manchu Dynasty, with all its 
corruption, will reappear. But we 
must see that there is no more dynas- 
ty left. Even the Prince Regent and 
the Dowager Empress have forsaken 
it. The Emperor himself has retired 
into private life with satisfaction. In 
short, the monarchy is dead abso- 
lutely dead. Then they may say that 
the dead may be raised from the grave, 
as in the story of Jesus of old; but 
they must also remember that those 
who were raised by Jesus were good, 
and not such obnoxious and decom- 
posed bones as the Manchu Dynasty. 

Another reason given in some quar- 
ters for withholding recognition of the 
Chinese Republic, is that the govern- 
ment of the Republic is called ' provi- 
sional.' It is really amusing to see how 
people, or even statesmen, sometimes 
balk at some single word, which has lit- 
tle or no substantial meaning, sacrific- 
ing thereby results of universal benefit. 
The word * provisional ' was adopted in 
Nanking really without much consid- 
eration. If anything, it was due to the 
modesty of our leaders, who thought 
that, during the period of transition 
from imperialism to democracy, to call 
the government ' provisional ' might be 
more becoming, if not more expedient. 
To illustrate further that the word * pro- 
visional 'has no substantial significance, 
we may recall that, during this current 
year, this word has become so popular 
that it is indiscriminately prefixed to 
pretty nearly everything. Thus, people 
say ' provisional ' theatre, ' provisional ' 
restaurant, and even * provisional ' en- 
joyment. What should be considered 
is the fact, and not the name. A gov- 
ernment, although called ' provisional/ 
may be fully deserving of recognition, 
while another government may be call- 
ed substantial, solid, or whatever else 
you like, and yet far less deserve the 
characterization. It certainly seems 
rather unfortunate that on account of 
the modesty of our leaders in adopting 
the word 'provisional' the deserved 
recognition should be withheld. 

As a Chicago paper said, 'For near- 
ly nine months the republican govern- 
ment of China has been uncontested. 
There is not even a "pretender" to 
the throne. There is peace and order, 
broadly speaking, throughout China.' 
We ask for recognition, because the 
other nations have hammered at 
our doors and constantly come in 
contact with us. We would not ob- 
ject to going on without recognition 
if the other Powers really wish to 


sever all relations with us. In so far 
as our diplomatic and consular officers 
in foreign countries, as well as those 
officers of foreign nations accredited to 
us, are now conducting our interna- 
tional affairs much the same as before, 
and also in so far as the nations have to 
transact business, and are doing it now 
with us, just as if we were recognized, 
we see no reason why the Powers, espe- 
cially the United States, which often 
boasts of being the mother and cham- 
pion of republicanism, should refrain 
from simply declaring and acknow- 
ledging what is a fact. Indeed, after 
having known how these Powers en- 
deavored to induce us to admit them, 
and how eager they apparently were 
in forcing China to open her doors, we 
find it hard to understand why the 
same Powers should remain so indiffer- 
ent, and even turn a deaf ear to our plea 
to join their company, when we have 
at last broken loose from the obstacles 
which they hated, and opened up not 
only our doors but our hearts as well. 

Moreover, an early recognition will 
help us a good deal to calm the over- 
charged suspension of mind, and thus 
enable the people to forget the Revo- 
lution and to settle down to business. 
Like the cheering from the football 
bleachers or the applause in the gallery, 
there is perhaps nothing substantial in 
the recognition, but it is the only thing 
that makes a team put in its last ounce 
of grit and the actor double his spirit. 
After seeing what China has done, we 
feel that she deserves at least some 
such mild sign of appreciation. 

An early recognition will also help 
China in her relations with other na- 
tions. The recognition itself may not 
mean much, but at this critical mo- 
ment, when China has the re-making 
of herself in hand, and when not every 
nation is too glad to see China become 
strong and peaceful, every little help 
means a good deal. Indeed, a little 

help shown us to-day means a thou- 
sand times the value of the same help 
if it is shown us in a year to come. 
We need help and encouragement. We 
need help now. 

Then the delay of public recogni- 
tion always casts a baleful influence 
upon the minds of all concerned, and 
hence invariably hinders the progress 
of a new nation. Therefore, by delay- 
ing recognition, you are not only re- 
fraining from helping us, but you are 
doing a positive injury to our cause. 
History tells us that the refusal of re- 
cognition has contributed its share in 
bringing about the failure of former 
revolutions, and has obstructed pro- 
gress in China herself. Such delay has 
since been lamented. In speaking of 
the refusal of the Powers to recognize 
the Tai-ping Rebellion, which bears no 
comparison to our Revolution of last 
year, Dr. W. A. P. Martin, one of the 
best American authorities on China, 
said several years ago, * Looking back 
at this distance of time, with the 
light of all subsequent history upon 
the events, we are still inclined to ask 
whether a different policy might not 
have been better. . . . Had the foreign 
Powers promptly recognized the Tai- 
ping chief on the outbreak of the sec- 
ond war, might it not have shortened 
a chapter of horrors that dragged on 
for fifteen more years, ending in many 
other revolts and causing the loss of 
fifty millions of human lives. . . . More 
than once, when the insurgents were 
on the verge of success, the prejudice 
of short-sighted diplomats decided 
against them, and an opportunity was 
lost such as does not occur once in a 
thousand years.' 

We hope that the nations are not 
so prejudiced as to think that our 
Revolution is even worse than the 
Tai-ping Rebellion, and we also hope 
that the regrettable short-sightedness 
of the diplomats may not obtain in our 


case, so that posterity may not have to 
lament our loss of the present oppor- 
tunity, as we lament the lost opportun- 
ity of our forefathers of sixty years ago. 
Then again, to give the deserved 
recognition will be of mutual benefit 
by preventing many mutual embar- 
rassments. The recent International 
Congress of Commerce at Boston, and 
the Panama Exposition, are two in- 
stances. In both cases the American 
people interested, and, so far as we can 
see, the American government also, 
were anxious to have China partici- 
pate. In return, China was glad also 
to come. But in the absence of that 
official recognition, both parties had to 
go at the matter in the most round- 
about way conceivable, so as to make 
people believe that the one in inviting 
the other, and the other in accepting 
the invitation, were, at the same time, 
having nothing to do with each other. 

The round-about red-tape in playing 
this make-believe is as amusing as it is 
troublesome. Therefore, as a citizen of 
a republic, the writer feels we had bet- 
ter stop this make-believe and settle 
down to business. We sympathize with 
all nations concerned in their interna- 
tional difficulties, but we also trust that 
their difficulties will soon be overcome. 
During the past seven months China 
has rushed through her great drama 
with appalling speed and audacity. 
She has run the hardest Marathon 
known in history. After reaching her 
goal, breathless, she nervously but 
confidently looks to the world for the 
recognition due to every such runner. 
She stretches out her hands to America 
first, because she prefers to have her 
best friend be the first in giving her 
this deserved encouragement. Now, 
will America understand the truth? 
Will America listen to her plea? 



TAKE me upon thy breast, 

O river of rest. 
Draw me down to thy side, 

Slow-moving tide. 
Carry out beyond reacn 

Of song or of speech 
This body and soul forespent. 

To thy still continent, 
Where silence hath his home, 

Where I would come, 
Bear me now in thy deep 

Bosom, Sleep, 
O Sleep. 



EVERY lawyer when young should be 
apprenticed to some good physician, 
and should return to him regularly 
through life. Then we might hope that 
from the neighboring profession of heal- 
ing there might enter into him a spirit 
never to be wholly quenched by all the 
deadening influences of his work. 

No fact could well be more surpris- 
ing or offer a more delicate psycholog- 
ical problem than this, that, within 
two professions touching life upon mat- 
ters of equal importance, professions of 
ancient dignity and learning, and in- 
viting to their service men of equal and 
rare ability, there should in the same 
community be so different a spirit. 

Medicine stands in this strange con- 
trast to law, that while the public is 
clamoring for the lawyers to advance, 
the lawyers themselves as a class offer 
the chief resistance; the medical profes-- 
sion constantly outstrips and leads the 
public imagination in devices to check 
disease. Although much at the start was 
due to laymen, the campaign against 
tuberculosis, against infant mortality, 
against malarial and typhoid fevers, is 
largely captained and manned by doc- 
tors, who have the hearty support of 
the profession as a whole. The public 
does not have to drive and drag them 
from their satisfaction with methods 
which even to the laity are clearly an- 
tiquated and perverse. The doctors, 
unlike the lawyers, have rather to con- 
tend with public efforts to hold them 
back. Powerful lobbies and mass- 

meetings have been known to oppose 
the doctors' most reasonable efforts to 
refuse the license to the vicious and un- 
trained. And many a powerful news- 
paper, despite well-known medical 
ethics, publishes advertisements upon 
whose face are all the signs of a debas- 
ing and often criminal quackery. Yet 
the impulse of the profession, as a 
whole, is sufficiently strong to insure a 
remarkable progress in the face, not 
only of its own inner enemies, but of this 
indifference and opposition from with- 
out. Of two Rip Van Winkles awaken- 
ing to-day, the physician would find 
his old methods as rust-eaten and use- 
less as his instruments; the lawyer, 
after a few hours with new statutes, 
would feel at home in any of our 

In comparing the lawyers with the 
physicians one should not lose sight of 
the vices in medicine, its tendency 
to sects, its quackery, its blunders in 
diagnosis and in treatment, the readi- 
ness of some physicians to become 
accessory to forms of sexual evil, its 
disgracefully inadequate 'colleges' in 
many parts of our country. Nor should 
we lose sight of the prevalent personal 
honor of lawyers, which is fully as 
great, in all likelihood, as that of phys- 
icians, and the inestimable service 
rendered the public, not only in the 
lawyers' direct professional work, but 
also when, as individuals, they labor 
outside the strict lines of their profes- 
sion. As legislators and high executive 
officials, federal and state, the lawyers 
almost alone govern us, and we pros- 



per. To men of the type of Baldwin, 
Root, Hughes, and Taft, our society is 
in deepest debt. Yet the lawyers as a 
body, in the strict work of their profes- 
sion, and it is of the pervading spirit 
only that I speak, face opposite to 
the men of medicine. As judges, coun- 
sel, advocates, they are of the back- 
ward look. Their inertia here becomes 
almost our despair. 

The parallel in medicine to the legal 
spirit lies in the distant past before 
that movement which, led by men like 
Harvey, Sydenham, and Locke, called 
modern medicine into life; at a time 
when the medical profession had fin- 
ality of tone, looking back to Galen as 
to the completion of its work. In the 
ways of the lawyer one fancies one 
sees the Middle Ages present in the 
flesh. In Europe the past is most evi- 
dent in the Church and the office of 
the Ruler. With us, these seem swept 
and garnished, while in our courts 
is ancient dust and formalism. One 
finds here not in some hole and cor- 
ner of the profession, but in its high 
and open places a willingness to look 
at words rather than at substance. 
It may be the exception, but it is 
no rare exception, here to have great 
issues hang upon a turn of phrasing, 
where the meaning admits no doubt. 

A, who has proved that B has defraud- 
ed him of money, is nevertheless re- 
fused redress because a supreme court 
is not sure but that 'his money/ of 
which A complains that he has been 
defrauded, may mean the money of 

B. An action for murder comes to 
naught because the complaint fails to 
state that John Smith slain was a hu- 
man being. 1 

Such solemn examining of p's to 
see whether one of- them may not be 
written q ; of every i lest one may lack 

1 This is taken from an actual judgment, not 
very long ago, by the California Supreme Court. 
See 137 California, 590. THE ATJTHQII. 

its dot, all this seems to the lay- 
man little better than deciding affairs 
of state by the look of entrails or by 
the behavior within the sacred hen- 
coop. The Court of Appeals of New 
York nullifying legislative acts di- 
rected to the relief of workingmen, 
nullifying them because, it was held, 
they violated the constitutional guar- 
antee regarding * due process of law,' 
reveals a power to think across empty 
spaces, which would have been hailed 
as modern and envied in those mediae- 
val schools where stout realities were 
affirmed or denied because of their sup- 
posed relation to distant ideas like 
* quiddities' and 'intentions.' 

Formalism thus run mad would be 
an anomaly in any part of our modern 
Occident. It is trebly strange in the 
most western of all peoples, in a nation 
careless of method, having an eye to 
results. Our medical profession would 
rush the cup of cold water to the suf- 
ferer by help of telephone and taxi- 
cab. Our legal profession would get 
it to him in the right way if it takes 
all summer. The difference in the 
temper of the two bodies is at once 
so strange and so important practi- 
cally, that we must no longer delay our 
search for its source and origin. 


There is a kinship, which few can 
have failed to notice, between the 
Lawyer and the Priest. While the 
priest has at times been physician, 
as with the Egyptian, the Hindu, and 
the mediaeval European, as well as 
with the savage, yet the connection 
is more intimate and stubborn between 
jurist and ecclesiastic. Civil and canon 
law, closely joined at one time in Eu- 
rope, have often been quite confused, 
as in ancient Palestine. At the dinner 
where Jesus denounced the Pharisees 
because they tithed mint and cummin 



and forgot judgment and the love 
of God, a lawyer present declared, 
amazed, that this attack on the Phari- 
sees touched his, the great legal profes- 
sion. Jesus accepted his challenge, in 
stinging words that some of the laity 
to-day would like to see carved on 
buildings where lawyers congregate: 
* Woe unto you lawyers also ! for ye lade 
men with burdens grievous to be borne, 
and ye yourselves touch not the bur- 
dens with one of your fingers.' And 
then he described legal and ecclesias- 
tical conservatism so that none need 
think it peculiar to any land or age. 
The lawyers, Jesus said, were always 
ready to stone the prophet, stone him 
who proclaimed the dawn of a new day; 
but when ancient dust had claimed the 
man, the profession would erect to him 
a costly monument; the lawyers had no 
intercourse with living truth, they kept 
from men the key of knowledge. 

The lawyer knows that statutes 
change, that the law is something which 
legislatures can amend; yet the body of 
the law stands there immovable, in 
part- where, as with us, the Common 
Law prevails a mere mass of preced- 
ent which he is to accept, expound, 
and apply. The professional mind in 
the presence of such a task works not 
unlike that of the priest who would ap- 
ply and expound and defend against 
misconstruction a body of revealed 
truth. And especially is the mind in 
the two professions tempted to a like 
observance of all minutiae of procedure. 
As the ritualist resents innovation in 
his ceremonial, resents the estimate of 
his rites by mere reason and utility, so 
the lawyer shows toward his legal rites 
an attachment which brings wonder 
and solemnity to laymen. Habituated 
to these rites, as he is, they have 
become to him inseparable from the 
end for which they exist. He ministers 
in the Temple of Justice, and ancient 
piety long deadened into custom keeps 

him from seeing that to his divinity the 
new moons and offerings are an ab- 
omination until there comes into them 
again some regard to the widow and 
the fatherless. 

For all the difference in their work, 
the jurist and the ecclesiastic are thus 
schooled in like modes of thought. 
When Huxley went forth in the name 
of Darwin to smite the embattled bish- 
ops, the fray was not so different, how- 
ever it may have differed in magnitude 
and in genius of leadership, from that 
which now, as at all times, society must 
wage against its lawyers. There is in 
both cases an effort to modernize, to 
force living thought into the body; an 
effort met by immense inertia, not to 
speak of active resistance. 

The conservatism of the lawyer 
comes thus in part from the contagion 
of the law. For the law represents the 
stability, the habit, of our social life, as 
against creative, reformatory energy. 
So we must not deny the value of his 
trait. His is the virtue and the vice 
that lies in habit. Here, as with 
each of us personally, habit is indis- 
pensable, even though it call forth no 
enthusiasm. Though it does not drive 
us forward, and too often binds, yet we 
should not advance without it, for the 
gain once made would slip away. 


A further cause for the lawyers' tem- 
per is found in those influences almost 
inseparable from every establishment. 

We have no established religion; we 
have no established school of medicine. 
We have, however, an established Law 
Court, with its vast body of minis- 
trants. In a country until recently 
jealous of governmental action, and 
where all possible things were left to 
private initiative, we have wisely re- 
frained from intrusting to personal en- 
terprise the organization and support 



of courts. Thus we have in the case of 
law an establishment; and, further, an 
establishment without rival. 

The Church of England, the Luther- 
an Church in Prussia, must brook com- 
petitors. The organization maintain- 
ed by government is constantly meas- 
ured and spurred on by the work and 
spirit of dissenters. The nonconform- 
ist, eager and critical, is a gadfly that 
will not let the stately body sleep. 
Even the school system, which is the 
only other establishment in the United 
States, unless we were to include 
manufacture, which, under our tariff 
laws, is, too, in a measure established, 
the public school sees its own handi- 
work and economy set by the side of 
private enterprise. The public high 
schools must compare their outcome 
with that of the great private acad- 
emies; the universities of California, 
Wisconsin, Michigan must justify 
themselves before rivals like Harvard, 
Chicago, Stanford. But Law lacks all 
such spur of rivalry. We cannot choose 
whether we shall bring our complaint 
before a government court or before 
some college of judges erected by a 
Carnegie or a Rockefeller, with its 
corps of assistants to obtain evidence 
and support the verdict. We thus lack 
opportunity to demonstrate how much 
better the work might be done. The 
establishment, consequently, subject- 
ed only to wordy criticism, drones on 
its ancient way. It suffers the fate of 
any organism that is never called to 
energetic struggle. This in addition to 
all the pride and deadening satisfac- 
tion which is the inner foe of every es- 


Yet we must also look to some cause 
which we do not share with others. 
For our American legal profession, in 
its attachment to form at the cost of 
substance, outdoes the British, being 
VOL. in -NO. i 

more conservative, less pliable. Our 
criminal trials are notoriously more 
cumbrous. And while, as Judge Bald- 
win tells us, the prosecution of a crim- 
inal is more certain to occur with us 
than with the English, because under- 
taken at the public expense, yet this 
gleam cheers faintly since we know how 
far less often we convict; and even 
when there is conviction, how preva- 
lent is the abuse of appeal. The selec- 
tion of our juries is viewed with wonder 
from across the water. The English 
judge is a more active director of the 
trial, checking the advocate, brushing 
aside obstructions, driving at the truth. 
We began to reform our procedure 
earlier than did the English, but the 
effort soon spent its force. 

This heightened archaism of our 
legal system arises in a large measure 
from early dread. Fearing the official 
oppressor, we have doggedly main- 
tained and even strengthened all that 
ancient mechanism of law which 
seemed to promise a defense of the in- 
dividual against governmental power. 
Thus we have fortified the court in 
order to check the other powers of gov- 
ernment. But we have put our hand 
upon the judge by having him, in most 
of our states, chosen by popular vote. 
And when elected he often listens, as 
one bereft of wit and power, to the de- 
vices of the other officials, the advo- 
cates, of his court; he acts in constant 
fear of the error into which the court's 
own officials are trying to entrap him; 
his decisions are subject to almost end- 
less review by other courts. And the 
jury, as a further check, and as repre- 
sentative of the plain and unofficial 
people, has been elevated and its selec- 
tion refined to technical infinity. 

Thus the popular dread of the strong 
official arm until, of late years, we 
have come to know the full strength 
of the private and corporate arm 
is responsible for some of the very 



anachronisms of which we complain. 
The inbred conservatism of the lawyer 
has with us been reinforced by the 
doubts and cautions of our people 

To these inducements toward con- 
servatism should be added still an- 
other. Almost all our lawyers pass 
through the school of advocacy. And 
advocacy in its present form is as 
though planned to take from the jurist 
whatever rounded view he may have 
had of his larger social duty, his re- 
sponsibility to the man who is not his 
client. In theory the attorney is an offi- 
cer of the court : his first duty is to the 
court and to society. In practice he is, 
in most cases, hired by an individual to 
serve that individual's need. Too often 
he thus becomes in effect a mercenary, 
ready to fight on either side, careless of 
all larger issues. He becomes habitu- 
ated to shifting from himself the higher 
forms of obligation. Better that he win 
an unjust victory, many a lawyer has 
told me, than that he should not main- 
tain to the utmost the side he has es- 
poused. Not he, but the system and 
those who frame the system and the 
laws, are accountable for the outcome. 
His work is that of a wheel in a mechan- 
ism; to win cases when he can, and to 
leave to others so to check his effort 
that he shall not win unless the weight 
of law be with him. 

Great men like Lincoln, and many 
men less great, cannot so view their 
work; they cannot feel themselves re- 
leased from their responsibility. But 
the rank and file of the profession lose 
themselves in the ancient sophism. 
They repeat to themselves the high 
theory of advocacy and of its power for 
justice a theory based utterly on 
fiction, and incapable of working justly 
unless the opposing advocates were al- 
ways of equal talent. The plain lawyer. 

shutting his mind to the larger conse- 
quences of his acts, loses vision, and 
the profession becomes mechanical, 
dehumanized. The man of law who 
says, 'My concern is not with justice, 
it is with the winning of cases,' has 
more temptation and excuse, but his 
position is otherwise not unlike that of 
a physician who should say, * My duty 
ends with the man who pays the fee. 
If a neighbor would not suffer from the 
infectious substance which I remove, 
let him and his own hired doctor look 
to that.' 

Advocacy sharpens intellect at the 
expense of character. It is almost the 
worst of schools. It trains to ingenuity 
and concealment. Hourly the man is 
engaged in a work whose success de- 
pends to some extent upon a warped 
judgment; upon seeing both sides in 
some degree, but in confining his con- 
victions, if possible, to the one side. If 
he can bring himself to believe in the 
partial, the strength of his appeal then 
has the strength of ten. Advocacy calls 
from the buried depths of the mind the 
unsympathetic, the contentious, pow- 
ers for which the public interest has 
some place, but a place daily lessening. 
There is thus a certain inducement to 
relax the social bond, to view the par- 
ticular rather than the general good. 
And consequently devotion to the com- 
mon interest, which is so important for 
advance, here meets a serious check. 
Paid advocacy thus joins with those 
other inducements which I have named 
to account for the lawyers' and the 
law's delay. 


The readier response, the leadership, 
which the medical profession shows, 
is not merely apparent and due to the 
lagging of the lawyers. There are 
special conditions favorable to free 

And first of tjiese is the dependence 



of medicine upon natural science, from 
whose advance some motion must in- 
evitably be caught. The knowledge of 
the bodily life and of its disturbances 
has been steadily increasing since the 
revival of learning. Discoveries like 
that of Harvey have been encouraged 
and supplemented by instrumental in- 
vention. The microscope, the stetho- 
scope, the clinical thermometer, the 
centrifuge, the radiograph, have each 
given an added impetus to medical 
studies, and have helped to bind medi- 
cine closer to science by making the 
judgment of the physician surer and 
more exact; while the various pro- 
ducts of germ-culture, coming as they 
have with many chemical discoveries, 
have put into the hands of the physi- 
cian means like those which surgery 
has found in its great discoveries of 
anaesthesia and of the methods of anti- 
sepsis and asepsis. The men of medi- 
cine have thus come to look daily for 
some new light; there has grown in 
them a habit of expectancy and of put- 
ting to instant use the fresh offerings 
of science and of technical invention. 
They have, during the later centu- 
ries, and especially during the later 
decades, been so frequently given the 
effective means of advance, that ad- 
vance has become the second nature of 
the profession. The alliance of medi- 
cine with natural science is thus close 
and inevitable. And to the scientific 
progress of the age we must attribute 
much of the alertness that is so signally 
present among the doctors. 

A second cause of the physicians' 
spirit of progress, in contrast with the 
conservatism of the bar, is that the im- 
mediate end and object of medicine is 
not in conflict with other great social 
ends. The doctor does not need to heal 
one man at the cost of health to an- 
other. The lawyer, in extending the 
boundary of one man's right, too often 
must contract another's. His is a work 

of adjusting claims in conflict. What- 
ever he does affects the interests of 
other men and is scrutinized and re- 
sisted by them. The individual lawyer 
is not free to put into operation some 
entirely new principle whose value he 
may perceive; he is not free to experi- 
ment effectively, as is the scientist and 
the physician. The counselor must fit 
his judgment into the usages of his 
society. The advocate is met and 
checked by the opposing advocate and 
by the judge. And the judge's judg- 
ment, in turn, must be approved by 
other judges. Not until he sits upon 
the supreme bench may the judge be 
freely inventive and independent, and 
even then he has his fellow judges; and 
he has reached this eminence only after 
a schooling and a drill that should for- 
ever quiet all love of the fresh and 

The doctor, too, works within a sys- 
tem; he, too, must consult and is held 
in check at many points by public and 
professional habits of thought. But he 
is, after all, infinitely freer to pre- 
scribe and to operate, infinitely freer to 
attempt some promising uncertainty, 
to accept and apply some daring scien- 
tific assurance. His work is relatively 
personal, and admits of his flashing 
forth that spark of creative genius 
which is in each human being. The 
lawyer's work is social and collective 
and methodically organized, and can- 
not be remodeled by every eager mind. 
The very eagerness of the mind is thus 
damped and discouraged, and finally 
forever killed. 

The work of the medical profession 
thus offers a graver responsibility be- 
cause offering more freedom to the in- 
dividual practitioner; while with the 
lawyer individual responsibility al- 
though present in many ways, in that a 
betrayal or a mistaken judgment may 
bring ruin to others is limited by 
the very limits of his freedom; he must 


merely apply principles in whose mak- 
ing or discovery he can, as he keeps to 
his immediate work, have but the 
slightest part. 

Medicine, traditionally less honor- 
able than law, and less closely knit into 
social and governmental institutions, 
thus is far freer of limb. 


If my account is right, the responsi- 
bility for this inconvenient contrast 
rests with the laity as well as with the 
profession. Each side must be brought 
to see wherein it can help to make the 
work more responsive to refreshed 
ideas. Yet the leadership in such a 
movement must come from the profes- 
sion itself. For the lawyers alone can 
fully understand their system, purge 
it, amputate if need be. The laity can 
only hold up to them a glass, tell them 
how sick and sluggish their system is, 
how much they need the physician. 
In this way the laity can at least 
aim to disturb their complacency, to 
make them constantly aware of the 
great distance between their accom- 
plishment and what society maintains 
them for and rightly expects. The legal 
profession knows, yet it needs daily to 
be told, that it is not here for its own 
sake nor merely for the law. As the 
physician is to keep his eye fixed upon 
health and not upon some mere sys- 
tem of medicine, so the lawyer, looking 
beyond law, must recognize in him- 
self a minister of justice, to live and 
grow with the growth of that great 

The principle of justice is not like a 
Platonic idea, eternally changeless; it is 
a living energy in the mind, expressing 
itself in changing form, as does the idea 
of beauty. The lawyer, too attentive 
to mere law, a chalky deposit of 
this living force, catches the fixity, 

the definiteness, and loses sight of the 
vitality of justice. He should know its 
formal utterance in the past; but he 
should be ready day by day to bring it 
to a more perfect expression. 

Sir Thomas More, while giving phys- 
icians high honor in his Utopia, would 
admit no lawyers. We need not go so 
far. A kindly and penetrating auto- 
crat in our country would merely abol- 
ish their graver abuses. He would 
watch the doctors at their work, notice 
in their ways something more urbane, 
more spiritualized than is found among 
the men of law. To his imagination the 
law court and the hospital would re- 
veal a common purpose to care for 
disorder, to hear and answer com- 
plaint. But how different is the man- 
ner of the surgeons with their attend- 
ant nurses intent upon their operation, 
from that of the lawyers and their 
clerks at their task of removing from 
the human system some festering 
wrong! The expense of time, the bur- 
dening preliminaries, the gathering 
dust and smoke, the variety of finesse, 
perhaps even of outrageous imputation 
or open insult one wonders how a 
great profession can tolerate such 
methods for a day. They smack of var- 
nished pugilism rather than of an in- 
telligent desire to apply to human 
misery the spiritual, indeed divine, 
idea of justice. There in the surgery, 
the white-gowned doctors and the 
nurses, dealing with a problem dis- 
tinctly physical, seem to represent and 
symbolize the refinement, the intelli- 
gence, the silent mastery, the perfect 
cooperation, which lies at the heart of 
all that is truly civilized. 

Our autocrat, noticing this, would 
compel his lawyers secretly to watch 
the group; and those in whom, after 
long watching, no spirit of emulation 
was awakened he would take from the 
law and set to other tasks. 




Joshua Van Cleve, who was a successful busi- 
nessman in Ohio during the middle decades of 
the last century, died about 1870, leaving his 
widow and family a handsome fortune. In less 
than twenty years, however, they contrived to 
squander almost all of it in divers foolish ways; 
so that when his grandson. Van Cleve Kendrick, 
who had been growing up in the meanwhile, 
reached the age of eighteen, he found that he 
himself would have to be the main support of the 
family, namely: his grandmother, his aunt, Mrs. 
Lucas, and her daughter Evelyn, and his uncle, 
Major Stanton Van Cleve. The boy went to 
work accordingly, and after various experiences, 
finally got a position with the National Loan & 
Savings Bank in Cincinnati. This city was also 
the home of Van Cleve's closest friend, Bob Gil- 
bert. Bob, hi contrast to Van Cleve, had had a 
rather unfortunate career at college, during the 
two or three years previous to this, falling into 
bad company and being at length obliged to 
return home without finishing the course. He 
went to work in a broker's office, with one of 
his college acquaintances, a young man named 
Philip Cortwright; and it was at about this point 
that the story opened. 



MR. GEBHARDT of the National 
Loan and Savings Bank had first come 
into contact with the Van Cleve family 
on the occasion of one of their numer- 
ous transfers of property, or some other 
of those varied financial operations in 
which they were almost constantly en- 
gaged before young Kendrick put his 
unwelcome hand to the helm. As the 
banker was a busy man, daily attend- 
ing to a great many affairs and seeing 
a great many people, it was rather odd 

that he should still retain, in common 
with everybody else who had ever met 
them, a distinct, even vivid, recollection 
of every member of the family; but so 
he did, and he had no difficulty in * plac- 
ing' Van Cleve when the latter came 
hunting for a job. The young man, 
who made this move, as he had made 
every other that directly concerned 
himself, without informing his people, 
much less consulting them, approached 
Mr. Gebhardt quite unsupported. It 
would not have occurred to him to 
speak of his family, even had he been 
aware that the banker knew them, or 
anything about them. And it was with 
measurable surprise that, upon giving 
his name, he observed Mr. Gebhardt to 
consider a moment and then heard him 
say, 'Van Cleve? There were some 
Van Cleves shareholders in the old 
Cincinnati, Paducah, and Wheeling 
Packet Company that failed here about 
ten or fifteen years ago. I remember 
meeting them at the time when we 
made an effort to get some of the heavi- 
est owners together and see what could 
be done. Any relation?' 

Van explained. 

* Indeed, you don't say so? Yes, 
those were the peoplel I remember 
them all very well. Your grandmother 
was a very fine-looking woman at that 
time, Mr. Kendrick. Is she still living? 
Ah! Your uncle was a general in the 
Confederate Army, I think. No? Ah! 
You're all living here now, you say? 
Well, now what has been your previ- 
ous business experience, I should like to 
ask?' And a few days thereafter, Mr. 



Gebhardt, happening to meet Major 
Van Cleve on the street, not only re- 
cognized him at once, but stopped and 
spoke very pleasantly, referring to the 
new recruit at the National Loan. 

* Ah, yes, so I understood from Van,' 
said Major Stanton, affably, nodding 
at the other with a humorously wry 
smile. He spoke confidentially. ' The 
fact is, Mr. Gebhardt, Van Cleve 
does n't really need to work. We want- 
ed him to go to college, but nothing 
would satisfy him but trying a business 
career first. It distresses the ladies, my 
mother and sister, a good deal. But I 
say to them, "Why, it's his whim 
for the Lord's sake let the boy try it! 
Most people would be glad to see a 
young man's natural wildness take this 
turn. I tell you, it might be a damn 
sight worse!" 

Major Van Cleve had never uttered 
an oath in his mother's presence in his 
life, and it was now some years since 
the family resources had permitted his 
having more than a couple of dollars of 
spending-money in his pockets at one 
time all of which did not prevent his 
making these statements with a per- 
fectly clear conscience. He had a ro- 
mantic imagination, and the priceless 
gift of believing the romances he im- 
agined. Mr. Gebhardt, if he felt some 
doubts, was still, perhaps unconscious- 
ly, impressed by the fact that the mili- 
tary gentleman's appearance support- 
ed, gave a sort of color and atmosphere 
to, his large talk; he did not seem to 
be in the least poor or pinched. The 
Van Cleves had the secret of that; they 
contrived, on next to nothing, and al- 
most without effort, to look fashion- 
able, opulent, and leisurely, all ex- 
cepting Van Cleve himelf. 

'Your nephew seemed to me a 
bright, practical young fellow,' the 
banker remarked; 'he gave the impres- 
sion of wanting money and being will- 
ing to work hard for it.' 

'Oh, yes, yes, that's very character- 
istic,' said Major Van Cleve, indulg- 
ently. 'Van Cleve reminds me con- 
stantly of a story my father used to 
tell which he had heard from his fa- 
ther, who was a very successful attor- 
ney in New York City in the old days, 
seventy-five years ago, or thereabout, 
you know. He went out one morning 
to stick up a sign on his office door- 
post, "Boy Wanted." While he was 
doing it, he felt a tug at his coat-tails, 
and, turning round, there was a rag- 
ged, barefoot urchin of twelve or so. 
"Please, sir, you don't need that sign 
no more." "Don't I?" says my 
grandfather, astonished, "why, I want 
a boy!" "No, sir, you don't, not no 
more. I'm the boy!" Now that was 
exactly like Van Cleve. He'd have 
done that very thing. And that boy, 
Mr. Gebhardt,' the Major concluded 
with suitable weight and emphasis, 
'that boy was John Jacob Astor! ' 

Mr. Gebhardt, after a barely per- 
ceptible pause, received the anecdote 
with such cordial appreciation that 
Stanton's opinion of his parts and per- 
sonality rose several degrees. 

The National Loan and Savings was 
not a large institution, though reputed 
very solid. It was housed in an old- 
fashioned brick building on one of the 
streets up toward the Canal, among 
similarly plain, work-a-day surround- 
ings; and its depositors, as Van Cleve 
found out soon after his entrance, were 
mostly laboring folk. They came in 
there in streams the first of the month, 
and on Saturdays, when the bank was 
kept open till nine o'clock at night to 
accommodate them with their pay en- 
velopes. Van, from behind the brass 
netting of the bookkeeper's cage in 
the rear, could see them filing up; 
and being an observant youth, before 
long could identify them all young 
women stenographers; young men 
clerks like himself; market-gardeners; 



master carpenters and bricklayers; 
thrifty servant-girls in feathers and 
cheap furs, but with always a fraction 
of the week's wages in their showy 
imitation-leather purses; nice old Ger- 
man women with black shawls, and 
mysterious little black-lidded baskets, 
and clean, brave old faces under their 
bonnets of black straw and bugles. 
The half-dozen directors themselves 
were drawn from these ranks old Mr. 
Burgstaller, the retired toy merchant 
who looked like Santa Claus's twin 
brother himself; old Mr. O'Rourke, 
now also retired, but who had for years 
conducted the grain and feed store on 
Wayland Street opposite the market- 
house these were of them. They all 
had such an air of age and experience 
that Van Cleve might have lost heart 
to observe from example how long was 
the way he had to travel; but the young 
man was not of that temperament. 
'Lord, if I thought I'd have to wait 
till I was seventy to get to be a bank 
director, I'd quit right here!' he said 
to himself scornfully. And he noticed 
with approval that the president of 
the National Loan was much younger 
than any of his advisers; Mr. Geb- 
hardt could not have been more than 

He was a self-made man, and as such 
commanded Mr. Kendrick's highest 
respect; whether he altogether and al- 
ways liked his employer, the young fel- 
low was not quite certain; Van was 
slow to form a liking for anybody. ' Mr 
Gebhardt is all right only I don't 
know that I much fancy all that glad- 
hand business,' he would reflect when, 
as sometimes happened, he saw the 
president come forth and circulate 
among his depositors, let us say, on one 
of those busy and crowded Saturdays, 
in a genial, informal way, conversing 
with many of them in the tongue of the 
Fatherland, and displaying a hearty 
personal interest, which Van Cleve, for 

the soul of him, could not believe to 
be always very deep or very sincere. 
'After all, he's got to stand in with 
these people. Their little dabs of 
money are what he 's founded his bank 
on. He knows more about getting along 
with 'em than I do; and being a good 
mixer is a kind of an asset in this 
business/ he would argue to himself 
shrewdly. However, Van did not make 
the mistake, as might have been ex- 
pected, of attempting to be a 'good 
mixer ' himself; he knew that he had no 
talent that way. 

Mr. Gebhardt, on his side, extended 
that paternal sympathy of his to Van 
Cleve the same as to the others, whe- 
ther influenced or not by the fact that 
the young man undeniably did do the 
work assigned him remarkably well, 
and exhibited in all things an iron in- 
tegrity. There were no sons in the 
Gebhardt household, only a tribe of 
pretty, fair-haired girls, with a pretty, 
fair-haired mother, looking like a sister 
to the rest, who used to come down to 
the bank in any one of several hand- 
some family vehicles with their dash- 
ing team of bays, and carry the father 
off in a whirlwind of chattering and 
laughter and caresses. Van Cleve had 
met them indeed, Mrs. Gebhardt 
and Natalie, who was the oldest, and 
the only one 'out,' had a calling ac- 
quaintance with the ladies of Van's 
family; but as Mr. Kendrick took not 
the slightest interest in young women 
and never put himself out for anything 
but the most perfunctory civilities, it 
is not surprising that they should recip- 
rocate whole-heartedly. On the con- 
trary, they were quite enthusiastic 
about Bob Gilbert. Robert and his 
friend met nowadays not infrequently 
in a business way; and Mr. Gebhardt, 
having come across the professor's son 
once or twice, had the curiosity to ask 
somebody what that young Gilbert 
was doing. The man he inquired of, 



who happened to be Mr. Max Stein- 
berger, laughed. 

* Looks like I ought to know/ he 
said; 'why, he's with us. He's got the 
job young Van Cleve no, that 's not 
his name I mean the young fellow 
you took on up at your over-the-Rhine 
dollar-shop we ' ve got Gilbert in his 

'Is he any good?' 

'Good enough. How's yours?' 

Gebhardt, who was never known to 
utter an unkind or uncharitable crit- 
icism of any one, commended Van 
Cleve warmly. 

'You did a little better on the deal 
than Leo and myself, I guess,' said the 
other, hearing him; and they fell to 
talking about the proposed bond issue 
and promptly forgot both boys. But 
one day a while later, Mr. Gebhardt 
took occasion to ask his junior book- 
' keeper what was the real reason he 
had wanted to leave the brokers. 

'I somehow suspected at the time 
that you were n't dissatisfied wholly on 
account of the salary,' he said. 

'Well, Mr. Gebhardt, I thought I 
was worth more,' said Van, obstinately 
reticent. Then he looked up and, meet- 
ing his employer's eye, thawed a little. 
'No, I didn't like it,' he confessed. 
'Too much spend and too much souse,' 
said he, succinctly. 

'What, Steinberger and Leo Hirsch? 
Why, I'm surprised to hear you say 
that! I had no idea ' 

' I mean the the office force the 
office in general,' Van Cleve explained 
hastily and not too clearly; 'I don't 
mean Mr. Steinberger or Mr. Hirsch 
themselves. They've got the money 
to play the races and all the rest of it, 
all they choose, as far as that goes. 
And, of course, they both take a drink 
now and then; but I was n't talking 
about them. They're Germans, any- 
how, and could hold a barrel, either 
one of 'em, without its feazing them ' 

And at this point Mr. Kendrick, 
abruptly remembering the nationality 
of the gentleman he was addressing, 
halted in a fine beet-red confusion. But 
Gebhardt only laughed ; he liked or 
seemed to like the young man's 

All this while, how were his elders 
supporting Van's persistent 'whim' of 
making his own living and incidentally 
a not inconsiderable part of theirs, to 
which they had yielded so painfully in 
the first place? Why, they were sup- 
porting it with the most astonishing pa- 
tience! Van sat at the end of the table 
and carved the meat nowadays; he 
read the paper over his coffee-cup of a 
morning while his uncle meekly got 
through breakfast without that literary 
entertainment; he took his hat and 
slammed the hall door behind him and 
went off down-town to the office with 
his peers; the family accounts were 
submitted to him; the women came to 
him for their money; the servants were 
trained to regard his tastes. 'Mrs. 
Van Cleef she say, "Marta, Mr. Ken- 
drick, he don't like those biscuit," shust 
like she'd say, "Marta, der Herr Gott, 
He don't like those biscuit," ' their Ger- 
man maid remarked acutely. These 
were a few of the straws showing what 
way the wind blew. 

The young fellow knew very well 
that he was the strongest member, in 
truth, the only strong member, of the 
family; he put it, privately, in his prac- 
tical and literal way, that he was the 
only one who had ever earned a cent, 
or displayed a particle of common sense 
about either saving or spending it; yet 
he took no great credit to himself on 
that account. Van Cleve could not, 
for the life of him, have understood 
how any man in the same circumstances 
could have acted otherwise. He had 
to take care of them Grandma and 
Uncle Stan and all of them, did n't 
he? By Jove, he why, he had to, 



you know! There was n't any getting 
round that. They could n't do any- 
thing for themselves; while, as to him, 
work did n't worry him any. He had 
to work, anyhow, did n't he? Do you 
suppose anybody was going to give 
him his living and a good time for no- 
thing? Not much! 

The family got used to his queer, 
youthful maturity; they got used to the 
idea of his being steady and successful 
as if it were the most everyday thing in 
the world for a young man to be steady 
and successful; they got used to being 
dependent on him, and Van Cleve, on 
his own side, got used to it, too. He 
directed the disposition of what little 
money they had left from the original 
inheritance, and added his own to it, 
and kept the old strong box, with 'J. 
VAN CLEVE' on the top of it, in his 
closet in his own room and carried the 
keys unquestioned. 

Mrs. Van Cleve sometimes said 
with a sigh that he reminded her of 
his grandfather; but as the late Joshua 
had been a spry, dry little man with 
a hard jaw, and as bald as a turnip 
at less than twenty-five years of age, 
she could not have discerned much 
physical resemblance. By a coincidence 
the likeness most struck her about 
the first of the month when the bills 
came round: Van Cleve did not al- 
ways see all of them, does any lady 
ever show the man of the house all her 
bills? and perhaps the grandmother 
recalled the days when she had quak- 
ingly presented the milliners' and dress- 
makers' statements to her Joshua (who, 
nevertheless, was reasonably liberal to 
his family), or, dreadful to relate, 
smuggled them out of his sight and 
knowledge. Times were altered, and 
she and Mrs. Lucas were both of them 
good, upright, self-denying women 
who passed by the most enticing shop- 
windows and bargain-counters reso- 
lutely, and turned and mended and cut 

over their clothes and remodeled their 
old hats, and made hash for Monday 
dinner out of Sunday's joint with the 
utmost gallantry and cheerfulness. 
As has been hinted, they clashed seri- 
ously with Van Cleve only when the 
question arose of one of those indis- 
putably wise, well-considered, and pro- 
fitable changes which everybody in the 
house, except Van himself, was eter- 
nally planning. 

'That Elmhurst Place house is only 
thirty-seven and a half a month 
only two dollars and a half more than 
this the rent's practically the same,' 
his aunt argued about six months after 
their enthusiastic installation at No. 8 
Summit Avenue; 'and no comparison 
between the houses no comparison ! 
It 's just exactly what we were hunting 
for last summer when we had to take 
this. Of course it was rented then, 
Elmhurst Place is so desirable. And 
that 's why I 'm so anxious to speak for 
it at once, before anybody else snaps it 
up. I'd better see the agent to-day, 
hadn't I, Van?' She looked at her 
nephew with an odd mingling of per- 
suasion and command; Van Cleve, the 
women said to one another, was so 
hard to manage at times; it was 50 hard 
to make him understand. Now he 
swallowed the last of his coffee and 
folded up his napkin with a maddening 
deliberation before answering. 

'No, I think not, Aunt Myra. I 
think we'd better not move. That 
two-dollars-and-a-half difference in the 
rent just about pays the water-rate. 
It's not quite the same thing, you see. 
Besides, it would cost a lot to move. 
What's the matter with this house, 
anyhow? You liked it well enough at 

All three ladies gave a gentle scream 
of consternation. 'Why, Van! This 
house ! Why, you know we just took it 
because we had to go somewhere !' 

'And we did n't know what a state 



it was in that awful pink-and-green- 
and-blue wall-paper on the back bed- 
room !' 

'I'm afraid the place will fall down 
over our heads before we can get out of 
it ! Three of the door-knobs and I don't 
know how many window-catches are 
all loose and waggly !' Everybody 
began to declaim vigorously, if without 
much sequence; it was really impossi- 
ble to think immediately of all the rea- 
sons against living a minute longer in 
this unspeakable house. 

'Oh, I guess they'll fix those things 
for us. It 's not going to fall down right 
off, anyhow; we'd better stay and give 
it another chance,' said Van Cleve 
placidly, returning to his paper. 

'Well, but ever since those horrid 
people moved next door, the tone of this 
neighborhood has lowered so that 's 
my main objection to staying here/ 
Mrs. Van Cleve remonstrated; 'the 
woman had a shawl airing out of one of 
the upstairs back windows yesterday 
morning. Think of it ! A great, coarse, 
red shawl hanging right in the window! 
I ' ve never lived next door to anything 
quite so common as that before ! ' 

Van, behind the newspaper, study- 
ing the market reports, gave no sign of 
having heard her. 'He's Joshua all 
over!' the grandmother said inwardly, 
divided between exasperation and a 
kind of pride; 'he used to sit just that 
way and not answer me, lime and 
again ! ' She was silent a little, perhaps 
thinking of old days ; but the others per- 
severed with reproachful vehemence. 

'We could take that money, that 
sixty-five dollars we got from the old 
farm the other day, and use it for the 
moving, so it would n't cost you any- 
thing, Van Cleve,' said Evelyn, who 
had a talent for this style of argu- 
ment. 'I'm sure it is n't healthy here. 
There's a great big damp spot in one 
corner of the yard whenever it rains. 
I 'm going to speak to the doctor about 

it. Mother ought n't to stay in a hu- 
mid atmosphere; her nerves will give 
out. It takes ever so much nervous 
energy to stand the colds she has, and 
of course the low quality of the air here 
must bring them on.' 

'Never mind me, Evelyn; never 
mind me I '11 soon be well my cold 
isn't anything,' cried out Mrs. Lucas; 
though, indeed, a sudden wild terror 
started in her large, beautiful dark eyes; 
she was very easily frightened about 
herself and her state of health, and the 
merest suggestion of any need for doc- 
tors sent before her mind in dismally 
dramatic procession a dozen appalling 
pictures of suffering, decline, death- 
agonies, the hearse, the coffin, the 
ghastly open grave! She began with a 
note of almost frenzied appeal in her 

'Van dear, do put down that paper 
and listen. I think it's more impor- 
tant than you realize for us to get 
away from this house and neighbor- 
hood, and it will be money well spent to 
move. You're just as fine and strong 
and splendid as you can be, Van, you 
know we all know that, you 're a 
dear, noble fellow,' said Mrs. Lucas, 
stirred by a real and generous emo- 
tion, her sweet, hysterical voice break- 
ing a little; she was sincerely fond of 
the young man; 'but you don't realize 
how young you are; you have n't had 
the experience I've had. You're not so 
well able to judge as I am. I think it 's 
our duty to move. We all think so, and 
two heads are better than one, you 
know, Van.' 

'Depends on the heads,' said Van 
Cleve, flippantly, unmoved by these 
powerful representations which, as was 
provokingly apparent, he was not even 
going to answer. Instead, he got up, 
taking out his pipe, and went over to 
the mantel for a match. 

' I wish I wish you would n't do 
that, Van,' said Mrs. Joshua, distress- 


fully; ' I promised your dear mother for 
you that you would n't touch tobacco 
or liquor before you were twenty-five. 
It was a sacred promise, Van.' 

Van Cleve looked down at her, hu- 
morous and forbearing; he stuffed the 
tobacco down into the bowl. 'Oh, 
bosh, Grandma!' he said with profane 
cheerfulness; and stooped and kissed 
the old lady's cheek, and walked off 
unimpressed. He was guiltless of diplo- 
macy; but, strangely and illogically 
enough, at this speech and the rough, 
boyish caress, Mrs. Van Cleve surrend- 
ered without terms, struck her colors, 
and went over to his side incontinently. 

'Well, I dare say Van's right about 
it, Myra,' she said as the door closed 
behind him. * There's no real reason 
why we should move. And anyhow 
Van Cleve ought to have the say 
he 's taking care of us all he 's the 
best boy that ever lived ! ' Her old face 
trembled momentarily. 

* Oh, of course ! Van Cleve is always 

t right!' Evelyn proclaimed satirically; 
she remained alone to fight the battle 
with the older lady, for Mrs. Lucas 
had already dashed into the hall after 
her nephew, who was in the act of put- 
ting on his overcoat. 

* Van,' she said tensely, stopping him 
with one arm in the sleeve, * I want you 
to let me telephone about that Elm- 
hurst Place house and get the refusal of 
it for a day, anyhow just for to-day, 
Van, so that you can see it.' Her voice 
rose: 'I want you to let me do that. 
You don't know anything about the 
house. If you could see it, I know you'd 
think differently. It 's so much nearer 
the art school, for one thing. Evelyn 
wouldn't have near so far to walk. 
She 's not strong, you know, Van Cleve; 
and I'm afraid of that long walk for 
her. I 'm afraid it takes her strength so 
that she can't do her work properly. 
The other day when she came in her 
hands were perfectly numb with the 

cold; you must have noticed it at 
dinner !' 

'Well, they weren't so numb but 
that she could work her knife and fork 
all right,' said Van, with a brutal grin; 
'when they get too bad for that, I'll 
begin to worry!' And then, seeing the 
look of outrage on his aunt's face, he 
added hastily, and with earnest kind- 
ness, 'Now look here, Aunt Myra, you 
know you're just feeling a little rest- 
less, that's all that's the matter. You 
often feel that way, you know. This 
house is all right. Now don't let's talk 
any more about this, will you? You 
know we can't afford to move around. 
And if any extra money comes in, like 
that from the farm last week, we ought 
to save it. We can't go spending it on 
foolishness. Now let's try to be satis- 
fied and stay here. I '11 see if I can't get 
them to change that wall-paper you 
hate so,' added poor Van, unconscious- 
ly pathetic in his efforts to appease her. 

'Restless!' ejaculated Mrs. Lucas, in- 
dignantly. 'Oh, well, I suppose it's use- 
less for me to talk. I might die in this 
horrid damp hole and Evelyn be hope- 
lessly crippled for life from that walk, 
and you would still insist that we were 
just whimsical and restless / ' But 
Van Cleve was gone. 

Mrs. Lucas returned to her domestic 
rounds in abysmally low spirits. Her 
cold was getting steadily worse she 
could feel it growing on her ! The air of 
the house was positively saturated with 
moisture particularly in the back 
bedroom with that pink-blue-green 
abomination on the walls. It would be 
her fate to die here; she knew it, she 
was convinced of it ! And the Elmhurst 
Place house did have such a beautiful 
bay-window in the hall, and two hard- 
wood floors downstairs! She was ill in 
bed when Van Cleve came home that 
evening. Evelyn rushed up and down 
from the sick-room with tragically 
repressed grief; Major Stanton sat 



around in corners out of the way, look- 
ing more uncomfortable than alarmed ; 
Mrs. Van Cleve poured the coffee in 
reproving silence. And when the doc- 
tor reported that it looked as if Mrs. 
Lucas might be going to have grippe, 
Van Cleve felt like an assassin. It was 
in vain the unlucky youth told himself 
that his aunt might have had grippe 
anywhere, in any house, and that even 
if he had consented to their moving to 
Elmhurst Place the very next day, it 
could hardly have spared her this at- 
tack. He felt wretchedly that her ill- 
ness was all his fault everything was 
all his fault everybody was being 
made sick and uncomfortable and un- 
happy by Van Cleve Kendrick and his 
mean desire to save a little money! 

The next time anybody went to call 
on the Van Cleves, they had moved. 
They had been over on Elmhurst Place 
for a month, and just loved it, they de- 

Evelyn said that her mother had 
been on the verge of a dreadful attack 
of influenza, but they got her away from 
that polluted air on Summit Avenue 
just in time, and she began to mend at 
once. To be sure this was only two 
squares off, but there was the most 
amazing difference in the atmosphere, 
her mother's case proved it, and 
really that other house had got to be 
perfectly awful, you know. 



That there was really something a 
little unusual about the Van Cleves 
always excepting young Kendrick, as I 
have repeatedly stated is shown by 
the fact that, in two or three years, 
more or less, they had become as firmly 
established socially as if they had lived 
here all their lives, without anybody 
ever hinting that they were trying to 

'get in,' or 'sniffing* derogatorily, as 
people did about that unfortunate 
Jameson girl. The Van Cleve women 
were of a very different stamp. The 
single thing in the way of their popu- 
larity was that it was not easy to tell of 
these ladies who their friends were, since 
they changed almost as often as they 
changed houses; one day they would be 
embracing people with a warm passage 
of Christian names and terms of en- 
dearment and the next news you 
had, they had ceased to speak to So- 
and-So! Yet they were not without 
some sound and stable attachments, 
as for the Gilberts, for instance, with 
whom they never had any grave falling- 
out. This, however, may have been 
partly because of Van Cleve, who, be- 
sides being not nearly so quick to make 
new friends nor so violently enthusias- 
tic about them, was very much more 
steadfast to the old ones. But at one 
time Miss Lucas was running over to 
the Warwick Lane house every day. 
She painted a portrait of Lorrie an 
amazing water-color portrait wherein 
Lorrie appeared with a wide, fixed 
stare goggling at you out of a jungle 
of chocolate- tin ted hair. Mrs. Lucas 
pronounced it marvelously accurate; 
Lorrie herself laughed and said she 
supposed you never really knew what 
you looked like to other people, and 
were always surprised and disappointed 
to find out. Bob remarked ruthlessly 
that those eyes reminded him of two 
buckeyes in a pan of milk. Van Cleve, 
upon the work of art being paraded 
before him, was silent unwisely, as 
it turned out, for the severest criticism 
could not have roused Evelyn or her 
mother more. 

'Well? Well? Are n't you going to 
say anything?' demanded the artist, 

'Why, it it looks something like 
her,' said Van, feebly. 

In fact, the thing did have a sort of 



ghostly resemblance to Lorrie. But 
what portrait-painter wants to be 
told that his creation 'looks like' the 

'It was intended to look like her,' 
Evelyn said with fine scorn. 'But I 
did n't expect that you'd think it was 
good. No need to ask you!' 

'That's so, Evie. If I don't say any- 
thing you get mad, and if I do you get 
mad, so there does n't seem to be much 
need of your asking me, sure enough,' 
said Van Cleve, with his unshakable 
good humor that the women found so 
hard to 'put up with,' as they them- 
selves sometimes complained to one 

'Of course, you don't think any pic- 
ture of her could be good enough,' 
flashed out Evelyn, jerking the draw- 
ing-board back into its corner. 'We all 
know what you think about Lorrie 
Gilbert, Van.' She gave him a savagely 
significant glance. 

'I know you get excited and say a 
lot of things you don't mean some- 
times,' Van retorted, coloring, how- 
ever, with temper, or could it have 
been some other feeling? 

' The idea ! She 's at least a year older 
than you are at least I And she 's en- 
gaged to that Mr. Cortwright, any- 
how or as good as engaged!' the 
young lady pursued, and had the satis- 
faction of seeing, or fancying she saw, 
her cousin wince. 'That's what every- 
body says.' 

'I don't know what you're talking 
about I don't know anything about 
Miss Gilbert's affairs,' Van Cleve stut- 
tered, turning redder than ever. 

He was fairly routed, and got up and 
stalked out of the house, followed by 
her inquisitive mockery. Once outside, 
he said something much stronger a 
distressingly strong word of one sylla- 
ble did Mr. Kendrick utter; and he 
pulled his hat down over his brows 
with a morose gesture as he tramped 

away, without his pleasant whistle for 

It must have been after this that 
there occurred one of those intervals of 
coolness toward the other family on 
the part of the Van Cleve ladies which 
people were accustomed to witness. 
The Gilberts themselves were quite 
unconscious of it; they were not look- 
ing out for slights or indifference, and 
did not know how to quarrel with any- 
body. But Evelyn's visits ceased for a 
while, and perhaps Van Cleve himself 
did not go to the Professor's house in 
the evenings so often. Mrs. Lucas con- 
fided to those who were in high favor 
just then that she was rather glad of it; 
she did n't want to be uncharitable, 
but she could not honestly say that she 
thought Bob 's a good influence for Van 

An old friend of mine, Mr. J. B. B. 
Taylor, happened to pass through the 
city at the time on his large orbit of 
travel and inspection, he has some- 
thing to do with civil engineering and a 
concrete construction company, and 
I recall a little talk we had on this very 
subject. Mr. Taylor has met the Van 
Cleves; he has met everybody. He 
goes about the universe lunching with 
crowned heads and eke with dock- 
laborers; he builds bridges in Uganda 
and railroads to Muncie. J. B. knows 
the manners of so many men and their 
cities that it is, on the whole, not sur- 
prising that he should, at some time 
or other, have fallen in with the Van 
Cleve family, who themselves have al- 
ways been active travelers. Once be- 
fore when he was here, I introduced him 
to Robert Gilbert, and that friend of 
his, that young Cortwright who was at 
that date a recent addition to our so- 
ciety. Mr. Taylor did not seem to be 
particularly favorably impressed with 
either young gentleman, I regret to 
state. However, this time, as usual, he 
asked about everybody; and I report- 


ed some observations regarding Van 
Cleve's people which caused J. B. al- 
ternately to smile broadly and wicked- 
ly, and anon to grunt, 'Humph!' in a 
profound manner. 

When I had finished, 'Well/ said 
he, 'that Kendrick boy is something 
of a boy, I judge considerable of a 
boy. The fact is, Gebhardt spoke to 
me about him, just in the ordinary 
course of conversation, you know 
but when he found I knew something 
of the young man, why, he warmed up 
and said some very nice things. It 
seems they gave Kendrick a raise at 
the National Loan the other day; they 
think a good deal of him. From what 
I hear he's the getting-ahead kind 
one of these longheaded, hard-working 
fellows that knows he can't pick any 
money off of trees, and expects to 
buckle down and make it. That's a 
pretty good spirit for these days with 
all this get-rich-quick feeling in the air. 
And, speaking of that, I 've got an im- 
pression that our friend Gebhardt him- 
self is a little given that way toward 
experimenting on the get-rich-quick 
lines, I mean. He's a visionary fellow; 
I wouldn't trust his judgment very 
far.' And here J. B., evidently feeling 
that he had allowed himself to run into 
some indiscretion, abruptly changed 
topics. ' What 's become of those other 
young fellows? That pin-headed mash- 
er you know What was his name? 
And the other boy?' 

I informed him that Mr. Cortwright 
was still here, in business; I was not 
certain how successful, but he seemed 
to have money enough; he was consid- 
ered very handsome, and er well, 
a little inclined to be er sporty 
you know; and he was still something 
of a 'masher,' to use Mr. Taylor's own 
elegant phrase. In fact, at one time 
or another, Mr. Cortwright had been 
sentimentally attentive to every girl in 
society, but here latterly he had settled 

down on Miss Gilbert, and people in 
general thought this would be a go, at 

'Well, I'm glad she is n't my daugh- 
ter,' J. B. commented briefly. 'Gilbert, 
you say? That was that boy's name, I 
remember now. Is he round still?' 

' Yes, it 's the same family. Yes, he 's 
here and working. He's been a little 
wild; they say now he's drinking. I 
don't know how true it is may be 
nothing but gossip,' said I, not with- 
out reluctance. I liked Bob Gilbert. 
I never met anybody that did n't like 
him. But, with the most charitable 
disposition in the world, I still should 
have been obliged to acknowledge that 
one never heard anything creditable 
about -Bob; whereas report concerning 
his friend, that young Mr. Kendrick 
(nobody thought of him as a boy any 
longer), justified all that J. B. had 

How much truth was there in the ru- 
mors that had been circulating some- 
what as above reported for the last 
year or so? To begin with, those sharp 
hints leveled by Miss Lucas at her 
cousin, how near the mark did they 
come? Van Cleve had first met Lorrie 
Gilbert years before when he was no- 
thing but a big, gangling boy chum of 
her brother's, and she, although so 
nearly his own age, already a grown-up 
young lady. In that far-off time Van 
looked upon her with both shyness and 
indifference. Asked if he thought her 
pretty or bright, he would have replied 
that he did n't know he had n't 
thought about her at all he did n't 
care for girls, and never stayed around 
where they were, if he could help it. As 
it happened indeed, have we not 
seen it happen under our own eyes? 
he did not have much chance to im- 
prove or outgrow his deplorable tastes, 
for that summer was the end of Van 
Cleve's play-time, and really the end of 
his boyhood. 



As he grew older, it became his 
habit of mind to regard marriage, for 
a man in his position, as sheer in- 
sanity, and falling in love as only 
a milder form of the same affliction. 
Both must be postponed until he ar- 
rived at the locality which he called to 
himself Easy Street. In some vast, in- 
definite future, when he felt himself 

* pretty well fixed,' and when he could 
get Grandma and the rest of them com- 
fortably settled somewhere or some- 
how, so that they would not be quite 
so much on his mind in the future 
when Van planned that all this should 
happen, he sometimes rather diffident- 
ly speculated about a home for himself 
and Somebody. His prospective wife 
was so far a delicious myth; notwith- 
standing the fact that she was to have 
brown hair with gold lights in it, hair 
that waved a little nicely, and big 
brown eyes, and a fair complexion with 
a good deal of color in it, and a short 
nose, straight, but set on so that you 
were not quite certain whether it did 
not tilt upward ever so slightly; and 
she would have a very pleasant laugh, 
and a pretty round waist, and and, 
in short, anybody in whom Van Cleve 
had confided would have recognized, 
by the time he got through, a sur- 
prisingly good likeness of Miss Lorrie 

The young man did not suspect it 
himself. When he went to the house, 
he thought in all honesty it was to see 
Bob. He took a meal there at least 
once in the week; Mrs. Gilbert was so 
used to him she sometimes called him 
'son* forgetfully; Lorrie and he sat on 
the porch summer evenings, or by the 
sitting-room hearth in winter, so com- 
pletely at home together that they 
could be silent when, and as long as, 
they chose, unembarrassed; it was 

* Lorrie* and 'Van' as a matter of 
course, and the girl openly regarded 
him with almost the same feeling as 

she did her brother, save that she lis- 
tened and deferred to him far more. 
Only when Cortwright's name was 
brought up, or that debonair gentle- 
man came to call, which he was begin- 
ning to do with ominous frequency, did 
the two other young people feel any 

Lorrie, in her third or fourth sea- 
son, had seen something of the world, 
and been not undesired by young men; 
her novitiate was over. Neverthe- 
less, she had a way of blushing and 
brightening at Cortwright's appear- 
ance which to any experienced onlook- 
er would have been full of meaning. 
Van Cleve, at least, saw it with a dull 
pain of resentment. He told himself 
that he never had liked Cortwright. *I 
saw enough of him down at Stein- 
berger's; you can't fool me about that 
sort of fellow! But, hang it, I believe 
girls like for a man to have the name of 
being fast,' Van used to think angrily; 
'you see so many nice, good women 
married to 'em. It's not so smart to 
booze and bum, and chase around after 
women and horses I can't see what 
any decent woman is thinking of. I 
suppose there is n't a man on earth 
but that 's done some things he's 
ashamed of but Cortwright! Why, 
he is n't fit to touch Lome's skirt!' 

Of course there was nothing personal 
in this, Van Cleve was convinced; no, 
merely on principle, simply and solely 
in behalf of abstract morality, did Mr. 
Kendrick disapprove of Mr. Cort- 
wright. To have told him he was jeal- 
ous would have been to invite a right- 
eous indignation. In the meanwhile, 
whenever Cortwright chanced to call 
at the same time, his arrival was the 
signal for a sudden fall in the social 
barometer. It was not Cortwright's 
fault; he was always gay, courteous, 
ready with a joke, a story, a turn at the 
piano, anything to make the evening 
go off well, inimitably good-looking 



and at ease; in becoming contrast to 
Van Cleve, who would sit grumpily 
smoking or grumpily un-smoking, an- 
swering in curt and disagreeably plain 
words, and, after making a wet blanket 
of himself generally, would get up and 
go off in pointed hurry. I fear Mr. Ken- 
drick was not poignantly regretted on 
these occasions. 

'You seem to take life so seriously, 
Kendrick. Don't you believe in people 
having a good time as they go along?' 
Cortwright once asked him. Cort- 
wright, on his side, met Van Cleve 
with unvarying good temper and civil- 
ity for which, you may believe me, 
poor Van liked him none the better. 

* Nobody but a prig objects to people 
having fun/ he retorted, scowling; 'if 
I 'm serious, it 's because I 'm built that 
way, I suppose. But I never thought it 
any of my business what other people 
do/ He looked hard at the other. 

'That's lucky for the rest of us,' 
Cortwright said with his easy laugh; 
'you've got such a severe eye. Has n't 
he got a severe eye, Miss Jameson?' 

And upon this, while the young lady 
was still looking sideways at him under 
her lashes, and smiling just enough to 
show a charming dimple in the corner of 
her mouth, Van unceremoniously took 
himself off. He ' had n't much use ' 
(to quote him again) for Miss Paula 
Jameson, either, and often wished 
impatiently that she would stop her 
everlasting running to the Gilberts'. 

As for that derogatory tittle-tattle 
about Bob Gilbert, sad to admit, it 
was not without foundation. People 
were beginning to shake their heads 
over him, and to tell one another that 
it was too bad! They said that there 
was nothing really wrong with the 
young fellow, there was n't any real 
harm in him, only it was probably 
not all his fault; the way boys are 
brought up has a good deal to do with 

it; Professor Gilbert was a fine man, 
a splendid scholar, and all that, but he 
had no control whatever over his son, 
and never had had! Of course, Mrs. 
Gilbert and Lorrie could do nothing 
with Bob two women, both of them 
too devoted to him to see where he was 
going. That his destination was the 
one popularly known as 'the dogs,' 
everybody was prophesying. Too bad! 

Van Cleve, who knew all about 
Bob's failings, who had very likely 
known about them long before they 
became public talk, never had any- 
thing to say on the subject. He would 
not condemn his friend, but neither 
would he take the other's part. He 
would say nothing at all. There was a 
hard streak in the young man; he was 
genuinely fond of Bob, yet he avoided 
his company these days, took care 
never to be seen on the street with him, 
got out of his way, and kept out of his 
way, whenever it was possible. 'I can't 
have him coming round here smelling 
like a distillery and asking for me. It 
would queer me for good with some of 
these solid men,' Van thought; 'I can't 
risk it. And what good would it do him 
for me to hang on to Bob, anyhow? I 
can't tell him anything but what he 
knows already; he's got plenty of 
sense, if he'll only use it. But if a 
man 's going to make a fool of himself, 
he 's going to make a fool of himself, so 
what's the use?' 

Perhaps he did not fully convince 
himself by these arguments; but in fact 
there was no longer much need for him 
to put his theories in practice. Robert 
was drifting naturally into his own 
class of idlers and ne'er-do-weels, and 
young Kendrick had less and less occa- 
sion to dodge his compromising com- 
pany, they saw each other so seldom, 
except at the house. Sometimes, even 
when at home, Bob was not visible; he 
had had one of his wretched headaches 
all day, so that he was obliged to keep 



his room, Mrs. Gilbert would report, so 
guilelessly that Van Cleve, in spite of 
his cultivated coldness, winced with 
pity and a vicarious shame. He no- 
ticed that she was looking a great deal 
older nowadays; there had been a time 
when you could scarcely tell her back 
from Lome's if you happened to be 
walking behind her on the street it 
was different now. And when it came to 
Professor Gilbert, it sounded perfectly 
natural to call him an old gentleman, 
although he had not yet reached the 
sixties; he was thinner and bonier 
than ever, and wrinkled and bent like 
Father Time himself. He, at any rate, 
understood the headaches, Van Cleve 
would think, regretfully reading the 
older man's haggard and weary eyes; 
and Van wondered, with a recoil so 
strong that it surprised himself, if the 
poor father had ever had to go out at 
night and hunt for Bob bring him 
home get him to bed and sobered 
up eh, you know? Good Lord, that 
was pretty bad pretty bad ! 

These offices Van Cleve had per- 
formed himself once at least. He was 
much more irritated than scandalized 
in the beginning of the adventure, 
that is to find Bob drunk and cling- 
ing to the lamp-post, in the starry win- 
ter cold, on his own way home at two 
o'clock in the morning. What was the 
notably steady youth, Mr. Kendrick, 
doing out of his bed at that hour? 
Have no fear, ladies and gentlemen ! In 
the pursuance of his career of industry 
and virtue, he had been to the weekly 
meeting of the Central Avenue Build- 
ing and Loan Association, in which he 
held the position of secretary. The pro- 
ceedings closing about eleven o'clock, 
Mr. Kendrick had allowed himself a 
single chaste mug of musty ale, and a 
game of pool (a quarter apiece, loser 
pays for the table), in the company of 
some of his fellow officials; and when 
he started home, an hour or so later, 
VOL. Ill -NO. 1 

there was a block on the Central-Ave- 
nue-and- John-Street line. Van Cleve 
waited for his Elmhill car within the 
triangular portico of a, corner drug 
store, where stood another similarly 
belated gentleman; and they smoked 
in silence, shrugging and stamping to 
keep warm. Van remembered after- 
wards how a carriage had rolled by; 
how he glanced up mechanically as it 
passed into the contracted illumina- 
tion of the arc-light, and saw the occu- 
pants. He stared; a monosyllabic ex- 
clamation was jerked out of him by 
stark surprise. * Humph!' he ejaculat- 
ed unconsciously. The wayfarer who 
shared the vestibule thought his own 
attention was being challenged, and 
obligingly responded. * Peach girl, 
was n't she?' he said; and further vol- 
unteered, 'That hair was a ten-blow, 
though. Fellow likes it that way, I 
guess.' Van Cleve grunted non-com- 
mittally, and they lapsed again into 
silence. Van could never forget this 
trivial bit of talk; he had a photo- 
graphic impression of the whole inci- 

The car came at last; and Kendrick 
got on and paid his fare and rode to his 
own corner, pondering, part of the time, 
with a sour smile. ' None of my affair, 
I suppose,' was the sum of his reflec- 
tions. He swung himself off the rear 
step at Durham Street (they moved to 
Durham Street in the autumn of '96, 1 
believe) and, turning toward home, on 
the next corner, casually observed a 
hatless individual sustaining himself 
with difficulty against the post across 
the way. 'There's a drunk,' Van 
thought; and then something about the 
figure drew him to look again with a 
foreboding interest. He stood still to 
watch it. There appeared a night- 
watchman from one of the neighboring 
apartment buildings and entered into 
altercation with it. Van crossed the 
street quickly and went up to them. 



*G' wan now, I don't want to run 
yuh in,' the night-watchman was say- 
ing benevolently; 'yuh gotta git a 
move on, that's all. Yuh can't stay 
aroun' here, see? Don't yuh know 
where yuh b'long?' 

'Hello, Bob!' said Van Cleve. 

The other stared at him fishily. Bob 
reeked to heaven; his clothing exhibit- 
ed signs of a recent acquaintance with 
that classic resort of the drunkard, the 
gutter; his hat had fallen off, and his 
face showed grimy and discolored in 
the lamplight. He smiled vacuously. 

"LoP he said at last thickly; "s ol' 
Van Cleve! 'Lo, Van, ol' top, how 's 

'Party a friend o' yourn?' inquired 
the night-watchman. 

'Yes, I know him,' said the young 
man, surveying Robert disgustedly. 

'Know where he lives?' the night- 
watchman suggested; 'I been tryin' to 
git it out o' him. I had n't otter leave 
m' job, or I 'd took him to his home, 
'f he's got any.' 

'It's all right. I'll attend to him,' 
said Van Cleve, shortly. He got hold 
of Bob by the arm. 'Here, I'm going 
to take you home, Bob,' he said. 'Look 
out, you'll fall. That's not your hat. 
Here, don't you try to get it, I'll get 

The night-watchman, however, had 
already captured it out of a pool of 
half-frozen slush; he rammed out the 
dents in the crown with his fist, gave it 
a wipe with a bandanna, and put it 
back with some nicety on the head of 
its owner. 

'All right now, sport!' said he, fall- 
ing back a step; and then shook his 
head to observe Van Cleve's manner 
with the drunken man. 'Careful, 
mister! Yuh wanter handle 'em real 
easy,' he warned, as Van Cleve started 
to march the other away; 'they're 
kinder hard to manage, if they git 
soured at yuh, y' know!' 

'I'm not drunk s'pose you shink 
I'm drunk!' said Bob, indignantly. 
He held back. 'I do' wanna g' home 
yet, Van not yet. Dammit, Van, 
can't y' unnerstan', ol' fellow? I do' 
wanna go home shee Lorrie ' All at 
once he began to blubber feebly. 'Lor- 
rie 's bes' girl ever was bes' sister 
ain't she bes' sister ever was, Van ? ' 

' You ' ve got to go home, you know, 
Bob,' said Van Cleve, urging him 
along; 'come on, now. It's all right; 
Lorrie won't know. We '11 get in with- 
out her knowing I hope to God ! ' he 
added to himself wretchedly. He had 
seen men drunk before; had laughed at 
them many times on the stage and else- 
where; had probably once in his life, 
himself, taken quite as much strong 
drink as was good for him, like more 
than one temperate and sensible young 
man. So now he was not shocked; Bob 
was Bob, and, whatever he did, im- 
mutably his friend; but an impatient 
anger and distress overwhelmed Van 
Cleve at the thought of Lorrie. He got 
Bob home somehow; it was a sorry but, 
after all, not so very difficult a task. 
The unlucky young fellow's natural 
gentleness and tractability survived 
even in this degrading defeat. Wine 
in, truth out; but that enemy could 
bring nothing brutal or obscene to the 
surface of Bob's mind; its shallow wa- 
ters were at least clear. Van got him 
home somehow, protesting, plaintively 
apologetic, spasmodically gay, and got 
him up into the porch with as little 
scuffling and noise as was possible. 
The house was dark. 'They're all 
asleep ! ' Van thought in relief; and suc- 
ceeded in keeping Bob quiet while he 
went through his pockets for his night- 
key. Before he could find it, however, 
a little light gleamed over the transom, 
the door opened almost soundlessly, 
and Lorrie stood there. 

She had a glass hand-lamp and held 
it up, gazing around it into the dark; 



she seemed unnaturally tall in a white 
wrapper that drew into folds about her 
feet; her long, dark hair divided in two 
wide braids lay smoothly on either side 
of her face and down over her breast. 
The young man was reminded start- 
lingly of some painting or image of a 
madonna he had once seen, long ago. 

'Is it you, Bob?' Lorrie said in a 
whisper; * won't you try not to wake 
Mother Van Cleve ! 9 Even in her 
surprise, she governed her voice. 

* I ' ve brought him home, Lorrie I 
- I found him on the street,' said Van, 
hanging his head. But after her first 
exclamation, the girl scarcely seemed 
to take account of him. Her eyes 
passed over Van Cleve and fell anx- 
iously on her brother, huddled on the 
old, rickety porch-seat; she came a step 
out of the doorway, shivering as the 
cold struck her, and clutching together 
her light draperies. 

* Thank you I I'm glad it was 
you, Van,' she said brokenly, yet with 
a self-control that astonished the 
young man; he looked at her, touched 
and reverent, as she went on with the 
same painful strength: 'I'm glad it 
was you but won't you won't you 
please go away now? I can take care of 
him now he 's home. I can't go out and 
find him I just have to wait 
that 's really the the worst of it, you 
know. And I don't want Mother to 
know. If you '11 just go away now, Van 
Cleve, I can manage him. I'm afraid 
you you might make some noise, and 
wake them up you 're not used to it, 
you know,' said poor Lorrie, simply. 

* I 'm not going away, and you 're not 
going to take care of him,' said Van 
Cleve in his harshest manner though 
he, too, tried to speak under his breath. 
He put her aside, and took Bob by the 
shoulder. 'Stand up, Bob; you know 
you can stand up if you try,' he com- 
manded savagely. 

'Don' you tush my sister!' said Bob 

in his thick accent. The fancied of- 
fense to Lorrie roused him in an extra- 
ordinary fashion; he shook off the 
other's grasp, and got upon his feet un- 
aided. 'You shan't talk that way to 
Lorrie, I don't care if it is you, Van ! ' he 
said quite distinctly; and then equally 
unaccountably slipped back to his 
former state. 'Leggo me! Whash do- 
in'? G' upstairs m'self,' he asserted, 
mumbling, hiccoughing, wavering. Van 
Cleve seized and steadied him; the 
lamp cast a shaking light over them, 
and over Lorrie's white face and cold, 
trembling hands; it was a piece of cheap 
and squalid tragedy. 

'Please, Van Cleve, I can take care 
of him, truly ' she began again, im- 

'You shall not!' said Van roughly. 

She obeyed him this time, meekly 
following with the light while Van 
Cleve propped, pushed, and dragged 
the other upstairs to his own room, got 
some of his clothes off, and deposited 
him in the bed, where he lay quite 
stupid now, and erelong sleeping nois- 
ily. His two guardians went cautiously 
down again. The Gilbert family dog 
had come to look on, head on one side, 
wrinkling its honest brow in uncompre- 
hending doggish curiosity and anxi- 
ety; it sniffed at Van's hand inquir- 
ingly, recognized him, and retired sat- 
isfied to its nightly bivouac across the 
threshold of Mrs. Gilbert's bedroom. 
Lorrie stood with her lamp at the door 
to light the young man's way out. 

'What is it? Is that you, Lorrie? 
Are you sick? What is the matter? ' 
Mrs. Gilbert waked up suddenly and 
called. It was a miracle she had not 
waked sooner. Van Cleve looked at 
Lorrie, utterly disconcerted. 

'Nothing at all, Mother; nothing's 
the matter,' she called back pleasantly 
and composedly. 'Dingo seemed to 
want to get out, and then when I let 
him out, he began to scratch and whine 



and make such a fuss, I had to get up 
and let him in again.' 

* Oh, I thought that is ' Mrs. 
Gilbert paused; there was a moment of 
blank silence it was singularly, curi- 
ously, blank and silent. 'I thought I 
heard somebody on the stairs I must 
have been dreaming/ said Mrs. Gilbert 
with a kind of hurried distinctness and 
emphasis. 'Never mind me, dearie 
I would have waked anyhow ' Her 
voice ceased suddenly. 

'She does n't know, Van you see 
she does n't know,' Lorrie whispered; 
it was an appeal. 

Van Cleve heard the two women 
lying to each other with wonder and 
pity. As he looked at Lorrie, on a 
sudden, for the first time, he saw her 
face quiver. She put up her hands to 
hide it, and leaned against the wall, 
sobbing but still noiselessly. Van 
Cleve felt desperately that he would 
give his right hand, he would give a 
year out of his life, to take her to him 
and comfort her but what comfort 
would she get from him ? To go away 
and leave her in peace was the greatest 
kindness he could do her! He lingered 
an instant, helplessly, dumb; even 
without the risk of detection, he would 
have been at a loss what to say; so 
they parted at last without a word. 



Although the skeleton in the Gil- 
bert family closet was by way of being 
uncloseted nowadays, was indeed rat- 
tling its joints and stalking abroad in 
the full glare of noonday to the horror 
of all temperate and well-behaved per- 
sons, there was at least one who re- 
mained unaffected by the spectacle. 
The young lady whom people generally 
referred to as 'that Jameson girl,' or 

'that little Paula Jameson,' must have 
known as much about Bob's miserable 
failing as anybody; but, drunk or sober, 
good or bad, weak or strong, it was ap- 
parently all one to her. She continued 
to make what the other girls vowed 
was a 'dead set' at the young man. It 
was impossible to believe, according to 
them, that she haunted the house so 
persistently out of fondness for Lorrie. 
Everybody knew (they said) that she 
had begun her attentions to Bob's sis- 
ter long ago in the hope of 'getting-in'; 
and Lorrie was so dear and sweet she 
never had the heart to get rid of her, to 
say nothing of the fact that that would 
have been a job, because Paula was too 
thick-skinned to take a hint or feel any 
ordinary rebuff. But now! it was 
plain to be seen that she was after Bob. 
And she would probably get him, too, 
he was a good deal taken with her. 
Mercy, nobody else wanted him; still, 
it was rather a pity, he was so nice 
when when he was all right, you 
know. The family were all so nice, and 
Lorrie was lovely, and they would hate 
such a connection, though of course 
they would stand it on Bob's account. 

What was it that was the matter 
with Miss Jameson, then? Merely her 
manners? Our society is not snob- 
bish; doubtless there were people in it 
no brighter or better-bred than Paula 
Jameson, and certainly not nearly so 
pretty; but it would not swallow her; 
it would have none of her or her mo- 
ther. Yet they were really inoffensive 

Mrs. Jameson was a large, vivid, 
extraordinarily corseted and high- 
heeled lady, about forty-five years of 
age, with the same kind of auburn 
hair as her daughter's, invariably ar- 
ranged in the latest fashion, or even a 
little in advance of the latest fashion; 
and with a fondness for perfumery and 
for entire toilets in shades of purple, 
parasols, gloves, silk stockings, suede 



shoes, all elaborately matched, where- 
with she might frequently be seen upon 
the streets, bearing herself with a kind 
of languid chic the word she herself 
would have used. She was a widow; 
and the late Mr. Jameson Levi B. 
Jameson, Plumbers' Supplies, Sewer- 
Pipe, Metal Roofing, etc. having 
got together a reasonable fortune in his 
time, she and Paula were very comfort- 
ably off, or would have been, if the taste 
for purple costumes, and similar tastes 
in which Paula also had been trained, 
had not kept them in perpetual hot 
water, spending and retrenching with 
an equal thriftlessness. They lived at 
* private' hotels or fashionable board- 
ing-houses here and there, and went to 
the theatre a great deal; idling through 
the rest of their time in shopping, or 
having their hands manicured and hair 
dressed, or giving the French bulldog 
his bath, or yawning over the last lurid 
novel, with a box of chocolate-drops, in 
the rocking-chairs of the roof-garden or 

Their circle of acquaintances was 
not large; Mrs. Jameson had no social 
traditions or aspirations, no hobbies, 
no recreations, no aim in life at all, 
except to be the best-dressed woman in 
any assembly, to keep her weight down 
to a hundred and thirty-five pounds, 
and never to miss her tri-weekly * fa- 
cial* at the beauty parlors she patron- 
ized. Paula had never seen her mother 
do anything, had never known her to 
be interested in anything, but the above 
subjects, although, to do her justice, 
Mrs. Jameson was fond of her daughter 
and gave almost as much attention to 
Paula's wardrobe and figure and com- 
plexion as to her own. It was not 
strange that the girl could conceive of 
no different or more elevated existence; 
that is a rare character, the sages tell 
us, that can be superior to environ- 
ment, and Paula was not a rare charac- 
ter; she was not especially endowed in 

any way, except physically. She had 
been curled, scented, arrayed in slip- 
pers too tight, and sashes too wide, and 
hats too big, like a little show-window 
puppet, ever since she could remember; 
had been kissed and petted and ad- 
mired by other hotel-dwelling women, 
and noticed and flattered by men, until 
it was natural that the pretty red-gold 
head should be occupied with Paula's 
self, with her beauty and her 'style,' 
and, above all, her irresistible attrac- 
tion for every trousered human being 
she saw, to the exclusion of all else. 
Why not? She was attractive. She 
had no talents or accomplishments; but 
she had been to two or three of the 
most select and fashionable schools; 
she spent infinite pains on her dress, 
with charming results; she could not 
talk at all, but she could always look, 
as Bob Gilbert himself had said; she 
was very pliable and good-tempered, 
ready to laugh at any joke she could 
understand, and to enter into any plan; 
what more could have been asked of 
her, or why should she not have been 
satisfied with herself? 

Why little Miss Paula should have 
taken the fancy she apparently did to 
the Professor's daughter, it was for a 
long while impossible for the latter to 
guess. Lorrie was too humane to throw 
her off, which, besides, as the other girls 
hinted, was no easy matter; and Miss 
Gilbert grew finally to feel a sort of ma- 
ternal fondness and a certain responsi- 
bility for the childish, pretty young 
creature, even after the other had in- 
genuously and quite unconsciously re- 
vealed the secret of her devotion. ' It 's 
so nice for you having a brother a 
grown-up one, I mean like Bob, is 
n't it? There 're always such a lot of 
men coming to the house all the time 
so nice ! You have ever so many 
more men than any of the other girls. 
It's just lovely here there's always 
somebody \' she said one day, and won- 



dered why Lorrie, after a moment's 
meditative pause, looking at her oddly 
the while, suddenly broke into a lit- 
tle laugh; all her face twinkled; she 
laughed and laughed. 

* What's funny? What's the joke?' 
demanded Paula, lazily interested; she 
picked up a hand-glass, and moved 
closer to the window. 

'"The people that walked in dark- 
ness have seen a great light!'" said 
Lorrie, profanely, reducing her expres- 
sion to one of prodigious gravity on the 
instant; and Paula at the bureau, pains- 
takingly examining a minute speck on 
the right side of her chin, which she 
dreaded might be the beginning of a 
pimple, did not attempt to follow her 
friend's abrupt changes of mood. Be- 
sides, Lorrie, like nearly everybody 
else, was forever making speeches which 
Paula found it too fatiguing even to 
pretend to understand. 

'Of course all the men are n't nice; 
but it 's nice to have them come to call 
on you, anyhow.' Thus Miss Jame- 
son. 'I'd feel awfully if I never had 
a caller. There's a girl at the Alt/ 
(the young lady's abbreviation of the 
Altamont, that being the name of the 
caravanserai which sheltered the Jame- 
sons at the moment) 'that I don't be- 
lieve has ever had a bit of attention 
in her life not the least little tiny 
scrap ! I 'd feel awfully in her place, 
wouldn't you? Momma I mean 
Mama Mama says any girl that 
has n't had a proposal before she 's 
twenty is a. freak. I said to her, "Well, 
that lets me out! I'm safe, anyhow!" 
Momma Mama simply screamed; 
she 's been telling everybody in the ho- 
tel. I don't care. It's true, you know. 
I'm going on twenty-three, and I've 
had four I mean not counting college 
boys when you 're away in the summer, 
and all that. I never count them, 
though lots of girls do. I don't care for 
boys I'd rather have men. One of 

mine has stacks of money; he's in the 
shoe business in Springfield, Massachu- 
setts, and used to come around and 
stop at the Alt. regularly four times a 
year, getting up trade at the stores, 
you know. He don't come any more, 
though, since I turned him down. I 
don't think the shoe business would be 
very stylish, somehow, do you? It 
would n't be like saying your husband 
was president of a bank, or something. 
He did give me lovely things, though.' 
She sighed reminiscently. 'He gave 
me my silver toilet-set all except 
those two big cologne bottles, with the 
silver deposit on cut glass. Another 
man gave me those. I priced them 
afterwards at Dormer's and they 're fif- 
teen dollars apiece. Is n't it funny how 
men just love to spend money on you? 
I had a fellow once that gave me the 
cutest little watch one of the real 
little ones not any bigger than that, 
you know, dark blue enamel with pearls 
all over it, and a little flure-de-lee pin 
to match too cute for anything. I '11 
show it to you some time when you 're 
over. I wish you'd come over; you al- 
ways say you will, and then you never 

'You don't mean to say you took 
those men's presents?' ejaculated Lor- 
rie, ungrammatically. 

'Why, yes. Why? Would n't you 
have? They're lovely things they're 
all real, you know, the pearls on the 
watch and everything. I would n't 
have 'em a minute if they were n't. I 
hate anything common. But would n't 
you have taken them? The men were 
simply gone about me, you know, just 
crazy. 9 

'Mother wouldn't have let me,' 
Lorrie stammered, trying, in her quick 
humanity, to make some explanation 
that might not hurt the other's feel- 
ings. But Paula looked at her with no 
feeling more pronounced than surprise. 

'I should think you'd take 'em, and 



just not tell her,' she remarked; 'you 
can always say you saved up and 
bought 'em out of your own money, or 
some girl in Seattle or somewhere 'way 
off sent 'em to you. Momma don't 
know about all my things. I like to 
have presents from men. I can't see 
that there 's any harm in it.' A curious 
hardness came into her face; she eyed 
the older girl with something like cun- 
ning, an expression as uncanny on 
Paula's soft, dimpled features as it 
would have been on a five-year-old 
baby's. 'Didn't anybody ever give 
you anything?' 

'No,' said Lorrie, shortly, annoyed. 

'Pooh, you just won't tell. I think 
you might me, though I would n't 
give you away. You've had ever so 
many men awfully gone on you, every- 
body says. I love to hear them talk 
and go on that soft way, don't you? I 
think you might tell me. There 'sV.C. 
K. you know who I mean you 
needn't pretend you don't.' 

'V. C. K.? Oh!' said Lorrie, crim- 
soning; 'please don't say things like 
that, Paula. He's just Bob's friend. 
It does n't seem fair to a man to to 
talk like that. Even if it were true, it 
sounds it sounds ' She stopped, 
hampered for words the other could 
understand without offense; she could 
not say to Paula that it sounded cheap 
and common. 'I would n't do it, if I 
were you,' Lorrie said finally. 

'Seems to me there's a lot of things 
you won't do,' Paula said suspiciously. 
' Everybody knows it about Van 
Kendrick, I mean. He comes here to 
see you. He is n't such a tremendously 
good friend of Bob's; they don't go 
around together nearly as much as 
they used to.' 

Lorrie did not answer; her face 
clouded unhappily. 

' Well, if he has n't ever come right 
out and asked you, I suppose it's be- 
cause of his family,' suggested Paula, 

comfortingly, misreading the other's 
silence and look of trouble; 'I suppose 
he thinks he can't afford to get married. 
I don't like him much, anyhow. He's 
always so so well, so grumpy and 
grouchy, you know. He always shoots 
right by you on the street, and just 
grabs off his hat and jabs it on again as 
if he was afraid for his life to stop and 
speak for fear he 'd have to ask you to 
go to lunch with him or pay your car- 
fare or something. He never does offer 
to take a person anywhere, to the 
theatre or anything. He's awfully 
stingy. Oh, I don't suppose he's that 
way with you. But I just hope you 
won't take him, Lorrie.' 

' I told you there was n't any ques- 
tion of that,' said Lorrie, not too amia- 
bly. She was tired of listening to all 
this dull, distasteful stuff. If she was 
not at all in love with Van Cleve Ken- 
drick, she still thought him a deal 
above Miss Jameson's criticism. 

Paula only shrugged, and turned her 
attention to her finger-nails. After a 
while she said, without raising her eyes, 
' Mr. Cortwright 's getting to come 
pretty often, too, is n't he?' 

'Not any more than anybody else,' 
said Lorrie; and now she, too, kept her 
eyes down. 

'I thought he seemed to be here 
every time I happen to come over 
in the evenings, you know,' said Paula, 
who indeed ' happened ' to come over in 
the evenings two or three times a week 
with striking regularity. There crept 
into her eyes that same look of baby- 
ish sharpness that had showed there a 
while before. 'I noticed it because two 
or three times he's taken me home,' 
she said explanatorily. 

'Yes?' said Lorrie, engrossed in her 

'Why, yes, don't you remember? It 
was when Bob was out or sick, so he 
could n't,' said Paula, more explana- 
torily still. She went on quickly with a 


good deal of emphasis, 'I just said to 
myself, " Well, if I 'd known you were 
going to be here, I'd have stayed 
home!" You know I don't like Mr. 
Cortwright, either, Lorrie I don't 
like him a little bit!' She paused, 
slightly out of breath, glancing narrow- 
ly into her companion's face; but Lor- 
rie's eyes were still lowered, and at the 
moment she was matching two skeins 
of pink floss with elaborate care, so 
that if Paula had counted on these 
statements making some visible im- 
pression, she was disappointed. 'I just 
hate him!' she announced vigorously. 

4 Oh, poor Mr. Cortwright!' said 
Lorrie, with a kind of absent-minded 
laugh, deciding on the deeper shade at 

The other girl scrutinized her silent- 
ly. 'Do you like him?' she suddenly 

* Oh, yes. He 's always been very nice 
to Bob, you know,' said Lorrie, main- 
taining her light tone, but furious in- 
wardly to feel the red coming into her 
cheeks. It was ridiculous to be drag- 
ging in Bob this way to account for 
every man that came to the house; she 
began to laugh, a little nervously. 

Paula looked at her again uncertain- 
ly. 'Well, / hate him!' she repeated; 
* I ' ve never even asked him in when we 
got to the Alt., or asked him to call, or 
anything.' Again Paula considered, or, 
at least, had the appearance of consid- 
ering, though it would have been hard 
to believe that any operation of so 
much consequence was going on behind 
that lovely, inanimate mask. 'He don't 
like me, either Mr. Cortwright just 
hates me, I know it,' she said, eyeing 
Lorrie expectantly. 'He just took me 
home those times because he had to.' 

Lorrie made an inarticulate sound of 
dissent, and went on with her fancy- 
work assiduously. 

'Does he ever say anything to you 
about me?' asked Paula, 

' Why, yes no I don't know 
sometimes I suppose we talk about 
everybody once in a while ' said 
Lorrie, rather confusedly. Mr. Cort- 
wright had not been over compliment- 
ary in his references to Miss Jameson. 
But the latter, who candidly liked to 
stand in the limelight and the centre of 
the stage, and in general would rather 
have heard that she had been severely 
reviewed, even lacerated, by the gos- 
sips, than that they had passed her 
over with no notice at all, nevertheless 
looked not disturbed at the neglect 
Lorrie implied. 

'Mr. Cortwright don't like me,' she 
insisted again. 

According to legend, two pairs of 
ears should have been burning pretty 
smartly while the above conversation 
went on; we may imagine that the first 
gentleman under discussion, could he 
have overheard Miss Jameson, would 
have dismissed her estimate of his char- 
acter easily enough. Van Cleve was 
not of a temper to be much ruffled by 
the accusation of stinginess and rude- 
ness. Very likely it was near the truth; 
and he himself might have explained 
that he did n't have any time for at- 
tentions to girls, and his money came 
too hard to be spent plentifully. He 
had a use for every dollar; and, by 
Something-quite-strong, if that young 
lady had ever made a dollar, she'd 
think differently! Also he would have 
said with a red face that that 
was all rot about himself and Miss 

As for Cortwright, the fact is, ' poor 
Paula' had hit upon the truth itself in 
those last remarks of hers, for he had 
confessed as much to Lorrie! The girl 
bored him to death, he had said with 
great plainness and energy. Pretty, 
of course, but there was absolutely 
nothing to her! He did wish she 'd give 
up this running after Bob, and let the 
house alone. He, too, spoke of the 



times he had been obliged to take her 
home he could n't get out of it, you 
know did n't want to be rude, but 
really ! He was lightly and humor- 
ously eloquent on the subject of Miss 

* I think you are a little hard on poor 
Paula,' Lorrie remonstrated, coming 
to the defense more out of sex-loyalty 
than from any feeling for the other 
girl. *You ought to make allowances 
for the way she 's been brought up. It 's 
pathetic when you stop to think about 
it. No real home, and no real mother ' 

* What I No mother? Oh, come now, 
Miss Gilbert, you surely know Mrs. 
Jameson, don't you? You've seen her, 
anyway? Ah, I see, that's it! You do 
know Mrs. Jameson!' said the gentle- 
man, meaningly, with a lazy laugh. 

* I did n't mean to say that I 
did n't say that exactly. I meant her 
mother does n't is n't well, she 's 
not like some mothers, you know,' said 
Lorrie, lamely, between her habitual 
desire to be charitable, and a strong 
disapproval of Mrs. Jameson. 

Cortwright understood her and 
laughed again. 'Mrs. Jameson isn't 
much like your kind of mother,' he 
said; and added, 'there aren't many 
like you among the daughters, either, 
for that matter,' with the faintly ca- 
ressing emphasis of which he had the 

It made Lorrie's face grow warm 
even in the dark, as they sat on the 
porch of a midsummer night. They 
were sitting in their customary posi- 
tions: that is, Lorrie leaning back 
against the pillar, with her white skirts 
flowing down, and her small, capa- 
ble hands for once idle in her lap; 
and Cortwright, on the step below, 
bending towards her in one of those 
cavalier attitudes into which he fell 
more or less unaffectedly; he was nat- 
urally graceful in his movements; and 
the sword and mantle of the Cavalier 

day would have set upon him as suit- 
ably as its light and swaggering morals. 
Sometimes his hand or foot touched 
hers accidentally or tentatively; but 
as to any of the sentimental advances 
which he was reported to practice, the 
young man seldom attempted them 
with Lorrie Gilbert. The fellow that 
tried to kiss her would get his, he some- 
times thought, in his profanely modern 
speech; and was startled to feel a thrill 
of anger, resentment, jealous desire, 
dart through him at this purely specu- 
lative person's act. He was beginning 
to be much more in earnest than he 
had ever dreamed of being; certainly 
than he had ever been before with any 
of the women he had encountered 
throughout his easy, conquering, not 
too scrupulous, career. Also he was 
perfectly well aware that rumor brack- 
eted their two names; and let it go un- 
denied, keeping silence, but smiling in 
a style calculated to support the talk, 
if anything. In reality, it at once flat- 
tered and disconcerted him; he was not 
sure that he was so much in earnest as 
all that, he said to himself, half-com- 
placent and half-alarmed. The very 
candor of Lorrie's liking at once defeat- 
ed and spurred him on. And now, as he 
sat beside her, sensing, as often before, 
to his own wonder and enchantment, 
an ineffable comfort, restfulness, and 
content, physical, spiritual, he did not 
know which, in her presence and near- 
ness, a sudden small anxiety overtook 

'I imagine Miss Jameson tells you 
all about her love-affairs what he 
said and what she said, and all the rest 
of it,' he said; 'she's had a good many, 

' Oh, yes,' said Lorrie, indulgently; 
and she laughed. 

Cortwright was relieved at her tone 
and laughter. ' After all, it would be 
a pretty good thing if Bob fell in love 
with her. It would do him good to get 



his mind set on some girl, I believe/ 
he said, in a kind, elder-brother fashion 
that touched Lorrie deeply. 

* That's what I've often thought,' 
she said impulsively; * that's what I've 
often longed for. Mother and I we 
can't do much he 's too used to us 
a man does n't seem to care much what 
his mother and sisters think about him. 
He knows they're going to love him, 
anyhow. But if Bob would only get to 
caring for some girl Paula or any- 
body if he 'd only instead of ' 
Lome's voice failed; all the pain and 
worry of these past few months when 
things, already so bad, seemed to be 
getting so much worse, suddenly knot- 
ted together in her throat. She turned 
her face away, sternly resolved to con- 
trol herself. 'I'm getting silly and 
hysterical, laughing one minute and 
wanting to cry the next!' she thought, 
impatiently. Indeed, she had been 
under a hard strain for some time now. 

The man, who knew well enough 
what the trouble was, looked at her 
and then down, a little shamed, a little 
humbled. Bob's misbehavior surely 
could not be laid to his door; but a 
sharp regret stung him. 'Men don't 
deserve to have sisters and mothers 
and and wives!' he declared huskily, 
not conscious of the irrelevance of the 
words until they were out; and both of 
them were awkwardly silent an in- 
stant. Cortwright looked into her face 
again, and saw that the brown eyes 
shone suspiciously in the moonlight, as 
with unshed tears. He gave an ex- 

'Don't do that, Lorrie, don't! I I 
mean, don't worry about Bob so!' he 
stammered, moved by a genuine, self- 
forgetful sympathy and pity. He took 
her hand; he kept on with reassuring 
and comforting words. ' Bob 's all right 
he's going to come out all right. 
He'll get over this running around, 
you know, and er and coming in 

late at night, and er and all that. 
Why, there 're lots of fellows worse 
than Bob' 

'I know that, Mr. Cortwright, but 
that does n't make it any easier,' said 
Lorrie, brokenly; she swallowed hard, 
and went on without looking at him, 
'I'm sure Bob would n't would n't 
do anything wrong, even when he 's 
when he 's that way, you know. But it 's 
been so long now it seems as if maybe 
he never would get over it. That 's what 
frightens me. It began when he was 
only a little boy; he used to drink the 
peach-brandy. Sometimes he drank it 
all up. When I found out, I never told 
Mother, and I never said a word to him. 
I 'd go and fill the jug up with syrup. I 
suppose it was wrong, but I I did n't 
know any better. To this day, I don't 
know whether Mother knows or not. I 
would just as lief stick the carving- 
knife into her as ask or tell her. She 
might think it was her fault because of 
having the peach-brandy around, you 
see ' She drew her hand away 
quickly; she was frightened at her own 
loss of self-control, frightened at her 
sudden longing to cry her troubles out 
on the young man's shoulder. 

' Oh, don't get to thinking things like 
that. That's morbid, that's foolish!' 
Cortwright urged, honestly moved; 
and none the less because the peach- 
brandy episode seemed to him an 
ordinary boyish crime, fit only to be 
laughed at; its very littleness touched 
him. 'It is n't anybody's fault. Near- 
ly all men have some kind of a time 
like this. Bob will come around all 
right. Why, he's a fine fellow, a splen- 
did fellow he's going to be all 
right - 

He felt with a strange tangle of emo- 
tions, surprise, conceit, satisfaction, 
and something as near to real tender- 
ness as he could entertain, that this 
sad business about Bob brought Lorrie 
and himself closer together than a year 


of visits and attentions and frank, 
pleasant intimacies had been able to do. 
And now, as always when he was with 
her, Lorrie unwittingly called out all 
that was best in him. He was very gen- 
tle, governing his impulses in honest re- 
spect, made a great many fine forcible 
promises to 'look after Bob,' to 'see if 
he could n't do something with Bob,' 
to 'get Bob to straighten up,' and so 
forth; and went away from her at last 
in a very noble, protecting, ardent, 
and exalted state of mind, highly unus- 
ual and agreeable. He was resolved 
to straighten up, not only Robert, but 
Philip Cortwright, too. For such a girl, 
a man ought to be willing to do any- 
thing ! He would cut out that other af- 
fair altogether; it would begin to tire 
him pretty soon, anyhow; he would go 
on the water-wagon himself, drop the 
ponies, marry Lorrie, and settle down ! 
And doubtless Lorrie went upstairs 
to her room soothed and sustained and 
full of trust in him; doubtless, too, she 
blushed to face herself in the glass when 
she thought of certain passages, cer- 
tain intonations of 'his' voice, certain 
expressions in 'his' eyes; and combed 
out and braided her long, thick, waving 
crop of brown hair in a pensive mood 
which had nothing to do with that 
unfortunate Robert; and maybe sat 
awhile by the window with her chin 
propped on her hands, staring and star- 
gazing and dreaming, while the family 
snored unromantically all about her, 
before she slipped into her own little 

At the same time, not many squares 
away, another acquaintance of ours 
may have been indulging in a very 
similar style of meditation, and survey- 
ing what she could of the night and 
stars from the window of her bedroom 
a stuffy hotel bedroom that com- 
manded a much better view of the rear 
roofs and fire-escapes and the windows 
of other stuffy bedrooms than of any- 
thing celestial. The young lady, in a 
heavily embroidered lavender crape 
kimono somewhat too roomy for her, 
it is part of her mother's wardrobe, in 
fact, has been stealthily reading and 
re-reading a number of little notes re- 
ceived with sundry boxes of candy, or 
perhaps with those other more costly 
'presents' for which she has a weak- 
ness; she has by heart every word of 
those notes. They are 'soft' and sug- 
ary enough even for her taste, and 
fascinatingly seasoned besides with 
hints of mystery, secrecy, and caution. 
This affair quite puts in the shade the 
honest gentleman of the shoe business 
and others who have been vulgarly 
plain and above-board about their ad- 
miration and their hopes! It has pro- 
gressed from chance meetings at first 
to meetings that were not by any 
means chance, on her part at any rate, 
later; and now to risky little appoint- 
ments, delightful stolen moments, sub- 
tly planned encounters exactly like 
a play! Indeed, was there ever a finer 
figure for a matinee hero seen on any 
stage than the individual signing him- 
self hers, Phil? 

(To be continued.) 



Although the letter bears no date and its envelope has been lost, it is still possible to fix the 
evening precisely; it was May 29, 1839. From this date the relations between the poet and the 
young tragedienne became most friendly. THE EDITOBS. 

MY very best thanks, honored Ma- 
dame and dear Godmother, for the 
letter of the amiable Paolita [Pauline 
Garcia] which you sent to me. This 
letter is both interesting and charm- 
ing, but you, who never miss an oppor- 
tunity to show those whom you love 
best some beautiful little attention, 
deserve the greatest praise. You are 
the only human being whom I have 
found to be so constituted. 

A charitable act always finds its re- 
ward, and, thanks to your Desdemona 
letter, I shall now regale you with a 
supper at Madame Rachel's, which 
will amuse you, providing we are still 
of the same opinion, and still share the 
same admiration for the divine artist. 
My little adventure is solely intended 
for you, because 'the noble child' de- 
tests indiscretions, and then also be- 
because so much stupid talk and gossip 
circulate since I have been going to see 
her, that I have decided not even to 
mention it when I have been to see her 
at the Theatre Frangais. 

The evening here referred to she 
played Tancrede, and I went in the 
intermission to see her, to pay her a 
compliment about her charming cos- 
tume. In the fifth act she read her 
letter with an expression which was 
especially sincere and touching. She 
told me herself that she had cried at 
this moment, and was so moved that 
she was afraid she might not be able 


to continue to speak. At ten o'clock, 
after the close of the theatre, we met 
by accident in the Colonnades of the 
Palais Royal. She was walking arm- 
in-arm with Felix Bonnaire, attended 
by a crowd of young people, among 
whom were Mademoiselle Rebut, 
Mademoiselle Dubois, of the Conserv- 
atory, and a few others. I bow to her; 
she says to me, 'Come with us.' 

Here we are at her house; Bonnaire 
excuses himself as best he can, an- 
noyed and furious about the meeting. 
Rachel smiles at his deplorable de- 
parture. We enter, we sit down. Each 
of the young ladies beside her friend, 
and I next to the dear Fanfan. After 
some conversation Rachel notices that 
she has forgotten her rings and brace- 
lets in the theatre. She sends her 
servant-girl to fetch them. There's 
no girl here now to prepare supper! 
But Rachel rises, changes her dress, 
and goes into the kitchen. After a 
quarter of an hour she reenters, in 
house-dress and cap, beautiful as an 
angel, and holds in her hand a plate 
with three beefsteaks which she has 
just fried. She puts the plate in the 
middle of the table and says, 'I hope 
it will taste good to you.' Then she 
goes into the kitchen again and re- 
turns with a soup-bowl of boiling bouil- 
lon in the one hand and in the other a 
dish of spinach. That is the supper! 
No plates, no spoons, because the serv- 



ant girl has taken the keys with her. 
Rachel opens the sideboard, finds a 
bowl of salad, takes the wooden fork, 
eventually discovers a plate, and be- 
gins to eat alone. 

'In the kitchen,' says Mamma, who 
is hungry, 'are the pewter knives and 

Rachel rises, fetches them, and dis- 
tributes them among those present. 
Now the following conversation takes 
place, in which you will notice that I 
have not changed anything. 

The Mother: Dear Rachel, the beef- 
steaks are too well done. 

Rachel: You are right; they are as 
hard as stone. Formerly, when I still did 
the housekeeping, I certainly cooked 
much better. I am poorer now for for- 
getting about it. There is nothing to 
be done about it, and for that matter 
I have learned something else instead. 
Don't you eat, Sarah? (To her sister). 

Sarah: No; I do not eat with pewter 
knives and forks. 

Rachel: Ah, just listen to that! 
Since I have bought from my savings 
a dozen silver knives and forks you 
cannot touch pewter any more. I sup- 
pose when I become richer you will 
have to have a liveried lackey behind 
your chair and one before. (Pointing 
to her fork.) I shall never part with 
these old knives and forks. They have 
done us service for too long. Is n't it 
so, Mamma? 

The Mother (with her mouth full): 
She is a perfect child! 

Rachel (turning to me) : Think of it, 
when I was playing in the Theatre 
Moliere I had only two pairs of stock- 
ings, and every morning (Here the 
sister Sarah begins to speak German 
in order to prevent her sister from say- 
ing any more) . 

Rachel (continuing): Stop talking 
your German. That is no shame at all. 
Yes, I only had two pairs of stockings, 
and in order to be able to appear at 

night I had to wash one pair every 
morning. They hung in my room on a 
string while I wore the others. 

7 : And you did the housekeeping? 

Rachel : I got up every morning at 
six o'clock, and at eight o'clock all the 
beds were made. Then I went to the 
Halles and bought the food. 

7: And did n't you let a little profit 
go into your own pocket? 

Rachel: No, I was a very honest 
cook, was n't I, Mamma? 

The Mother (continuing to eat): 
Yes, that's true. 

Rachel: Only once I was a thief for 
a whole month. If I bought anything 
for four sous I charged five, and if I 
paid ten I charged twelve. At the end 
of the month I found that I was in 
possession of three francs. 

/ (severely) : And what did you do 
with those three francs, Mademoi- 

The Mother (who sees that Rachel 
is silent): Monsieur de Musset, she 
bought the works of Moliere for that 

7: Really? 

Rachel: Why, yes, certainly. I had 
Corneille and Racine, and so I had to 
have Moliere, and I bought him for 
three francs; then I confessed all my 
sins. Why does Mademoiselle Rebut 
go? Good-night, Mademoiselle! 

The largest part of the dull people 
follow the example of Mademoiselle 
Rebut. The servant-girl returns with 
the forgotten rings and bracelets. 
They are put on the table. The two 
bracelets are magnificent, worth at 
least four to five thousand francs. In 
addition to them there is a most costly 
golden tiara. All this is lying any- 
where about the table, betwixt and be- 
tween the salad, the pewter spoons, 
and the spinach. 

The idea of keeping house, attending 
to the kitchen, making beds, and of all 
the cares of a poverty-stricken house- 



hold, sets me thinking, and I look at 
Rachel's hands, secretly fearing that 
they are ugly or ruined. They are 
graceful, dainty, white, and full, the 
fingers tapering. In reality, hands of 
a princess. 

Sarah, who is not eating, does not 
cease scolding in German. It must be 
remarked that, on this certain day, in 
the forenoon, she had been up to some 
pranks, which, according to her mo- 
ther's opinion, had gone a bit too far, 
and it was only owing to the urgent 
interference of her sister that she had 
been forgiven and had been allowed to 
retain her place at the table. 

Rachel (answering to her German 
scolding) : Leave me in peace, I want 
to speak about my youth. I remem- 
ber that one day I wanted to make 
punch in one of these pewter spoons. 
I held the spoon over the light, and it 
melted in my hand. By the way, 
Sophie, give me the kirsch; we will 
make some punch. Ouf ... I have 
done; I have eaten enough. (The cook 
brings a bottle) . 

The Mother: Sophie is mistaken. 
That is a bottle of absinthe. 

7: Give me a drop. 

Rachel: Oh, how glad I would be if 
you would take something with us. 

The Mother: Absinthe is supposed 
to be very healthy. 

7: Not at all. It is unhealthy and 

Sarah: Why do you want to drink 
some, then? 

7: In order to be able to say that I 
have partaken of your hospitality. 

Rachel: I want to drink also. (She 
pours out absinthe into a tumbler and 
drinks. A silver bowl is brought to 
her, in which she puts sugar and 
kirsch; then she lights her punch, and 
lets it flame up.) I love this blue 

7: It is much prettier if there is no 
candle burning. 

Rachel: Sophie, take the candles 

The Mother : What ideas you have ! 
Nothing of the kind shall be done. 

Rachel: It is unbearable . . . Par- 
don, me, Mamma, you dear good one 
. . . (She embraces her) . But I would 
like to have Sophie take the candles 

A gentleman takes both candles and 
puts them under the table twilight 
effect. The mother, who in the light 
of the flames from the punch appears 
now green, now blue, fixes her eyes 
upon me, and watches every one of my 
movements. The candles are brought 
up again. 

A Flatterer: Mademoiselle Rebut did 
not look well this evening. 

7: You demand a great deal. I 
think she is very pretty. 

A second Flatterer: She lacks esprit. 

Rachel: Why do you talk like that? 
She is not stupid, like many others, 
and besides, she has a good heart. 
Leave her in peace. I do not want my 
colleagues to be talked about in this 

The punch is ready. Rachel fills the 
glasses, and distributes them. The re- 
mainder of the punch she pours into a 
soup plate and begins to eat it with a 
spoon. Then she takes my cane, pulls 
out the dagger which is in it, and com- 
mences to pick her teeth with the point 
of it. 

Now there is an end to this gossip 
and this childish talk. A word is suffi- 
cient to change the whole atmosphere 
of the evening, and what follows is 
consecrated with the power of art. 

7: When you read the letter this 
evening you were very much moved. 

Rachel: Yes, I felt as if something 
were breaking within me, and in spite 
of all I do not like that play [Tan- 
crbde] very much. It is untrue. 

7: You prefer the plays of Corneille 
and Racine? 



Rachel: I like Corneille well enough, 
although he is flat occasionally, and 
sometimes too pompous. All that is 
not truth. 

7: Eh, eh! Mademoiselle, slowly, 

Rachel: For instance, see, when, in 
Horace, Sabine says, 'One can change 
the lover, not the husband' Well, I 
don't like that; that is common. 

I: At least you will admit that that 
is true. 

Rachel: Yes, but is it worthy of Cor- 
neille? There I prefer Racine. I adore 
him. Everything that he says is so 
beautiful, so true, so noble! 

I: As we are just speaking about 
Racine, do you remember that some 
time ago you received an anonymous 
letter in which some hints were given 
to you in reference to the last scene of 

Rachel: Certainly. I followed the 
advice, and since then I have a tremen- 
dous amount of applause in this scene. 
Do you know the person who wrote me 

/: Very well. It is a woman who is 
the happy possessor of the most bril- 
liant mind and the smallest foot in 
Paris. Which r61e are you studying 

Rachel : This summer we shall play 
Maria Stuart, and then Polyeucte and 
may be 

I: What? 

Rachel (beating the table with her 
fist): Listen, I want to play Phedre. 
It is said that I am too young, that I 
am too thin, and a hundred other stu- 
pidities of that kind. But I answer, it 
is the most beautiful part by Racine, 
and I shall play it. 

Sarah : That would probably not 
be right, Rachel. 

Rachel: Leave me in peace! They 
think I am too young, the part is not 
appropriate. By Heaven, when I was 
playing Roxane I said quite differ- 

ent things, and what do I care about 
that? And if they say that I am too 
thin, then I consider that a stupidity. 
A woman who is filled with a crim- 
inal love, and who would rather die 
than submit to it, a woman who is con- 
suming herself in the fire of her passion, 
of her tears, such a woman cannot have 
a bosom like the Paradol; that would 
be absurd. I have read the part ten 
times within the last eight days. I do 
not know how I am going to play it, 
but I can tell you this : I feel the part. 
The papers can write what they please. 
They will not spoil it for me. They do 
not know what to bring up against me, 
in order to harm me instead of helping 
and encouraging me ; but if there is no 
other way out of it I shall play it to only 
four persons. (Turning to me.) Yes, 
I have read many candid and conscien- 
tious criticisms, and I know of nothing 
better, nothing more useful, but there 
are many people who are using their 
pen in order to lie, in order to destroy. 
They are worse than thieves and mur- 
derers. They kill the intellect with 
pin-pricks. Really, if I could I would 
poison them! 

The Mother : Dear child, you never 
stop talking; you are making yourself 
tired. You were on your feet at six 
o'clock this morning; I don't know 
what was the matter with you. You 've 
been gossiping all day. And then you 
played this evening. You will make 
yourself sick. 

Rachel (full of liveliness): No, let 
me be. I tell you, no. I call this life. 
(Turning to me) Shall I fetch the book? 
We will read the play together. 

I: There is no need of such a ques- 
tion. You cannot make me a pleas- 
ant er suggestion. 

Sarah : But, dear Rachel, it is half 
past eleven. 

Rachel: Who hinders you from go- 
ing to sleep? 

Sarah actually goes to bed; Rachel 



rises and goes out, and on returning 
holds in her hand the volume of Ra- 
cine. Her expression and her walk 
have something festive and sacred. She 
walks like a priestess who, carrying 
the holy vessels, approaches the altar. 
She sits down next to me, and snuffs 
the candle; the mother falls asleep 

Rachel (opens the book with spe- 
cial reverence and leans over it) : How 
I love this man ! When I put my nose 
into this book I could forget to eat and 
to drink for two days and two nights. 

Rachel and I begin to read Phddre. 
The book lies open between us on the 
table. All the others go away. Rachel 
bows to each one as they depart, with 
a slight nod of the head, and continues 
in her reading. At first she reads in a 
monotonous tone, as if it were a litany; 
by and by she becomes more animated; 
we exchange our ideas and our obser- 
vations about each passage. Finally 
she arrives at the explanation. She 
stretches out her right arm on her 
table, resting it on her elbow, the fore- 
head in her left hand. She lets herself 
be carried away by the contents of the 
passage; at the same time she speaks 

in a half-lowered voice. Suddenly her 
eyes flash, the genius of Racine lights 
up her features, she pales, she blushes. 
Never have I seen anything more beau- 
tiful, anything more moving; nor did 
she ever make such a deep impression 
on me in the theatre. 

So the time passes until half past 
twelve. The father returns from the 
opera, where he had seen La Nathan 
appear for the first time in La Juive. 
No sooner had he sat down than he 
ordered his daughter in brusque words 
to stop her declamation. Rachel closes 
the book and says, 

'It is revolting. I am going to buy 
myself a light, and will read alone in 

I looked at her; big tears filled her 

It was really shocking to see such a 
creature treated in this way. I rose to 
go, filled with admiration, respect, and 

Having reached home, I hurry to 
put down the details of this memor- 
able evening for you with the faithful- 
ness of a stenographer, in the expecta- 
tion that you will keep it, and that one 
day it will be found. 



EXCEPTING Sundays we boys had 
only two days of the year to our- 
selves, the 4th of July and the 1st of 
January. Sundays were less than half 
our own, on account of Bible lessons, 
Sunday-school lessons, and church ser- 
vices; all the others were labor-days, 
rain or shine, cold or warm. No won- 
der then that our two holidays were 
precious, and that it was not easy to 
decide what to do with them. They 
were usually spent on the highest rocky 
hill in the neighborhood, called the Ob- 
servatory; in visiting our boy friends 
on adjacent farms to hunt, fish, wres- 
tle, and play games; in reading some 
new favorite book we had managed to 
borrow or buy; or in making models of 
machines I had invented. 

One of our July days was spent with 
two Scotch boys of our own age, hunt- 
ing redwing blackbirds then busy in 
the cornfields. Our party had only 
one single-barreled shot-gun, which, as 
the oldest, and perhaps because I was 
thought to be the best shot, I had 
the honor of carrying. We marched 
through the corn without getting sight 
of a single redwing, but just as we 
reached the far side of the field a red- 
headed woodpecker flew up and the 
Lawson boys cried, 'Shoot him! shoot 
him! he is just as bad as a blackbird. 
He eats corn!' 

This memorable woodpecker alight- 

1 Earlier chapters of John Muir's autobio- 
graphy have been published in the November and 
December issues of the Atlantic, THE EDITORS. 
VOL. in -NO. 1 

ed in the top of a white oak tree about 
fifty feet high. I fired from a position 
almost immediately beneath him and 
he fell straight down at my feet. When 
I picked him up and was admiring his 
plumage he moved his legs slightly and 
I said, 'Poor bird, he's no deed yet and 
we '11 hae to kill him to put him oot o' 
pain,' sincerely pitying him, after we 
had taken pleasure in shooting him. I 
had seen servant-girls wringing chick- 
ens' necks, so with desperate humanity 
I took the limp unfortunate by the head, 
swung him around three or four times, 
thinking I was wringing his neck, and 
then threw him hard on the ground to 
quench the last possible spark of life 
and make quick death doubly sure. 
But to our astonishment the moment 
he struck the ground he gave a cry of 
alarm and flew right straight up like a 
rejoicing lark into the top of the same 
tree, and perhaps to the same branch 
he had fallen from, and began to ad- 
just his ruffled feathers, nodding and 
chirping and looking down at us as if 
wondering what in the bird world we 
had been doing to him. This, of course, 
banished all thought of killing, so far 
as that revived woodpecker was con- 
cerned, no matter how many ears of 
corn he might spoil, and we all heart- 
ily congratulated him on his wonder- 
ful, triumphant resurrection from three 
kinds of death, shooting, neck- wring- 
ing, and destructive concussion. I sup- 
pose only one pellet had touched him, 
glancing on his head. 

We saw very little of the owlish, 
serious-looking coons, and no wonder, 



since they lie hidden nearly all day in 
hollow trees, and we never had time to 
hunt them. We often heard their curi- 
ous, quavering, whining cries on still 
evenings, but only once succeeded in 
tracing an unfortunate family through 
our cornfield to their den in a big oak 
and catching them all. One of our 
neighbors, Mr. McRath, a Highland 
Scotchman, caught one and made a 
pet of it. 

So far as I know, all wild creatures 
keep themselves clean. Birds, it seems 
to me, take more pains to bathe and 
dress themselves than any other ani- 
mals. Even ducks, though living so 
much in water, dip and scatter cleans- 
ing showers over their backs, and 
shake and preen their feathers as care- 
fully as land birds. Watching small 
singers taking their morning baths is 
very interesting, particularly when the 
weather is cold. Alighting in a shallow 
pool, they oftentimes show a sort of 
dread of dipping into it, like children 
hesitating about taking a plunge, as if 
they were subject to the same kind of 
shock, and this makes it easy for us 
to sympathize with the little feathered 

Occasionally I have seen from my 
study window red-headed linnets bath- 
ing in dew when water elsewhere was 
scarce. A large Monterey cypress with 
broad branches and innumerable leaves 
on which the dew lodges in still nights 
made a favorite bathing-place. Alight- 
ing gently, as if afraid to waste the 
dew, they would pause, and fidget as 
they do before beginning to plash in 
pools; then dip and scatter the drops 
in showers and get as thorough a bath 
as they would in a pool. I have also 
seen the same kind of baths taken by 
birds on the boughs of silver firs on 
the edge of a glacier meadow, but no- 
where have I seen the dewdrops so 
abundant as on the Monterey cypress ; 
and the picture made by the quivering 

wings and irised dew was memorably 
beautiful. Children, too, make fine 
pictures plashing and crowing in their 
little tubs. How widely different from 
wallowing pigs, bathing with great 
show of comfort, and rubbing them- 
selves dry against rough-barked trees! 

Some of our own species seem fairly 
to dread the touch of water. When 
the necessity of absolute cleanliness 
by means of frequent baths was being 
preached by a friend who had been 
reading Comb's Physiology, in which 
he had learned something of the won- 
ders of the skin, with its millions of 
pores that had to be kept open for 
health, one of our neighbors remark- 
ed, 'Oh! that's unnatural. It's well 
enough to wash in a tub maybe once 
or twice in a year, but not to be pad- 
dling in the water all the time like a 
frog in a spring-hole.' Another neigh- 
bor, who prided himself on his know- 
ledge of big words, said, with great sol- 
emnity, * I never can believe that man 
is amphibious!' 

It seemed very wonderful to us that 
the wild animals could keep themselves 
warm and strong in winter when the 
temperature was far below zero. Fee- 
ble-looking rabbits scudded away over 
the snow, lithe and elastic, as if glory- 
ing in the frosty sparkling weather and 
sure of their dinners. I have seen gray 
squirrels dragging ears of corn, about as 
heavy as themselves, out of their field 
through loose snow and up a tree, bal- 
ancing them on limbs and eating in 
comfort with their dry electric tails 
spread airily over their backs. Once I 
saw a fine hardy fellow go into a knot- 
hole. Thrusting in my hand, I caught 
him and dragged him out. As soon as 
he guessed what I was up to, he took 
the end of my thumb in his mouth and 
sunk his teeth right through it, but I 
gripped him hard by the neck, carried 
him home, and shut him up in a box 
that contained about half a bushel of 



hazel and hickory nuts, hoping that 
he would not be too much frightened 
and discouraged to eat, while thus im- 
prisoned, after the rough handling he 
had suffered. 

I soon learned, however, that sym- 
pathy in this direction was wasted; 
for no sooner did I pop him in than 
he fell to with right hearty appetite, 
gnawing and munching the nuts as if 
he had gathered them himself and 
were very hungry that day. Therefore, 
after allowing time enough for a good 
square meal, I made haste to get him 
out of the nut-box and shut him up in 
a spare bedroom, in which father had 
hung a lot of selected ears of Indian 
corn for seed. They were hung up by 
the husks on cords stretched across 
from side to side of the room. The 
squirrel managed to jump from the 
top of one of the bed-posts to the cord, 
cut off an ear, and let it drop to the 
floor. He then jumped down, got a 
good grip of the heavy ear, carried it 
to the top of one of the slippery, pol- 
ished bed-posts, seated himself com- 
fortably, and, holding it balanced, de- 
liberately pried out one kernel at a 
time with his long chisel teeth, ate the 
soft, sweet germ, and dropped the hard 
part of the kernel. In this masterly 
way, working at high speed, he demol- 
ished several ears a day, and with a 
good warm bed in a box made himself 
at home and grew fat. Then, natur- 
ally, I suppose, free romping in the 
snow and tree-tops with companions 
came to mind. Anyhow he began to 
look for a way of escape. Of course, he 
first tried the window, but found that 
his teeth made no impression on the 
glass. Next he tried the sash and 
gnawed the wood off level with the 
glass; then father happened to come 
upstairs and discovered the mischief 
that was being done to his seed-corn 
and window, and immediately ordered 
him out of the house. 

Before the arrival of farmers in the 
Wisconsin woods the small ground 
squirrels, called * gophers,' lived chief- 
ly on the seeds of wild grasses and 
weeds; but after the country was clear- 
ed and ploughed, no feasting animal 
fell to more heartily on the farmer's 
wheat and corn. Increasing rapidly in 
numbers and knowledge, they became 
very destructive, particularly in the 
spring when the corn was planted, for 
they learned to trace the rows and dig 
up and eat the three or four seeds in 
each hill about as fast as the poor farm- 
ers could cover them. And, unless 
great pains were taken to diminish the 
numbers of the cunning little robbers, 
the fields had to be planted two or 
three times over, and even then large 
gaps in the rows would be found. The 
loss of the grain they consumed after 
it was ripe, together with the winter 
stores laid up in their burrows, amount- 
ed to little as compared with the loss 
of the seed on which the whole crop 

One evening about sundown, when 
my father sent me out with the shot- 
gun to hunt them in a stubble field, I 
learned something curious and inter- 
esting in connection with these mischie- 
vous gophers, though just then they 
were doing no harm. As I strolled 
through the stubble, watching for a 
chance for a shot, a shrike flew past 
me, and alighted on an open spot at the 
mouth of a burrow about thirty yards 
ahead of me. Curious to see what he 
was up to, I stood still to watch him. 
He looked down the gopher-hole in a 
listening attitude, then looked back at 
me to see if I was coming, looked down 
again and listened, and looked back at 
me. I stood perfectly still, and he kept 
twitching his tail, seeming uneasy and 
doubtful about venturing to do the sav- 
age job that I soon learned he had in 
his mind. Finally, encouraged by my 
keeping so still, to my astonishment 



he suddenly vanished in the gopher- 

A bird going down a deep narrow 
hole in the ground like a ferret or a 
weasel seemed very strange, and I 
thought it would be a fine thing to run 
forward, clap my hand over the hole, 
and have the fun of imprisoning him 
and seeing what he would do when he 
tried to get out. So I ran forward, but 
stopped when I got within a dozen or 
fifteen yards of the hole, thinking it 
might, perhaps, be more interesting, to 
wait and see what would naturally 
happen without my interference. While 
I stood there looking and listening, I 
heard a great disturbance going on in 
the burrow, a mixed lot of keen squeak- 
ing, shrieking, distressful cries, telling 
that down in the dark something terri- 
ble was being done. 

Then suddenly out popped a half- 
grown gopher, four and a half or five 
inches long, and, without stopping a sin- 
gle moment to choose a way of escape, 
ran screaming through the stubble 
straight away from its home, quickly 
followed by another and another, until 
some half dozen were driven out, all 
of them crying and running in different 
directions, as if at this dreadful time 
* home, sweet home ' was the most dan- 
gerous and least desirable of all places 
in the wide world. Then out came the 
shrike, flew above the runaway gopher 
children, and, diving on them, killed 
them one after another with blows at 
the back of the skull. He then seized 
one of them, dragged it to the top of a 
small clod, so as to be able to get a 
start, and laboriously made out to fly 
with it about ten or fifteen yards, when 
he alighted to rest. Then he dragged 
it to the top of another clod and flew 
with it about the same distance, repeat- 
ing this hard work over and over again, 
until he managed to get one of the 
gophers on to the top of a log fence. 
How much he ate of his hard- won prey, 

or what he did with the others, I can't 
tell, for by this time the sun was down, 
and I had to hurry home to my chores. 


At first, wheat, corn, and potatoes 
were the principal crops we raised; 
wheat especially. But in four or five 
years the soil was so exhausted that 
only five or six bushels an acre, even 
in the better fields, were obtained, al- 
though when first ploughed twenty and 
twenty-five bushels were about the 
ordinary yield. More attention was 
then paid to corn, but without ferti- 
lizers the corn crop also became very 
meagre. At last it was discovered that 
English clover would grow on even 
the exhausted fields, and that when 
ploughed under and planted with corn, 
or even wheat, wonderful crops were 
raised. This caused a complete change 
in farming methods : the farmers raised 
fertilizing clover, planted corn, and fed 
the crop to cattle and hogs. 

In summer the chores were grinding 
scythes, feeding the animals, chopping 
stove-wood, and carrying water up the 
hill from the spring on the edge of the 
meadow, and so forth. Then break- 
fast, and to the harvest or hayfield. 
I was foolishly ambitious to be first in 
mowing and cradling, and, by the time 
I was sixteen, led all the hired men. 
An hour was allowed at noon, and then 
more chores. We stayed in the field 
until dark; then supper, and still more 
chores, family worship, and to bed; 
making altogether a hard, sweaty day 
of about sixteen or seventeen hourso 
Think of that, ye blessed eight-hour- 
day laborers! 

In winter, father came to the foot of 
the stairs and called us at six o'clock 
to feed the horses and cattle, grind 
axes, bring in wood, and do any other 
chores required; then breakfast, and 
out to work in the mealy, frosty snow 



by daybreak, chopping, fencing, and 
so forth. So in general our winter work 
was about as restless and trying as that 
of the long-day summer. No matter 
what the weather, there was always 
something to do. During heavy rain- 
or snow-storms we worked in the barn, 
shelling corn, fanning wheat, thrash- 
ing with the flail, making axe-handles, 
ox-yokes, mending things, or sorting 
sprouting potatoes in the cellar. 

No pains were taken to diminish or 
in any way soften the natural hard- 
ships of this pioneer farm-life; nor did 
any of the Europeans seem to know 
how to find reasonable ease and com- 
fort if they would. The very best oak 
and hickory fuel was embarrassingly 
abundant and cost nothing but cut- 
ting and common sense; but instead of 
hauling great heart-cheering loads of 
it for wide, open, all-welcoming, cli- 
mate-changing, beauty-making, God- 
like ingle-fires, it was hauled with 
weary, heart-breaking industry into 
fences and waste places, to get it out 
of the way of the plough, and out of 
the way of doing good. 

The only fire for the whole house 
was the kitchen stove, with a fire- 
box about eighteen inches long and 
eight inches wide and deep, scant 
space for three or four small sticks, 
around which, in hard zero weather, 
all the family of ten persons shivered, 
and beneath which, in the morning, 
we found our socks and coarse soggy 
boots frozen solid. We were not allow- 
ed to start even this despicable little 
fire in its black box to thaw them. 
No, we had to squeeze our throbbing, 
aching, chilblained feet into them, 
causing greater pain than toothache, 
and hurry out to chores. Fortunately 
the miserable chilblain pain began to 
abate as soon as the temperature of 
our feet approached the freezing-point, 
enabling us, in spite of hard work and 
hard frost, to enjoy the winter beauty, 

the wonderful radiance of the snow 
when it was starry with crystals, and 
the dawns and the sunsets and white 
noons, and the cheery enlivening com- 
pany of the brave chickadees and nut- 

The winter stars far surpassed those 
of our stormy Scotland in brightness, 
and we gazed and gazed as though we 
had never seen stars before. Often- 
times the heavens were made still more 
glorious by auroras, the long lance 
rays, called 'Merry Dancers' in Scot- 
land, streaming with startling tremu- 
lous motion to the zenith. Usually the 
electric auroral light is white or pale 
yellow, but in the third or fourth of our 
Wisconsin winters there was a mag- 
nificently colored aurora that was seen 
and admired over nearly all the conti- 
nent. The whole sky was draped in 
graceful purple and crimson folds glo- 
rious beyond description. Father call- 
ed us out into the yard in front of the 
house where we had a wide view, cry- 
ing, 'Come! Come, mother! Come, 
bairns! and see the glory of God. All 
the sky is clad in a robe of red light. 
Look straight up to the crown where 
the folds are gathered. Hush and won- 
der and adore, for surely this is the 
clothing of the Lord Himself, and per- 
haps He will even now appear look- 
ing down from his high heaven.' This 
celestial show was far more glorious 
than anything we had ever yet beheld, 
and throughout that wonderful winter 
hardly anything else was spoken of. 

We even enjoyed the snow-storms; 
the thronging crystals, like daisies, com- 
ing down separate and distinct, were 
very different from the tufted flakes 
we enjoyed so much in Scotland, when 
we ran into the midst of the slow-fall- 
ing, feathery throng shouting with en- 
thusiasm, ' Jennie 's plucking her doos 
[doves]! Jennie 's plucking her doos! ' 

Nature has many ways of thinning 
and pruning and trimming her forests 



lightning strokes, heavy snow, and 
storm-winds to shatter and blow down 
whole trees here and there, or break off 
branches as required. The results of 
these methods I have observed in dif- 
ferent forests, but only once have I 
seen pruning by rain. The rain froze 
on the trees as it fell, and the ice grew 
so thick and heavy that many of them 
lost a third or more of their branches. 
The view of the woods when the storm 
had passed and the sun shone forth 
was something never to be forgotten. 
Every twig and branch and rugged 
trunk was encased in pure crystal ice, 
and each oak and hickory and willow 
became a fairy crystal palace. Such 
dazzling brilliance, such effects of white 
light and irised light, glowing and flash- 
ing, I had never seen, nor have I since. 
This sudden change of the leafless 
woods to glowing silver was, like the 
great aurora, spoken of for years, and 
is one of the most beautiful of the 
many pictures that enrich my life. And 
besides the great shows there were 
thousands of others, even in the cold- 
est weather, manifesting the utmost 
fineness and tenderness of beauty, and 
affording noble compensation for hard- 
ship and pain. 


Although in the spring of 1849 there 
was no other settler within a radius of 
four miles of our Fountain Lake farm, 
in three or four years almost every 
quarter-section of government land 
was taken up, mostly by enthusiastic 
home-seekers from Great Britain, with 
only here and there Yankee families 
from adjacent states, who had come 
drifting indefinitely westward in cov- 
ered wagons, seeking their fortunes 
like winged seeds; all alike striking 
root and gripping the glacial drift-soil 
as naturally as oak and hickory trees; 
happy and hopeful, establishing homes, 

and making wider and wider fields in 
the hospitable wilderness. The axe and 
plough were kept very busy; cattle, 
horses, sheep, and pigs multiplied; 
barns and corn-cribs were filled up, and 
man and beast were well fed ; a school- 
house was built which was used also 
for a church, and in a very short time 
the new country began to look like an 
old one. 

Comparatively few of the first set- 
tlers suffered from serious accidents. 
One of the neighbors had a finger shot 
off, and on a bitter, frosty night, had 
to be taken to a surgeon in Portage, in 
a sled drawn by slow, plodding oxen, 
to have the shattered stump dressed. 
Another fell from his wagon and was 
killed by the wheel passing over his 
body. An acre of ground was reserved 
and fenced for graves, and soon con- 
sumption came to fill it. One of the 
saddest instances was that of a Scotch 
family from Edinburgh, consisting of 
a father, son, and daughter, who set- 
tled on eighty acres of land within half 
a mile of our place. The daughter died 
of consumption the third year after 
their arrival, the son one or two years 
later, and at last the father followed 
his two children, completely wiping out 
the entire family. Thus sadly ended 
bright hopes and dreams of a happy 
home in rich and free America. 

Another neighbor, I remember, after 
a lingering illness, died of the same dis- 
ease in midwinter, and his funeral was 
attended by the neighbors, in sleighs, 
during a driving snow-storm when the 
thermometer was fifteen or twenty de- 
grees below zero. 

One of the saddest deaths from other 
causes than consumption was that of a 
poor feeble-minded man whose brother, 
a sturdy blacksmith and preacher, and 
so forth, was a very hard taskmaster. 
Poor half-witted Charlie was kept 
steadily at work although he was not 
able to do much, for his body was about 



as feeble as his mind. He never could 
be taught the right use of an axe, and 
when he was set to chopping down 
trees for fire-wood, he feebly hacked 
and chipped round and round them, 
sometimes spending several days in 
nibbling down a tree that a beaver 
might have gnawed down in half the 
time. Occasionally, when he had an 
extra large tree to chop, he would go 
home and report that the tree was too 
tough and strong for him, and that he 
could never make it fall. Then his bro- 
ther, calling him a useless creature, 
would fell it with a few well-directed 
strokes, and leave Charlie to nibble 
away at it for weeks trying to make it 
into stove- wood. 

The brawny blacksmith-minister 
punished his feeble brother without any 
show of mercy for every trivial offense 
or mistake or pathetic little short- 
coming. All the neighbors pitied him 
especially the women, who never 
missed an opportunity to give him 
kind words, cookies, and pie; above all 
they bestowed natural sympathy on 
the poor imbecile as if he were an un- 
fortunate motherless child. In partic- 
ular, his nearest neighbors, Scotch 
Highlanders, warmly welcomed him to 
their home and never wearied in do- 
ing everything that tender sympathy 
could suggest. To those friends he ran 
away at every opportunity. But, after 
years of suffering from overwork and 
punishment, his feeble health failed, 
and he told his Scotch friends one day 
that he was not able to work any more 
or do anything that his brother wanted 
him to do, that he was beaten every 
day, and that he had come to thank 
them for their kindness and bid them 
good-bye, for he was going to drown 
himself in Muir's lake. 

* Oh, Charlie! Charlie!' they cried, 
'you must n't talk that way. Cheer 
up! You will soon be stronger. We 
all love you. Cheer up! Cheer up! 

And always come here whenever you 
need anything.' >j 

'Oh, no! my friends,' he pathetically 
replied, 'I know you love me, but I 
can't cheer up any more. My heart's 
gone, and I want to die.' 

Next day, when Mr. Anderson, a 
carpenter whose house was on the west 
shore of our lake, was going to a spring, 
he saw a man wade out through the 
rushes and lily-pads and throw himself 
forward into deep water. This was 
poor Charlie. Fortunately Mr. Ander- 
son had a skiff close by and, as the dis- 
tance was not great, he reached the 
broken-hearted imbecile in time to 
save his life, and after trying to cheer 
him took him home to his brother. 
But even this terrible proof of despair 
failed to soften the latter. He seemed 
to regard the attempt at suicide sim- 
ply as a crime calculated to bring the 
reproach of the neighbors upon him. 
One morning, after receiving another 
beating, Charlie was set to work chop- 
ping fire-wood in front of the house, 
and after feebly swinging his axe a few 
times he pitched forward on his face 
and died on the wood-pile. The un- 
natural brother then walked over to 
the neighbor who had saved Charlie 
from drowning, and, after talking on 
ordinary affairs, crops, the weather, 
and so forth, said in a careless tone, ' I 
have a little job of carpenter work for 
you, Mr. Anderson.' 'What is it, Mr. 

?' 'I want you to make a coffin/ 

'A coffin!' said the startled carpenter. 
'Who is dead?' 'Charlie,' he coolly 

All the neighbors were in tears over 
the poor child-man's fate. But, strange 
to say, in all that excessively law-abid- 
ing neighborhood, nobody was bold 
enough or kind enough to break the 
blacksmith's jaw. 

The mixed lot of settlers around us 
offered a favorable field for observa- 
tion of the different kinds of people of 



our own race. We were swift to note 
the way they behaved, the differences 
in their religion and morals, and in 
their ways of drawing a living from 
the same kind of soil under the same 
general conditions; how they protect- 
ed themselves from the weather; how 
they were influenced by new doctrines 
and old ones seen in new lights, in 
preaching, lecturing, debating, bring- 
ing up their children, and so forth, and 
how they regarded the Indians, those 
first settlers and owners of the ground 
that was being made into farms. 

I well remember my father's discuss- 
ing with a Scotch neighbor, a Mr. 
George Mair, the Indian question, as 
to the rightful ownership of the soil. 
Mr. Mair remarked one day that it was 
pitiful to see how the unfortunate In- 
dians, children of Nature, living on the 
natural products of the soil, hunting, 
fishing, and even cultivating small 
cornfields on the most fertile spots, 
were now being robbed of their lands, 
and pushed ruthlessly back into nar- 
rower and narrower limits by alien 
races who were cutting off their means 
of livelihood. Father replied that 
surely it could never have been the in- 
tention of God to allow Indians to rove 
and hunt over so fertile a country, and 
hold it forever in unproductive wild- 
ness, while Scotch and Irish and Eng- 
lish farmers could put it to so much 
better use. Where an Indian required 
thousands of acres for his family, these 
acres, in the hands of industrious God- 
fearing farmers, would support ten or a 
hundred times more people in a far 
worthier manner, while at the same 
time helping to spread the gospel. 

Mr. Mair urged that such farming as 
our first immigrants were practicing 
was in many ways rude and full of the 
mistakes of ignorance; yet rude as it 
was, and ill-tilled as were most of our 
Wisconsin farms by unskillful inex- 
perienced settlers, who had been mer- 

chants and mechanics and servants in 
the old countries, how would we like to 
have specially trained and educated 
farmers drive us out of our homes and 
farms, such as they were, making use 
of the same argument, that God could 
never have intended such ignorant, un- 
profitable, devastating farmers as we 
were to occupy land upon which 
scientific farmers could raise five or ten 
times as much per acre as we did? 
No, my father retorted, the Lord in- 
tended that we should be driven out by 
those who could make a right worthy 
use of the soil. And I well remember 
thinking that Mr. Mair had the better 
side of the argument. 


I was put to the plough at the age of 
twelve, when my head reached but lit- 
tle above the handles, and for many 
years I had to do the greater part of 
the ploughing. It was hard work for 
so small a boy: nevertheless, as good 
ploughing was exacted from me as if 
I were a man, and very soon I had 
become a good ploughman, or rather 
plough-boy; none could draw a straight- 
er furrow. For the first few years the 
work was particularly hard on account 
of the tree-stumps that had to be 
dodged. Later the stumps were all dug 
and chopped out to make way for the 
McCormick reaper, and because I 
proved to be the best chopper and 
stump-digger, I had nearly all of it to 
myself. It was dull hard work in the 
dog-days after harvest, digging and 
leaning over on my knees all day, 
chopping out those tough oak and 
hickory stumps deep down below the 
crowns of the big roots. Some, though 
fortunately not many, were two feet 
or more in diameter. 

And, being the eldest boy, the great- 
er part of all the other hard work of the 
farm quite naturally fell on me. I had 



to split rails for long lines of zigzag 
fences. The trees that were tall enough 
and straight enough to afford one or 
two logs ten feet long were used for 
rails, the others, too knotty or cross- 
grained, were disposed of in log and 
cord- wood fences. Making rails was 
hard work, and required no little skill. 
I used to cut and split a hundred a day 
from our short knotty oak timber, 
swinging the axe and heavy mallet, 
often with sore hands, from early 
morning to night. Father was not suc- 
cessful as a rail-splitter. After trying 
the work with me a day or two, he in 
despair left it all to me. I rather liked 
it, for I was proud of my skill, and 
tried to believe that I was as tough as 
the timber I mauled, though this and 
other heavy jobs stopped my growth 
and earned for me the title, 'Runt of 
the family.' 

In those early days, before the great 
labor-saving machines came to our 
help, almost everything connected with 
wheat-raising abounded in trying work, 
sowing, cradling in the long sweaty 
dog-days, raking and binding, stack- 
ing, thrashing, and it often seemed 
to me that our fierce, over-industrious 
way of getting the grain from the 
ground was closely connected with 
grave-digging. The staff of life, natur- 
ally beautiful, oftentimes suggested 
the grave-digger's spade. Men and 
boys, and in those days even women 
and girls, were cut down while cutting 
the wheat. The fat folk grew lean and 
the lean leaner, while the rosy cheeks, 
brought from Scotland and other cool 
countries across the sea, soon faded to 
yellow, like the wheat. We were all 
made slaves through the vice of over- 

The same was in great part true 
in making hay to keep the cattle and 
horses through the long winters. We 
were called in the morning at four 
o'clock and seldom got to bed before 

nine, making a broiling, seething day, 
seventeen hours long, loaded with heavy 
work, while I was only a small stunted 
boy; and a few years later my brothers 
David and Daniel, and my older sis- 
ters, had to endure about as much as I 
did. In the harvest dog-days and dog- 
nights and dog-mornings, when we 
arose from our clammy beds, our cot- 
ton shirts clung to our backs as wet 
with sweat as the bathing-suits of 
swimmers, and remained so all the 
long sweltering days. In mowing and 
cradling, the most exhausting of all the 
farm-work, I made matters worse by 
foolish ambition in keeping ahead of 
the hired men. 

Never a warning word was spoken of 
the dangers of overwork. On the con- 
trary, even when sick, we were held to 
our tasks as long as we could stand. 
Once in harvest-time I had the mumps 
and was unable to swallow any food 
except milk, but this was not allowed 
to make any difference, while I stag- 
gered with weakness, and sometimes 
fell headlong among the sheaves. Only 
once was I allowed to leave the harvest- 
field when I was stricken down with 
pneumonia. I lay gasping for weeks, 
but the Scotch are hard to kill and I 
pulled through. No physician was 
called, for father was an enthusiast and 
always said and believed that God and 
hard work were by far the best doctors. 

None of our neighbors were so exces- 
sively industrious as father; though 
nearly all of the Scotch, English, and 
Irish worked too hard, trying to make 
good homes and to lay up money 
enough for comfortable independence. 
Excepting small garden-patches, few of 
them had owned land in the old coun- 
try. Here their craving land-hunger 
was satisfied, and they were naturally 
proud of their farms and tried to keep 
them as neat and clean and well-tilled 
as gardens. To accomplish this with- 
out the means for hiring help was im- 



possible. Flowers were planted about 
the neatly-kept log or frame houses; 
barn-yards, granaries, and so forth, 
were kept in about as neat order as the 
homes, and the fences and corn-rows 
were rigidly straight. But every uncut 
weed distressed them; so also did every 
ungathered ear of grain, and all that 
was lost by birds and gophers; and this 
over-carefulness bred endless work and 

As for money, for many a year there 
was precious little of it in the country 
for anybody. Eggs sold at six cents a 
dozen in trade, and five-cent calico was 
exchanged at twenty-five cents a yard. 
Wheat brought fifty cents a bushel in 
trade. To get cash for it before the 
Portage Railway was built it had to 
be hauled to Milwaukee, a hundred 
miles away. On the other hand, food 
was abundant, eggs, chickens, pigs, 
cattle, wheat, corn, potatoes, garden 
vegetables of the best, and wonderful 
melons, as luxuries. No other wild 
country I have ever known extended a 
kinder welcome to poor immigrants. 
Arriving in the spring, a log house 
could be built, a few acres ploughed, 
the virgin sod planted with corn, po- 
tatoes, and so forth, and enough raised 
to keep a family comfortably the very 
first year; and wild hay for cows and 
oxen grew in abundance on the numer- 
ous meadows. The American settlers 
were wisely content with smaller fields 
and less of everything, kept indoors 
during excessively hot or cold weather, 
rested when tired, went off fishing and 
hunting at the most favorable times 
and seasons of the day and year, gath- 
ered nuts and berries, and, in general, 
tranquilly accepted all the good things 
the fertile wilderness offered. 

After eight years of this dreary work 
of clearing the Fountain Lake farm, 

fencing it, and getting it in perfect or- 
der, a frame house built, and the ne- 
cessary outbuildings for the cattle and 
horses, after all this had been vic- 
toriously accomplished, and we had 
made out to escape with life, father 
bought a half-section of wild land about 
four or five miles to the eastward and 
began all over again to clear and fence 
and break up other fields for a new 
farm, doubling all the stunting, heart- 
breaking chopping, grubbing, stump- 
digging, rail-splitting, fence-building, 
barn-building, house-building, and the 

By this time I had learned to run the 
breaking plough; most of them were 
very large, turning furrows from eight- 
een inches to two feet wide, and were 
drawn by four or five yoke of oxen. 
These big ploughs were used only for 
the first ploughing, in breaking up the 
wild sod woven into a tough mass 
chiefly by the cordlike roots of perennial 
grasses and reinforced by the tap-roots 
of oak and hickory bushes, called 
'grubs/ some of which were more than 
a century old and four or five inches 
in diameter. In the hardest ploughing 
on the most difficult ground the grubs 
were said to be as thick as the hair on 
a dog's back. If in good trim, the 
plough cut through and turned over 
these grubs as if the century-old wood 
were soft like the flesh of carrots and 
turnips; but if not in good trim, the 
grubs promptly tossed the plough out 
of the ground. A stout Highland Scot, 
our neighbor, whose plough was in 
bad order and who did not know how 
to trim it, was vainly trying to keep it 
in the ground by main strength, and 
his son, who was driving and merrily 
whipping up the cattle, would cry en- 
couragingly, 'Haud her in, fayther! 
Haud her in!' 'But hoo i' the deil 
can I haud her in when she'll no stop 
in?' his perspiring father would reply, 
gasping for breath after each word. 



On the contrary, when in perfect 
trim, with the share and coulter sharp, 
the plough, instead of shying at every 
grub and jumping out, ran straight 
ahead, without need of steering or 
holding, and gripped the ground so 
firmly that it could hardly be thrown 
out at the end of the furrow. 

Our breaker turned a furrow two 
feet wide, and on our best land held so 
firm a grip that, at the end of the field, 
my brother, who was driving the oxen, 
had to come to my assistance in throw- 
ing it over on its side to be drawn 
around the end of the landing; and it 
was all I could do to set it up again. 
But I learned to keep that plough in 
such trim that after I got started on 
a new furrow I used to ride on the 
cross-bar between the handles, with 
my feet resting comfortably on the 
beam, without having to steady or 
steer it in any way until it reached the 
other end, unless we had to go around 
a stump, for it sawed through the big- 
gest grubs without flinching. 

The growth of these grubs was in- 
teresting to me. When an acorn or 
hickory nut had sent up its first sea- 
son's sprout, a few inches long, it was 
burned off in the autumn grass-fires; 
but the root continued to hold on to 
life, formed a callous over the wound, 
and sent up one or more shoots the 
next spring. Next autumn these new 
shoots were burned off, but the root 
and calloused head, about level with 
the surface of the ground, continued 
to grow and send up more new shoots; 
and so on, almost every year, until the 
trees were very old, probably far more 
than a century, while the tops, which 
would naturally have become tall, 
broad-headed trees, were only mere 
sprouts, seldom more than two years 
old. Thus the ground was kept open 
like a prairie, with only five or six trees 
to the acre, which had escaped the fire 
by having the good fortune to grow on a 

bare spot at the door of a fox or bad- 
ger den, or between straggling grass- 
tufts wide apart on the poorest sandy 
soil. The uniformly rich soil of the 
Illinois and Wisconsin prairies pro- 
duced so close and tall a growth of 
grasses for fires that no tree could live 
on it. Had there been no fires, these 
fine prairie-spots, so marked a feature 
of the country, would have been cov- 
ered by the heaviest forests. As soon 
as the oak openings in our neighbor- 
hood were settled, and the farmers pre- 
vented from running grass-fires, the 
grubs grew up into trees, and formed 
tall thickets so dense that it was diffi- 
cult to walk through them, and every 
trace of the sunny * openings ' vanished. 
We called our second farm Hickory 
Hill, from its many fine hickory trees, 
and the long gentle slope leading up 
to it. Compared with Fountain Lake 
farm it lay high and dry. The land was 
better, but it had no living water, no 
spring or stream or meadow or lake. 
A well ninety feet deep had to be dug, 
all except the first ten feet or so, in fine- 
grained sandstone. When the sand- 
stone was struck, my father, on the ad- 
vice of a man who had worked in mines, 
tried to blast the rock; but, from lack 
of skill, the blasting went on very 
slowly, and father decided to have me 
do all the work with mason's chisels, a 
long hard job with a good deal of dan- 
ger in it. I had to sit cramped in a 
space about three feet in diameter, and 
wearily chip, chip, with heavy ham- 
mer and chisels, from early morning 
until dark, day after day, for weeks 
and months. In the morning, Father 
and David lowered me in a wooden 
bucket by a windlass, hauled up what 
chips were left from the night before, 
then went away to the farm-work and 
left me until noon, when they hoist- 
ed me out for dinner. After dinner I 
was promptly lowered again, the fore- 
noon's accumulation of chips hoisted 


out of the way, and I was left until 

One morning, after the dreary bore 
was about eighty feet deep, my life was 
all but lost in deadly choke-damp, 
carbonic acid gas that had settled at 
the bottom during the night. Instead 
of clearing away the chips as usual 
when I was lowered to the bottom, I 
swayed back and forth and began to 
sink under the poison. Father, alarm- 
ed that I did not make any noise, 
shouted, * What's keeping you so 
still? ' to which he got no reply. Just 
as I was settling down against the side 
of the wall I happened to catch a 
glimpse of a branch of a bur-oak tree 
which leaned out over the mouth of the 
shaft. This suddenly awakened me, 
and, to father's excited shouting, I fee- 
bly murmured, 'Take me out.' But 
when he began to hoist he found I was 
not in the bucket, and in wild alarm 
shouted, 'Get in! Get in the bucket 
and hold on! Hold on!' Somehow I 
managed to get into the bucket, and 
that is all I remembered until I was 
dragged out, violently gasping for 

One of our near neighbors, a stone- 
mason and miner by the name of Wil- 
liam Duncan, came to see me, and, 
after hearing the particulars of the ac- 
cident, he solemnly said, 'Weel! John- 

nie, it's God's mercy that you're alive. 
Many a companion of mine have I 
seen dead with choke-damp, but none 
that I ever saw or heard of was so near 
to death in it as you were and escaped 
without help.' Mr. Duncan taught 
father to throw water down the shaft 
to absorb the gas, and also to drop a 
bundle of brush or hay attached to a 
light rope, dropping it again and again 
to carry down pure air and stir up the 
poison. When, after a day or two, I 
had recovered from the shock, father 
lowered me again to my work, after 
taking the precaution to test the air 
with a candle and stir it up well with 
a brush and hay-bundle. The weary 
hammer and chisel-clipping went on 
as before, only more slowly, until nine- 
ty feet down, when at last I struck a 
fine hearty gush of water. Constant 
dropping wears away stone. So does 
the constant chipping, while at the 
same time wearing away the chipper. 
Father never spent an hour in that 
well. He trusted me to sink it straight 
and plumb, and I did, and built a fine 
covered top over it, and swung two 
iron-bound buckets in it from which 
we all drank for many a day. 

[There will be a further installment 
of John Muir's autobiography in the 
February number.] 



NOT long ago a distinguished critic, 
reviewing Father Tabb's poetry, re- 
marked, * At his most obvious affinity, 
Emily Dickinson, I can only glance. 
It seems to me that he contains in far 
finer form pretty much everything that 
is valuable in her thought.' Are we 
thus to lose the fine significance of po- 
etic individuality? A poet is unique, 
incomparable, and to make these com- 
parisons between poets is to ignore 
the primary laws of criticism, which 
seeks to discover the essential individ- 
uality of writers, not their chance re- 
semblances. It is as futile as it is 
unjust to parallel Father Tabb's work 
with Emily Dickinson's: his is full of 
quiet reverie, hers has a sharp stabbing 
quality which disturbs and overthrows 
the spiritual ease of the reader. Emily 
Dickinson is one of our most original 
writers, a force destined to endure in 
American letters. 

There is no doubt that critics are jus- 
tified in complaining that her work is 
often cryptic in thought and unmelodi- 
ous in expression. Almost all her poems 
are written in short measures, in which 
the effect of curt brevity is increased 
by her verbal penuriousness. Compres- 
sion and epigrammatical ambush are 
her aids; she proceeds, without prepara- 
tion or apology, by sudden, sharp zig- 
zags. What intelligence a reader has 
must be exercised in the poetic game of 
hare-and-hounds, where ellipses, inver- 
sions, and unexpected climaxes mislead 
those who pursue sweet reasonable- 
ness. Nothing, for instance, could seem 
less poetical than this masterpiece 

of unspeakable sounds and chaotic 


Drab habitation of whom? 
Tabernacle or tomb, 
Or dome of worm, 
Or porch of gnome, 
Or some elf's catacomb. 

If all her poems were of this sort there 
would be nothing more to say; but such 
poems are exceptions. Because we hap- 
pen to possess full records of her varying 
poetic moods, published, not with the 
purpose of selecting her most artistic 
work, but with the intention of reveal- 
ing very significant human documents, 
we are not justified in singling out a 
few bizarre poems and subjecting these 
to skeptical scrutiny. The poems taken 
in their entirety are a surprising and 
impressive revelation of poetic attitude 
and of poetic method in registering 
spiritual experiences. To the general 
reader many of the poems seem unin- 
spired, imperfect, crude, while to the 
student of the psychology of literary 
art they offer most stimulating mate- 
rial for examination, because they en- 
able one to penetrate into poetic ori- 
gins, into radical, creative energy. 
However, it is not with the body of her 
collected poems but with the selected, 
representative work that the general 
reader is concerned. Assuredly we do 
not judge an artist by his worst, but by 
his best, productions; we endeavor to 
find the highest level of his power and 
thus to discover the typical significance 
of his work. 

To gratify the aesthetic sense was 




never Emily Dickinson's desire; she 
despised the poppy and mandragora of 
felicitous phrases which lull the spirit 
to apathy and emphasize art for art's 
sake. Poetry to her was the expression 
of vital meanings, the transfer of pas- 
sionate feeling and of deep conviction. 
Her work is essentially lyric; it lacks 
the slow, retreating harmonies of epic 
measures, it does not seek to present 
leisurely details of any sort; its pur- 
pose is to objectify the swiftly-passing 
moments and to give them poignant 

Lyric melody finds many forms in 
her work. Her repressed and austere 
verses, inexpansive as they are, have 
persistent appeal. Slow, serene move- 
ment gives enduring beauty to these 
elegiac stanzas : 

Let down the bars, O Death! 
The tired flocks come in 
Whose bleating ceases to repeat. 
Whose wandering is done. 

Thine is the stillest night, 
Thine the securest fold; 
Too near thou art for seeking thee, 
Too tender to be told. 

The opposite trait of buoyant alertness 
is illustrated in the cadences of the 
often-quoted lines on the humming- 

A route of evanescence 
With a revolving wheel; 
A resonance of emerald, 
A rush of cochineal. 

Between these two margins come many 
wistful, pleading, or triumphant notes. 
The essential qualities of her music are 
simplicity and quivering responsive- 
ness to emotional moods. Idea and ex- 
pression are so indissolubly fused in her 
work that no analysis of her style and 
manner can be attempted without real- 
izing that every one of her phrases, her 
changing rhythms, is a direct reflection 
of her personality. The objective med- 
ium is entirely conformable to the inner 

life, a life of peculiarly dynamic force 
which agitates, arouses, spurs the 

The secret of Emily Dickinson's way- 
ward power seems to lie in three special 
characteristics, the first of which is her 
intensity of spiritual experience. Hers 
is the record of a soul endowed with 
unceasing activity in a world not ma- 
terial, but one where concrete facts are 
the cherished revelation of divine sig- 
nificances. Inquisitive always, alert to 
the inner truths of life, impatient of the 
brief destinies of convention, she iso- 
lated herself from the petty demands 
of social amenity. A sort of tireless, 
probing energy of mental action ab- 
sorbed her, yet there is little specula- 
tion of a purely philosophical sort in her 
poetry. Her stubborn beliefs, learned 
in childhood, persisted to the end, 
her conviction that life is beauty, that 
love explains grief, and that immortal- 
ity endures. The quality of her writing 
is profoundly stirring, because it be- 
trays, not the intellectual pioneer, but 
the acutely observant woman, whose 
capacity for feeling was profound. The 
still, small voice of tragic revelation 
one hears in these compressed lines : 


My life closed twice before its close; 

It yet remains to see 
If Immortality unveil 

A third event to me, 

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, 

As these that twice befell. 
Parting is all we know of heaven, 

And all we need of hell. 

For sheer, grim, unrelieved expression 
of emotional truth there are few pass- 
ages which can surpass the personal 
experience revealed in the following 
poem : 

Pain has an element of blank; 
It cannot recollect 
When it began, or if there were 
A day when it was not. 



It has no future but itself, 
Its infinite realms contain 
Its past, enlightened to perceive 
New periods of pain. 

Her absorption in the world of feel- 
ing found some relief in associations 
with nature; yet although she loved 
nature and wrote many nature lyrics, 
her interpretations are always more or 
less swayed by her own state of being. 
The colors, the fragrances, the forms of 
the material world, meant to her a di- 
vine symbolism; but the spectacle of 
nature had in her eyes a more fugitive 
glory, a lesser consolation, than it had 
for Wordsworth and other true lovers 
of the earth. 

Brilliant and beautiful transcripts 
of bird-life and of flower-life appear 
among her poems, although there is 
in some cases a childish fancifulness 
that disappoints the reader. Among 
the touches of unforgettable vividness 
there are : 

These are the days when skies put on 
The old, old sophistries of June, 
A blue and gold mistake; 


Nature rarer uses yellow 

Than another hue; 
Leaves she all of that for sunsets, 

Prodigal of blue, 

Spending scarlet like a woman, 

Yellow she affords 
Only scantly and selectly, 

Like a lover's words. 

Never has any poet described the 
haunting magic of autumnal days with 
such fine perception of beauty as 
marks the opening stanzas of 'My 
Cricket' :- 

Farther in summer than the birds, 
Pathetic from the grass, 
A minor nation celebrates 
Its unobtrusive mass. 

No ordinance is seen, 

So gradual the grace, 

A pensive custom it becomes, 

Enlarging loneliness. 

Most effective, however, are those 
poems where she describes not mere 
external beauty, but, rather, the effect 
of nature upon a sensitive observer : 

There 's a certain slant of light, 
On winter afternoons, 
That oppresses, like the weight 
Of cathedral tunes. 

Heavenly hurt it gives us; 
We can find no scar, 
But internal difference 
Where the meanings are. 

None may teach it anything, 
'T is the seal, despair, 
An imperial affliction 
Sent us of the air. 

When it comes, the landscape listens, 
Shadows hold their breath; 
When it goes, 't is like the distance 
On the look of death. 

It is essentially in the world of spirit- 
ual forces that her depth of poetic 
originality is shown. Others may de- 
scribe nature, but few can describe life 
as she does. Human nature, the experi- 
ences of the world of souls, was her 
special study, to which she brought, in 
addition to that quality of intensity, 
a second characteristic, keen sensi- 
tiveness to irony and paradox. Near- 
ly all her perceptions are tinged with 
penetrating sense of the contrasts in 
human vicissitude. Controlled, alert, 
expectant, aware of the perpetual com- 
promise between clay and spirit, she 
accepted the inscrutable truths of life 
in a fashion which reveals how humor 
and pathos contend in her. It is this 
which gives her style those sudden 
turns and that startling imagery. Hu- 
mor is not, perhaps, a characteristic 
associated with pure lyric poetry, and 
yet Emily Dickinson's transcendental 
humor is one of the deep sources of her 
supremacy. Both in thought and in 
expression she gains her piercing qual- 
ity, her undeniable spiritual thrust, by 
this gift, stimulating, mystifying, but 



forever inspiring her readers to a pro- 
found conception of high destinies. 

The most apparent instances of this 
keen, shrewd delight in challenging 
convention, in the effort to establish, 
through contrast, reconcilement of the 
earthly and the eternal, are to be found 
in her imagery. Although her similes 
and metaphors may be devoid of lan- 
guid aesthetic elegance, they are quiver- 
ing to express living ideas, and so they 
come surprisingly close to what we are 
fond of calling the commonplace. She 
reverses the usual, she hitches her star 
to a wagon, transfixing homely daily 
phrases for poetic purposes. Such an 
audacity has seldom invaded poetry 
with a desire to tell immortal truths 
through the medium of a deep senti- 
ment for old habitual things. It is true 
that we permit this liberty to the great- 
est poets, Shakespeare, Keats, Words- 
worth, and some others; but in Amer- 
ica our poets have been sharply charged 
not to offend in this respect. Here 
tradition still animates many critics in 
the belief that real poetry must have 
exalted phraseology. 

The poem already quoted, 'Let 
down the bars, O Death!' has its own 
rustic vividness of association. Even 
more homely is the domestic suggestion 
wherewith the poet sets forth an eter- 
nally, profoundly significant fact: 

The trying on the utmost, 

The morning it is new, 
Is terribler than wearing it 

A whole existence through. 

Surely such a commonplace comparison 
gives startling vividness to the innate 
idea. Many are the poetic uses she 
makes of practical everyday life : 

The soul should always stand ajar; 

The only secret people keep 

Is Immortality; 




Such dimity convictions, 
A horror so refined, 

Of freckled human nature, 
Of Deity ashamed; 

And kingdoms, like the orchard, 
Flit russetly away; 

If I could n't thank you, 

Being just asleep, 
You will know I 'm trying 

With my granite lip. 

More significantly, however, than in 
these epithets and figures, irony and 
paradox appear in those analyses of 
truth where she reveals the deep note 
of tragic idealism : 

Not one of all the purple host 
Who took the flag to-day 
Can tell the definition, 
So clear, of victory, 

As he, defeated, dying, 
On whose forbidden ear 
The distant strains of triumph 
Break, agonized and clear; 


Essential oils are wrung; 
The attar from the rose 
Is not expressed by suns alone, 
It is the gift of screws. 

She took delight in piquing thp curi- 
osity, and often her love of mysterious 
challenging symbolism led her to the 
borderland of obscurity. No other of 
her poems has, perhaps, such a union 
of playfulness and of terrible comment 
upon the thwarted aspirations of a suf- 
fering soul as has this : 

I asked no other thing, 
No other was denied. 
I offered Being for it; 
The mighty merchant smiled. 

Brazil? He twirled a button, 
Without a glance my way: 
' But, madam, is there nothing else 
That we can show to-day? ' 

Since life seemed, to her, seldom to 
move along wholly simple and direct 
ways, she delighted to accentuate the 
fact that out of apparent contradic- 


tions and discords are wrought the pie consent. Her creed was expressed 
subtlest harmonies : in these stanzas : 



To learn the transport by the pain, 
As blind men learn the sun; 

Sufficient troth that we shall rise 
Deposed, at length, the grave 
To that new marriage, justified 
Through Calvaries of Love; 

The lightning that preceded it 
Struck no one but myself, 
But I would not exchange the bolt 
For all the rest of life. 

The expectation of finding in her 
work some quick, perverse, illuminat- 
ing comment upon eternal truths cer- 
tainly keeps a reader's interest from 
flagging, but passionate intensity and 
fine irony do not fully explain Emily 
Dickinson's significance. There is a 
third characteristic trait, a dauntless 
courage in accepting life. Existence, 
to her, was a momentous experience, 
and she let no promises of a future 
life deter her from feeling the throbs 
of this one. No false comfort released 
her from dismay at present anguish. 
An energy of pain and joy swept her 
soul, but did not leave any residue of 
bitterness or of sharp innuendo against 
the ways of the Almighty. Grief was 
a faith, not a disaster. She made no 
effort to smother the recollections of 
old companionship by that species of 
spiritual death to which so many peo- 
VOL. in- NO. i 

They say that 'time assuages,' 

Time never did assuage; 
An actual suffering strengthens, 

As sinews do, with age. 

Time is a test of trouble, 

But not a remedy. 
If such it prove, it proves too 

There was no malady. 

The willingness to look with clear 
directness at the spectacle of life is ob- 
servable everywhere in her work. Pas- 
sionate fortitude was hers, and this is 
the greatest contribution her poetry 
makes to the reading world. It is .not 
expressed precisely in single poems, but 
rather is present in all, as key and in- 
terpretation of her meditative scru- 
tiny. Without elaborate philosophy, 
yet with irresistible ways of expression, 
Emily Dickinson's poems have true 
lyric appeal, because they make ab- 
stractions, such as love, hope, loneli- 
ness, death, and immortality, seem 
near and intimate and faithful. She 
looked at existence with a vision so ex- 
alted and secure that the reader is long 
dominated by that very excess of spir- 
itual conviction. A poet in the deeper 
mystic qualities of feeling rather than 
in the external merit of precise rhymes 
and flawless art, Emily Dickinson's 
place is among those whose gifts are 

Too intrinsic for renown. 



STUART was a fighter by nature. 
His distinguishing characteristics as a 
West Pointer in the early fifties were 
remembered by Fitzhugh Lee as ' a 
strict attendance to his military du- 
ties, an erect, soldierly bearing, an im- 
mediate and almost thankful accept- 
ance of a challenge from any cadet 
to fight, who might in any way feel 
himself aggrieved.' The tendency, if 
not inherited, did not lack paternal 
encouragement; for the elder Stuart 
writes to his son, in regard to one of 
these combats : * I did not consider you 
so much to blame. An insult should be 
resented under all circumstances/ The 
young cadet also showed himself to be 
a fearless and an exceptionally skillful 

These qualities served him well in 
the Indian warfare to which he was im- 
mediately transferred from West Point. 
His recklessness in taking chances was 
only equaled by his ingenuity in pulling 
through. One of his superiors writes, 
* Lieutenant Stuart was brave and gal- 
lant, always prompt in execution of 
orders and reckless of danger and ex- 
posure. I considered him at that time 
one of the most promising young offi- 
cers in the United States Army.' 

Later, Stuart took a prominent part 
in the capture of John Brown. He him- 
self wrote an account of the matter at 
the time for the newspapers, simply to 
explain and justify Lee's conduct. He 
also wrote a letter to his mother, with 
a characteristic description of his own 
doings: *I approached the door in the 
presence of perhaps two thousand spec- 

tators, and told Mr. Smith that I had 
a communication for him from Colonel 
Lee. He opened the door about four 
inches, and placed his body against 
the crack, with a cocked carbine in his 
hand; hence his remark after his cap- 
ture that he could have wiped me out 
like a mosquito .... When Smith 
first came to the door I recognized old 
Ossawatomie Brown, who had given us 
so much trouble in Kansas. No one 
present but myself could have per- 
formed that service. I got his bowie- 
knife from his person, and have it yet.' 

From the very beginning of the war 
Stuart maintained this fighting reputa- 
tion. He would attack anything, any- 
where, and the men who served under 
him had to do the same; what is more, 
and marks the born leader, he made 
them wish to do the same. * Ho wean I 
eat, sleep, or rest in peace without you 
upon the outpost?' wrote Joseph John- 
ston; and a noble enemy, who had been 
a personal friend, Sedgwick, is report- 
ed to have said that Stuart was 'the 
greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in 

Danger he met with more than stolid 
indifference, a sort of furious bravado, 
thrusting himself into it with manifest 
pleasure, and holding back, when he 
did hold back, with a sigh. And some 
men's luck! Johnston was wounded 
a dozen times, was always getting 
wounded. Yet Stuart, probably far 
more exposed, was wounded only once, 
in earlier life, among the Indians; in 
the war not at all until the end. His 
clothes were pierced again and again. 



According to that fable-mongering 
Prussian, Von Borcke, the general had 
half of his mustache cut off by a bullet 
* as neatly as it could have been done 
by the hand of an experienced barber.' 
Yet nothing ever drew blood till the 
shot which was mortal. Such an im- 
munity naturally encouraged the sort 
of fatalism not unusual with great sol- 
diers, and Stuart once said of the prox- 
imity of his enemies : ' You might have 
shot a marble at them but I am not 
afraid of any ball aimed at me.' 

In this spirit he got into scores of 
difficult places and got out again. 
Sometimes it was by quick action and 
a mad rush, as when he left his hat and 
a few officers behind him. Sometimes 
it was by stealth and secrecy, as when 
he hid his whole command all night 
within a few hundred yards of the 
marching enemy. 'And nothing now 
remained but to watch and wait and 
keep quiet. Quiet? Yes, the men kept 
very quiet, for they realized that even 
Stuart never before had them in so 
tight a place. But many times did we 
fear that we were betrayed by the 
weary, hungry, headstrong mules of 
the ordnance train. Men were sta- 
tioned at the head of every team; but, 
in spite of all precautions, a discord- 
ant bray would every now and then 
fill the air. Never was the voice of a 
mule so harsh!' 

The men who had watched and tried 
and tested him on such occasions as 
these knew what he was and gave 
him their trust. He asked nothing of 
them that he would not do himself. 
Therefore they did what he asked of 
them. Scheibert says that 'he won 
their confidence and inspired them by 
his whole bearing and personality, by 
his kindling speech, his flashing eye, 
and his cheerfulness, which no reverse 
could overcome.' Stuart himself de- 
scribes his followers' enthusiastic loy- 
alty with a naivete as winning as it is 

characteristic. 'There was something 
of the sublime in the implicit confi- 
dence and unquestioning trust of the 
rank and file in a leader guiding them 
straight, apparently, into" the very 
jaws of the enemy, every step appear- 
ing to them to diminish the very faint- 
est hope of extrication.' Yet he asked 
this trust, and they gave it simply on 
the strength of his word. 'You are 
about to engage in an enterprise which, 
to ensure success, imperatively de- 
mands at your hands coolness, deci- 
sion, and bravery, implicit obedience 
to orders without question or cavil, 
and the strictest order and sobriety on 
the march and in the bivouac. The 
destination and extent of this expedi- 
tion had better be kept to myself than 
known to you.' 

The men loved him also because, 
when the strain was removed, he put 
on no airs, pretense, or remoteness of 
superiority, but treated them as man 
to man. 'He was the most approach- 
able of major-generals, and jested with 
the private soldiers of his command as 
jovially as though he had been one of 
themselves. The men were perfectly 
unconstrained in his presence, and 
treated him more as if he were the 
chief huntsman of a hunting party 
than as a major-general.' His officers 
also loved him, and not only trusted 
him for war, but enjoyed his com- 
pany in peace. He was constantly on 
the watch to do them kindnesses, and 
would frolic with them marbles, 
snowballs, quoits, what-not? like a 
boy with boys. 

And Stuart loved his men as they 
loved him, did not regard them as 
mere food for cannon, to be used and 
abused and forgotten. There is some- 
thing almost pathetic in his neglect 
of self in praising them. 'The horse- 
man who, at his officer's bidding, with- 
out question, leaps into unexplored 
darkness, knowing nothing except that 



there is danger ahead, possesses the 
highest attribute of the patriot sol- 
dier. It is a great source of pride to me 
to command a division of such men.' 
Careless of his own danger always, he 
was far more thoughtful of those 
about him. In the last battle he was 
peculiarly reckless, and Major Mc- 
Clellan noticed that the general kept 
sending him with messages to General 
Anderson. 'At last the thought oc- 
curred to me that he was endeavoring 
to shield me from danger. I said to 
him, " General, my horse is weary. You 
are exposing yourself, and you are 
alone. Please let me remain with you." 
He smiled at me kindly, but bade me 
go to General Anderson with another 

Any reflection on his command 
aroused him at once to its defense. 
* There seems to be a growing ten- 
dency to abuse and underrate the 
services of that arm of the service 
[cavalry] by a few officers of infantry, 
among whom I regret to find General 
Trimble. Troops should be taught to 
take pride in other branches of the 
service than their own.' 

It is very rare that Stuart has any 
occasion to address himself directly to 
the authorities at Richmond. Fight- 
ing, not writing, was his business. But 
when he feels that his men and horses 
are being starved unnecessarily, he 
bestirs himself, and sends Seddon a 
letter which is as interesting for ner- 
vous and vigorous expression as for 
the character of the writer. * I beg to 
urge that in no case should persons 
not connected with the army, and who 
are amply compensated for all that 
is taken, be allowed more subsistence 
per day than the noble veterans who 
are periling their lives in the cause and, 
at every sacrifice, are enduring hard- 
ship and exposure in the ranks.' 

And the general's care and enthu- 
siasm for his officers was as great as for 

the privates. It is charming to see how 
earnestly and how specifically he com- 
mends them in every report. Partic- 
ularly, he is anxious to impress upon 
Lee that no family considerations 
should prevent the merited advance- 
ment of Lee's own son and nephew. 
Even on his death-bed one of his last 
wishes was that his faithful followers 
should have his horses, and he allotted 
them thoughtfully according to each 
officer's need. 

The general did not allow his feelings 
to interfere with subordination, how- 
ever. His discipline 'was as firm as 
could be with such men as composed 
the cavalry of General Lee's army,' 
writes Judge Garnet t. 'He never tol- 
erated nor overlooked disobedience of 
orders.' Even his favorites, Mosby 
and Fitz Lee, come in for reproof when 
needed. Of the latter's failure to ar- 
rive at Raccoon Ford when expected, 
he writes, 'By this failure to comply 
with instructions, not only the move- 
ment of the cavalry across the Rapi- 
dan was postponed a day, but a fine 
opportunity was lost to overhaul a 
body of the enemy's cavalry on a 
predatory excursion far beyond their 
lines.' His tendency to severity in re- 
gard to a certain subordinate calls 
forth one of Lee's gently tactful cau- 
tions: 'I am perfectly willing to trans- 
fer him to Paxton's brigade, if he de- 
sires it; but if he does not, I know of 
no act of his to justify my doing so. 
Do not let your judgment be warped.' 
There were officers with whom Stuart 
could not get along, for instance, 
'Grumble Jones,' who perhaps could 
get along with no one. Yet, after Stu- 
art's death, Jones said of him, 'By G , 
Martin! You know I had little love 
for Stuart, and he had just as little for 
me; but that is the greatest loss that 
army has ever sustained, except the 
death of Jackson.' 

From these various considerations 



it will be surmised that Stuart was no 
mere reckless swordsman, no Rupert, 
good with sabre, furious in onset, 
beyond that signifying nothing. He 
knew the spirit of the antique maxim, 
'Be bold, and evermore be bold; be not 
too bold.' He had learned the hardest 
lesson and the essential corrective for 
such a temperament, self-control. To 
me there is an immense pathos in his 
quiet, almost plaintive, explanation to 
Lee on one occasion: 'The command- 
ing general will, I am sure, appreciate 
how hard it was to desist from the un- 
dertaking, but to any one on the spot 
there could be but one opinion its 
impossibility. I gave it up.' On the 
other hand, no one knew better that 
in some cases perfect prudence and 
splendid boldness are one and the 
same thing. To use again his own 
words: 'Although the expedition was 
prosecuted further than was contem- 
plated in your instructions, I feel as- 
sured that the considerations which 
actuated me will convince you that I 
did not depart from their spirit, and 
that the bold development in the sub- 
sequent direction of the march was 
the quintessence of prudence/ Lee al- 
ways used the right words. In one of 
his reports he says of Stuart, 'I take 
occasion to express to the Department 
my sense of the boldness, judgment, 
and prudence he displayed in its exe- 
cution.' (The italics are mine.) 

But one may have self-control with- 
out commanding intelligence. Fre- 
mantle's description of Stuart's move- 
ments does not suggest much of the 
latter quality. 'He seems to roam 
over the country at his own discre- 
tion, and always gives a good account 
of himself, turning up at the right mo- 
ment; and hitherto he has not got him- 
self into any serious trouble.' Later, 
more studious observers do not take 
quite the same view. One should read 
the whole of the Prussian colonel, 

Scheibert's, account of Stuart's thor- 
ough planning, his careful calcula- 
tion, his exact methods of procedure. 
'Before Stuart undertook any move- 
ment, he spared nothing in the way of 
preparation which might make it suc- 
ceed. He informed himself as exactly 
as possible by scouts and spies, him- 
self reconnoitred with his staff, often 
far beyond the outposts, had his engi- 
neer officers constantly fill out and im- 
prove the rather inadequate maps and 
ascertain the practicability of roads, 
fords, etc. In short, he omitted no pre- 
caution and spared no pains or effort 
to secure the best possible results for 
such undertakings as he planned; 
therefore he was in the saddle almost 
as long again as his men.' Similar tes- 
timony can be gathered incidentally 
everywhere in Stuart's letters and re- 
ports, proving that he was no chance 
roamer, but went where he planned to 
go, and came back when he intended. 
For instance, he writes of the Peninsu- 
lar operations, 'It is proper to remark 
here that the commanding general 
had, on the occasion of my late expedi- 
tion to the Pamunkey, imparted to me 
his design of bringing Jackson down 
upon the enemy's right flank and rear, 
and directed that I should examine the 
country with reference to its practi- 
cability for such a movement. I there- 
fore had studied the features of the 
country very thoroughly, and knew ex- 
actly how to conform my movements 
to Jackson's route.' 

On the strength of these larger mili- 
tary qualities it has sometimes been 
contended that Stuart should have had 
an even more responsible command 
than fell to him, and that Lee should 
have retained him at the head of Jack- 
son's corps after Jackson's death. Cer- 
tainly Lee can have expressed no higher 
opinion of any one. 'A more zealous, 
ardent, brave, and devoted soldier than 
Stuart the Confederacy cannot have.' 



Johnston called him ' calm, firm, acute, 
active, and enterprising; I know no 
one more competent than he to esti- 
mate occurrences at their true value/ 
Longstreet, hitting Jackson as well as 
praising Stuart, said, 'His death was 
possibly a greater loss to the Confed- 
erate army than that of the swift-mov- 
ing Stonewall Jackson.' Among for- 
eign authorities, Scheibert tells us that 
'General von Schmidt, the regenera- 
tor of our [Prussian] cavalry tactics, 
has told me that Stuart was the model 
cavalry leader of this century, and has 
questioned me very often about his 
mode of fighting/ And Captain Bat- 
tine thinks that he should have had 
Jackson's place. Finally, Alexander, 
sanest of Confederate writers, expresses 
the same view strongly and definitely: 
'I always thought it an injustice to 
Stuart, and a loss to the army, that he 
was not from that moment continued 
in command of Jackson's corps. He had 
won the right to it. I believe he had 
all of Jackson's genius and dash and 
originality, without that eccentricity of 
character which sometimes led to dis- 
appointment. . . . Jackson's spirit and 
inspiration were uneven. Stuart, how- 
ever, possessed the rare quality of be- 
ing always equal to himself at his very 
best. 9 

This is magnificent praise, coming 
from such a source. Nevertheless, I 
find it hard to question Lee's judg- 
ment. There was nothing in the world 
to prevent his giving Stuart the posi- 
tion, if he thought him qualified. It 
is not absolutely certain how Stuart 
would have carried independent com- 
mand. I can hardly imagine Davis 
writing of Jackson as he did of Stuart : 
'The letter of General Hill painfully 
impresses me with that which has be- 
fore been indicated a want of vigi- 
lance and intelligent observation on 
the part of General Stuart.' Major 
Bigelow, who knows the battle of 

Chancellorsville as well as any one 
living, does not judge Stuart's action 
so favorably as Alexander. And Cooke, 
who adored Stuart and served con- 
stantly under him, says, 'At Chancel- 
lorsville, when he succeeded Jackson, 
the troops, although quite enthusias- 
tic about him, complained that he led 
them too recklessly against artillery; 
and it is hard for those who knew the 
man to believe that, as an army com- 
mander, he would have consented to 
a strictly defensive campaign. Fight- 
ing was a necessity of his blood, and 
the slow movements of infantry did 
not suit his genius.' 

May it not be, also, that Lee 
thought Stuart indispensable where 
he was, and believed that it would be 
as difficult to replace him as Jackson? 
Most of Stuart's correspondence has 
perished and we are obliged to gather 
its tenor from letters written to him, 
which is much like listening to a one- 
sided conversation over the telephone. 
From one of Lee's letters, however, it 
is fairly evident that neither he nor 
Stuart himself had seriously considered 
the latter's taking Jackson's place. Lee 
writes, 'I am obliged to you for your 
views as to the successor of the great 
and good Jackson. Unless God in his 
mercy will raise us up one, I do not 
know what we shall do. I agree with 
you on the subject, and have so ex- 
pressed myself.' 

In any event, what his countrymen 
will always remember of Stuart is the 
fighting figure, the glory of battle, the 
sudden and tumultuous fury of charge 
and onset. 

And what above all distinguishes 
him in this is his splendid joy in it. 
Others fought with clenched fist and 
set teeth, rejoicing perhaps, but with 
deadly determination of lip and brow. 
He laughed and sang. His blue eye 
sparkled and his white teeth gleamed. 
To others it was the valley of the 



shadow of death. To him it was a 
picnic and a pleasure party. 

He views everything on its pic- 
turesque side, catches the theatrical 
detail which turns terror and death 
into a scenic surprise. 'My arrival 
could not have been more fortunately 
timed, for, arriving after dark, the 
ponderous march, with the rolling 
artillery, must have impressed the ene- 
my's cavalry, watching their rear, 
with the idea of an immense army 
about to cut off their retreat.' He 
rushes gayly into battle, singing, 'Old 
Joe Hooker, won't you come out of 
the Wilderness?' or his favorite of 
favorites, ' If you want to have a good 
time, jine the cavalry.' When he is 
riding off, as it were into the mouth 
of hell, his adjutant asks, how long, 
and he answers, as Touchstone might, 
with a bit of old ballad, 'It may be 
for years and it may be for ever.' His 
clear laughter, in the sternest crises, 
echoes through dusty war books like 
a silver bell. As he sped back from his 
raid, the Union troops were close upon 
him and the swollen Chickahominy 
in front, impassable, it seemed. Stu- 
art thought a moment, pulling at his 
beard. Then he found the remains of 
an old bridge and set his men to re- 
build it. ' While the men were at work 
upon it, Stuart was lying down on the 
bank of the stream, in the gayest hu- 
mor I ever saw, laughing at the prank 
he had played on McClellan.' 

It is needless to enlarge on the effect 
of such a temper, such exuberant 
confidence and cheerfulness in danger, 
on subordinates. It lightened labor, 
banished fatigue, warmed chill limbs 
and fainting courage. 'My men and 
horses are tired, hungry, jaded, but 
all right,' was the last dispatch he ever 
wrote. So long as he was with them 
they were all right. His very voice 
was like music, says Fitz Lee, ' like the 
silver trumpet of the Archangel.' It 

sounded oblivion of everything but 
glory. His gayety, his laughter, were 
infectious, and turned a raid into a 
revel. 'That summer night,' writes 
Mosby of the McClellan expedition, 
'was a carnival of fun I can never 
forget. Nobody thought of danger or 
sleep, when champagne bottles were 
bursting, and wine was flowing in copi- 
ous streams. All had perfect confi- 
dence in their leader .... The dis- 
cipline of the soldiers for a while gave 
way to the wild revelry of Comus.' 

And this spirit of adventure, of ro- 
mance, of buoyant optimism and 
energy, was not reserved merely for 
occasions of excitement, was not the 
triumphant outcome of glory and suc- 
cess. It was constant and unfailing. 
To begin with, Stuart had a magni- 
ficent physique. 'Nothing seemed 
strong enough to break down his pow- 
erful organization of mind and body,' 
says his biographer; and Mosby: 'Al- 
though he had been in the saddle two 
days and nights without sleep, he was 
as gay as a lark.' When exhaustion 
finally overcame him, he would drop 
off his horse by the roadside, anywhere, 
sleep for an hour, and arise as active 
as ever. Universal testimony proves 
that he was overcome and disheartened 
by no disaster. He would be thought- 
ful for a moment, pulling at his beard, 
then seize upon the best decision that 
presented itself and push on. Dreari- 
ness sometimes crushes those who can 
well resist actual misfortune. Not 
Stuart. ' In the midst of rainstorms, 
when everybody was riding along grum 
and cowering beneath the flood pour- 
ing down, he would trot on, head up, 
and singing gayly.' 

The list of his personal adventures 
and achievements is endless. He 
braved capture and death with entire 
indifference, trusting in his admirable 
horsemanship, which often saved him, 
trusting in Providence, trusting in no- 



thing at all but his quick wit and strong 
arm, curious mainly, perhaps, to see 
what would happen. On one occasion 
he is said to have captured forty-four 
Union soldiers. He was riding abso- 
lutely alone and ran into them taking 
their ease in a field. Instantly he 
chose his course. 'Throw down your 
arms or you are all dead men.' They 
were green troops and threw them 
down, and Stuart marched the whole 
squad into camp. When duty forbids 
a choice adventure, he sighs, as might 
Don Quixote. *A scouting party of 
one hundred and fifty lancers had just 
passed toward Gettysburg. I regretted 
exceedingly that my march did not 
admit of the delay necessary to catch 

I have sometimes asked myself how 
much of this spirit of romantic adven- 
ture, of knight-errantry, as it were, in 
Stuart, was conscious. Did he, like 
Claverhouse, read Homer and Frois- 
sart, and try to realize in modern Vir- 
ginia the heroic deeds, still more, the 
heroic spirit, of antique chivalry? In 
common with all Southerners, he prob- 
ably knew the prose and poetry of 
Scott, and dreamed of the plume of 
Marmion and the lance of Ivanhoe. 
He must have felt the weight of his 
name also, and believed that James 
Stuart might be aptly fitted with val- 
orous adventure and knightly deeds 
and sudden glory. It is extremely in- 
teresting to find him writing to Jack- 
son, 'Did you receive the volume of 
Napoleon and his maxims I sent you?' 
I should like to own that volume. And 
in his newspaper account of Brown's 
raid he quotes Horace, horribly, but 
still Horace, ' Erant fortes ante Aga- 

Yet I do not gather that he was 
much of a student; he preferred to live 
poems rather than to read them. The 
spirit of romance, the instinct of the 
picturesque, was born in him, and 

would out anywhere and everywhere. 
Life was a perpetual play, with ever- 
shifting scenes, and gay limelight, and 
hurrying incident, and passionate cli- 
max. Again and again he reminds me 
of a boy playing soldiers. His ambi- 
tion, his love of glory, was of this or- 
der; not a bit the ardent, devouring, 
frowning, far-sighted passion of Jack- 
son, but a jovial sense of pleasant 
things that can be touched and heard 
and tasted here, to-day. 

He had a childlike, simple vanity 
which all his biographers smile at, liked 
parade, display, pomp, and gorgeous- 
ness, utterly differing in this from Jack- 
son, who was too proud, or Lee, who 
was too lofty. Stuart rode fine horses, 
never was seen on an inferior animal. 
He wore fine clothes, all that his po- 
sition justified, perhaps a little more. 
Here is Fitz Lee's picture of him : * His 
strong figure, his big brown beard, his 
piercing, laughing blue eye, the droop- 
ing hat and black feather, the "fight- 
ing jacket" as he termed it, the tall 
cavalry boots, forming one of the most 
jubilant and striking figures in the war.' 
And Cooke is even more particular: 
'His fighting jacket shone with daz- 
zling buttons and was covered with 
gold braid; his hat was looped up with 
a golden star, and decorated with a 
black ostrich plume; his fine buff gaunt- 
lets reached to the elbow; around his 
waist was tied a splendid yellow sash, 
and his spurs were of pure gold.' 

After this, we appreciate the bio- 
grapher's assertion that he was as fond 
of colors as a boy or girl; and else- 
where we read that he never moved 
without his gorgeous red battle-flag, 
which often drew the fire of the enemy. 

As to the spurs, they were presented 
to the general by the ladies of Balti- 
more,'and he took great pride in them, 
signing himself sometimes in private 
letters, K. G. S., Knight of the Gold- 
en Spurs. 



This last touch is perfectly charac- 
teristic, and the Stuart of the pen is 
precisely the same as the Stuart of the 
sword. He could express himself as 
simply as Napoleon: 'Tell General Lee 
that all is right. Jackson has not ad- 
vanced, but I have; and I am going to 
crowd them with artillery/ But usu- 
ally he did not. Indeed, the severe 
taste of Lee recoiled from his subordi- 
nate's fashions of speech. 'The general 
deals in the flowery style, as you will 
perceive, if you ever see his reports in 
detail.' But I love them, they ring and 
resound so with the temper of the man; 
gorgeous scraps of tawdry rhetoric, 
made charming by their riotous sin- 
cerity, as with Scott and Dumas. His 
* brave men behaved with coolness and 
intrepidity in danger, unswerving re- 
solution before difficulties, and stood 
unappalled before the rushing torrent 
of the Chickahominy, with the proba- 
bility of an enemy at their heels armed 
with the fury of a tigress robbed of 
her whelps.' Could anything be worse 
from Lee's point of view? But it does 
put some ginger into an official report. 
Or take this Homeric picture of a 
charge, which rushes like a half dozen 
stanzas of Chevy Chase: 'Lieutenant 
Robbins handling it in the most skill- 
ful manner, managed to clear the way 
for the march with little delay, and in- 
fused by a sudden dash at a picket 
such a wholesome terror that it never 
paused to take a second look. . . . On, 
on dashed Robbins, here skirting a 
field, there leaping a fence or ditch, 
and clearing the woods beyond.' 

When I read these things I cannot 
but remember Madame de Sevigne's 
fascinating comment on the historical 
novels of her day. 'The style of La 
Calprenede is detestable in a thousand 
ways: long-winded, romantic phrases, 
ill-chosen words, I admit it all. I agree 
that it is detestable; yet it holds me 
like glue. The beauty of the senti- 

ments, the violence of the passions, 
the grandeur of the events, and the 
miraculous success of the hero's re- 
doubtable sword it sweeps me away 
as if I were a child.' 

And Stuart's was a real sword! 

Then, too, as in Shakespearean 
tragedy or modern melodrama, the 
tension, in Stuart's case, is constantly 
relieved by hearty, wholesome laugh- 
ter, which shook his broad shoulders 
and sparkled in his blue eyes. See what 
a strange comedy his report makes of 
this lurid night-scene, in which another 
might have found only shadow and 
death. 'It so far succeeded as to get 
possession of his [General Bartlett's] 
headquarters at one o'clock at night, 
the general having saved himself by 
precipitate flight in his nether gar- 
ments. The headquarters flag was 
brought away. No prisoners were at- 
tempted to be taken, the party shooting 
down every one within reach. Some 
horses breaking loose near headquar- 
ters ran through an adjacent regiment- 
al camp, causing the greatest commo- 
tion, 'mid firing and yelling and cries 
of "Halt!" "Rally!" mingling in wild 
disorder, and ludicrous stampede which 
beggars description.' Can't you hear 
him laugh? 

It must not be concluded from this 
that Stuart was cruel in his jesting. 
Where gentleness and sympathy were 
really called for, all the evidence shows 
that no man could give more. But he 
believed that the rough places are 
made smooth, and the hard places soft, 
and the barren places green and smil- 
ing, by genial laughter. Who shall say 
that he was wrong? Therefore he 
would have his jest, with inferior and 
superior, with friend and enemy. Even 
the sombre Jackson was not spared. 
When he had floundered into winter- 
quarters oddly decorated, Stuart sug- 
gested ' that a drawing of the apartment 
should be made, with the race-horses, 



gamecocks, and terrier in bold relief, 
the picture to be labeled: " View of the 
winter-quarters of General Stonewall 
Jackson, affording an insight into the 
tastes and character of the individual." ' 
And Jackson enjoyed it. 

When it came to his adversaries, 
Stuart's fun was unlimited. Everybody 
knows his telegraphed complaint to 
the United States Commissary Depart- 
ment that the mules he had been cap- 
turing lately were most unsatisfactory, 
and he wished they would provide a 
better quality. Even more amusing 
is the correspondence that occurred at 
Lewinsville. One of Stuart's old com- 
rades wrote, addressing him by his 
West Point nickname, 'My dear 
Beauty, I am sorry that circum- 
stances are such that I can't have the 
pleasure of seeing you, although so 
near you. Griffin says he would like 
to have you dine with him at Willard's 
at five o'clock on Saturday next. Keep 
your Black Horse off me, if you please. 
Yours, etc., Orlando M. Poe.' On the 
back of this was penciled in Stuart's 
writing: *I have the honor to report 
that " circumstances " were such that 
they could have seen me if they had 
stopped to look behind, and I answered 
both at the cannon's mouth. Judging 
from his speed, Griffin surely left for 
Washington to hurry up that dinner.' 

I had an old friend who adored the 
most violent melodrama. When the 
curtain and his tears had fallen to- 
gether, he would sigh and murmur, 
* Now let 's have a little of that snare- 
drum music.' Such was Stuart. 'It 
might almost be said that music was 
his passion,' writes Cooke. I doubt, 
however, whether he dealt largely in 
the fugues of Bach. His favorites, in 
the serious order, are said to have 
been, 'The dew is on the blossom,' and 
4 Sweet Evelina.' But his joy was the 
uproarious, 'If you get there before I 
do,' or his precious, 'If you want to 

have a good time, jine the cavalry.' 
He liked to live in the blare of trum- 
pets and the crash of cymbals, liked 
to have his nerves tingle and his 
blood leap to a merry ' hunt's-up ' or a 
riotous chorus, liked to have the high 
strain of war's melodrama broken by 
the sudden crackle of the snare-drum. 
His banjo-player, Sweeney, was as near 
to him as an aide-de-camp, followed 
him everywhere. 'Stuart wrote his 
most important correspondence with 
the rattle of the gay instrument stun- 
ning everybody, and would turn round 
from his work, burst into a laugh, and 
join uproariously in Sweeney's chorus.' 
And dance was as keen a spice to 
peril as song and laughter. To fight 
all day and dance all night was a good 
day's work to this creature of perfect 
physique and inexhaustible energy. If 
his staff -officers could not keep pace 
with him and preferred a little sleep, 
the general did not like it at all. 
What? Here is or was a gay 
town, and pretty girls. Just because 
we are here to-day, and gone to-mor- 
row, shall we not fleet the time care- 
lessly, as they did in the golden world ? 
And the girls are all got together, and a 
ball is organized, and the fun grows 
swifter and swifter. Perhaps a fortu- 
nate officer picks the prettiest and is 
about to stand up with her. Stuart 
whispers in his ear that a pressing mes- 
sage must be carried, laughs his gay 
laugh, and slips into the vacant place. 
Then an orderly hurries in, covered 
with dust. The enemy are upon us. 
'The officers rushed to their weapons 
and called for their horses, panic- 
stricken fathers and mothers endeav- 
ored to collect around them their be- 
wildered children, while the young 
ladies ran to and fro in most admired 
despair. General Stuart maintained 
his accustomed coolness and compo- 
sure. Our horses were immediately 
saddled, and in less than five minutes 



we were in rapid gallop to the front.' 
Oh, what a life! 

You divine that with such a tem- 
perament Stuart would love women. 
So he did. Not that he let them inter- 
fere with duty. He would have heart- 
ily accepted the profound doctrine of 
Enobarbus in regard to the fair: 'It 
were pity to cast them away for no- 
thing; yet between them and a great 
cause they should be esteemed as no- 
thing.' Stuart arrested hundreds of 
ladies, says his biographer, and re- 
mained inexorable to their petitions. 
Cooke's charming account of one of 
these arrests should be read in full: 
how the fair captives first raved, and 
then listened, and then laughed, and 
then were charmed by the mellifluous 
Sweeney and the persuasive general, 
and at last departed with kissed hands 
and kindly hearts, leaving Stuart to 
explain to his puzzled aide, who in- 
quired why he put himself out so much : 
* Don't you understand? When those 
ladies arrived they were mad enough 
with me to bite my head off, and I de- 
termined to put them in good-humor 
before they left me.' 

But Cooke dresses his viands. I 
prefer the following glimpse of Stuart 
and girls and duty, as it comes unspiced 
from the rough-spoken common sol- 
dier. * General Lee would come up and 
spend hours studying the situation 
with his splendid glasses; and the glo- 
rious Stuart would dash up, always 
with a lady, and a pretty one, too. I 
wonder if the girl is yet alive who rode 
the General's fine horse and raced 
with him to charge our station. When 
they had reached the level platform, 
and Stuart had left her in care of one 
of us and took the other off to one side 
and questioned the very sweat out of 
him about the enemy's position, he 
was General Stuart then; but when 
he got back and lifted the beauty 
into the saddle and rode off humming 

a breezy air ... he was Stuart the 

And the women liked Stuart. It was 
a grand thing to be the first officer in 
the Confederate cavalry, with a blue 
eye and a fair beard, and all gold, like 
Horace's Pyrrha, from hat to spurs. 
When he rode singing and laughing 
into a little town, by river or seashore, 
they flocked to meet him, young and 
old, and touched his garments, and 
begged his buttons, and kissed his 
gloved hands, until he suggested that 
his cheeks were available, and then 
they kissed those, young and old alike. 
They showered him with flowers also, 
buried him under nosegays and gar- 
lands, till he rode like old god Bacchus 
or the Queen of May. What an odd 
fashion of making war! And the best 
I have met with is, that one day Stu- 
art described one of these occurrences 
to his great chieftain. 'I had to wear 
her garland, till I was out of sight/ 
apologized the young cavalier. 'Why 
are n't you wearing it now?' retorted 
Lee. Is n't that admirable? I verily be- 
lieve that if any young woman had had 
the unimaginable audacity to throw a 
garland over Lee, he would have worn 
it through the streets of Richmond 

You say, then, this Stuart was dis- 
sipated, perhaps, a scapegrace, a rioter, 
imitating Rupert and Murat in other 
things than great cavalry charges. 
That is the curious point. The man 
was nothing of the sort. With all his 
instinct for revelry, he had no vices; a 
very Puritan of laughter. He liked 
pretty girls everywhere; but when he 
was charged with libertinism, he an- 
swered, in the boldness of innocence, 
' That person does not live who can say 
that I ever did anything improper of 
that description'; and he liked his 
wife better than any other pretty girl. 
He married her when he was twenty- 
two years old, and his last wish was 



that she might reach him before he 
died. His few letters to her that have 
been printed are charming in their 
playful affection. He adored his child- 
ren also; in short, was a pattern of 
domesticity. He did, indeed, love his 
country more, and telegraphed to his 
wife, when she called him to his dy- 
ing daughter's bedside, 'My duty to 
the country must be performed before 
I can give way to the feelings of a 
father'; but the child's death was a 
cruel blow to him. With his intimates 
he constantly referred to her, and when 
he himself was dying, he whispered, ' I 
shall soon be with my little Flora again.' 

' I never saw him touch a card,' writes 
one who was very near him, 'and he 
never dreamed of uttering an oath 
under any provocation, nor would he 
permit it at his headquarters.' We 
are assured by many that he never 
drank, and an explicit statement of his 
own on the subject is reported: 'I pro- 
mised my mother in my childhood 
never to touch ardent spirits, and a 
drop has never passed my lips, except 
the wine of the communion/ 

As the last words show, he had re- 
ligion as well as morals. He joined the 
Methodist Church when he was fif- 
teen, later the Episcopal. When he was 
twenty-four he sent money home to 
his mother to aid in the building of 
a church. He carried her Bible with 
him always. In his reports religion is 
not obtrusive. When it does occur, 
it is evidently sincere. 'The Lord of 
Hosts was plainly fighting on our side, 
and the solid walls of Federal infantry 
melted away before the straggling, 
but nevertheless determined, onsets 
of our infantry columns.' 'Believ- 
ing that the hand of God was clear- 
ly manifested in the signal deliverance 
of my command from danger, and the 
crowning success attending it, I as- 
cribe to Him the praise, the honor, and 
the glory.' He inclined to strictness in 

the observance of Sunday. Captain 
Colston writes me that when twelve 
struck of a Saturday night, Stuart 
held up his hand relentlessly and 
stopped song and dance in their full 
tide, though youth and beauty begged 
for just one more. He was equally 
scrupulous in the field, though, in his 
feeling of injury because the enemy 
were not so, I seem to detect his habit- 
ual touch of humor. ' The next morning 
being the Sabbath, I recognized my 
obligation to do no active duty other 
than what was absolutely necessary, 
and determined, so far as possible, to 
devote it to rest. Not so the enemy, 
whose guns about 8 A. M. showed that 
he would not observe it.' 

I have no doubt that Stuart's relig- 
ion was inward as well as outward, and 
remoulded his heart. But, after all, he 
was but little over thirty when he died, 
and I love to trace in him the occa- 
sional working of the old Adam which 
had such lively play in the bosom of 
many an officer who was unjustly 
blamed or missed some well-deserved 
promotion. Stuart's own letters are 
too few to afford much insight of this 
kind. But here again we get that one- 
sided correspondence with Lee which 
is so teasingly suggestive. On one 
occasion Lee writes, 'The expression, 
" appropriated by the Stuart Horse 
Artillery," was not taken from a report 
of Colonel Baldwin, nor intended in 
any objectionable sense, but used for 
want of a better phrase, without any 
intention on my part of wounding.' 
And again, after Chancellors ville: 'As 
regards the closing remarks of your 
note, I am at a loss to understand 
their reference or to know what has 
given rise to them. In the manage- 
ment of the difficult operations at 
Chancellorsville, which you so prompt- 
ly undertook, and creditably per- 
formed, I saw no errors to correct, nor 
has there been a fit opportunity to 



commend your conduct. I prefer your 
acts to speak for themselves, nor does 
your character or reputation require 
bolstering up by out-of-place expres- 
sions of my opinion.' 

But by far the most interesting hu- 
man revelation of this kind is one letter 
of Stuart's own, written to justify him- 
self against some aspersions of General 
Trimble. With the right or wrong of 
the case we are not concerned. Sim- 
ply with the fascinating study of Stu- 
art's state of mind. He begins evident- 
ly with firm restraint and a Christian 
moderation, 'Human memory is frail, 
I know.' But the exposure of his 
wrongs heats his blood, as he goes on, 
and spurs him, though he still endeav- 
ors to check himself. 'It is true I am 
not in the habit of giving orders, par- 
ticularly to my seniors in years, in a 
dictatorial and authoritative manner, 
and my manner very likely on this 
occasion was more suggestive than im- 
perative; indeed, I may have been con- 
tent to satisfy myself that the dis- 
positions which he himself proposed 
accorded with my own ideas, without 
any blustering show of orders to do 
this or that . . . General Trimble 
says I did not reach the place until 
seven or eight o'clock. I was in plain 
view all the time, and rode through, 
around, and all about the place, soon 
after its capture. General Trimble is 
mistaken.' Nay, in his stammering 
eagerness to right himself, his phrases, 
usually so crisp and clear, stumble and 
fall over each other: 'In the face of 
General Trimble's positive denial of 

sending such a message, "that he 
would prefer waiting until daylight," 
or anything like it, while my recollec- 
tion is clear that I did receive such a 
message, and received it as coming 
from General Trimble, yet, as he is so 
positive to not having sent such a mes- 
sage, or anything like it, I feel bound 
to believe that either the message was 
misrepresented, or made up, by the 
messenger, or that it was a message re- 
ceived from General Robertson, whose 
sharpshooters had been previously 

A real man, you see, like the rest of 
us; but a noble one, and lovable. For- 
tunate also, in his death as in his life. 
For he was not shot down in the early 
days, like Jackson and Sidney John- 
ston, when it seemed as if his great aid 
might have changed destiny. He had 
done all a man in his position could do. 
When he went, all hope too was going. 
He was spared the long, weary days of 
Petersburg, spared the bitter cup of 
Appomattox, spared the domination of 
the conqueror, spared what was per- 
haps, worst of all, the harsh words and 
reproaches and recrimination, which 
flew too hotly where there should have 
been nothing but love and silence. He 
slept untroubled in his glory, while his 
countrymen mourned and Lee ' yearn- 
ed for him.' His best epitaph has been 
written by a magnanimous opponent: 
' Deep in the hearts of all true cavalry- 
men, North and South, will ever burn 
a sentiment of admiration, mingled 
with regret, for this knightly soldier 
and generous man.' 



THERE was a heavy odor in the little 
house which quite blighted the soft 
spring air as it blew in through the 
half-open window. For supper there 
had been onions and sausage, and the 
fried potatoes had burned. The smells 
which had arisen from the kitchen 
stove had mingled with the raw, soapy 
fumes which gave testimony that 
Monday was wash-day in the Black 
family. Now the smoking of the kero- 
sene lamp on the centre-table seemed 
to seal in hermetical fashion the op- 
pressive room against the gentle 
breeze of the May evening. 

The woman, bending over a pair of 
trousers which she was patching, stuck 
the needle in the cloth, pulled the thim- 
ble from her fat, red finger, and rubbed 
her hands over her eyes. 

4 Bed-time, Billy,' she said to the 
nine-year-old boy who was playing with 
a picture-puzzle on the other side of 
the table. 

'Aw, ma, let me stay up, till pa 
and the boys get home.' 

The woman shook her head. 

* I '11 get up in plenty of time to feed 
the chickens, anyhow. Honest, I will.' 

'You ought to be glad to go to bed,' 
the mother sighed in answer. ' I 'd be. 
Seems to me I'd be tickled to death if 
I could drop into bed without my sup- 
per any night.' 

' I '11 go if you '11 go, too. I just hate 
to go to bed knowing all the rest of you 
are up.' 

'Me go to bed! Why these trousers 
of yours are n't finished yet and I 've 
got to mend Tom's shirt and your fa- 


ther's coat, and then there 's the bread 
to set. Much chance I have to go to 
bed for a couple of hours, yet! Now 
you run along. If you go like a good 
boy, you can have a cooky.' 

She put the thimble on her finger 
and bent over her mending again. She 
sewed steadily on until an hour later, 
when she heard the buggy drive into 
the yard and one of the boys came 
running in to ask her if she knew where 
the barn lantern was. It was in the 
cellar, and there was barely enough oil 
to make a dim light while the horse 
was being unharnessed. The boys were 
sent to bed immediately, with an in- 
junction to be quiet so Billy would n't 
be awakened. She heard the heavy 
tread of her husband in the kitchen as 
he hunted for the dipper to get a drink 
of water. Then he came into the sit- 
ting-room, sat down in a chair, and be- 
gan pulling off his shoes. He groaned 
as he did it. 

'Say, Em,' he said, 'guess who I saw , 
in town to-night?' 

'Who?' was the unimaginative re- 

'You'd never guess in a hundred 
years. You'd never guess what she 
did, either. She sent you these.' He 
drew from his pocket a package and 
a sheet of note-paper. The woman 
looked at them for a moment, but she 
did n't touch them. 

'Hurry up, Em,' said the man. 
'They won't bite you.' 

'But what ?' she faltered. 

'The best way to find out about 'em 
is to open 'em.' 



She opened the package first. It 
was a cheap colored print of St. Ce- 
cilia at the Organ. It was in a bright 
gilt frame. Then she opened the note. 
She read it through once, with a little 
frown puckering her forehead. Then 
more slowly she read it the second 

'Minnie Jackson!' she murmured. 
' I have n't seen her for nearly ten 
years. I don't know when I've thought 
about her, even. You read it, Jake?' 

'Yes. She did n't seal it.' He wait- 
ed a minute, then said, 'I could n't just 
make out what it was all about. What 
day is this?' 

* It 's our birthday Minnie's and 
mine. We used to call ourselves twins, 
but she 's a year older than I am. I 've 
been so busy all day I never thought 
about it. What does Minnie look like? ' 

'Oh, she looks about the same, I 
guess, as the last time she was home. 
She's getting fatter, though. Guess 
the climate out in California must 
agree with her.' 

' Is she as fat as I am? ' 

'Just about, I guess.' 

'Did she look as if they were well 
off? What kind of a dress did she have 

'I don't know. Good enough, I 
guess. I did n't see anything wrong 
with it. While she ran into the store 
to get this picture and write this note 
to you, old Jackson was bragging to 
me about how well Elmer had done. 
He said Min had married about as well 
as any girl round here.' 

' Did he say anything about whether 
she ever paints any? ' 

'Paints? Whatever are you talking 
about, Em?' 

She had bent over her sewing again, 
and he could not see her face as she 
answered, 'When Minnie and I were 
little girls, I reckon we never had any 
secrets from each other, at all. I know 
I talked about things to her I never 

could have told to anybody else. She 
was that way with me, too. Well, she 
always said she wanted to paint, and 
I wanted to play. She was always 
copying every picture she saw. I re- 
member she did one picture called A 
Yard of Roses, from a calendar. It 
was so good you could n't have told 
the difference. Don't you remember 
the time she took the prize at the art 
exhibit at the country fair, with a 
picture she had copied, called The 
Storm? One of the judges said it just 
made him shiver to look at it, it was 
so real.' 

'Come to think of it, I believe I do 
recollect something about Min having 
queer notions. I know us boys used 
to think she was stuck-up. What did 
she mean about the vow and about 
this picture being of you, by her?' 

For a moment there was only the 
little click of her thimble against the 
needle. Then she said, 'I guess I can't 
make it clear to you, Jake. Minnie 
always did have her own way of put- 
ting things. We had lots of fancies, as 
we used to call them. But I suppose 
she was thinking about our old dreams. 
If they 'd come true, she might have 
painted me, sitting like that.' 

'It don't look much like you; even 
when you was young,' was the reply of 
the man, not given to ' fancies ' ' but 
what is it about the vow? ' 

'I don't know,' said his wife shortly. 
It was one of the few lies she had ever 
told her husband. Just why, having 
told him so much, she could n't tell 
him that Minnie Jackson and she had 
promised each other that, no matter 
what happened, nothing should keep 
them from realizing their ambitions, 
and that each year they would give a 
report to each other on their birthday, 
she could not have said. But suddenly 
her throat contracted and she could 
not see the patch on the coat. 

'How this lamp does smoke,' she 



said, as she brushed her hand over her He let Em have the butter and chicken 


* Well,' yawned her husband, * I guess 
most folks, leastwise most girls, have 
silly notions when they're young. 

* Who'd ever think to see you now, 
that you ever had any such ideas? 
Anyhow, they never hurt you any. 
You're a good wife for a farmer, Em. 
There ain't a better woman anywhere 
than you.' 

It was one of the few times in all 
the years of their marriage that he had 
praised her. Jacob Black had never 
been one to question life or to marvel 
at its wonders. For him, it held no 
wonders. The spell of life had caught 
him when he was young. He had * fallen 
in love' with Emmeline Mead and he 
had married her. She had borne him 
eight children. Five of them had lived. 
If Jacob Black had thought about it 
at all, which he did not, he would have 
said that was the way life went. One 
was young. Then one grew old. When 
one was young, one married and prob- 
ably there were children. The wing of 
romance had brushed him so lightly in 
its passing, that at the time it had 
brought to him no yearning for an un- 
known rapture, no wonder at the mys- 
tery of life. After twenty-one years, 
if he had given it any thought what- 
soever, he would have said that their 
marriage 'had turned out well.' Em 
had been a good wife; she had risen at 
daylight and worked until after dark. 
She was n't foolish about money. She 
never went to town unless there was 
something to take her there. She went 
to church, of course, and when it was 

* her turn,' she entertained the Ladies' 
Aid. Such recreations were to be ex- 
pected. Yes, Em had been a good 
wife. But then, he had been a good 
husband. He never drank. He was 
a church member. He always hired a 
woman to do the housework, for two 
weeks, when there was a new baby. 


The clock struck nine. 

'I'm going to bed,' he said; 'there 's 
lots to do to-morrow. Nearly through 
your mending?' 

'No. Anyhow, I guess I'll wait up 
for John and Victoria to come home.* 

'Better not, if you're tired. John 
may get in early, but probably Vic 
will be mooning along.' 

'What?' she cried. 'What do you 
mean by that, Jake Black?' 

' Say, Em, are you blind ? Can't you 
see there's something between her 
and Jim? Have n't you noticed that it 
is n't John he comes to see now? Have 
n't you seen how Vic spruces up nights 
when he's coming over?' 

The woman dropped her sewing in 
her lap. The needle ran into her thumb. 
Mechanically, she pulled it out. She 
was so intent, looking at him, trying to 
grasp his meaning, that she did not 
notice the drops of blood which fell on 
her mending. When she spoke, it was 
with difficulty. 

'Oh, Jake, it can't be. It just can't 

'Why can't it?' 

' Why, he 's not good enough for Vic- 

'Not good enough? Why, what's 
the matter with Jim? I never heard a 
word against him and I ' ve known him 
ever since he was a little shaver. 
He's steady as can be, and a hard 

' I know all that. I was n't think- 
ing about such things. I was thinking 
about oh, about other things.' 

'Other things? Well, what on earth 
is the matter with the other things? 
Forman's place is as good as any here- 
abouts, and it's clear, and only three 
children to be divided among. There 's 
money in the bank, too, I'll bet.' 

'But Victoria is so young, Jake. 
Why, she 's just a girl !' 



* She's old as you was, when we got 
married, Em.' 

He went into the kitchen for an- 
other drink of water. When he came 
through the room, he bent over to pick 
up his shoes. 'Say, Em,' he said, 'you 
surely don't mean what you've been 
saying, do you, about Jim not being 
good enough for Vic? 'Cause it ain't 
likely that she'll ever get another 
chance as good.' 

She did not answer. The man look- 
ing at her, the man who had lived with 
her for more than twenty years, did 
not know that a sudden rage against 
life was in her heart. He did not know 
that the lost dreams of her youth were 
crying out in her against the treachery 
of life. He did not know that the 
blindfold which the years had merci- 
fully bound across her eyes had fallen 
away, and that she was seeing the ever- 
lasting tragedy of the conflict between 
dreams and life. He did not know that, 
in that moment, she was facing the 
supreme sorrow of motherhood in the 
knowledge that the beloved child can- 
not be spared the disillusions of the 
years. He only knew that she was 

'Don't you be giving Vic any of 
your queer notions,' he said in a voice 
which was almost harsh. Jacob Black 
was an easy-going man. But he had 
set his heart on seeing his daughter the 
wife of Jim Forman. Did not the For- 
man farm join his on the southeast? 

Until she heard him walking around 
in their bedroom overhead, she sewed 
on. Then she laid down her work. She 
picked up the picture. It was small, 
but she held it clutched in both hands, 
as though it were heavy. It would not 
have mattered to her if she had known 
that critics of art scoffed at the pic- 
ture. To her it was more than a mas- 
terpiece; it was a miracle. Had she 
not felt like the pictured saint, when 
she had sat at the organ, years ago? 
VOL. in -NO. i 

She, too, had raised her eyes in just 
that way, and if actual roses had not 
fallen on the keys, the mystical ones 
of hopes too fragile for words, and 
beauties only dreamed of, had fallen 
all about her. There was a time when 
she had played the little organ in 
church. How her soul had risen on the 
chords which she struck for the Dox- 
ology, which always came just before 
the benediction! Even after Victoria 
was born, she had played the organ 
for a time. Then the babies came very 
fast, and when one has milking to do 
and dishes to wash and one's fingers 
are needle-pricked, it is difficult to find 
the keys. Also when one works from 
daylight until dark, one wants nothing 
but rest. There is a sleep too deep for 

It was years since Emmeline Black 
had dreamed except in the terms of her 
motherhood. For herself, the dream 
had gone. She did not rebel. She ac- 
cepted. It was the way of life with 
women like her. She would not have 
said her life was hard. Jacob Black 
had been a good husband to her. Only 
a fool, having married a poor farmer, 
could expect that the dreams of a ro- 
mantic girl would ever come true. Once 
she had expected it, of course. That 
was when Jacob Black had seemed 
as a prince to Emmeline Mead. She 
had felt the wing of romance as it 
brushed past her. But that was long 
ago. She did n't like the routine of her 
life. But neither did she hate it. For 
herself, it had come to seem the nat- 
ural, the expected thing. But for Vic- 

Her dreams had not all gone when 
Victoria was born. That first year of 
her marriage, it had seemed like play- 
ing at being a housekeeper to do the 
work for Jacob and herself. She had 
loved her garden, and often, just be- 
cause she had loved to be with him 
and because she loved the smell of the 



earth and the growing things which 
came from it, she had gone into the 
fields with her husband. Then when 
the year was almost gone, her baby 
had been born. She had loved the 
other children as they came, and she 
had grieved for the girls and the boy 
who had died, but Victoria was the 
child of her dreams. The other child- 
ren had been named for aunts and 
uncles and grandfathers, and so had 
satisfied family pride. But that first 
baby had been named for a queen. 

None of the boys cared for music. 
They 'took after' the Black family. 
But Victoria, so Emmeline felt, be- 
longed to her. She had always been 
able to 'play by ear,' and her voice 
was sweet and true. The butter-and- 
egg money for a long time had gone for 
music lessons for Victoria. When the 
girl was twelve, her mother had begun 
a secret fund. Every week she pilfered 
a few pennies from her own small in- 
come and put them away. Some time, 
Victoria was to go to the city and have 
lessons from the best teacher there. 
For five years she did not purchase a 
thing for herself to wear, except now 
and then a dress pattern of calico. 
That was no real sacrifice to her. The 
hard thing was to deny pretty clothes 
to Victoria. Then a year of sickness 
came. She tried to forget the little 
sum of money hidden away. Surely 
their father could pay the bills. If she 
had spent the butter-and-egg money, 
as he had thought she had done, he 
would have had to pay them alone. 
But when the doctor said that Henry 
must be taken to the county-seat for 
an operation, there was no thought 
of questioning her duty. Her husband 
had been surprised and relieved when 
she gave him her little hoard. It was 
another proof that he had a good wife, 
and one who was not foolish about 

At last, her sewing was finished. She 

went into the kitchen and began to set 
the bread. But her thoughts were not 
on it. She was thinking of Emmeline 
Mead and her dreams, and how they 
had failed her. She had expected Vic- 
toria Black to redeem those dreams. 
And now Victoria was to marry and go 
the same hard way toward drab mid- 
dle-age. She heard some one step on 
the front porch. There was a low mur- 
mur of voices for a moment and a lit- 
tle half-stifled laugh. Then the door 

'Mother, is that you?' came some- 
thing which sounded half- whisper, half- 
laugh from the door. 

She raised her eyes from the bread- 
pan. She smiled. But she could not 
speak. It seemed as if the fingers of 
some world-large hand had fastened 
around her heart. To her Victoria had 
always been the most beautiful, the 
most wonderful being, on earth. But 
she had never seen this Victoria before. 
The girl was standing in the door; eyes 
shining, lips trembling, her slim young 
body swaying as if to some hidden 
harmony. Then she leaped across the 
kitchen, and threw her strong arms 
round her mother. 

'I'm so glad you're up and alone! 
Oh, mother, I had to see you to-night. 
I could n't have gone to bed without 
talking to you. I was thinking it was 
a blessed thing father always sleeps so 
hard, for I could tip-toe in and get you 
and he'd never know the difference.' 
She stifled a little laugh and went on, 
'Come on, outdoors. It is too lovely 
to stay inside.' She drew her mother, 
who had not yet spoken, through the 
door. 'I guess, mother,' she said, as 
if suddenly shy when the confines of 
the kitchen were left behind for the 
star-lighted night, 'that you know 
what it is, don't you?' 

For answer, Emmeline Black sobbed. 

'Don't, mother, don't. You must n't 
mind. Just think how near home I'll 



be. Is n't that something to be glad 

Her mother nodded her head as 
she wiped her eyes on her gingham 

'I wondered if you saw it coming?' 
the girlish voice went on. 'You never 
let on, and the kids never teased me 
any. So I thought perhaps you told 
'em not to. I have n't felt like being 
teased about Jim, someway. It 's been 
too wonderful, you know.' 

Not until that moment did Emme- 
line Black acknowledge the defeat of 
her dreams. Wonderful! To love and 
be loved by Jim Forman, of whom the 
most that could be said was that he 
was steady and a hard worker, and 
that there were only two other child- 
ren to share his father's farm! 

'Don't cry, mother,' implored Vic- 
toria, ' though I know why you 're do- 
ing it. I feel like crying, too, only 
something won't let me cry to-night. I 
guess I 'm just too happy ever to cry 

Still her mother had not spoken. She 
had stopped crying and stood twisting 
her apron with nervous fingers. 

'Mother,' said Victoria, suddenly, 
'you like Jim, don't you?' She said 
it as if the possibility of any one's not 
liking Jim was preposterous. But, 
nevertheless, there was anxiety in her 

Her mother nodded her head. 

'Then why are n't you really glad? 
I thought you would be, mother.' 

There was no resisting that appeal 
in Victoria's voice. Never in her life 
had she failed her daughter. Was she 
to fail her in this hour? 

'You seem like a little girl to me, 
Victoria,' she found voice to say, at 
last. 'I guess all mothers feel like this 
when their daughters tell them they 
are going to leave them. I reckon I 
never understood until just now, why 
my mother acted just like she did when 

I told her your father and I were going 
to be married.' 

Victoria laughed joyously. 'I'm 
not a little girl. I'm a woman. And, 
mother, Jim is so good. He wants to 
be married right away. He says he 
can't bear to think of waiting. But 
he said I was to tell you that if you 
could n't spare me for a while, it would 
be all right.' There was pride in her 
lover's generosity. But deeper than 
that was the woman's pride in the 
knowledge that he could n't ' bear to 
think of waiting.' 

' It is n't that I can't spare you, 
dear,' said her mother. 'But oh, Vic- 
toria, I'd wanted to have you go off 
and study to be a fine musician. I've 
dreamed of it ever since you were born.' 

'But I could n't go even if it was 
n't for Jim. Where would we ever get 
the money? Anyway, mother, Jim is 
going to buy me a piano. What do 
you think of that?' 

'A piano?' 

'Yes. He has been saving money 
for it for years. He says I play too 
well for an old-fashioned organ. And 
on our wedding trip we're going to 
Chicago, and we 're going to pick it 
out there, and we're going to a con- 
cert and to a theatre and to some show 
that has music in it.' 

In spite of herself, Emmeline Black 
was dazzled. In all her life she never 
had gone to the city except in her 
dreams. Until that far-off day of 
magic when Victoria should be a 'fine 
musician' she had never hoped to re- 
place the squeaky little organ with a 

'He says he has planned it ever 
since he loved me, and that has been 
nearly always. He says he can just 
see me sitting at the piano playing to 
him nights when he comes in from 
work. I guess, mother, we all have to 
have our dreams. And now Jim's and 
mine are coming true.' 



'Have you always dreamed things, 
too?' asked her mother. It did not 
seem strange to her that she and this 
beloved child of hers had never talked 
about the things which were in their 
hearts until this night. Mothers and 
daughters were like that. But there 
was a secret jealousy in knowing that 
they would not have found the way to 
those hidden things if it had not been 
for Jim Forman. It was he, and not 
she, who had unlocked the secrets of 
Victoria's heart. 

* Why, yes, of course, mother. Don't 
you remember how you used to ask 
me what was the matter when I was 
a little girl and would go off some- 
times by myself and sit and look across 
the fields? I did n't know how to tell 
you. I did n't know just what it was. 
And don't you remember asking me 
sometimes if I was sick or if somebody 
had hurt my feelings, because you'd 
see tears in my eyes? I'd tell you no. 
But someway I could n't tell you it 
was because the red of the sunset or 
the apple trees in blossom or the cres- 
cent moon, or whatever it happened 
to be, made me feel so queer inside.' 
She laughed, but there was a hint of a 
sob in her voice. * Is n't it strange, 
mother, that we don't seem able to tell 
folks any of these things? I could n't 
tell you even now, except that I al- 
ways had an idea you'd felt just the 
same way, yourself. I seemed to know 
I got the dreams from you.' 

'Hush,' warned her mother. * There's 
some one coming. Oh, John, is that 

* Yes . Why don't you two go to bed ? ' 
answered the boy. 'It's getting late, 
and there's a lot to do to-morrow.' 

'It is bedtime, I guess,' said his mo- 
ther. 'Run along, Victoria. And sweet 

She cautioned John and his sister 
not to waken the others, as they pre- 
pared for bed. She walked into the 

house. She tried the clock. Yes, Jake 
had wound it. She locked the door. 
She folded her mending neatly and 
put it away. She placed Minnie Jack- 
son's letter in the drawer of the table. 
She took the picture of St. Cecilia and 
balanced it on the little shelf above 
the organ, where had been a china vase 
with dried grasses in it. She stood off 
and looked at it critically. She de- 
cided that was the very place for the 
picture. She looked around the room 
for a place to put the vase, and made 
room for it on top of the little pine book- 
case. She walked to the table and hunt- 
ed in the drawer until she found pen 
and ink and a piece of ruled paper. 

'Dear Minnie,' she wrote in her 
cramped, old-fashioned hand, 'I was 
so glad to get your note and the pic- 
ture. I want to thank you for it. Can't 
you come out right away and spend 
the day with me? I have so much to 
tell you, and I want that you should 
tell me all about yourself, too. You 
see I'm keeping the vow, just as you 
did, although we had forgotten it for 
so long. Is n't it strange, Minnie, 
about things? Here I'd thought for 
years that my dreams were gone. And 
now it seems Victoria had them, all the 
time. It's a secret yet, but I want to 
tell you, and I know she won't mind, 
that Victoria is going to be married. 
You know Jim Forman, don't you? 
Anyway, you knew Cy Forman and 
Milly Davis, and he 's their eldest child. 
I hope Victoria can keep the dreams 
for herself better than I did. Perhaps 
she can. She's going to have things 
easier than I have, I hope. But if she 
can't, surely she can keep them until 
she has a child to give them to, just as 
I gave mine to her. I never thought 
of it before, but it seems to me to-night 
that perhaps that is the surest way 
there is of having our dreams last. I 
don't see how I 'm going to stand it to 
see my girl growing fat and tired and 

SOULS 117 

old from hard work, like I've done, know it now. Come out soon, Minnie. 

But there is another side to it. You're We'll have so much to talk about, and 

a mother, too, Minnie, so I guess I I want that you and Victoria should 

don't need to tell you that all the know each other.' 

music and all the pictures in the world She folded the paper and slipped it 

would n't make up to me, now, for my into an envelope which she addressed 

children. We did n't know that when and stamped. Then she blew out the 

we had our " fancies," did we? But we light. 



MY Soul goes clad in gorgeous things, 

Scarlet and gold and blue; 
And at her shoulders sudden wings 

Like long flames flicker through. 

And she is swallow-fleet, and free 

From mortal bonds and bars: 
She laughs, because Eternity 

Blossoms for her with stars! 

Oh, folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, 

My dull and foolish face, 
Can ye not see my Soul flash down, 

A singing flame in space? 

And, folk whose earth-stained looks I hate, 

Why may I not divine 
Your Souls, that must be passionate, 

Shining and swift, as mine? 



'THE Census Office is of the opinion 
that the present enumeration will be 
the last one to be taken of the Indians 
in their present status. It is believed 
that before the time arrives for making 
the next count of the country's inhab- 
itants a very large percentage of those 
now holding tribal relations will have 
become citizens, and will no longer be 
regarded as Indians, except in a racial 
or historical sense.' 

These are the words of the Honor- 
able E. Dana Durand, Director of the 
Census, in a note to the writer of this 
article. This means that before 1920 
practically all of the tribal organiza- 
tions will have dissolved, except in so 
far as some of them may be continued 
for social or historical purposes; com- 
munal holdings of property will have 
given way to individual ownership, 
and the red men will have merged 
themselves into the mass of the coun- 
try's voting population. In the march 
from savagery to citizenship the Indian 
has traveled a long road, with many 
windings and turnings, and with many 
halts by the way; but at last the end 
seems to be in sight. Let us glance over 
the course, learn something of the men 
who traversed it, and get a glimpse of 
some of its principal landmarks. 

'In order to win the friendship of 
that people ... I presented some of 
them with red caps and some strings of 
glass beads, which they placed around 
their necks, and with other trifles of 


insignificant worth which delighted 
them, and by which we got a wonderful 
hold on their affections. They after- 
ward came to the boats of the vessels 
swimming, bringing us parrots, cotton 
thread in balls, and spears, and many 
other things, which they bartered for 
others we gave them, as glass beads 
and little bells. Finally they received 
everything and gave whatever they 
had with good-will.' 

This is an entry in Columbus 's jour- 
nal describing the natives of that mem- 
ber of the Bahama group on which he 
made his first landing in the New 
World. We call it Watlings Island. As 
he was looking for Asia, and supposed 
the island to be an outpost of the East 
Indies, he called the natives Indians, a 
name which was afterward extended to 
all the original denizens of the Western 

But the aborigines who were met by 
the first white men to reach the main- 
land of the present United States 
all of whom belonged to the country 
under whose flag Columbus sailed 
were of a more robust breed, morally as 
well as physically, than were those who 
greeted the Great Admiral at the New 
World's gateway. Kind and generous 
at the outset, but ready to strike back 
when ill-treated, were the Indians who 
were encountered by Ponce de Leon, 
when he sailed northward from our 
present Porto Rico, in 1513, landed at 
a point near St. Augustine, and called 
the country Florida, on account of its 
abundant vegetation. He died a few 
years later from the effects of a wound 



dealt by one of his red assailants. Like 
characteristics marked those met by 
Narvaez, who entered Florida in 1527 
at the head of a large expedition, and 
was drowned near the mouth of the 
Mississippi; a few of his men, after 
wandering as captives throughout 
Louisiana and Texas, and braving 
many hardships and perils, reaching 
Culiacan, on the west coast of Mexico, 
in 1536. 

De Soto, who began, in 1539, to 
traverse the country from Florida to 
Arkansas and Missouri, with a great 
army, witnesses to these same traits. 
He was buried at midnight in the Mis- 
sissippi, so as to keep his body out of 
the hands of his red foes; and his fol- 
lowers, reduced to a mere remnant, 
fled down the Mississippi, pursued for 
many miles by his enemies in canoes 
and on land, reaching safety in Panuco, 
Mexico, in 1543. And Coronado and 
his soldiers, in their foray between 
1540 and 1542, which carried them 
from the Gulf of California up to 
within sight of the Missouri River in 
Kansas, give us a similar picture of the 
red man. De Soto and Coronado were 
here two thirds of a century before the 
advent of the Jamestown colony, the 
first permanent settlement of English- 
speaking people on the American con- 
tinent, and antedated by two years 
Champlain's arrival at Quebec with 
the earliest French colony on this side 
of the Atlantic, which persisted. 

Why was it that the Spaniards were 
the first white men with whom the 
American aborigines on the Atlantic 
seaboard and the Pacific slope came 
in contact? Because in the sixteenth 
century Spain had a little of the pre- 
eminence among the nations of the 
world which belonged to Rome in the 
third and fourth. Those were the spa- 
cious times of Charles V. The Isthmus 
of Panama, across which the United 
States government is building its in- 

ter-oceanic waterway, was discovered 
and penetrated in 1513 by 

stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise 
Silent upon a peak in Darien. 

But it was Balboa, another Span- 
iard, and not Cortez, who was there. 
Keats was writing poetry, not history. 
Under Magellan, in 1519, a Spanish 
fleet passed through the straits since 
called by his name at the lower end of 
South America, entered the Pacific, 
and touched at the Philippines, where 
Magellan was killed in a conflict with 
the natives. By way of the Indian 
Ocean and the Cape of Good Hope, 
a part of his followers reached their 
starting-point. They were the first to 
sail round the globe. Those were days 
when Spain blazed paths for the na- 
tions across the world's seas. 

England and France attempted to 
plant colonies in North America in the 
sixteenth century: the English under 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter 
Raleigh, and the French under Cartier 
and others; but all their projects failed. 
Spain had the continent to herself until 
England appeared at Jamestown in 
1607, France at Quebec in 1608, Hol- 
land on Manhattan Island in 1613, 
and Sweden on the Delaware in 1638. 
The settlements of the Swedes were 
captured by the Dutch in 1655, and 
the Dutch colonies were absorbed by 
the English in 1664. Thus, early in the 
European occupation of spots on this 
continent, the Indians came in contact 
with five distinct families of the white 



And what a diversity of names, and 
in some cases of traits and customs, 
was possessed by the tribes or clans 
whom the first whites encountered in 
the territory of the present United 
States! There were the Wampanoags, 



Pequots, and Narragansetts in New 
England and the Middle States; the 
Powhatans in Virginia; the Creeks in 
Georgia; the Seminoles in Florida; the 
Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Natchez 
along the Gulf coast for a few hundred 
miles inland ; the Apaches, Comanches, 
and Navajoes in Texas, New Mexico, 
and Arizona; with the Missouris, Paw- 
nees, Osages, Sioux, Crows, Winneba- 
goes, Chippewas, and Blackfeet, farther 
to the north and northwest. And far 
more formidable, both as friends and 
as enemies, than any of those tribes, 
were the Iroquois, or Five Nations 
(the Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, 
Cayugas, and Senecas), who occupied 
the whole of northern New York, from 
Lake Champlain to Lake Erie. We 
need not wonder that the numbers of 
the aborigines were placed far too high 
by the earlier writers. Here are some 
of the reasons therefor : 

The first hunters, explorers, mis- 
sionaries, and traders journeyed by 
way of the sea-coast, the rivers, and 
the lakes, along which the Indians were 
most numerous. 

In their incursions into the interior 
of the country the whites attracted the 
Indians through curiosity, and thought 
they were equally numerous elsewhere; 
but vast stretches of forest and prairie 
were absolutely untenanted, except for 
short times each year when visited by 

During the year, war and the chase 
often took the same bands of Indians 
to several points far removed from 
each other. The whites thought these 
were different tribes. 

Many tribes were called by different 
names by the Spaniards, the English, 
and the French, and among some tribes 
the names varied at different places 
and times. 

The area needed to support a per- 
son by hunting, supplemented by the 
crude cultivation of the soil, was many 

times as great as would be required 
under modern agricultural and indus- 
trial conditions. 

Obviously the estimates of fifteen or 
twenty millions for the Indians living 
three or four centuries ago in the ter- 
ritory comprised in the present United 
States were far too large. While war, 
hunger, and the perils of the chase 
undoubtedly brought the mortality 
among the red men to a high figure, it 
seems safe to say that less than one mil- 
lion were here when Columbus landed 
in the Western Hemisphere. The pre- 
sent number is less than a third of that 
figure, and the absence of war and the 
advent of improved hygienic condi- 
tions are bringing a steady increase 
among them. Nevertheless, they were 
numerous and courageous enough to 
have made it exceedingly difficult, had 
they so desired, for the whites to obtain 
a foothold on this continent. In most 
cases, however, in the beginning, they 
lent the whites a helping hand. 

With all their boasted superiority in 
civilization and adaptability to alien 
and changing conditions, how helpless 
the whites must have seemed to the 
aborigines ! They were few in numbers 
and feeble in equipment and supplies. 
Especially to the Pilgrims at Plymouth, 
on their arrival at the beginning of a 
long and severe winter, the outlook 
was to the last degree hostile. Corn was 
native to America. Without it early 
settlers could hardly have maintained 
themselves. The Indians furnished 
Raleigh's colonists at Roanoke with 
corn, also with fish and fruits. Their 
short career would have been shorter 
had not the red men gone to their res- 
cue and warded off starvation. 

Not only did the Powhatans supply 
Captain John Smith and his James- 
town associates with corn, but they 
showed them how to cultivate it. 
Under the Indian supervision forty 
acres of it were planted, and famine was 



averted. The Narragansetts rendered 
a like service to Bradford and his Ply- 
mouth brethren, and with rude nets 
caught alewives for them with which to 
fertilize the ground. In the densely 
wooded regions, where it was impos- 
sible to make clearings in time to raise 
a crop, the red men taught the whites 
how to girdle the trees with fire, thus 
killing the foliage and letting in the 
sunshine. They showed the settlers 
how to dry corn so as to utilize it on 
long journeys, thus removing a serious 
obstacle to travel in the wilderness. 

The early English, Dutch, and French 
visitors to this continent marveled at 
the serviceableness of the canoes, some 
of which were large enough to hold a 
dozen men, and light enough to be 
carried on the shoulders of two or three 
at the portages bet ween different water- 
courses, or in going around rapids. The 
Indians told the white men how to 
make them. The'snow-shoes by which 
the Indians traversed great distances, 
and without which, for mouths at a 
time each year, hunting or travel would 
have been impossible, were a revelation 
to the whites, but they were taught 
how to make and use them. Years be- 
fore the heliograph was invented white 
men saw the Indians of the plains, 
Sioux, Pawnees, Apaches, and others, 
first by some crude surface and after- 
ward by pieces of looking-glass, send 
signal flashes many miles. 

All these things the Indians did for 
the whites. They did more. By keep- 
ing their treaty promises they show- 
ed an example to their new neighbors 
which, unhappily, the latter often for- 
got. They were in the Stone Age of 
development when first met, but they 
adapted themselves to their new envi- 
ronment with much skill; indeed, the 
whites in their own Stone Age were not 
more adaptive than these red men. 

Cupidity and a desire to enlist them 
as allies against other white or red men 

induced Spaniards, English, Dutch, and 
French to sell firearms to the Indians, 
and in their use they soon became as 
proficient as the whites. The horses 
introduced by Cortez in Mexico, by 
Coronado in California and other parts 
of the Southwest, and by De Soto and 
others in the southern end of the Mis- 
sissippi Valley, were the progenitors 
of the vast droves of mustangs which 
were seen by hunters, trappers, and 
explorers in the Far West a century ago 
and later, and from which many of the 
domestic animals descended. In util- 
izing them the Indians, especially the 
Comanches, Apaches, Pawnees, Sioux, 
and Blackfeet, quickly surpassed the 

In the wars which reddened the an- 
nals of the frontier in our march from 
the Connecticut and the James to the 
Columbia and the Sacramento, the In- 
dians proved themselves to be far more 
effective fighters than any other mem- 
bers of the * inferior races ' encountered 
by white men elsewhere in the world. 
By a significant circumstance, the red 
men of the territory comprised in the 
present United States were much more 
capable warriors than were those in 
Canada, Mexico, or South America. 
And by their wars the Indians rendered 
a better service to the whites than they 
intended, and than the whites dreamed. 
The British colonists were thereby pre- 
vented from scattering through the 
wilderness as the French had done in 
Canada and the Spaniards in Mexico; 
they were compelled to frame the ma- 
chinery of self-government, they im- 
bibed a military spirit which enabled 
them to aid in defeating the French 
in Canada when the struggle between 
the two countries came, and thus a 
desire for independence was aroused 
which asserted itself against England 
as soon as the French were driven out. 
Many of the followers of Putnam, Pres- 
cott, and Stark, who held Bunker Hill 


against Gage's veterans, were the de- 
scendants of the men who fought 
Metacomet and Canonchet. Campbell, 
Shelby, Sevier, and the rest of the Caro- 
linians, Georgians, Tennesseeans, and 
Kentuckians, when at King's Moun- 
tain they were crushing Cornwallis's 
fierce fighters under Ferguson, were 
applying the lessons which they had 
learned in battling with Creeks, Chero- 
kees, and Shawnees. 


'The Empire State, as you love to 
call it,' said Peter Wilson, a Cayuga 
chief, at a meeting of the New York 
Historical Society in 1847, 'was once 
laced by our trails from Albany to Buf- 
falo. Your roads still traverse the same 
lines of communication which bound 
one part of the Long House to the 
other. Have we, the first holders of 
this prosperous region, no longer a 
share in your history? Glad were your 
fathers to sit down upon the threshold 
of the Long House. Had our fathers 
spurned you from it when the French 
were thundering at the opposite gate to 
get a passage through and drive you 
into the sea, whatever has been the fate 
of other Indians, the Iroquois might 
still have been a nation, and I, in- 
stead of pleading here for the privilege 
of living within your borders might 
still have a country.' 

This was no vain boast. The con- 
federation for which the Cayuga chief 
spoke had a vast influence in shaping 
the affairs of that part of the continent 
comprised in the present United States. 
The service of the Iroquois to the An- 
glo-Saxon race began when Champlain, 
the Governor of Canada, as an ally of 
the Hurons and Ottawas, defeated the 
Mohawks, in 1609, on the banks of the 
lake which has since then borne his 
name. This turned the confederation 
to the side of the Dutch and the Eng- 

lish, the successive occupants of New 
York, and prevented the French from 
getting control of the valleys of the 
Mohawk and the Hudson, from cutting 
the then feeble English settlements in 
two, and from capturing each section, 
the New England and the Southern, in 

For generations the Iroquois held the 
upper waters of the Mohawk, Dela- 
ware, and Susquehanna. They shut the 
French out of the Ohio Valley for a 
century, giving the English on the 
Atlantic an opportunity to strengthen 
themselves there and build up settle- 
ments which contained several times 
as many inhabitants as the French 
colonies in Canada and on the lower 
Mississippi. And when, at last, they 
began to permit some of the French to 
enter the coveted region and make a 
fight for control of the Forks of the 
Ohio, the English had gained sufficient 
power to battle valiantly against them, 
and at last to drive them out. 

With home rule for each tribe, and 
with a central council composed of 
delegates from all of them, the Five 
Nations had a federal scheme centuries 
before the Philadelphia Convention of 
1787 framed one for the United States. 
Centuries before the formation of the 
triple alliance of Germany, Austria- 
Hungary, and Italy, the Iroquois had a 
quintuple alliance, which was made 
sextuple in 1715, when the Tuscaroras 
entered the league. Before Geneva 
conferences or Hague courts were ever 
dreamed of, these tribes settled dis- 
putes between themselves amicably. 
At the time of the advent of the whites 
on this continent the Iroquois, as over- 
lords of the tribes extending from Lake 
Champlain to the Mississippi, and from 
the great lakes to the Savannah, ruled 
over a larger empire than Rome in the 
days of Trajan. 

Through the whole wilderness of 
North America the Indians blazed 


paths for the whites. They led Cham- 
plain and his associates through the 
Canadian forests and along its rivers 
and lakes; piloted Joliet and Mar- 
quette down the Wisconsin into the 
Mississippi, and along the latter to the 
mouth of the Arkansas; and guided La 
Salle by way of the Illinois and the 
Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, at 
which point that explorer 'took pos- 
session ' of all the lands drained by that 
river and its tributaries for Louis XIV. 
Not only did the course of empire 
through New York, Pennsylvania, and 
Ohio lie along the red men's trails, but 
Boone, Harrod, Sevier, Robertson, and 
the rest of the pioneers of Kentucky 
and Tennessee followed paths laid out 
by the aborigines. A Shoshone girl, 
Sacajawea, led Lewis and Clark over 
the Rocky Mountains and through the 
perils beyond, and saved their expedi- 
tion from disaster, a service which was 
commemorated by a statue to her at 
the St. Louis World's Fair of 1904, and 
by memorials in Portland, Oregon, and 
other places in the Trans-Mississippi 

Moreover, the Indian's social im- 
portance long ago projected itself into 
politics. At the bidding of the East, 
Monroe and every other President on- 
ward, to and including Tyler, had a 
hand in an endeavor to create a great 
preserve for the red men along the 
western border of Arkansas, Missouri, 
and Iowa, which would have closed the 
overland route to Oregon to settlers, 
and thus have given England a free 
hand in her effort to gain undisputed 
possession of all the region west of the 
Rocky Mountains and north of Mex- 
ico's territory of New Mexico and Cali- 
fornia. Thus the United States would 
have been shut out of the locality com- 
prised in the present states of Ore- 
gon, Washington, and Idaho, and part 
of the western border of Montana and 

Stephen A. Douglas told this to his 
Boswell, James Madison Cutts, in 
1854. This, indeed, was a manifesta- 
tion of the Eastern states' old jealousy 
of the growth of the West, which was 
first voiced in a conspicuous way by 
Josiah Quincy of Massachusetts in the 
House of Representatives in 1811, 
when he opposed the creation of the 
State of Louisiana, and when he said 
that he heard that six states would, at 
some time in the future, be established 
west of the Mississippi, and that the 
mouth of the Ohio would be east of the 
geographical centre of the contem- 
plated empire. Douglas said that he 
halted this conspiracy by his bill for 
the organization of the territory of 
Nebraska, first introduced in Congress 
by him in 1844, in the latter part of 
Tyler's presidency, and kept by him 
constantly at the front until it passed 
ten years later. As enacted in 1854, 
however, it provided for two territories, 
Kansas and Nebraska, instead of one. 

Thus the Indian innocently had a 
hand in inciting one of the most fateful 
measures ever passed by Congress. By 
repealing the Missouri Compromise of 
1820, the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854 
gave slavery an equal opportunity 
with freedom to gain possession of a 
region from which slavery had been 
excluded by the Missouri adjustment. 
At this breach of a compact which was 
intended by its framers to be perma- 
nent, a wave of indignation and alarm 
swept through the free states, which 
split the Whig party on Mason and 
Dixon's Line, and sent most of the 
friends of freedom a majority of the 
Northern Whigs, many of the anti- 
slavery Democrats, nearly all the 
Northern Know-Nothings, and all the 
Abolitionists and Free-Soilers into 
the coalition which became the Repub- 
lican party. The triumph of that party 
in 1860 sent eleven Southern states into 
secession, and precipitated the Civil 



War, which destroyed slavery and, in- 
cidentally, thrust upon the country 
race-issues which embarrass us to this 


Moreover, in the country's social 
and political life of to-day the red man 
is a factor of some importance. Exclu- 
sive of those in Alaska, there were 
243,534 Indians in the United States in 
1890, 270,544 in 1900, and 304,950 in 

1910. These figures are furnished by 
the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, 
and, except for 1900, are larger than 
those given out by the Director of the 
Census. The figures given here are 
those of the Census Bureau, supple- 
mented by enumerations made by 
representatives of the Indian Office. 
According to the count made by the 
Indian Office the number of Indians in 
the country at the end of 1911 was 
323,783, distributed as follows: 





North Dakota 
























Rhode Island 






South Carolina 






South Dakota 


District of Columbia 


























New Hampshire 






New Jersey 






New Mexico 


West Virginia 




New York 






North Carolina 




Contrary to the popular notion, the 
Indian race is not dying out, though 
part of the gain shown here, especially 
that of 1911 over 1910, is probably 
due to the more complete and accur- 
ate enumeration made in recent years. 
The full-bloods are diminishing, but 
the mixed breeds are increasing rap- 
idly. Nor have all the Indians aban- 
doned the [Atlantic seaboard. Maine 
and other states give a few hundred 
to New England; the 6,046 in New 
York, principally remnants of the Iro- 
quois, represent the large number of 
these, and of the Algonquins, who once 
occupied the region covered by the old 
Middle States; while North Carolina 
has more than two thirds of those left 
in the South. Nine tenths of all the 
Indians are west of the Mississippi, 

Oklahoma holding more of them than 
any other community. Of the 117,247 
in that State, 101,287 belong to the 
Five Civilized Tribes. These include, 
however, 23,345 freedmen, the slaves of 
the era preceding the adoption of the 
Thirteenth Amendment, and their de- 
scendants, and 2,582 whites who have 
married into the tribes. These 101,287 
distribute themselves as follows: 
Cherokees, 41,701; Choctaws, 26,762; 
Creeks, 18,717; Chickasaws, 10,984; 
Seminoles, 3,123. 

As used here, the term * civilized ' 
means precisely what it professes to 
mean. For two generations preceding 
1907, when they became merged in the 
general mass of the country's citizen- 
ship, each of these tribes had its own 
legislature, executive and judiciary, 



and governed itself wth comparatively 
little interference from Washington. 
Its members had farms, mines, mills, 
mercantile houses, schools, churches, 
and banks, and engaged in most of 
the employments in vogue in the white 
communities of their region. These 
tribes occupied, and still occupy, that 
part of the present State of Oklahoma 
which was formerly called the Indian 

Some advances in their social status 
have also been made by more than half 
of the remaining 203,000 Indians. Over 
25,000 of their children attend the 
government, missionary, and contract 
schools. To its wards the government 
is a liberal and considerate guardian. 
In recent times its appropriations for 
Indian schools have averaged nearly 
$4,000,000 annually. For various pur- 
poses Uncle Sam's expenditures on 
Indian account, from Washington's in- 
auguration in 1789 to the middle of 
President Taft's term in 1911, aggre- 
gated $520,000,000. 

Much of the education which the 
Indian pupils receive in the govern- 
ment schools is practical, comprising 
farming, fruit- and stock-raising and 
the elemental trades for the boys, and 
cooking, sewing, nursing, and launder- 
ing for the girls. Especial attention is 
given to agriculture. Experts are em- 
ployed on the reservations to teach the 
most approved methods of cultivation 
of the soil, and experiment farms have 
been established to discover the crops 
which can be raised most advanta- 
geously in the various localities. To 
stimulate the interest of the pupils, old 
and young, they are encouraged to 
hold agricultural fairs, where live stock 
and produce are exhibited. 

Hundreds of Indians are working on 
the government's irrigation schemes. 
Railroads are offering employment to 
boys who are learning trades, or who 
show any inclination for mechanics. 

Cooperation between the Bureau of 
Indian Affairs and private corporations 
is enabling our wards to improve their 
economic condition, and to meet the 
demands of civilization. In many di- 
rections, opportunity stretches out its 
hands to the red man and starts him on 
the road toward social independence. 

The progress of the Indian in the 
past quarter-century, especially since 
the enactment of the Dawes Severalty 
Law in 1887, which gave individual 
ownership of lands to such of them as 
sought it, and were prepared for it, 
who thereby virtually became citizens, 
has been greater than any other peo- 
ple ever made in the same length of 
time in the world's history. 

'My people want to live as in the 
days that are gone, before the pale- 
faces took from us the lands that were 
ours. We don't want schools or school- 
teachers. We want to be let alone to 
live as we wish, to roam free without 
the white man always being there to 
tell us what we must do and what we 
will not be allowed to do.' 

It was the plaint of an aged Hopi 
chief from the reservation of his tribe 
in far-off Arizona, uttered in the White 
House, inveighing against the new or- 
der which the white man brought. It 
was a plea for the resurrection of the 
dead past of a past which began to 
die before this old sachem had reached 
middle life, and which would be infin- 
itely more difficult to revive than it 
would be to bring back the vast herds 
of buffalo which stretched across the 
landscape from the Missouri to the 
Sacramento and from the Red River of 
Arkansas to the Red River of the 
North, in the days when the old chief 
was young. 

Except in a few spots, the blanket 
Indian has vanished. He is almost 



as rare a sight to-day in Muskogee 
or Vinita as he would be in Albany 
or Hartford. In proportion to the num- 
ber of inhabitants there are very near- 
ly as many pianos and automobiles in 
the towns of the old Cherokee nation 
in the present State of Oklahoma as 
there are in those of Vermont or Dela- 
ware. The only Indians who are in the 
old, free, nomadic condition which the 
Hopi warrior would restore are about 
two hundred Seminoles in the Florida 
Everglades and the big cypress mo- 
rass. These Indians are as independ- 
ent of the white man, and almost as 
isolated from him, as were their fore- 
fathers when Ponce de Leon and De 
So to landed in their neighborhood. 
They are neither citizens nor wards of 
the United States, nor do they hold 
any relation to their old associates who 
were transferred by the government to 
the west side of the Mississippi two 
thirds of a century ago, and who be- 
came one of the Five Civilized Tribes 
of the present State of Oklahoma. 

A better representative of the red 
men of to-day than is the old Hopi 
chief is the grandson of Sitting Bull, 
the Sitting Bull who assisted in the 
slaying of Ciister and his three hun- 
dred, who tells his brethren that 
their need is 'more religion and less 
fire-water.' He is a product of the gov- 
ernment's schools, such as Carlisle and 
Haskell, which bring members of many 
tribes together, and place them in as- 
sociation with whites, compelling them 
to look beyond their reservations and 
their clans, and holding out to them 
the goal of citizenship. 

For reasons which may be easily 
guessed, the Indian fits well into the 
new order. On the whole, reputable 
fiction and the drama have treated him 
with tolerable fairness. They have 
never made him an object of derision, 
as they have representatives of other 
ethnic types, including the Caucasian. 

Always fearless, generally dignified, 
sometimes vindictive, as he is por- 
trayed in books and on the stage, he is 
never made contemptible. Unlike the 
Negro, he is never subservient or ob- 
sequious. Assailed as he was until re- 
cent times by the slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune, he has always suc- 
cessfully resisted the thraldom which 
overwhelmed white men for many cen- 
turies in earlier ages and in other coun- 
tries, and which held the blacks in 
servitude in our land within the re- 
collection of millions of men still liv- 
ing. He has never been a slave. In his 
contact with the whites in our time he 
arouses no prejudice. The superior race 
which refuses to associate on terms 
of equality with men of black, brown, 
or yellow skins, raises no social barrier 
against the red man. 

The average Indian is under no ne- 
cessity of asking concessions from his 
Caucasian associates or rivals in the 
ordinary pursuits. 'Big Chief Bender 
of the Philadelphia Athletics, wear- 
ers of the blue ribbon of the baseball 
arena; Meyer, the Seneca catcher of 
the New York 'Giants,' Thorpe, Burd, 
Arcase, and others of the Carlisle foot- 
ball team, are at the head of their re- 
spective professions. They have beaten 
hosts of whites at the white man's 
games. Harvard's football team, com- 
posed of a race which has millions to 
draw upon, was one of the great white 
schools which, in the season of 1911, 
went down before the Carlisle players, 
whose recruiting field is narrow in 
comparison. In the Olympic games at 
Stockholm, in July, 1912, Thorpe and 
Sockalexis carried off prizes in compe- 
tition with the best men in their par- 
ticular field whom Europe and Amer- 
ica could muster. As the winner of the 
pentathlon and the decathlon, Thorpe 
was acclaimed the greatest of the 
world's all-round athletes. 

Probably these triumphs would not 



bring much pride to the Hopi chief just 
mentioned. Nor would he have been 
especially pleased at a recent scene at 
the Ohio state capital in which his 
race figured. There, on the annivers- 
ary of the discovery of America, Octo- 
ber 12, 1911, in a city named for the 
discoverer, gathered representatives, 
women as well as men, of a hundred 
tribes of the people upon whom Colum- 
bus's geographical mistake fastened 
the designation of Indians. They met 
to form the American Indian Associa- 
tion. Appropriately , too, their meeting- 
place was the campus of the Ohio State 
University, for most of them, of both 
sexes, were graduates of government 
schools of the higher education or of 
white institutions of learning. Among 
them were lawyers, physicians, jour- 
nalists, bankers, educators, merchants, 
clergymen, agriculturists, and partici- 
pants in almost all the other important 
activities. They met to form the Amer- 
ican Indian Association, the purpose of 
which is to advance the interests of the 
race and, while aiming to preserve its 
best distinctive traits, to bring it into 
harmony with its new environment, 
and fit it for the role it will have to play 
in American citizenship. Appropri- 
ately, too, the Governor of Ohio, the 
Commissioner of Indian Affairs, and 
other public officers, took part in the 

Two months later, this time in 
Washington, D. C., there was a similar 
assemblage, for the same general ob- 
jects, with the added purpose of bring- 
ing the red men into political associa- 
tion. Delegates of both sexes were 
there, representing thirty-four tribes, 
scattered through more than a dozen 
states, and they formed the Brother- 
hood of North American Indians. 
After a lapse of centuries, descendants 
of the race which established the Fed- 
eration of the Iroquois, will participate 
as voters in another federal scheme. 

This time they are to be partners of 
their former enemies, to be on terms of 
equality with them, and to work for 
similar objects. United, with their new 
weapon, the ballot, the Indians could 
hold the balance in elections in Okla- 
homa, Montana, the Dakotas, Idaho, 
New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada. 
Probably fifty thousand Indian ballots 
were cast for president in 1912. 

The Indian is entering politics. He 
has already entered. Since 1907 he 
has cast thousands of votes in every 
election in Oklahoma. Members of the 
race are in the legislature of that state, 
and also in Congress. The latter in- 
clude Senator Robert L. Owen and 
Representative Charles D. Carter of 
Oklahoma, the former of Cherokee 
blood and the latter Chickasaw; and 
Senator Charles Curtis of Kansas, one 
of whose recent ancestors belonged to 
the Kaw tribe. 

At the summit of an ancient burial- 
mound in the township of Otsego, New 
York, is a marble slab on which is 
written : 

White man, greetings. We near whose bones you 

stand were Iroquois. 

The wide land which now is yours was ours. 
Friendly hands have given back to us enough for 

a tomb. 

But the red man is taking his re- 
venge. At home and abroad, in ro- 
mance and drama, he is held to be the 
distinctive American. He is the one 
man among us who is not called upon 
to place a hyphen in his title. To-day, 
as in the past, and in many tongues, 
The Last of the Mohicans and the rest of 
Cooper's forest tales are read. Puccini, 
DeMille, Hartley, Nevin, Mary Hun- 
ter Austin, and the rest of the writers of 
operas and plays who aim to extract 
the flavor of our soil, are compelled to 
call upon him. The Girl of the Golden 
West, Poia, Strongheart, The Arrow- 
Maker, and other productions which 
deal with him, are presented on the 



stage of two continents. He is the 
asset which saves the country from the 
imputation of vulgar newness. Even if 
we attempted to, we could not rid our- 
selves of him. As the world appraises 

us, the Indian is the dominant feature 
of American artistic life, an insepa- 
rable adjunct in its histrionic proper- 
ties, the Niagara of America's aesthetic 



THE great area of mountain, table- 
land, and river valley stretching from 
the Black and JSgean seas on the east, 
to the Adriatic on the west, and extend- 
ing from the Mediterranean north to 
the crest of the Tyrolese and Transyl- 
vanian Alps, has long been loosely 
designated, from historical and politi- 
cal, rather than from geographical rea- 
sons, by the single name, the Balkans; 
literally, the mountain gaps. It in- 
cludes the present independent states, 
Rumania, Bulgaria, Servia, and Mon- 
tenegro, the Balkans par excellence, 
with which belong, geographically or 
racially, Greece, European Turkey, 
and the Austrian provinces of Dal- 
matia, Croatia, Bosnia, and Herzego- 

A greater variety of people is scarce- 
ly to be found in Europe. The Slavs 
are racially in the majority; the ortho- 
dox Greek Christians outnumber the 
numerous other creeds; and the vast 
bulk of the superficial area is thinly 
sprinkled with mountaineers, superb in 
physique, dense in their ignorance of 
the rudiments of education, fierce in 
their opposition to the pressure of or- 
derly, centralized administration. The 
heterogeneous population is descended 
from the remnants of the vast disor- 

derly hordes which poured into Europe 
from Asia Minor and the Steppes of 
Russia, between the third and the 
sixteenth centuries: fragments of the 
tribes conquered by the Huns and the 
Goths during their devastating pass- 
age; sections of the invaders too weak 
to keep up with the main body; people 
driven out of the Byzantine Empire by 
the Ottoman invasions; fragments of 
the advance-guard of various expedi- 
tions who outstripped the main body 
and then, upon its retreat, were left 
behind. In development and intelli- 
gence, the people include such ex- 
tremes as the scarcely civilized hillmen 
of Montenegro; the stolid, inert Bul- 
garian peasantry; and the alert, cap- 
able, cultivated citizens of Sofia and 
Athens. An American correspondent 
tells of a bootblack who introduced 
him to his uncle, the Prime Minister of 
Bulgaria, and adds that neither uncle 
nor nephew seemed aware of any dif- 
ference in social status. By grazing, 
and by a rude agriculture, these diverse 
peoples supported themselves for cen- 
turies and, in the main, still do so. 
Poverty-stricken (until lately), individ- 
ually and collectively, isolated (until 
lately) from the world and from each 
other by the difficulties of communica- 



tion, they became inevitably narrow, 
bigoted, fiercely partisan, unprogres- 
sive, certainly in no way fitted to in- 
fluence the affairs of Europe. 

Yet, as certainly, since the days of 
imperial Rome, no European state has 
been more often the subject of anxious 
inquiry; for those mountain valleys are 
the keys of Europe. Here where na- 
ture has built her fortresses, East has 
met West, the invaded has met the 
invader. In these great defiles are the 
natural roads between Asia and central 
and western Europe, long since trod- 
den hard by Roman and Barbarian, 
Crusader and Infidel, Hapsburg and 
Ottoman. The Balkans control the 
whole lower half of the rich Danube 
Valley, whose economic value is as 
patent to-day as it was to the numer- 
ous invaders of Europe who recruited 
their strength in its fair fields. The 
Balkans also control the western coast 
of the Black Sea and some of its finest 
natural harbors. Along this coast runs 
the road from Russia to Constanti- 
nople; down through the Danube Val- 
ley, across the mountains, and through 
Adrianople, runs the great highway 
from the Rhine and Danube valleys to 
Constantinople and the East; around 
to the West, through Albania and Dal- 
matia, is the perfectly practical road, 
used long ago by the Visigoths, con- 
necting Constantinople with Trieste, 
Venice, and the Valley of the Po. The 
Balkans, in fact, control Constantino- 
ple, the only gateway between Europe 
and Asia Minor, the junction of trade 
routes and military roads thousands 
of years old. 

The Balkans have always been buf- 
fer states. Augustus there erected his 
barriers against the barbarian hordes; 
there Alaric and his horsemen broke 
the Roman legionaries at Adrianople, 
and from the mountain fastnesses 
assailed the Western Empire; there the 
Byzantine Empire made its last long 
VOL. in - NO. i 

stand ; and there, after the fall of Con- 
stantinople, Christian Europe held the 
advancing Turks at bay. With the 
decline of the Ottoman power and the 
strengthening of the Hapsburg power, 
in the seventeenth and eighteenth cen- 
turies, the danger of the Mohammedan 
conquest of Christendom passed, and 
the Balkans lost significance for a 
while in the eyes of Europe. But to the 
Balkans themselves, the continued 
pressure of the Turk was not merely a 
menace: it was a curse; their sufferings 
were rendered a thousandfold keener 
by the knowledge that their oppressor 
was an infidel. The racial antipathy of 
the Occidental for the Oriental, the 
fierce religious hatred of the Christian 
for the Mohammedan, are motives 
actuating the Balkan peoples to a 
degree inconceivable in America; and 
no less violently do they control the 
children of the men who battered the 
gates of Vienna and beached their 
galleys on the shores of Rhodes and 
Malta. This war is a gigantic blood 
feud, a racial struggle, a crusade. The 
skirmishes have been hand-to-hand 
fights, and, even in pitched battles, 
Bulgarian regiments have thrown 
away their guns and rushed upon the 
Turks, knife in hand, in a frenzied lust 
for blood. The outrages upon the Mace- 
donian Christians, which were the os- 
tensible cause of the war, only intensi- 
fied this fanatical antipathy, handed 
down from father to son. There can be 
no doubt that to the soldiers themselves 
the fierce desire to flesh their steel in 
an enemy's body outweighs every other 

If the strategic position of the Bal- 
kans has been a curse, by involving 
them in the meshes of the struggle 
between Europe and Asia, it has also 
proved a blessing, for, undoubtedly, 
they owe to outside pressure such 
nominal political unity as they have 
individually possessed. In fact, the 



existence of a common oppressor, the 
inevitability of military rule, and its 
equally inevitable abuses, have given 
these varied peoples, widely sundered 
by race and creed, the vigorous bond 
of a common hatred. The virulence of 
that hatred has rendered their mutual 
animosities and jealousies powerless to 
separate them. 

Their strategic situation has also 
involved them deeply in the dynastic 
and international ambitions and rival- 
ries of Europe. From the international 
point of view, the entire present war, 
from its causes and its battles to the 
treaty of peace, is but a single battle in 
the great war between rival coalitions 
for the domination of Europe and the 
control of the known world. 'The 
agony of European Turkey has begun,' 
said one of the keenest and best in- 
formed German editors in a recent in- 
terview, * and the question whether the 
Balkans politically and economically 
shall belong to an alliance or confeder- 
ation of states under Russian influ- 
ence and dependency, or remain open 
to Germanic expansion, will be as a 
matter of life or death to Germanic 
growth, influence, and life, and be 
finally answered and decided by the 
sword.' That is the real meaning of the 
Balkan Crisis. 

This phase of the Balkan question is 
the result of the internal development, 
and ambition for further expansion, of 
Russia, Austria, and Prussia. The 
objective of all three has long been a 
substantial share of the trade with the 
East which England has pretty thor- 
oughly monopolized. In the suprem- 
acy of the English navy, and in the 
resulting control of the Atlantic and 
Mediterranean, they have seen the 
secret of her success and wealth. She 
grew rich, as Venice and Genoa had 
grown rich in the Middle Ages, car- 
rying the eastern goods between the 
termini of the caravan routes and 

northern Europe. She then dug, with 
French assistance, the Suez Canal, 
creating a new water-route to India; 
she fortified it by a great fleet, by the 
possession of Egypt and the strategic 
points of the Mediterranean, while the 
French settled in Morocco and Algiers. 
Obviously, a contest for the suprem- 
acy of the Mediterranean became an 
indispensable prerequisite to the con- 
trol of this trade, and could not even 
be attempted by Austria or Russia 
without ports and battleships. 

Access to the Mediterranean became, 
therefore, the cardinal feature of the 
policy of expansion, which both long 
since initiated, and neither could reach 
the sea save through the Balkans. Rus- 
sia must possess at least the Black 
Sea, Constantinople, and the Straits; 
Austria needed at least the strip of land 
through which ran the road to Trieste 
and Venice, and, to protect that, must 
hold Servia, Montenegro, and Albania. 
The interests of Russia and Austria 
were, however, highly antagonistic. 
Constantinople, Adrianople, and the 
Danube Valley made the gateway to 
Vienna through which the Turk had so 
often marched, and Austria could not 
permit it to fall into the hands of her 
eastern rival. On the other hand, Rus- 
sia could not allow the western Balkans 
to fall into Austria's hands for fear that 
empire might secure the eastern Bal- 
kans as well, or, at least, attack Russia 
on the flank on her own march to Con- 
stantinople. Nor did either power wish 
to divide the eastern Mediterranean 
with the other. Under such circum- 
stances it was more than natural that 
the Balkan States conceived a terror of 
both, and vastly preferred subjection 
to the Turk to ' freedom ' at the hands 
of such friends. 

England and France, who already 
controlled the Mediterranean, were 
anxious to thwart both these plans at 
all costs, and were therefore eager to 



secure the Balkans and Constantinople 
themselves, a step to which Russia and 
Austria could not possibly consent. In 
fact, the Balkans and Turkey were 
such important districts that none of 
the great Powers could conceive of 
their possession by any one strong 
enough to use them for offense. They 
agreed, therefore, to keep the Turk 
alive so that he might hold what every 
one wanted, and what no one else could 
be allowed to have. Turkey's weakness 
was its only right to live. England and 
France, prevented by their distance 
from the scene of dispute from using 
the territory for their own aggrand- 
izement, were allowed by the others 
to assume the direction of Turkey, 
and, in course of time, the present 
Balkan States were allowed to become 
independent of Turkey because their 
determination to govern themselves 
could not be longer repressed without 
the existence of an army at the very 
place in all Europe where every one 
least wished for one. Ever since the 
liberation of the states, the Slavs and 
Greeks left under Turkish rule, have, 
with the aid of their independent neigh- 
bors, actively agitated the question of 
their own independence of Turkey, but 
this the Powers have always refused to 
grant, for fear that their loss might 
weaken Turkey too much, or possibly 
add too substantially to the strength 
of one of the rival powers. 

Then the whole situation was 
changed 1 by the birth of the vast 
schemes dubbed, for want of a better 
name, Pan-Germanism. Bismarck had 
a vision of a Germano-Turkish state, 
extending from the North Sea to the 
Persian Gulf, and including in its fed- 
erated bond Germany, Austria, Hun- 
gary, the Balkan States, and Turkey. 
Once this great alliance was perfected, 
what would not be possible? Persia, 
Egypt, Arabia were weak, and, once 
captured, the keys to the East would 

be in Germany's hands: India would 
fall, the British Empire become a 
thing of the past, and Germany, once 
more as in the Middle Ages, would be 
empress of the world. With the con- 
trol of the high road of commerce from 
Hamburg to Constantinople by rail, 
with the Baghdad Railroad to connect 
Constantinople with the Persian Gulf, 
the trade of the East could be brought 
to Europe by a more expeditious route 
than the sea route through Suez, and 
Germany and her allies would be able 
to break the English monopoly of In- 
dian wares. 

To Prussia and Austria, therefore, 
the Balkans are vital. To keep Russia 
out of Constantinople, to prevent her 
from securing a monopoly of the Black 
Sea, is absolutely essential to the execu- 
tion of the Germanic plan, and cannot 
be insured without the firm control of 
both the Balkans and Constantinople. 
To contest England's naval supremacy 
in the Mediterranean, an Austrian 
naval base must be maintained in the 
Adriatic and, if possible, at Salonica in 
the ^Egean; and in turn to defend such 
positions Austria must have control of 
the western Balkans, which flank not 
only the Adriatic, but her only road to 
both seas. To secure and protect a 
great trade route by rail from the Per- 
sian Gulf to Berlin and Hamburg, 
nearly one third of whose length lies in 
the defiles of the Balkans, effective 
possession of the eastern Balkans is 
indispensable. The success of Pan- 
Germanism depends entirely upon the 
feasibility of securing and maintaining 
complete control of the Balkans and of 

Conversely, the defense of Russia, 
England, and France depends upon the 
Balkans. Whoever else takes posses- 
sion of them, the Triple Alliance must 
be kept out. There, too, is the best 
opportunity for placing a permanent 
obstacle in the way of the execution of 



the German plans. Strangely enough, 
the Tripolitan War was begun by Italy 
as an ally of England and France : she 
was to receive Tripoli as the price of 
leaving the Triple Alliance, of joining 
her fleet to the French fleet, and of thus 
placing the naval forces of Austria 
hopelessly in the minority in the Medi- 
terranean. The failure of England and 
France 'peacefully' to deliver Tripoli, 
the necessity of waging an expensive 
war to obtain it, caused her to return 
to her old allies and to carry Tripoli 
with her. England, counting on Italy's 
assistance, had removed most of her 
Mediterranean fleet to the North Sea; 
the French fleet had not yet concen- 
trated at Toulon; the Italian and Aus- 
trian fleets combined were too nearly 
the equal of the available French and 
English fleets, and the situation was 
elsewhere too dangerous for the latter 
to risk actual interference. Without 
resistance, the Triple Alliance secured 
undisputed control of the Adriatic, a 
naval base in Africa from which to 
threaten the steamship lines to Suez, a 
military base from which to assail 
either Egypt or Tunis, and the tem- 
porary possession of nearly every 
strategic point in the eastern Mediter- 
ranean save the Straits and Constan- 
tinople. In addition, they actually 
landed in Tripoli a fully equipped 
army, and fortified the chief strategic 
points. The outbreak of the Balkan 
War then enabled them to extort from 
the unwilling Turks the peaceful ces- 
sion of Tripoli, which Germany had 
pledged herself to obtain. 

Needless to add, this result dealt 
England the heaviest blow she had 
received since 1798. It has been always 
said that Nelson's victory at Aboukir 
saved the English control of the Medi- 
terranean. Had he lost the battle, the 
result could scarcely have been so dis- 
astrous as the passing of Tripoli into 
the undisputed control of the Triple 

Alliance. For the first time since the 
loss of Minorca in 1756, England, with 
her undisputed predominance unques- 
tionably gone, was really in danger of 
losing actual control of the Mediter- 
ranean. Should Austria now succeed in 
executing any one of her schemes for 
the reconstruction of the Balkans, Bis- 
marck's great vision would be within 
measurable distance of completion, 
the condition of England and France 
would be indeed desperate, and Rus- 
sia's chances of realizing her ambitions 
in the south would surely have to be 
postponed at least half a century. For 
Austria plans to secure complete con- 
trol of the Adriatic either, as she would 
like best, by annexing Servia, Monte- 
negro, and Albania to her own terri- 
tory, or by the formation of a Slav 
Monarchy out of those three states, 
the Croatian provinces, Bosnia, and 
Herzegovina, which would assume to 
Austria proper the same relation as 
Hungary and make of the Dual a 
Triple Monarchy. Macedonia, taking 
that territory in the broadest sense, 
would then be easily obtained; and 
from the great port of Salonica, as a 
base, the Austrian fleet would control 
the ^Egean, and render the possession 
of Constantinople and the Straits of 
little value to Russia, should she per- 
form the highly improbable feat of 
taking them after Austria had been 
thus strengthened. 

These schemes and the recent events 1 
which seem to make their achievement 
possible have destroyed the conditions 
upon which the existence of Turkey 
depended; a power which even minor 
powers can defeat is no longer desired 
by England and France at Constanti- 
nople. The creation in its place of an 
independent confederation of Balkan 
states, hating Austria for racial and 
religious reasons, suspicious of Russia 

1 This paper was sent to press on November 



for political reasons, naturally bound 
to England and France by strong fi- 
nancial ties, is, from the point of view 
of England and France, the most favor- 
able solution, and even from the point 
of view of Russia such an outcome 
would be a vast improvement on the 
past situation. 

These same events have also re- 
moved the chief objection that England 
and France had to the possession of 
the Balkans and of Constantinople by 
Russia herself. If they must have a 
rival in the Black Sea, better a thou- 
sand times a rival whose navy has yet 
to be built, and whose imminent peril 
in northern Europe makes their aid as 
vital to her in the Baltic as hers is to 
them in the Balkans. Indeed, the mere 
possession of the Balkans by Russia 
would be a permanent guarantee of the 
failure of Bismarck's scheme, and would 
do more than any other one thing to 
render Morocco, India, and even Eng- 
land itself, safe from aggression. With 
Russia in Poland, in Galicia, and in 
Servia, Berlin and Vienna would be in 
deadly peril in flank and rear, Trieste 
could be taken, the Adriatic con- 
quered, Italy isolated, Tripoli an- 
nexed by England and France, and a 
stronger hold secured on the Mediter- 
ranean and Africa than ever before. 
The key which might open the door of 
the East might also effectively lock it. 

The Powers, therefore, permitted 
the Balkan States to destroy Turkey 
because they all hoped to benefit indi- 
rectly by the partition of the Turkish 
Empire. It is highly probable that the 
Balkan States were secretly assured of 
support by both coalitions, and well 
knew, therefore, that success in the 
war was a foregone conclusion. The 
moment, too, was opportune in the 
opinion of both coalitions. The Triple 
Alliance saw in it the first steps toward 
the ultimate consummation of their 
control of the Balkans, the lever by 

which Tripoli, Macedonia, and Albania 
could be pried from the clutches of the 
reluctant Turk, the surest method of 
obtaining more effective control of 
Asia Minor. Not only was there much 
to gain by action, but much might be 
lost by waiting till the English had 
altered their naval dispositions in the 
Mediterranean, till the Baghdad Rail- 
road and the Persian Gulf had been 
outflanked by the Trans-Persian Rail- 
road, till the opening of the Panama 
Canal had made the English possession 
of Suez relatively less essential, and, 
above all, till the death of Franz 
Joseph should produce such internal 
dissensions in Austria-Hungary as to 
render the Dual Monarchy helpless for 
a decade. The joy at the prospect of 
war was not less great in London, 
Paris, and St. Petersburg. The wished- 
for coup d'Stat which should destroy 
the German plans was actually in 
progress in the creation of a confeder- 
ation of really independent Balkan 
states. Should the Sultan actually be 
expelled from Europe, England could 
then offer him a refuge in Egypt, or, if 
he preferred to remain in Asia Minor, 
she might secure the establishment in 
Egypt or Morocco of a new Khalifate 
to rule the Mohammedans in Africa 
and Asia, and thus end for good and all 
the dangers of a holy war in the Eng- 
lish and French territories. 

In the Balkans themselves, however, 
joy was literally unconfined. A glorious 
opportunity was theirs to strike off all 
the shackles binding them to all the 
Powers. Such an opportunity would 
certainly never return. They feared 
Austria most, Russia next, and Eng- 
land and France least. While the 
Turk was the Sick Man of Europe, 
maintained in desuetude, while the 
Powers were interested in the Balkan 
States merely to keep them out of one 
another's hands, Balkan independence 
was very real, and the rule of Turkey 



over their brethren in the Turkish 
Empire was too inefficient to be bur- 
densome. But the spectacle was terri- 
fying in the extreme of the organiza- 
tion in Turkey by German hands of a 
strong centralized administration with 
a large and efficient army, trained, 
financed, and officered by Germany 
and Austria, and directed to the fur- 
therance of the latter's interests. Such 
a Turkey would be a neighbor and 
ruler of a different stamp. The very 
excellence and justice of the adminis- 
tration which the new regime proposed 
to institute would remove the casus 
belli, the gravamina of Macedonia and 
Albania. Should many men of the 
stamp of Hussein Kiazim Bey be ap- 
pointed, and should they use elsewhere 
the vigor he displayed as Vali of Sal- 
onica in punishing the Turkish gen- 
darmerie for the commission of crimes 
and atrocities, the most apparent and 
telling evidences of Turkish misrule 
would disappear. 

Moreover, an alliance with Austria 
and Germany, however favorable the 
constitutional or diplomatic relations 
might be, would mean to the Balkan 
States the surrender of their own inde- 
pendence and the acceptance of dicta- 
tion from Berlin or Vienna of a policy 
made in the interests of the latter. The 
economic benefits looked distant and 
nebulous: the rich trade of the East 
would hardly stop at their doors to 
afford them profit. The positive dis- 
advantages in time of peace were cer- 
tain: the coalition would make them 
its fortress for defense and offense. In 
time of war the disadvantages would 
be even greater, for the battles would 
be fought within their borders. If they 
were ever to achieve liberty, they must 
strike before Turkey became more 
efficient, and before one or the other 
coalition took possession of them by 
main force. 

So far as Turkey was concerned, 

there was little effective resistance to 
be expected from a state torn by inter- 
nal dissensions between the Old and 
the Young Turks. With the revolu- 
tionary Party of Union and Progress 
actively opposing the ministry, with a 
strong belief in foreign capitals and 
chancelleries that the new regime was 
no better than the old, with the new 
Turkish army effectively marooned in 
Tripoli, and the Italian fleet holding 
the ^Egean, the chances of success for 
the Balkans were at the maximum. 
The probability of European inter- 
ference with the beginning and prose- 
cution of the war they knew to be 
slight, for they clearly saw what each 
side hoped to gain from their efforts. 
That each group of great powers de- 
pended upon their cooperation for the 
furtherance of its own interests, made 
it not unlikely that a really strong con- 
federation of Balkan States, if not 
actually able to exact its own price 
from either side, would for some years 
at least be able to play off one party 
against the other, and so afford an 
opportunity for the consolidation of its 
own union, and the development of the 
immediate advantages of victory to 
such an extent that armed interference 
would become a serious matter for any 
coalition, however strong. They well 
know that the country itself is a nat- 
ural fortress, already improved by all 
the devices of modern fortification; that 
their armies contain more than half 
a million men, natural soldiers, well 
equipped by their * friends" money, 
and well instructed by their * friends' ' 
officers in all the multifold strategical 
and tactical advantages of their coun- 

Such men, fighting for independ- 
ence, ought to be able to hold such a 
country even against Austria or Rus- 
sia. If they cannot win it, with Turkey 
weak and disorganized, with Austria 
and Russia determined to thwart each 



other's ambitions, they never can 
maintain their independence. This is 
their greatest, and perhaps their only 
opportunity. While the Powers, there- 
fore, complacently watched the strug- 
gle with Turkey, each confident that 
the Balkans were fighting in their 
interest, the Balkans were actually 
fighting for their own independence of 
the Powers themselves. Moreover, by 
beginning a campaign, which they 
knew would be short, in the late au- 
tumn, they practically insured them- 
selves six months in which to take ad- 
vantage of their victory; for the severe 
Balkan winter, already upon them, will 
make any effective armed interposition 
by either Austria or Russia exceedingly 
difficult, if not impossible. 

The position of the confederates dic- 
tated the strategy of the war. The 
Servians and Montenegrins were to 
begin the war in the west, partly in 
hope of drawing the Turkish forces 
thither and so weakening the main 
army, partly because it was their duty 
to overrun Albania and be in position 
to attack Macedonia on the flank at 
the moment when the Greeks delivered 
an assault in force from the front. The 
two, thus victorious, would together 
overrun Thrace and fall upon the rear 
of the main Turkish army if the Bul- 
garian assault upon Adrianople had 
not yet succeeded, or on its flank in 
case the Turk had been driven back on 
Constantinople. Whichever won first 
would be immediately in a most advan- 
tageous position to assist her allies 
whether they were victorious or de- 
feated. Rumania remained inactive, to 
be ready to defend the rear from pos- 
sible attacks from Austria or Russia. 

The rapidity with which these com- 
bined attacks were delivered prevented 
the concentration of the Turkish army 
at any point, and also made its provi- 
sioning and administration exceedingly 
difficult. The astounding vigor and 

ability of the Bulgarians enabled them 
to drive the disorganized and hungry 
Turks into Constantinople before the 
western and southern movements were 
finished, and have rendered the com- 
plete overthrow of the Turkish power 
in Europe merely a question of time. 

The confederates intend to treat 
only with Turkey; they deny the right 
of the powers to interfere; they are 
themselves agreed upon the settlement; 
and hold possession of everything the 
Powers want, with armies aggregating 
at least half a million men, flushed with 
victory, and entrenched in a natural 
fortress. If the plans of the allies suc- 
ceed, the King of Greece is to be presi- 
dent of a federation composed of the 
independent states of Bulgaria, Ru- 
mania, Servia, Greece, and Montene- 
gro. Crete, the JSgean Islands, and the 
greater part of Macedonia will be an- 
nexed to Greece; most of Thrace to Bul- 
garia; Albania to Servia. The rest of 
European Turkey, including Salonica, 
presents the most difficult problem. 

Needless to say, these arrangements 
will be very disagreeable to Austria 
and Italy, who desire to erect Alba- 
nia and probably Macedonia into king- 
doms, with Austrian or Italian prin- 
ces as kings. The Balkan States point 
out that these districts are merely geo- 
graphical expressions, the people 
possessing unity neither of race nor 
creed, and lacking even a common 
language, and insist that nothing 
but trouble for themselves and their 
neighbors can result from granting 
them autonomy. This does not weigh 
heavily with the Triple Alliance, the 
members of which are anxious, if they 
cannot avert the settlement, to pro- 
vide for its prompt failure. England 
and France, and probably Russia, seem 
to be in favor of strengthening the ex- 
isting states, and decry the * ungener- 
ous ' policy of snatching from them the 
fruits of victory. 



The really vital difficulty lies in the 
existence of Constantinople. The Bal- 
kans will insist upon the removal of the 
seat of Turkish government across the 
Straits; the Powers will hardly consent 
to anything less than the neutraliza- 
tion of Constantinople and the Straits. 
In any case, armed interference is 
highly improbable. The strength of 
the confederation in men and re- 
sources, the approach of winter, the 
nature of the ground where the battles 
would be fought, the antagonistic 
interests of the coalitions, will in all 
probability prevent more than a show 
of force by either Austria or Russia. 
The lack of money might bring the 
Balkans to terms, were it not practi- 
cally certain that England and France 
will finance them. Whether or not 
foreseen and inspired by those two 
nations, the war has resulted in giving 
back to them the strategic position in 
the Mediterranean, lost through the 
conquest of Tripoli by the Triple Alli- 
ance. Moreover, they have won it 
without vitally increasing their own 
dangers from Russia. The latter will 
be entirely satisfied with freedom of 
passage to arid from the Black Sea, and 
will create there, with their entire ap- 
proval, a strong fleet which will be- 
come a factor in future movements in 
the Mediterranean. At the moment of 
writing, the Balkan War is a victory 
for the Triple Entente over the Triple 

As an outcome of the struggle it is 
hard to foresee anything short of de- 
struction for Turkey in Europe. With 
the loss of Albania and Macedonia, 
there will be little left except the dis- 
trict immediately around Constanti- 
nople, which, though containing the 
vast majority of the Turks on the 
northern side of the Bosphorus, has a 
numerous and hostile Greek element in 
the population. There is not, and never 
has been, any racial or religious basis 
for a Turkish state in Europe. The 
Turks belong in Asia Minor. The abil- 
ity of the Turk to stand in either place 
without support is doubtful. Adminis- 
trative decentralization has fostered 
dishonesty, disobedience, and corrup- 
tion so long as to make them almost 
racial traits, which render the Turk 
poor material for the independent self- 
government so eagerly desired by the 
Young Turks. And this very attempt 
at administrative centralization and 
honest government rouses the subject 
peoples and offends the Powers. Only 
because the Turk was hopelessly inef- 
ficient and submissive was he allowed 
to exist at all. The work of the Com- 
mittee of Union and Progress, whose 
ideal is the exclusion of foreigners from 
Turkey, settled its ultimate fate. Like 
Persia and Egypt, Turkey must be 
governed in the interests of Europe and 
not in its own. Whatever happens, the 
Turk will be again reduced to ineffi- 
ciency and subserviency. 



WHAT shall we say as to ' free ships ' 
and the Panama Canal? If our nation 
has agreed to treat all ships alike, in- 
cluding our own, let us stand by that 
agreement. Of violation of treaties we 
have been more than once accused. If 
we know what we have promised, let us 
stand by it, even though it seems 
strange that we cannot * throw our 
money to the birds' while every other 
nation is free to do it. 

But why * throw our money to the 
birds ' ? Do * the birds ' require it or ap- 
preciate it ? What claim have coastwise 
steamships of the United States to use 
our canal at the expense of the Ameri- 
can people? But these are 'our ships/ 
we say. Since when have they become 
'our ships'? Have the New York and 
London capitalists who own them ever 
turned them over to us? Have they 
ever agreed to divide their profits with 
those who make great profits possible? 
The great enemy of democracy is priv- 
ilege. To grant any sort of concession, 
having money value, without a cor- 
responding return, is * privilege/ The 
granting of privilege in the past has 
been the source of most of the great 
body of political evils from which the 
civilized world suffers to-day. 

While declaiming against privilege, 
even while exalting its curtailment as 
the greatest of national issues to-day, 
we start new privileges without hesita- 
tion. We throw into the hands of an 
unknown group of men, to become 
sooner or later a shipping trust, a vast 

unknown and increasing sum of money, 
extorted by indirect taxation from the 
people of this country. No account- 
ing is asked from them; no returns for 
our generosity. We give them yearly, 
to begin with, as much as an Amer- 
ican laborer can earn in twelve thou- 
sand years; in other words, we place at 
their service, and at our own expense, 
twelve thousand of our workingmen. 
From our tax-roll we pass over to them 
the payments each year of thirty thou- 
sand families. And all because these 
are 'our ships.' 'Our ships'; we have 
here the primal fallacy of privilege, a 
fallacy dominant the world over, the 
leading agent in the impending bank- 
ruptcy of this spendthrift world. 

In Europe and America, taxes have 
doubled in the last fifteen years, and 
half of this extra tax has gone to build 
up 'our ships,' 'our bankers,' 'our com- 
merce,' 'our manufactures,' 'our pro- 
moters,' 'our defense,' in nation after 
nation, while 'the man lowest down,' 
who bears the brunt of this taxation, is 
never called on to share its benefits. 
The ships that bear our flag in order to 
go through our canal at our expense are 
not ' our ships.' By the very fact of free 
tolls, we know them for the ships of our 
enemy; for the arch-enemy of demo- 
cracy is privilege. 


As teachers of private and to some 
extent of public morals, what shall we 
say to the gigantic parade on the Hud- 
son of miles on miles of war vessels on 




their way from the tax bureau to the 

Let us look on this mighty array of 
ships, splendidly equipped and manned 
by able and worthy men, the whole 
never to be needed, and never under 
any conceivable circumstances to be 
other than a burden and a danger to 
the nation which displays it. 

We are told that a purpose of this 
pageant of the ships is to * popularize 
the navy/ This may mean to get us 
used to it, and to paying for it which 
is the chief function of the people in 
these great affairs. Or it may mean to 
work upon the public imagination so 
that we may fill the vacancies in the 
corps of sailors and marines who * glare 
at us through their absences.' 

By all means let us popularize the 
navy. It is our navy; we have paid for 
it; and it is for the people to do what 
they please with it. 'For, after all, this 
is the people's country.' And perhaps 
we could bring it nearer to our hearts 
and thoughts if we should paint on the 
white side of each ship, its cost in tax- 
es, in the blood and sweat of working- 
men, in the anguish of * the man lowest 

There is the good ship North Dakota, 
for example. Her cost is almost exact- 
ly the year's earning of the prosperous 
state for which she is named. The fine 
dreadnoughts who fear nothing while 
the nation is in its senses, and in war 
nothing but a torpedo-boat or an aero- 
bomb, it would please the working- 
man to know that his wages for twenty 
thousand years would purchase a ship 
of this kind, and that the wages of six- 
teen hundred of his fellows each year 
would keep it trim and afloat. As the 
procession moves by, he will see ships 
that have cost as much as the universi- 
ties of Cornell or Yale or Princeton or 
Wisconsin, and almost as much as Har- 
vard or Columbia, and on the flag-ship 
at the last these figures might be sum- 

med up, the whole costing as much as 
an American workman would earn, per- 
haps, in two million years, a European 
workman in four million, and an Asiatic 
in eight million; as much, let us say, as 
all the churches, ministers, and priests 
in the Christian world have cost in half 
a century. These figures may not be 
all correct. It would require an expert 
statistician to make them so. But it 
would be worth while. 

If all this is needed to insure the 
peace it endangers, by all means let us 
have it. There is no cost which we can- 
not afford to pay, if honorable peace is 
at stake. But let us be convinced that 
peace is really at stake, and that this 
is the means to secure it. There are 
some who think that Christian fellow- 
ship, the demands of commerce, and a 
civil tongue in a foreign office, do more 
for a nation's peace than any show of 

'Man,' observes Bernard Shaw, 'is 
the only animal that esteems itself 
rich in proportion to the number and 
voracity of its parasites.' 


What shall we say, as lovers of peace, 
in face of the Balkan War? Is it true 
that while Serbs are Serbs, and Greeks 
are Greeks, and Turks are Turks, 'it 
must needs be that offenses come ' ? Is 
it not true that while Turks rule aliens 
for the money to be extorted, there can 
be no peace between them and their 
subjects or their neighbors? 

It is not necessary for us to answer 
these questions. They belong to his- 
tory rather than to morals. The pro- 
gress of events will take our answer 
from our lips. The problem comes to 
us too late for any act of ours to be ef- 
fective. The stage was set, the actors 
chosen long before our day and genera- 
tion. Our part is to strive for peace: 
first, to do away with causes for war; 



second, to lead people to look to war as 
the last, and not the first, remedy for na- 
tional wrongs or national disagree- 
ments. Most wars have their origin in 
the evil passions of men, and no war 
could take place if both sides were sin- 
cerely desirous of honorable peace. 

No doubt, the Balkan situation 
could have been controlled for peace 
by the * concert of powers ' in Europe, 
were it not that no such concert exists. 
The instruments are out of tune and 
time. So long as foreign offices are 
alike controlled by the interests of great 
exploiting and competing corporations, 
they can never stand for good morals 
and good order. If they could, the 
Turkish rule of violence would have 
ceased long ago. 

Those who fight against war cannot 
expect to do away with it in a year or 
a century, especially when it is urged 
on by five hundred years of crime and 
discord. The roots of the Balkan strug- 
gle lie back in the Middle Ages, and 
along mediaeval lines the fight is likely 
to be conducted. 'The right to rule 
without the duty to protect' is the 
bane of all Oriental imperialism. Mean- 
while, our own task is to help to moder- 
ernize the life of the world; to raise, 
through democracy, the estimate of 
the value of men's lives; to continue, 
through our day, the enduring revolt 
of civilization against * obsolete forms 
of servitude, tyranny, and waste/ 

The immediate purpose of the Peace 
Movement is, through public opinion 
and through international law, to exalt 
order above violence, and to take war 
out of the foreground of the * interna- 
tional mind' in the event of disputes 
between races and nations. No move- 
ment forward can succeed all at once. 

Evil habit and false education have 
left the idea of war and glory too deep- 
ly ingrained. Men, law-abiding and 
patient, willing to hear both sides, 
have never yet been in the majority. 
Yet their influence steadily grows in 
weight. The influence of science and 
arts, of international fellowship, of 
common business interests, small busi- 
ness as well as great, are leading the 
people of the world to better and bet- 
ter understanding. Left alone, civi- 
lized people would never make war. 
They have no outside grievances they 
wish to submit to the arbitrament of 
wholesale murder. To make them pre- 
pare for war they must be scared, not 
led. Were it not for the exaggeration, 
by interested parties, of trade jealous- 
ies and diplomatic intrigues, few peo- 
ple would ever think of going to war. 
The workingmen of Europe suffer 
from tax-exhaustion. The fear of war 
is kept before them to divert them 
from their own sad plight. This diver- 
sion leaves their plight still sadder. 

The bread-riot in all its phases is the 
sign of over-taxation, of governmental 
disregard of the lives and earnings of 
the common man. Anarchism is the 
expression that the idle and reckless 
give to the feelings of those who are 
still law-abiding. 

The Peace Movement must stand 
against oppression and waste. It must 
do its part in removing grievances, na- 
tional and international. It must give 
its council in favor of peace and order, 
and it must help to educate men to be- 
lieve that the nation which guarantees 
to its young men personal justice and 
personal opportunity, has a greater 
glory than that which sends forth its 
youth to slaughter. 




-field we do not watch the 

Old Year out. We do not dance him 
out unless we are very young and fool- 
ish. For we know that promptly at 
6.45 A.M., if not earlier, we shall be 
shaken and shouted out of warm dreams 
by our elders, to make ourselves ready 
in haste, and go and pray the New 
Year in. 

The elders were shaken out of their 
young sleep so many bitter mornings, 
and their elders before them, that it is 
a wonder there is no hereditary apti- 
tude among the dwellers in field 

to waken at 6.45 A.M. on every New 
Year's Day. But the law of heredity 
passes on only a strict, and sometimes 
unreasoning, sense of obligation. We 
know that we must go to the Sunrise 
Prayer Meeting though a blizzard be 
whirling down from the hills, smother- 
ing the sidewalks, and tearing the trol- 
ley-wires. We must go to the Sunrise 
Prayer Meeting even if we be the poor, 
the sick, the afflicted, or all three at 
once, so long as it is physically possible; 
we must go certainly if we are only full 
of sleep and loath to tumble breathless 
out into the keen dusky cold before 
the sun rises, while the church-bell 
tolls and the streets begin to be filled 
with hurrying shapes. For young and 
old, rich and poor, glad and sorry, 
are all making what haste they may to 
the gray church on the Square, to pray 
the New Year in. 

The church, still in its Christmas 
dress of laurel-wreaths and pine- 
boughs, seems very old and mellow, 
from shadowy rafter and good Gothic 


arch to the last humble pew under the 
gallery. Lit as for a vesper service, 
warm, yet touched by the thin gray 
light and air of winter dawn, it receives, 
with a sort of special dignity and sober 
complacence, the silent people who 
overcrowd its pews. It does not ask 
them to-day whether they be Ortho- 
dox or Unitarian, Methodist or Bap- 
tist, black or white, alien or of the old 
proud stock of the city's and the 
church's elect. Every seat is taken 
long before the organ begins to grum- 
ble and whisper; and while the bell still 
tolls in the tower above, and the ush- 
ers go lightly up and down, hunting a 
place here and there for some unaccus- 
tomed or over-sleeping late arrival, it 
seems good to those who come here 
year after year to sit quietly for a little 
in the solemn, cheerful, crowded hush. 
Up in the high rafters, old memories 
glimmer out and fade. There are one's 
own Sunrise and New Year thoughts 
to think before the minister in charge 
gives out the first hymn, and the con- 
gregation stands to sing, 

' While with ceaseless course the sun 
Hasted through the former year,' 

or 'My faith looks up to Thee,' or 
'God moves in a mysterious way.' 

Then the minister, standing humbly 
at the foot of the high pulpit, reads 
somewhat from the Scriptures: the 
great Faith chapter from the Hebrews, 
it may be. And all the people repeat 
together, with the reverence of child- 
ren, the Twenty-third Psalm. There is 
another old, well-beloved hymn; the 



minister prays and speaks a moment, 
quietly, and the * meeting is open/ 

Who will first be moved by the Spir- 
it? There is never long to wait. A 
voice is lifted: there is much decent 
craning of necks and straining of ears. 
Is it old Deacon Robinson? or 
Professor Downey? or the new Bap- 
tist minister? or some layman less 
seasoned in public speech and prayer? 
A little pleased and interested murmur 
stirs the congregation. It is Deacon 
Robinson: his silvery head gleams 
above the front pews, and his sweet, 
quavering voice gathers power and as- 
surance as he tells how he has been 
mercifully permitted to attend the 
Sunrise Prayer Meeting every year 
but one since he was a boy, 'more 'n 
eighty-five year ago,' and how he 
has always found help and grace there, 
and how the Lord has always showed 
him the way and has answered his 
prayers. For, as he says, 'When I was 
seventy year old, I asked the Lord to 
let me live to be eighty. And so He 
did. And when I got to be eighty, I 
asked Him to let me live to be ninety. 
And He did that, too. And now I'm 
asking Him to be a hundred. But, 
after all, I 'm not very partik'ler about 

Then, perhaps, it is indeed the new 
Baptist minister; or the pastor of the 
little colored church, a man whose 
dark skin and humble place cannot 
keep him from often saying the keen- 
est word and offering up the bravest 
petition. But they are not all clergy- 
men and deacons whom the Spirit 
moves. Men prominent in the profes- 
sions and industries of the city; young 
men, who have gritted their teeth and 
vowed, humorous above their earnest- 
ness, to make their maiden speech or 
die in the attempt, are on their feet. 
They are not glib with the well-round- 
ed terms of conventional exhortation 
and prayer, but they speak quickly of 

the needs of the churches and the city, 
as eager for the honor of the future as 
the old men for the past. 

Sometimes two voices are upraised 
at once. One brother prays the other 
down, as it were, until the more timid 
or more magnanimous gives in and 
takes his seat. Favorite hymns and 
poems are quoted, quaint anecdotes 
are told; yet always there is an under- 
current deep and strong of reverence, 
of mystery; a recognition of the past 
and the present and the future, and 
of that which makes them one. 

In a moment, it seems, the hour is 
passed, the last hymn is sung, the bene- 
diction is spoken. Another hush: and 
then all over the church there is a ris- 
ing murmur, of 'Happy New Year!' 
' Happy New Year! ' as each one turns 
with a handshake to his nearest likely 
neighbor. And if there are many who 
find it hard to give and take the greet- 
ing lightly, they are too proud or too 
strong to let the shadow cross their 
faces, and the widow under her veil 
passes the wish with as true a grace 
as the woman whose stalwart husband, 
on his annual pilgrimage between 
church-walls, walks, half-sheepishly 
smiling, beside her and her flock of 

Crowding a little, for the young ones 
must be off to school and the busy 
ones to the shops and offices, the con- 
gregation throngs out into the street. 
The * Happy New Years ' grow louder 
and more merry, as friends draw to- 
gether, while sleighs and automobiles 
fill, and the frosty Square has sud- 
denly become gay with chatter and 

jingling and light. For while field 

prayed in the church, the sun has risen 
beyond the bare white and purple hills 
that shoulder up at the broad street- 
end, and the little city has wakened 
to another day and another year of 
unknown sorrow and joy, failure and 



It is a curious old custom, handed 
down without a break from the days 
when the church was only a white 
meeting-house on the village green, 
and when most of the good people 
came jingling from far over the snow- 
bound hills to their Sunrise Meeting. 

Newcomers in field may not at first 

understand why it is like no other rite 
in the whole civic and religious calen- 
dar. Yet let them once bow in the 
quiet church, sing the old, marching, 
faithful hymns, hear the odd or no- 
ble words of reminiscence and hope 
and thanksgiving and intercession; let 
them exchange their 'Happy New 
Years ' in the church porch and pass 
out into the gay shining street; and 
they will feel somehow that the hour 
has whispered of a thing seldom re- 
vealed, the hidden, hoping, believ- 
ing, and worshiping heart of a city. 
They will feel that, for once, an ideal 
faith has been frankly and simply re- 
cognized as the ancient and future 
glory of the community. However 
smug, however foolish and covetous 
and earthy the little city may often 
seem to be, the Sunrise Prayer Meet- 
ing still reassures those who know and 
love it that the old desire after heaven- 
ly things is not dead, though it must 
soon learn to speak a new and brisker 
tongue, and to wear a strangely mod- 
ern garb. 

For, indeed, some day there will be 
no more like Deacon Robinson, with 

his child-like trust and quaint old-time 
petitions. Yet it seems that the dwell- 
ers in field will not easily forsake 

the assembling of themselves together 
on the first day of the year, to think 
long thoughts of such things as are 
true and comely and of good report, for 
themselves and for their city, and to 
sing with voices half-tremulous, yet 
proud and confident, 

Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, 

Thy better portion trace: 
Rise from transitory things 

Toward Heav'n, thy native place. 
Sun and moon and stars decay, 

Time shall soon this earth remove. 
Rise, my soul, and haste away 

To seats prepared above. 

Rivers to the ocean run, 

Nor stay in all their course; 
Fire ascending seeks the sun; 

Both speed them to their source. 
So my soul, derived from God, 

Pants to view His glorious face; 
Upward tends to His abode, 

To rest in His embrace. 

And it is worth waking early and 
shivering out in the dark to feel that 
the friends and neighbors with whom 
the year-long we traffic in stupid mor- 
tal cares and follies are singing such 
words with us, and thinking hard of 
them, and more than half- believing 
them, for even one hour: that the 
secret heart of the city, for once un- 
ashamed, is somehow praying the New 
Year in, as the sun comes up over the 



SUPPOSE you bid me come to your 
house to dinner, and suppose I accept, 
and, feeling that I shall repay you by 
feeding you at some future time, I give 
myself no concern over my obligation 
to you on that occasion. Let us suppose 
that I count my duty done by being 
properly clothed and punctual. You 
have asked others to be present with 
whom you are on pleasant terms, and 
you are anxious that they think well of 
you. I have no tongue for small talk 
and can't bother about trifles; you are 
giving the dinner-party and are sup- 
posed to know what you want. If you 
want me, you must take me as I am; 
I '11 come and behave properly by 
which you are to understand that I 
shall not get drunk or mess my food; 
you must n't expect more. So I pro- 
ceed to spoil your dinner-party by not 
doing anything. I'm tired, anyway, 
or at least I think I am, and by my 
dull and boorish bearing I make every 
one near me uncomfortable. Those 
new neighbors whom you have at your 
house for the first time are very inter- 
esting people; it is a good and illumin- 
ating thing to know them; but after 
that disagreeable evening with me they 
are calmly but firmly resolved that 
your house is a place to avoid. The 
professor whom you have always 
wanted to know better, now in town on 
consultation, was fortunately able to 
be present; he said he would be very 
glad to come; but he was not glad when 
he went away. You see, I was there, 
and I made talk impossible; my heavy, 
uninterested silence killed all joy. I 
satisfy my previous consciousness by 

saying to myself that I was not inter- 
ested in the subjects under discussion, 
and I give you credit for having fed me 
well. Then, having given you a social 
black-eye, I make things what I call 
even by inviting you to spoil a second 
and otherwise good evening by boring 
yourself with me. 

It is clear that in behaving in the 
manner just described I have made an 
error; and the error is one frequently 
made. The purpose of this writing is 
to discover, if possible, what the nature 
of this error is, and to find an expres- 
sion for it that we may all understand; 
not only you who have suffered by it, 
but I who, to keep myself in the char- 
acter, must call myself the * innocent' 
cause of it. 

The answer is neither involved nor 
far to seek. Social intercourse is com- 
merce, in a way. We must pay for 
what we get, but general welfare and 
comity require that we pay spot cash. 
We can't pay in money because that is 
not current social coin. If the conven- 
tions did not bar the way and make it 
an insult, it would be far better for 
you if, on the unhappy night when I 
spoiled your party, I had taken out my 
pocket-book and laid down upon the 
table the cost of the food and drink 
and service. You would have been rid 
of me so much sooner, and you would 
not have been called upon to endure 
the second evening with me. But if 
money dollars and cents is not 
current social coin, neither are food 
and drink; although in this respect 
convention lags far-and-away-behind. 
Convention does not forbid me to do 
the very thing that I have assumed to 
do : to eat your food to-day and take a 




long credit, paying you back in kind, 
next week or next month. In point of 
fact, that is not paying you back at 
all, as we have seen. 

The only way that I can possibly re- 
pay you is to make my presence worth 
while, and an advantage to you. The 
debt should be paid before I leave your 
threshold, and I must have intelligence 
enough to know how to pay it. By a 
miscalculation of the sort you made 
when you invited me in the first in- 
stance, you may have asked some one 
to come whom you thought to be a 
brilliant talker, and who turns out on 
this occasion to be one of those dreadful 
creatures who prove the wisdom of all 
misanthropy by combating everybody 
and everything, and grating upon the 
nerves of every mortal soul present. If 
I cannot quiet him or draw his breezi- 
ness upon me alone so that others have 
an opportunity to breathe and talk, it 
behooves me to sit still and be good. 
They also serve who only sit still and 
are good. But 'good' means, in the 
circle, a part of whatever good fellow- 
ship is available. 

When you open your house to your 
friends you do a brave and a gracious 
thing. You show yourself, your train- 
ing, the measure of your culture, and 
the things of which you are ashamed. 
Your intimate self is made visible. You 
may put on airs for your own satisfac- 
tion, but you know and I know that 
anybody can see through them. Your 
house is yourself, or your wife's self; 
and surely there is no cause for shame 
in admitting that hers is the master 
mind when the day's work is over and 
you are at home. This is true of so 

many men of the very best sort that it 
will do you no harm to admit it. And 
it will do you no good to deny it. 

Suppose a clumsy maid spills a plate 
of soup. If clothes are damaged it is 
mortifying, and it may mean that 
some work must be done to the floor 
to repair the injury; otherwise it is 
not a serious occurrence. But if I or 
any other of your guests offends any 
one, then harm is done, for which you 
are in a way responsible, and which 
rubbing and scrubbing will not repair. 
So the responsibility of every guest is 
a heavy one. You have bidden them 
come inside the line of your defenses, 
and your social reputation is in their 
hands. No matter how great your ef- 
fort or expense, every one should then 
and there pay back in the coin of 
agreeable good fellowship, as nearly as 
he can, in full for all value received. 

Social reciprocity, the idea that if 
you feed me I must feed you, or if you 
entertain me I must entertain you, is 
born of social inefficiency. Who the 
first lady of fashion or quality was who 
devised the present system of food ex- 
changes as the fulfillment of social 
amenities, we shall never know; but it 
is a fair guess that her lord married her 
solely for her money. Or if the custom 
became current by common consent, 
then the custom itself is a severe in- 
dictment of dullness against that part 
of society which is known as fashion- 
able because it furnishes the example 
which the rest of the world accepts and 

There is no such thing as a deferred 
social credit; the only real payment is 
in spot cash. 





On July 13, 1863, Cyrus Guernsey Pringle, in company with two fellow Quakers of Charlotte, 
Vermont, was drafted for service in the Union Army. Through religious scruples, the conscripts 
refused under any considerations to bear arms, and although, in the case of Pringle, a well-to-do 
uncle offered to pay the price of a substitute, the Quaker's ardent conscience would not permit 
him to tempt another to commit in his place the sin which he believed to be against the Word of God. 
Mr. Pringle died not long ago, and his diary, interesting alike as a study of character and as the 
record of an extraordinary experience, may now be given to the public. THE EDITORS. 

AT Burlington, Vt., on the 13th of 
the seventh month, 1863, 1 was drafted. 
Pleasant are my recollections of the 
14th. Much of that rainy day I spent 
in my chamber, as yet unaware of my 
fate; in writing and reading and in re- 
flecting to compose my mind for any 
event. The day and the exercise, by 
the blessing of the Father, brought me 
precious reconciliation to the will of 

With ardent zeal for our Faith and 
the cause of our peaceable principles; 
and almost disgusted at the lukewarm- 
ness and unfaithfulness of very many 
who profess these; and considering how 
heavily slight crosses bore upon their 
shoulders, I felt to say, 'Here am I 
Father for thy service. As thou will.' 
May I trust it was He who called me 
and sent me forth with the consolation : 
'My grace is sufficient for thee.' Deep- 
ly have I felt many times since that I 
am nothing without the companionship 
of the Spirit. 

I was to report on the 27th. Then, 
loyal to our country, W. L. D. and I 
VOL. in -NO. 2 

appeared before the Provost Marshal 
with a statement of our cases. We were 
ordered for a hearing on the 29th. On 
the afternoon of that day W. L. D. was 
rejected upon examination of the Sur- 
geon, but my case not coming up, he 
remained with me, much to my 
strength and comfort. Sweet was his 
converse and long to be remembered, 
as we lay together that warm summer 
night on the straw of the barracks. By 
his encouragement much was my mind 
strengthened; my desires for a pure 
life, and my resolutions for good. In 
him and those of whom he spoke I 
saw the abstract beauty of Quakerism. 
On the next morning came I. M. D. 
to support me and plead my case be- 
fore the Board of Enrollment. On the 
day after, the 31st, I came before the 
Board. Respectfully those men listen- 
ed to the exposition of our principles; 
and, on our representing that we look- 
ed for some relief from the President, 
the marshal released me for twenty 
days. Meanwhile appeared L. M. M. 
and was likewise, by the kindness of 



the marshal, though they had received 
instructions from the Provost Marshal 
General to show such claims no par- 
tiality, released to appear on the 20th 
day of the eighth month. 

All these days we were urged by our 
acquaintances to pay our commuta- 
tion money; by some through well- 
meant kindness and sympathy; by 
others through interest in the war; and 
by others still through a belief they en- 
tertained it was our duty. But we con- 
fess a higher duty than that to coun- 
try; and, asking no military protection 
of our Government and grateful for 
none, deny any obligation to support 
so unlawful a system, as we hold a 
war to be even when waged in oppo- 
sition to an evil and oppressive power 
and ostensibly in defense of liberty, vir- 
tue, and free institutions; and, though 
touched by the kind interest of friends, 
we could not relieve their distress by a 
means we held even more sinful than 
that of serving ourselves, as by sup- 
plying money to hire a substitute we 
would, not only be responsible for the 
result, but be the agents in bringing 
others into evil. So looking to our Fa- 
ther alone for help, and remembering 
that * Whoso loseth his life for my sake 
shall find it; but whoso saveth it shall 
lose it,' we presented ourselves again 
before the Board, as we had promised 
to do when released. Being offered four 
days more of time, we accepted it as 
affording opportunity to visit our 
friends; and moreover as there would 
be more probability of meeting P. D. 
at Rutland. 

Sweet was the comfort and sympathy 
of our friends as we visited them. 
There was a deep comfort, as we left 
them, in the thought that so many 
pure and pious people follow us with 
their love and prayers. Appearing fin- 
ally before the marshal on the 24th, 
suits and uniforms were selected for 
us, and we were called upon to give 

receipts for them. L. M. M. was on 
his guard, and, being first called upon, 
declared he could not do so, as that 
would imply acceptance. Failing to 
come to any agreement, the matter 
was postponed till next morning, when 
we certified to the fact that the articles 
were 'with us.' Here I must make re- 
cord of the kindness of the marshal, 
Rolla Gleason, who treated us with re- 
spect and kindness. He had spoken 
with respect of our Society; had given 
me furloughs to the amount of twenty- 
four days, when the marshal at Rut- 
land considered himself restricted by 
his oath and duty to six days; and here 
appeared in person to prevent any 
harsh treatment of us by his sergeants; 
and though much against his inclina- 
tions, assisted in putting on the uni- 
form with his own hands. We bade 
him Farewell with grateful feelings and 
expressions of fear that we should not 
fall into as tender hands again; and 
amid the rain in the early morning, as 
the town clock tolled the hour of seven, 
we were driven amongst the flock that 
was going forth to the slaughter, down 
the street and into the cars for Brattle- 
boro. Dark was the day with murk 
and cloud and rain; and, as we rolled 
down through the narrow vales of east- 
ern Vermont, somewhat of the shadow 
crept into our hearts and filled them 
with dark apprehensions of evil fortune 
ahead; of long, hopeless trials; of abuse 
from inferior officers; of contempt from 
common soldiers; of patient endurance 
(or an attempt at this), unto an end 
seen only by the eye of a strong faith. 
Herded into a car by ourselves, we 
conscripts, substitutes, and the rest, 
through the greater part of the day, 
swept over the fertile meadows along 
the banks of the White River and the 
Connecticut, through pleasant scenes 
that had little of delight for us. At 
Woodstock we were joined by the con- 
scripts from the 1st District, alto- 



gether an inferior company from those 
before with us, who were honest yeo- 
men from the northern and mountain- 
ous towns, while these were many of 
them substitutes from the cities. 

At Brattleboro we were marched up 
to the camp; our knapsacks and per- 
sons searched; and any articles of citi- 
zen's dress taken from us; and then 
shut up in a rough board building un- 
der a guard. Here the prospect was 
dreary, and I felt some lack of confid- 
ence in our Father's arm, though but 
two days before I wrote to my dear 
friend, E.M.H., 

I go to-morrow where the din 
Of war is in the sulphurous air. 
I go the Prince of Peace to serve, 
His cross of suffering to bear. 

BRATTLEBORO, 26^, Sth month, 1863. 
Twenty-five or thirty caged lions 
roam lazily to and fro through this 
building hour after hour through the 
day. On every side without, sentries 
pace their slow beat, bearing loaded 
muskets. Men are ranging through the 
grounds or hanging in synods about 
the doors of the different buildings, 
apparently without a purpose. Aimless 
is military life, except betimes its aim 
is deadly. Idle life blends with violent 
death-struggles till the man is unmade 
a man; and henceforth there is little 
of manhood about him. Of a man he 
is made a Soldier, which is a man-de- 
stroying 'machine in two senses, a 
thing for the prosecuting or repelling 
an invasion like the block of stone in 
the fortress or the plate of iron on the 
side of the Monitor. They are alike. 
I have tried in vain to define a differ- 
ence, and I see only this. The iron-clad 
with its gun is the bigger soldier: the 
more formidable in attack, the less li- 
able to destruction in a given time; the 
block the most capable of resistance; 
both are equally obedient to officers. 
Or the more perfect is the soldier, the 

more nearly he approaches these in 
this respect. 

Three times a day we are marched out 
to the mess houses for our rations. In 
our hands we carry a tin plate, whereon 
we bring back a piece of bread (sour 
and tough most likely), and a cup. 
Morning and noon a piece of meat, 
antique betimes, bears company with 
the bread. They who wish it receive 
in their cups two sorts of decoctions : in 
the morning burnt bread, or peas per- 
haps, steeped in water with some sac- 
charine substance added (I dare not 
affirm it to be sugar) . At night steeped 
tea extended by some other herbs pro- 
bably and its pungency and acridity 
assuaged by the saccharine principle 
aforementioned. On this we have so 
far subsisted and, save some nauseat- 
ing, comfortably. As we go out and re- 
turn, on right and left and in front and 
rear go bayonets. Some substitutes 
heretofore have escaped and we are not 
to be neglected in our attendants. 
Hard beds are healthy, but I query can- 
not the result be defeated by the de- 
gree ? Our mattresses are boards. Only 
the slight elasticity of our thin blan- 
kets breaks the fall of our flesh and 
bones thereon. Oh! now I praise the 
discipline I have received from un- 
carpeted floors through warm summer 
nights of my boyhood. 

The building resounds with petty 
talk; jokes and laughter and swearing. 
Something more than that. Many of 
the caged lions are engaged with cards, 
and money changes hands freely. Some 
of the caged lions read,, and some sleep, 
and so the weary day goes by. 

L. M. M. and I addressed the fol- 
lowing letter to Governor Holbrook and 
hired a corporal to forward it to him. 

BRATTLEBORO, VT., ZGth, 8th month, 1863. 

Governor of Vermont: 
We the undersigned members of 



the Society of Friends, beg leave to re- 
present to thee, that we were lately 
drafted in the 3d Dist. of Vermont, 
have been forced into the army and 
reached the camp near this town yester- 

That in the language of the elders of 
our New York Yearly Meeting, 'We 
love our country and acknowledge with 
gratitude to our Heavenly Father the 
many blessings we have been favored 
with under the government; and can 
feel no sympathy with any who seek 
its overthrow.' 

But that, true to well-known prin- 
ciples of our society, we cannot vio- 
late our religious convictions either by 
complying with military requisitions 
or by the equivalents of this compli- 
ance, the furnishing of a substitute 
or payment of commutation money. 
That, therefore, we are brought into 
suffering and exposed to insult and 
contempt from those who have us in 
charge, as well as to the penalties of 
insubordination, though liberty of con- 
science is denied us by the Constitution 
of Vermont as well as that of the United 

Therefore, we beg of thee as Gover- 
nor of our State any assistance thou 
may be able to render, should it be no 
more than the influence of thy position 
interceding in our behalf. 

Truly Thy Friend, 


P. S. We are informed we are to 
be sent to the vicinity of Boston to- 

%lth. On board train to Boston. 
The long afternoon of yesterday passed 
slowly away. This morning passed by, 
the time of our stay in Brattleboro, 
and we neither saw nor heard anything 
of our Governor. We suppose he could 
not or would not help us. So as we go 
down to our trial we have no arm to 
lean upon among all men; but why 

dost thou complain, oh, my Soul? 
Seek thou that faith that will prove a 
buckler to thy breast, and gain for thee 
the protection of an arm mightier than 
the arms of all men. 

BOSTON HARBOR. In the early morn- 
ing damp and cool we marched down 
off the heights of Brattleboro to take 
train for this place. Once in the car 
the dashing young cavalry officer, who 
had us in charge, gave notice he had 
placed men through the cars, with 
loaded revolvers, who had orders to 
shoot any person attempting to es- 
cape, or jump from the window, and 
that any one would be shot if he 
even put his head out of the window. 
Down the beautiful valley of the Con- 
necticut, all through its broad inter- 
vales, heavy with its crops of corn or 
tobacco, or shaven smooth by the 
summer harvest; over the hard and 
stony counties of northern Massachu- 
setts, through its suburbs and under 
the shadow of Bunker Hill Monument 
we come into the City of Boston, * the 
Hub of the Universe.' Out through 
street after street we were marched 
double guarded to the wharves, where 
we took a small steamer for the island 
some six miles out in the harbor. A cir- 
cumstance connected with this march 
is worth mentioning for its singularity: 
at the head of this company, like con- 
victs (and feeling very much like such), 
through the City of Boston walked, 
with heavy hearts and down-cast eyes, 
two Quakers. 

Here on this dry and pleasant island 
in the midst of the beautiful Massachu- 
setts Bay, we have the liberty of the 
camp, the privilege of air and sunshine 
and hay beds to sleep upon. So we 
went to bed last night with somewhat 
of gladness elevating our depressed 

Here are many troops gathering 



daily from all the New England States 
except Connecticut and Rhode Island. 
Their white tents are dotting the green 
slopes and hill-tops of the island and 
spreading wider and wider. This is the 
flow of military tide here just now. The 
ebb went out to sea in the shape of a 
great shipload just as we came in, and 
another load will be sent before many 
days. All is war here. We are sur- 
rounded by the pomp and circum- 
stance of war, and enveloped in the 
cloud thereof. The cloud settles down 
over the minds and souls of all; they 
cannot see beyond, nor do they try; 
but with the clearer eye of Christian 
faith I try to look beyond all this error 
unto Truth and Holiness immaculate: 
and thanks to our Father, I am favored 
with glimpses that are sweet consola- 
tion amid this darkness. 

This is one gratification: the men 
with us give us their sympathy. They 
seem to look upon us tenderly and piti- 
fully, and their expressions of kind 
wishes are warm. Although we are re- 
lieved from duty and from drill, and 
may lie in our tents during rain and at 
night, we have heard of no complaint. 
This is the more worthy of note as 
there are so few in our little (Vermont) 
camp. Each man comes on guard half 
the days. It would probably be other- 
wise were their hearts in the service; 
but I have yet to find the man in any 
of these camps or at any service who 
does not wish himself at home. Substi- 
tutes say if they knew all they know 
now before leaving home they would 
not have enlisted; and they have been 
but a week from their homes and 
have endured no hardships. Yesterday 
L. M. M. and I appeared before the 
Captain commanding this camp with 
a statement of our cases. He listened 
to us respectfully and promised to refer 
us to the General commanding here, 
General Devens; and in the mean time 
released us from duty. In a short time 

afterward he passed us in our tent, 
asking our names. We have not heard 
from him, but do not drill or stand 
guard; so, we suppose, his release was 
confirmed. At that interview a young 
lieutenant sneeringly told us he thought 
we had better throw away our scruples 
and fight in the service of the country; 
and as we told the Captain we could 
neither accept pay, he laughed mock- 
ingly, and said he would not stay here 
for $13.00 per month. He gets more 
than a hundred, I suppose. 

How beautiful seems the world on 
this glorious morning here by the sea- 
side! Eastward and toward the sun, 
fair green isles with outlines of pure 
beauty are scattered over the blue bay. 
Along the far line of the mainland 
white hamlets and towns glisten in the 
morning sun; countless tiny waves 
dance in the wind that comes off shore 
and sparkle sunward like myriads of 
gems. Up the fair vault, flecked by 
scarcely a cloud, rolls the sun in glory. 
Though fair be the earth, it has come 
to be tainted and marred by him who 
was meant to be its crowning glory. 
Behind me on this island are crowded 
vile and wicked men, the murmur of 
whose ribaldry riseth continually like 
the smoke and fumes of a lower world. 
Oh! Father of Mercies, forgive the hard 
heartlessness and blindness and scarlet 
sins of my fellows, my brothers. 


., 8th month, 1863. IN GUARD 
HOUSE. Yesterday morning L. M. 
M. and I were called upon to do fatigue 
duty. The day before we were asked to 
do some cleaning about camp and to 
bring water. We wished to be obliging, 
to appear willing to bear a hand toward 
that which would promote our own and 
our fellows' health and convenience; 
but as we worked we did not feel easy. 
Suspecting we had beeen assigned to 




such work, the more we discussed 
in our minds the subject, the more 
clearly the right way seemed opened 
to us; and we separately came to the 
judgment that we must not conform 
to this requirement. So when the ser- 
geant bade us * Police the streets/ we 
asked him if he had received instruc- 
tions with regard to us, and he replied 
we had been assigned to * Fatigue 
Duty.' L. M. M. answered him that 
we could not obey. He left us immedi- 
ately for the Major (Jarvis of Wea- 
thersfield, Vt.), He came back and 
ordered us to the Major's tent. The 
latter met us outside and inquired con- 
cerning the complaint he had heard of 
us. Upon our statement of our position, 
he apparently undertook to argue our 
whimsies, as he probably looked upon 
our principles, out of our heads. We 
replied to his points as we had ability; 
but he soon turned to bullying us 
rather than arguing with us, and 
would hardly let us proceed with a 
whole sentence. * I make some preten- 
sion to religion myself/ he said; and 
quoted the Old Testament freely in 
support of war. Our terms were, sub- 
mission or the guard-house. We re- 
plied we could not obey. 

This island was formerly occupied 
by a company, who carried on the 
large farm it comprises and opened a 
great hotel as a summer resort. 

The subjects of all misdemeanors, 
grave and small, are here confined. 
Those who have deserted or attempted 
it ; those who have insulted officers and 
those guilty of theft, fighting, drunk- 
enness, etc. In twos/, as in the camps, 
there are traces yet of manhood and of 
the Divine Spark, but some are aban- 
doned, dissolute. There are many here 
among the substitutes who were actors 
in the late New York riots. They show 
unmistakably the characteristics and 
sentiments of those rioters, and, especi- 
ally, hatred to the blacks drafted and 

about camp, and exhibit this in foul 
and profane jeers heaped upon these 
unoffending men at every opportunity. 
In justice to the blacks I must say they 
are superior to the whites in all their 

Slst . p. M. Several of us were a lit- 
tle time ago called out one by one to 
answer inquiries with regard to our of- 
fenses. We replied we could not com- 
ply with military requisitions. P. D., 
being last, was asked if he would die 
first, and replied promptly but mildly, 

Here we are in prison in our own land 
for no crimes, no offense to God nor 
man; nay, more: we are here for obey- 
ing the commands of the Son of God 
and the influences of his Holy Spirit. 
I must look for patience in this dark 
day. I am troubled too much and ex- 
cited and perplexed. 

I*/., 9th month. Oh, the horrors of 
the past night I never before experi- 
enced such sensations and fears; and 
never did I feel so clearly that I had 
nothing but the hand of our Father to 
shield me from evil. Last night we three 
lay down together on the floor of a lower 
room of which we had taken possession. 
The others were above. We had but 
one blanket between us and the floor, 
and one over us. The other one we had 
lent to a wretched deserter who had 
skulked into our room for JT/I>/, being 
without anything of his own. We had 
during the day gained the respect of 
the fellows, and they seemed disposed 
to let us occupy our room in peace, I 
cannot say in quiet, for these caged 
beasts are restless, and the resonant 
boards of this old building speak of 
bedlam. The thin board partitions, 
the light door fastened only by a pine 
stick thrust into a wooden loop on the 
casing, seemed small protection in case 
of assault ; but we lay down to sleep in 
quiet trust. But we had scarcely fallen 



asleep before we were awakened by the 
demoniac bowlings and yelling of a 
man just brought into the next room, 
and allowed the liberty of the whole 
house. He was drunk, and further 
seemed to be laboring under delirium 
tremens. He crashed about furiously, 
and all the more after the guard 
tramped heavily in and bound him 
with handcuffs, and chain and ball. 
Again and again they left, only to 
return to quiet him by threats or by 
crushing him down to the floor and 
gagging him. In a couple of hours he 
became quiet and we got considerable 

In the morning the fellow came 
into our room apologizing for the in- 
trusion. He appeared a smart, fine- 
looking young man, restless and un- 
easy. P. D. has a way of disposing of 
intruders that is quite effectual. I 
have not entirely disposed of some mis- 
givings with respect to the legitimacy 
of his use of the means, so he com- 
menced reading aloud in the Bible. 
The fellow was impatient and noisy, 
but he soon settled down on the floor 
beside him. As he listened and talked 
with us the recollections of his father's 
house and his innocent childhood were 
awakened. He was the child of pious 
parents, taught in Sabbath School and 
under pure home influences till thir- 
teen. Then he was drawn into bad 
company, soon after leaving home for 
the sea; and, since then, has served in 
the army and navy, in the army in 
Wilson's and Hawkins's [brigades]. His 
was the old story of the total subjection 
of moral power and thralldom to evil 
habits and associates. He would get 
drunk, whenever it was in his power. 
It was wrong; but he could not help it. 
Though he was awakened and recol- 
lected his parents looking long and in 
vain for his return, he soon returned to 
camp, to his wallowing in the mire, and 
I fear to his path to certain perdition. 

3d. [9th month.] A Massachusetts 
major, the officer of the day, in his in- 
spection of the guard-house came into 
our room to-day. We were lying on the 
floor engaged in reading and writing. 
He was apparently surprised at this 
and inquired the name of our books; 
and finding the Bible and Thomas & 
Kempis's Imitation of Christy observed 
that they were good books. I cannot 
say if he knew we were Friends, but he 
asked us why we were in here. 

Like all officers he proceeded to rea- 
son with. us, and to advise us to serve, 
presenting no comfort if we still per- 
sisted in our course. He informed us of 
a young Friend, Edward W. Holway 
of Sandwich, Mass., having been yes- 
terday under punishment in the camp 
by his orders, who was to-day doing 
service about camp. He said he was 
not going to put his Quaker in the 
guard-house, but was going to bring 
him to work by punishment. We were 
filled with deep sympathy for him and 
desired to cheer him by kind words 
as well as by the knowledge of our sim- 
ilar situation. We obtained permission 
of the Major to write to him a letter 
open to his inspection. 'You may be 
sure,' said E. W. H. to us at W., 'the 
Major did not allow it to leave his 

This forenoon the Lieutenant of the 
Day came in and acted the same 
part, though he was not so cool, and 
left expressing the hope, if we would 
not serve our country like men, that 
God would curse us. Oh, the trials 
from these officers! One after another 
comes in to relieve himself upon us. 
Finding us firm and not lacking in 
words, they usually fly into a passion 
and end by bullying us. How can we 
reason with such men? They are ut- 
terly unable to comprehend the pure 
Christianity and spirituality of our 
principles. They have long stiffened 
their necks in their own strength. They 



have stopped their ears to the voice of 
the Spirit, and hardened their hearts 
to his influences. They see no duty 
higher than that to country. What 
shall we receive at their hands? 

This Major tells us we will not be 
tried here. Then we are to be sent into 
the field, and there who will deliver us 
but God? Ah, I have nursed in my 
heart a hope that I may be spared to 
return home. Must I cast it out and 
have no desire, but to do the will of my 
Master. It were better, even so. O, 
Lord, Thy will be done. Grant I may 
make it my chief delight and render 
true submission thereto. 

Yesterday a little service was re- 
quired of our dear L. M. M., but he in- 
sisted he could not comply. A sergeant 
and two privates were engaged. They 
coaxed and threatened him by turns, 
and with a determination not to be 
baffled took him out to perform it. 
Though guns were loaded he still stood 
firm and was soon brought back. We 
are happy here in guard-house, too 
happy, too much at ease. We should 
see more of the Comforter, feel more 
strength, if the trial were fiercer; but 
this is well. This is a trial of strength 
of patience. 

6th. [9th month.] Yesterday we 
had officers again for visitors. Major 
J. B. Gould, 13th Massachusetts, came 
in with the determination of persuad- 
ing us to consent to be transferred to 
the hospital here, he being the Pro- 
vost Marshal of the island and hav- 
ing the power to make the transfer. 
He is different in being and bear- 
ing from those who have been here 
before. His motives were apparently 
those of pure kindness, and his de- 
meanor was that of a gentleman. 
Though he talked with us more than 
an hour, he lost no part of his self-con- 
trol or good humor. So by his eloquence 
and kindness he made more impression 

upon us than any before. As Congre- 
gationalist he well knew the courts of 
the temple, but the Holy of Holies he 
had never seen, and knew nothing of its 
secrets. He understood expediency; 
but is not the man to * lay down his life 
for my sake/ He is sincere and seems 
to think what Major Gould believes 
cannot be far from right. After his 
attempt we remained as firm as ever. 
We must expect all means will be tried 
upon us, and no less persuasion than 

AT THE HOSPITAL, 7th. [9th month.] 
Yesterday morning came to us 
Major Gould again, informing us that 
he had come to take us out of that 
dirty place, as he could not see such 
respectable men lying there, and was 
going to take us up to the hospital. 
We assured him we could not serve 
there, and asked him if he would not 
bring us back when we had there de- 
clared our purpose. He would not re- 
ply directly; but brought us here and 
left us. When the surgeon knew our 
determination, he was for haling us 
back at once; what he wanted, he said, 
was willing men. We sat on the sward 
without the hospital tents till nearly 
noon, for some one to take us back; 
when we were ordered to move into the 
tents and quarters assigned us in the 
mess-room. The Major must have in- 
terposed, demonstrating his kindness 
by his resolution that we should oc- 
cupy and enjoy the pleasanter quarters 
of the hospital, certainly if serving; but 
none the less so if we declined. Later in 
the day L. M. M. and P. D. were sit- 
ting without, when he passed them and, 
laughing heartily, declared they were 
the strangest prisoners of war he ever 
saw. He stopped some time to talk 
with them and when they came in they 
declared him a kind and honest man. 

If we interpret aright his conduct, 
this dangerous trial is over, and we 



have escaped the perplexities that his 
kindness and determination threw 
about us. 

13th. Last night we received a 
letter from Henry Dickinson, stating 
that the President, though sympathiz- 
ing with those in our situation, felt 
bound by the Conscription Act, and 
felt liberty, in view of his oath to exe- 
cute the laws, to do no more than de- 
tail us from active service to hospital 
duty, or to the charge of the colored 
refugees. For more than a week have 
we lain here, refusing to engage in 
hospital service; shall we retrace the 
steps of the past week? Or shall we go 
South as overseers of the blacks on the 
confiscated estates of the rebels, to act 
under military commanders and to re- 
port to such? What would become of 
our testimony and our determination 
to preserve ourselves clear of the guilt 
of this war? 

P.S. We have written back to Henry 
Dickinson that we cannot purchase 
life at cost of peace of soul. 

I4>th. We have been exceeding sor- 
rowful since receiving advice as we 
must call it from H. D. to enter the 
hospital service or some similar situa- 
tion. We did not look for that from him. 
It is not what our Friends sent us out 
for; nor is it what we came for. We shall 
feel desolate and dreary in our posi- 
tion, unless supported and cheered by 
the words of those who have at heart 
our best interests more than regard for 
our personal welfare. We walk as we 
feel guided by Best Wisdom. Oh, may 
we run and not err in the high path of 

16th. Yesterday a son-in-law of 
N. B. of Lynn came to see us. He was 
going to get passes for one or two of the 
Lynn Friends, that they might come 
over to see us to-day. He informed 

us that the sentiment of the Friends 
hereabouts was that we might enter 
the hospital without compromising our 
principles; and he produced a letter 
from W. W. to S. B. to the same effect. 
W. W. expressed his opinion that we 
might do so without doing it in lieu 
of other service. How can we evade a 
fact? Does not the government both 
demand and accept it as in lieu of other 
service. Oh, the cruelest blow of all 
comes from our friends. 

17th. Although this trial was 
brought upon us by our friends, their 
intentions were well meant. Their re- 
gard for our personal welfare and safe- 
ty too much absorbs the zeal they 
should possess for the maintenance of 
the principle of the peaceableness of 
our Master's kingdom. An unfaithful- 
ness to this through meekness and tim- 
idity seems manifest, too great a de- 
sire to avoid suffering at some sacrifice 
of principle, perhaps, too little of 
placing of Faith and confidence upon 
the Rock of Eternal Truth. 

Our friends at home, with W. D. at 
their head, support us; and yesterday, 
at the opportune moment, just as we 
were most distressed by the solicita- 
tions of our visitors, kind and cheering 
words of Truth were sent us through 
dear C. M. P., whose love rushes out to 
us warm and living and just from an 
overflowing fountain. 

I must record another work of kind 
attention shown us by Major Gould. 
Before we embarked, he came to us for 
a friendly visit. As we passed him on 
our way to the wharf he bade us Fare- 
well and expressed a hope we should 
not have so hard a time as we feared. 
And after we were aboard the steamer, 
as the result of his interference on our 
behalf, we must believe, we were sin- 
gled out from the midst of the prison- 
ers, among whom we had been placed 
previous to coming aboard, and allowed 



the liberty of the vessel. By this are 
we saved much suffering, as the other 
prisoners were kept under close guard 
in a corner on the outside of the boat. 

%%nd. [9th month.] It was near noon, 
yesterday, when we turned in from 
sea between Cape Charles and Henry; 
and, running thence down across the 
mouth of Chesapeake Bay, alongside 
Old Point Comfort, dropped anchor off 
Fortress Monroe. The scene around us 
was one of beauty, though many of its 
adornments were the results and means 
of wrong. The sunshine was brighter, 
the verdure greener to our eyes weary 
of the sea, and the calm was milder and 
more grateful that we had so long 
tossed in the storm. 

The anchor was soon drawn up again 
and the Forest City steamed up the 
James River toward Newport News, 
and turning to the left between the 
low, pine-grown banks, passed Norfolk 
to leave the New Hampshire detach- 
ment at Portsmouth. 

Coming back to Fortress Monroe, 
some freight was landed; and in the 
calm clear light of the moon, we swung 
away from shore and dropping down 
the mouth of the river, rounded Old 
Point, and, going up the Chesapeake, 
entered the Potomac in the night- 

Here we anchored last night after the 
main detachment was landed, and the 
Vermont and Masschusetts men re- 
mained on board another night. We 
hear we are to go right to the field, 
where active operations are going on. 
This seems hard. We have not till now 
given up the hope that we were not to 
go out into Virginia with the rest of 
the men, but were to be kept here at 
Washington. Fierce, indeed, are our 
trials. I am not discouraged entirely; 

but I am weak from want of food which 
I can eat, and from sickness. I do not 
know how I am going to live in such 
way, or get to the front. 

P.S. We have just landed; and I 
had the liberty to buy a pie of a 
woman hawking such things, that has 
strengthened me wonderfully. 

distress is too great for words; but 
I must overcome my disinclination to 
write, or this record will remain unfin- 
ished. So, with aching head and heart, 
I proceed. 

Yesterday morning we were roused 
early for breakfast and for preparation 
for starting. After marching out of the 
barracks, we were first taken to the 
armory, where each man received a 
gun and its equipments and a piece of 
tent. We stood in line, waiting for our 
turn with apprehensions of coming 
trouble. Though we had felt free to 
keep with those among whom we had 
been placed, we could not consent to 
carry a gun, even though we did not 
intend to use it; and, from our pre- 
vious experience, we knew it would go 
harder with us, if we took the first step 
in the wrong direction, though it might 
seem an unimportant one, and an easy 
and not very wrong way to avoid diffi- 
culty. So we felt decided we must de- 
cline receiving the guns. In the hurry 
and bustle of equipping a detachment 
of soldiers, one attempting to explain 
a position and the grounds therefor so 
peculiar as ours to junior, petty officers, 
possessing liberally the characteristics 
of these: pride, vanity, conceit, and an 
arbitrary spirit, impatience, profanity, 
and contempt for holy things, must 
needs find the opportunity a very fav- 
orable one. 

We succeeded in giving these young 
officers a slight idea of what we were; 
and endeavored to answer their ques- 
tions of why we did not pay our com- 



mutation, and avail ourselves of that 
provision made expressly for such; of 
why we had come as far as that place, 
etc. We realized then the unpleasant 
results of that practice, that had been 
employed with us by the successive 
officers into whose hands we had fallen, 
of shirking any responsibility, and 
of passing us on to the next officer 

A council was soon holden to decide 
what to do with us. One proposed to 
place us under arrest, a sentiment we 
rather hoped might prevail, as it might 
prevent our being sent on to the front; 
but another, in some spite and im- 
patience, insisted, as it was their duty 
to supply a gun to every man and for- 
ward him, that the guns should be put 
upon us, and we be made to carry 
them. Accordingly the equipment 
was buckled about us, and the straps 
of the guns being loosened, they were 
thrust over our heads and hung upon 
our shoulders. In this way we were 
urged forward through the streets of 
Alexandria; and, having been put upon 
a long train of dirt cars, were started 
for Culpeper. We came over a long 
stretch of desolated and deserted coun- 
try, through battlefields of previous 
summers, and through many camps 
now lively with the work of this present 
campaign. Seeing, for the first time, 
a country made dreary by the war- 
blight, a country once adorned with 
graves and green pastures and mead- 
ows and fields of waving grain, and 
happy with a thousand homes, now 
laid with the ground, one realizes as he 
can in no other way something of the 
ruin that lies in the trail of a war. But 
upon these fields of Virginia, once so 
fair, there rests a two-fold blight, first 
that of slavery, now that of war. When 
one contrasts the face of this country 
with the smiling hillsides and vales of 
New England, he sees stamped upon it 
in characters so marked, none but a 

blind man can fail to read, the great 
irrefutable arguments against slavery 
and against war, too; and must be fill- 
ed with loathing for these twin relics 
of barbarism, so awful in the potency 
of their consequences that they can 
change even the face of the country. 

Through the heat of this long ride, 
we felt our total lack of water and the 
meagreness of our supply of food. Our 
thirst became so oppressive as we were 
marched here from Culpeper, some 
four miles with scarcely a halt to rest, 
under our heavy loads, and through 
the heat and deep dust of the road, 
that we drank water and dipped in the 
brooks we passed, though it was dis- 
colored with the soap the soldiers had 
used in washing. The guns interfered 
with our walking, and, slipping down, 
dragged with painful weight upon our 
shoulders. Poor P. D. fell out from 
exhaustion and did not come in till we 
had been some little time at the camp. 
We were taken to the 4th Vermont 
regiment and soon apportioned to com- 
panies. Though we waited upon the 
officer commanding the company in 
which we were placed, and endeavored 
to explain our situation, we were re- 
quired immediately after to be present 
at inspection of arms. We declined, 
but an attempt was made to force us to 
obedience, first, by the officers of the 
company, then, by those of the regi- 
ment; but, failing to exact obedience of 
us, we were ordered by the colonel to 
be tied, and, if we made outcry, to be 
gagged also, and to be kept so till he 
gave orders for our release. After two 
or three hours we were relieved and 
left under guard; lying down on the 
ground in the open air, and covering 
ourselves with our blankets, we soon 
fell asleep from exhaustion, and the 
fatigue of the day. 

This morning the officers told us we 
must yield. We must obey and serve. 
We were threatened great seventies 



and even death. We seem perfectly at 
the mercy of the military power, and, 
more, in the hands of the inferior 
officers, who, from their being far re- 
moved from Washington, feel less re- 
straint from those Regulations of the 
Army, which are for the protection of 
privates from personal abuse. 

%6th. [9th month.] Yesterday my 
mind was much agitated: doubts and 
fears and forebodings seized me. I was 
alone, seeking a resting-place and find- 
ing none. It seemed as if God had for- 
saken me in this dark hour; and the 
Tempter whispered, that after all I 
might be only the victim of a delusion. 
My prayers for faith and strength 
seemed all in vain. 

But this morning I enjoy peace, and 
feel as though I could face anything. 
Though I am as a lamb in the sham- 
bles, yet do I cry, * Thy will be done/ 
and can indeed say, 

Passive to His holy will 
Trust I in my Master still 
Even though he slay me. 

I mind me of the anxiety of our dear 
friends about home, and of their pray- 
ers for us. 

Oh, praise be to the Lord for the 
peace and love and resignation that 
has filled my soul to-day! Oh, the 
passing beauty of holiness! There is 
a holy life that is above fear; it is a close 
communion with Christ. I pray for 
this continually but am not free from 
the shadow and the tempter. There is 
ever present with us the thought that 
perhaps we shall serve the Lord the 
most effectually by our death, and de- 
sire, if that be the service He requires 
of us, that we may be ready and re- 

mont. Z9th. [9th month.] On the 
evening of the 26th the Colonel came 
to us apologizing for the roughness 

with which he treated us at first, which 
was, as he insisted, through ignorance 
of our real character and position. He 
told us if we persisted in our course, 
death would probably follow; though 
at another time he confessed to P. D. 
that this would only be the extreme 
sentence of court-martial. 

He urged us to go into the hospital, 
stating that this course was advised 
by Friends about New York. We were 
too well aware of such a fact to make 
any denial, though it was a subject of 
surprise to us that he should be in- 
formed of it. He pleaded with us long 
and earnestly, urging us with many 
promises of indulgence and favor and 
attentions we found afterwards to be 
untrue. He gave us till the next morn- 
ing to consider the question and report 
our decision. In our discussion of the 
subject among ourselves, we were very 
much perplexed. If all his statements 
concerning the ground taken by our So- 
ciety were true, we seemed to be liable, 
if we persisted in the course which 
alone seemed to us to be in accord- 
ance with Truth, to be exposed to the 
charge of over-zeal and fanaticism even 
among our own brethren. Regarding 
the work to be done in hospital as one 
of mercy and benevolence, we asked 
if we had any right to refuse its per- 
formance; and questioned whether we 
could do more good by endeavoring 
to bear to the end a clear testimony 
against war, than by laboring by word 
and deed among the needy in the hos- 
pitals and camps. We saw around us a 
rich field for usefulness in which there 
were scarce any laborers, and toward 
whose work our hands had often 
started involuntarily and unbidden. 
At last we consented to a trial, at least 
till we could make inquiries concern- 
ing the Colonel's allegations, and ask 
the counsel of our friends, reserving 
the privilege of returning to our former 



At first a great load seemed rolled 
away from us; we rejoiced in the pro- 
spect of life again. But soon there pre- 
vailed a feeling of condemnation, as 
though we had sold our Master. And 
that first day was one of the bitterest 
I ever experienced. It was a time of 
stern conflict of soul. The voice that 
seemed to say, 'Follow me,' as I sought 
guidance the night before, kept plead- 
ing with me, convincing of sin, till I 
knew of a truth my feet had strayed 
from His path. The Scriptures, which 
the day before I could scarcely open 
without finding words of strength and 
comfort, seemed closed against me, till 
after a severe struggle alone in the 
wood to which I had retired, I con- 
sented to give up and retrace my steps 
in faith. But it was too late. L. M. M. 
wishing to make a fair, honest trial, 
we were brought here P. D. being 
already here unwell. We feel we are err- 
ing; but scarce anything is required of 
us and we wait to hear from Friends. 

Of these days of going down into 
sin, I wish to make little mention. I 
would that my record of such degrada- 
tion be brief. We wish to come to an 
understanding with our friends and the 
Society before we move; but it does not 
seem that we can repress the upheav- 
ings of Truth in our hearts. We are 
bruised by sin. 

It is with pleasure I record we have 
just waited upon the Colonel with an 
explanation of our distress of mind, re- 
questing him to proceed with court- 
martial. We were kindly and tenderly 
received. 'If you want a trial I can 
give it to you/ he answered. The bri- 
gade has just marched out to join with 
the division for inspection. After that 
we are to have attention to our case. 

P.M. There is particular cause for 
congratulation in the consideration 
that we took this step this morning, 
when now we receive a letter from H. 
D. charging us to faithfulness. 

When lately I have seen dear L. M. 
M. in the thoroughness and patience of 
his trial to perform service in hospital, 
his uneasiness and the intensity of his 
struggle as manifested by his silence 
and disposition to avoid the company 
of his friends, and seen him fail and 
declare to us, 'I cannot stay here/ I 
have received a new proof, and to me a 
strong one, because it is from the ex- 
perimental knowledge of an honest 
man, that no Friend, who is really such, 
desiring to keep himself clear of com- 
plicity with this system of war and to 
bear a perfect testimony against it, can 
lawfully perform service in the hospi- 
tals of the Army in lieu of bearing arms. 

10th. mo., 3d. To-day dawned fair 
and our Camp is dry again. I was ask- 
ed to clean the gun I brought, and de- 
clining, was tied some two hours upon 
the ground. 

6th. AT WASHINGTON. At first, 
after being informed of our declining 
to serve in his hospital, Colonel Foster 
did not appear altered in his kind re- 
gard for us. But his spleen soon be- 
came evident. At the time we asked 
for a trial by court-martial, and it was 
his duty to place us under arrest and 
proceed with the preferring of his 
charges against us. For a while he seem- 
ed to hesitate and consult his inferior 
officers, and among them his Chap- 
lain. The result of the conference was 
our being ordered into our companies, 
that, separated, and with the force of 
the officers of a company bearing upon 
us, we might the more likely be sub- 
dued. Yet the Colonel assured L. M. 
M., interceding in my behalf, when the 
lieutenant commanding my company 
threatened force upon me, that he 
should not allow any personal injury. 
When we marched next day I was com- 
pelled to bear a gun and equipments. 
My associates were more fortunate, 



for, being asked if they would carry 
their guns, declined and saw no more 
trouble from them. The captain of the 
company in which P. D. was placed 
told him he did not believe he was ugly 
about it, and that he could only put 
him under arrest and prefer charges 
against him. He accordingly was taken 
under guard, where he lay till we left 
for here. 

The next morning the men were busy 
in burnishing their arms. When I 
looked toward the one I had borne, 
yellow with rust, I trembled in the 
weakness of the flesh at the trial I felt 
impending over me. Before the Colonel 
was up I knocked at his tent, but was 
told he was asleep, though, through 
the opening, I saw him lying gazing at 
me. Although I felt I should gain no re- 
lief from him, I applied again soon af- 
ter. He admitted me and, lying on his 
bed, inquired with cold heartlessness 
what I wanted. I stated to him, that I 
could never consent to serve, and, be- 
ing under the war-power, was resigned 
to suffer instead all the just penalties 
of the law. I begged of him release 
from the attempts by violence to com- 
pel my obedience and service, and a 
trial, though likely to be made by those 
having no sympathy with me, yet pro- 
bably in a manner comformable to law. 

He replied that he had shown us all 
the favor he should; that he had, now, 
turned us over to the military power 
and was going to let that take its 
course; that is, henceforth we were to 
be at the mercy of the inferior officers, 
without appeal to law, justice, or 
mercy. He said he had placed us in a 
pleasant position, against which we 
could have no reasonable objection, 
and that we had failed to perform our 
agreement. He wished to deny that 
our consent was only temporary and 
conditional. He declared, furthermore, 
his belief, that a man who would not 
fight for his country did not deserve to 

live. I was glad to withdraw from his 
presence as soon as I could. 

I went back to my tent and laid 
down for a season of retirement, en- 
deavoring to gain resignation to any 
event. I dreaded torture and desired 
strength of flesh and spirit. My trial 
soon came. The lieutenant called me 
out, and pointing to the gun that lay 
near by, asked if I was going to clean 
it. I replied to him, that I could not 
comply with military requisitions, and 
felt resigned to the consequences. 'I 
do not ask about your feelings; I want 
to know if you are going to clean that 
gun.' *I cannot do it,' was my answer. 
He went away, saying, 'Very well,' 
and I crawled into the tent again. Two 
sergeants soon called for me, and tak- 
ing me a little aside, bid me lie down 
on my back, and stretching my limbs 
apart tied cords to my wrists and an- 
kles and these to four stakes driven in 
the ground somewhat in the form of 

I was very quiet in my mind as I lay 
there on the ground [soaked] with the 
rain of the previous day, exposed to 
the heat of the sun, and suffering keen- 
ly from the cords binding my wrists 
and straining my muscles. And, if I 
dared the presumption, I should say 
that I caught a glimpse of heavenly 
pity. I wept, not so much from my 
own suffering as from sorrow that such 
things should be in our own country, 
where Justice and Freedom and Lib- 
erty of Conscience have been the an- 
nual boast of Fourth-of-July orators so 
many years. It seemed that our fore- 
fathers in the faith had wrought and 
suffered in vain, when the privileges 
they so dearly bought were so soon set 
aside. And I was sad, that one en- 
deavoring to follow our dear Master 
should be so generally regarded as a 
despicable and stubborn culprit. 

After something like an hour had 
passed, the lieutenant came with his 



orderly to ask me if I was ready to 
clean the gun. I replied to the order- 
ly asking the question, that it could 
but give me pain to be asked or re- 
quired to do anything I believed 
wrong. He repeated it to the lieuten- 
ant just behind him, who advanced and 
addressed me. I was favored to im- 
prove the opportunity to say to him a 
few things I wished. He said little; and, 
when I had finished, he withdrew with 
the others who had gathered around. 
About the end of another hour his or- 
derly came and released me. 

I arose and sat on the ground. I did 
not rise to go away. I had not where 
to go, nothing to do. As I sat there my 
heart swelled with joy from above. The 
consolation and sweet fruit of tribula- 
tion patiently endured. But I also 
grieved, that the world was so far gone 
astray, so cruel and blind. It seemed 
as if the gospel of Christ had never been 
preached upon earth, and the beautiful 
example of his life had been utterly 
lost sight of. 

Some of the men came about me, 
advising me to yield, and among them 
one of those who had tied me down, 
telling me what I had already suffered 
was nothing to what I must yet suffer 
unless I yielded; that human flesh 
could not endure what they would put 
upon me. I wondered if it could be 
that they could force me to obedience 
by torture, and examined myself 
closely to see if they had advanced 
as yet one step toward the accom- 
plishment of their purposes. Though 
weaker in body, I believed I found my- 
self, through divine strength, as firm 
in my resolution to maintain my alle- 
giance to my Master. 

The relaxation of my nerves and 
muscles after having been so tensely 
strained left me that afternoon so weak 
that I could hardly walk or perform 
any mental exertion. 

I had not yet eaten the mean 

and scanty breakfast I had prepared, 
when I was ordered to pack up my 
things and report myself at the lieu- 
tenant's tent. I was accustomed to 
such orders and complied, little moved. 

The lieutenant received me politely 
with, * Good-morning, Mr. Pringle,' 
and desiring me to be seated, proceeded 
with the writing with which he was en- 
gaged. I sat down in some wonder- 
ment and sought to be quiet and pre- 
pared for any event. 

4 You are ordered to report to Wash- 
ington,' said he; 'I do not know what it 
is for.' I assured him that neither did 
I know. We were gathered before the 
Major's tent for preparation for de- 
parture. The regimental officers were 
there manifesting surprise and chagrin; 
for they could not but show both as 
they looked upon us, whom the day be- 
fore they were threatening to crush into 
submission, and attempting also to ex- 
ecute their threats that morning, stand- 
ing out of their power and under orders 
from one superior to their Major Com- 
manding E. M. As the bird uncaged, 
so were our hearts that morning. Short 
and uncertain at first were the flights of 
Hope. As the slave many times before 
us, leaving his yoke behind him, turned 
from the plantations of Virginia and 
set his face toward the far North, so we 
from out a grasp as close and as abun- 
dant in suffering and severity, and 
from without the line of bayonets that 
had so many weeks surrounded us, 
turned our backs upon -the camp of the 
4th Vermont and took our way over 
the turnpike that ran through the 
tented fields of Culpeper. 

At the War Office we were soon ad- 
mitted to an audience with the Adjutant 
General, Colonel Townsend, whom we 
found to be a very fine man, mild and 
kind. He referred our cases to the Sec- 
retary of War, Stanton, by whom we 
were ordered to report for service to 
Surgeon General Hammond. Here we 



met Isaac Newton, Commissioner of 
Agriculture, waiting for our arrival, and 
James Austin of Nantucket, expecting 
his son, Charles L.Austin, and Edward 
W. Hoi way of Sandwich, Mass., con- 
scripted Friends like ourselves, and 
ordered here from the 22nd Massachu- 

We understand it is through the in- 
fluence of Isaac Newton that Friends 
have been able to approach the heads 
of Government in our behalf and to 
prevail with them to so great an extent. 
He explained to us the circumstance in 
which we are placed. That the Secre- 
tary of War and President sympa- 
thized with Friends in their present 
suffering, and would grant them full 
release, but that they felt themselves 
bound by their oaths that they would 
execute the laws, to carry out to its full 
extent the Conscription Act. That 
there appeared but one door of relief 
open, that was to parole us and 
allow us to go home, but subject to 
their call again ostensibly, though this 
they neither wished nor proposed to 
do. That the fact of Friends in the 
Army and refusing service had at- 
tracted public attention so that it was 
not expedient to parole us at present. 
That, therefore, we were to be sent to 
one of the hospitals for a short time, 
where it was hoped and expressly re- 
quested that we would consent to re- 
main quiet and acquiesce, if possible, 
in whatever might be required of us. 
That our work there would be quite 
free from objection, being for the direct 
relief of the sick; and that there he 
would release none for active service 
in the field, as the nurses were hired 

These requirements being so much 
less objectionable than we had feared, 
we felt relief, and consented to them. 
I. N. went with us himself to the Sur- 
geon General's office, where he pro- 
cured peculiar favors for us: that we 

should be sent to a hospital in the city, 
where he could see us often; and that 
orders should be given that nothing 
should interfere with our comfort, or 
our enjoyment of our consciences. 

Thence we were sent to Medical 
Purveyor Abbot, who assigned us to 
the best hospital in the city, the 
Douglas Hospital. 

The next day after our coming here 
I. N. and James Austin came to add to 
our number E. W. H. and C. S. L., so 
now there are five of us instead of 
three. We are pleasantly situated in a 
room by ourselves in the upper or 
fourth story, and are enjoying our ad- 
vantages of good quarters and tolerable 
food as no one can except he has been 
deprived of them. 

[IQth month] 8^. To-day we have 
a pass to go out to see the city. 

9th. We all went, thinking to do 
the whole city in a day, but before the 
time of our passes expired, we were 
glad to drag ourselves back to the rest 
and quiet of D. H. During the day we 
called upon our friend I. N. in the 
Patent Office. When he came to see us 
on the 7th, he stated he had called upon 
the President that afternoon to request 
him to release us and let us go home to 
our friends. The President promised 
to consider it over-night. Accordingly 
yesterday morning, as I. N. told us, he 
waited upon him again. He found 
there a woman in the greatest distress. 
Her son, only a boy of fifteen years and 
four months, having been enticed into 
the Army, had deserted and been sen- 
tenced to be shot the next day. As the 
clerks were telling her, the President 
was in the War Office and could not 
be seen, nor did they think he could 
attend to her case that day. I. N. 
found her almost wild with grief. * Do 
not despair, my good woman,' said he, 
* I guess the President can be seen after 



a bit.' He soon presented her case to 
the President, who exclaimed at once, 
'That must not be, I must look into 
that case, before they shoot that boy ' ; 
and telegraphed at once to have the 
order suspended. 

I. N. judged it was not a fit time to 
urge our case. We feel we can afford 
to wait, that a life may be saved. But 
we long for release. We do not feel 
easy to remain here. 

llth. To-day we attended meet- 
ing held in the house of a Friend, Asa 
Arnold, living near here. There were 
but four persons beside ourselves. E. 
W. H. and C. S. A. showed their copy 
of the charges about to have been pre- 
ferred against them in court-martial 
before they left their regiment, to a 
lawyer who attended the meeting. He 
laughed at the Specification of Mut- 
iny, declaring such a charge could not 
have been lawfully sustained against 

The experiences of our new friends 
were similar to ours, except they fell 
among officers who usually showed 
them favor and rejoiced with them in 
their release. 

13th. L. M. M. had quite an ad- 
venture yesterday. He being fireman 
with another was in the furnace room 
among three or four others, when the 
officer of the day, one of the surgeons, 
passed around on inspection. 'Stand 
up/ he ordered them, wishing to be 
saluted. The others arose; but by no 
means L. The order was repeated for 
his benefit, but he sat with his cap on, 
telling the surgeon he had supposed he 
was excused from such things as he was 
one of the Friends. Thereat the officer 
flew at him, exclaiming, he would take 
the Quaker out of him. He snatched 
off his cap and seizing him by the col- 
lar tried to raise him to his feet; but 
finding his strength insufficient and 

VOL. Ill -NO. 2 

that L. was not to be frightened, he 
changed his purpose in his wrath and 
calling for the corporal of the guard 
had him taken to the guard-house. 
This was about eleven A. M. and he lay 
there till about six P.M., when the 
surgeon in charge, arriving home and 
hearing of it, ordered the officer of the 
day to go and take him out, telling him 
never to put another man into the 
guard-house while he was in charge 
here without consulting him. The man- 
ner of his release was very satisfactory 
to us, and we waited for this rather 
than effect it by our own efforts. We 
are all getting uneasy about remaining 
here, and if our release do not come 
soon, we feel we must intercede with 
the authorities, even if the alternative 
be imprisonment. 

The privations I have endured since 
leaving home, the great tax upon my 
nervous strength, and my mind as well, 
since I have had charge of our exten- 
sive correspondence, are beginning to 
tell upon my health and I long for rest. 

%Qth. We begin to feel we shall have 
to decline service as heretofore, unless 
our position is changed. I shall not say 
but we submit too much in not declin- 
ing at once, but it has seemed most pru- 
dent at least to make suit with Govern- 
ment rather than provoke the hostility 
of their subalterns. We were ordered 
here with little understanding of the 
true state of things as they really exist 
here; and were advised by Friends to 
come and make no objections, being 
assured it was but for a very brief time 
and only a matter of form. It might 
not have been wrong; but as we find 
we do too much fill the places of sol- 
diers (L. M. M.'s fellow fireman has 
just left for the field, and I am to take 
his place, for instance), and are clearly 
doing military service, we are continu- 
ally oppressed by a sense of guilt, that 
makes our struggles earnest. 



%lst. I. N. has not called yet; our 
situation is becoming almost intoler- 
able. I query if patience is justified un- 
der the circumstances. My distress of 
mind may be enhanced by my feeble 
condition of health, for to-day I am con- 
fined to my bed, almost too weak to get 
downstairs. This is owing to exposure 
after being heated over the furnaces. 

%6th. Though a week has gone by, 
and my cold has left me, I find I am no 
better, and that I am reduced very low 
in strength and flesh by the sickness 
and pain I am experiencing. Yet I still 
persist in going below once a day. The 
food I am able to get is not such as is 

llth mo., 5th. I spend most of my 
time on my bed, much of it alone. And 
very precious to me is the nearness I am 
favored to attain to unto the Master. 
Notwithstanding my situation and 
state, I am happy in the enjoyment of 
His consolations. Lately my confidence 
has been strong, and I think I begin to 
feel that our patience is soon to be re- 
warded with relief; insomuch that a 
little while ago, when dear P. D. was 
almost overcome with snow, I felt bold 
to comfort him with the assurance of 
my belief, that it would not be long so. 
My mind is too weak to allow of my 
reading much; and, though I enjoy the 
company of my companions a part of 
the time, especially in the evening, I 
am much alone; which affords me 
abundant time for meditation and wait- 
ing upon God. The fruits of this are 
sweet, and a recompense for affliction. 

6th. Last evening E. W. H. saw 
I. N. particularly on my behalf, I sup- 
pose. He left at once for the President. 
This morning he called to inform us of 
his interview at the White House. The 
President was moved to sympathy in 
my behalf, when I. N. gave him a let- 
ter from one of our Friends in New 
York. After its perusal he exclaimed 
to our friend, 'I want you to go and 
tell Stanton, that it is my wish all those 
young men be sent home at once/ He 
was on his way to the Secretary this 
morning as he called. 

Later. I. N. has just called again 
informing us in joy that we are free. 
At the War Office he was urging the 
Secretary to consent to our paroles, 
when the President entered. * It is my 
urgent wish,' said he. The Secretary 
yielded; the order was given, and we 
were released. What we had waited 
for so many weeks was accomplished 
in a few moments by a Providential 
ordering of circumstances. 

7th. I. N. came again last even- 
ing bringing our paroles. The pre- 
liminary arrangements are being made, 
and we are to start this afternoon for 
New York. 

Note. Rising from my sick-bed to 
undertake this journey, which lasted 
through the night, its fatigues overcame 
me, and upon my arrival in New York 
I was seized with delirium from which 
I only recovered after many weeks, 
through the mercy and favor of Him, 
who in all this trial had been our guide 
and strength and comfort. 



CATO MAJOR, a man of fifty. 

j I Students at Harvard College. 

Cato: Welcome, Scipio; your father 
and I were friends before you were 
born. And a hearty welcome to you, 
too, Lselius; all your family I esteem 
my kinsmen. Is this the holiday sea- 
son, or how comes it that you have at 
this time shuffled off the coil of acad- 
emic life? 

Scipio: We have a few free days now 
according to the liberal usage of our 
college, and we have come, relying up- 
on your kinship with Lselius, and your 
friendship for my father, to ask you 
some questions. 

Cato: I had thought that seniors of 
Harvard College were more disposed 
to answer questions than to ask them; 
but I am truly glad that you have come, 
and as best I can, I will endeavor to 
satisfy your curiosity. 

Lcelius: We have been disputing, sir, 
in the interim between academic stud- 
ies, as to the value of life; whether, tak- 
ing it all in all, life should be regarded 
as a good thing or not. We are agreed 
that, so far as Youth is concerned, life 
is well worth the living, but we are 
doubtful whether, if Old Age be put 
into the same balance with Youth, the 
whole will outweigh the good of never 
having lived. 

Scipio: You see that we have really 
come to ask you about Old Age, for as 
to Youth, that we know of ourselves. 

Cato: About Old Age! Naturally that 
has been the subject of my meditations, 

and I will gladly impart my conclu- 
sions, such as they are. 

Scipio: Thank you very much. I re- 
gret to say that we are obliged to take 
the next train back to town, so our 
time is all too short. 

Cato: We have half an hour. I will 
waste no time in prologue. And I shall 
begin by asking Scipio's pardon, for I 
shall flatly contradict his assumption 
that the young have a knowledge of 

Scipio: Of course we beg you to let 
neither our youth nor our opinions 
hamper the free expression of your 

Lcdius : We are all attention, sir. 

Cato: In the first place, my young 
friends, Age has one great pleasure 
which Youth (in spite of its own rash 
assumption of knowledge) does not 
have, and that is a true appreciation 
and enjoyment of Youth. 

You who are young know nothing of 
Youth. You merely live it. You run, 
you jump, you wrestle, you row, you 
play football, you use your muscles, 
without any consciousness of the won- 
derful machinery set in motion. You 
do not perceive the beauty of Youth, 
the light in its eye, the coming and 
going of color in its cheek, the ease 
and grace of its movements. Nor do 
you appreciate the emotions of Youth. 
You are contented or discontented, 
merry or sad, hopeful or downcast; but 
whatever that feeling is, you are wholly 




absorbed in it, you are not able to 
consider it objectively, nor to realize 
how marvelous and interesting are the 
flood and ebb of youthful passion. 

In fact, the young despise Youth; 
they are impatient to hurry on and 
join the ranks of that more respectable 
and respected body, their immediate 
seniors. The toddling urchin wishes 
that he were old enough to be the in- 
teresting schoolboy across the way, 
who starts unwillingly to school; the 
school-boy, as he whistles on his tedious 
path, wishes that he were a freshman, 
so splendid in his knowledge, his inde- 
pendence, his possessions, so familiar 
with strange oaths, so gloriously fra- 
grant of tobacco. The freshman would 
be a sophomore. You seniors wish to 
be out in the great world, elbowing 
your way among your fellow men, busy 
with what seem to you the realities of 
life. Youth feels that it is always stand- 
ing outside the door of a most delect- 
able future. 

Appreciation of Youth is part of the 
domain of art. There is no virtuoso like 
the old man who has learned to see the 
manifold beauties of Youth, the charm 
of motion, the grace of carriage, the 
glory of innocence, the fascination of 
passion. The world of art created by 
the hand of man has nothing that can 
challenge comparison with the master- 
pieces of Youth. No man, in Jiis own 
boyhood, ever had as much pleasure 
from running across the lawn, as he gets 
from seeing his sons run on that very 
spot; no laughter of his own was ever 
half so sweet to his ears as the laugh- 
ter of his little girl. No man in his 
youth ever understood the significance 
of the saying, * Of such is the Kingdom 
of Heaven.' You may smile conde- 
scendingly, young men, but in truth 
the appreciation of Youth is a privilege 
and possession of Old Age. 

Lcelius: I did but smile in sympathy. 

Scipio: If I understand you aright, 

Cato, Youth is a drama, in which the 
actors are all absorbed in their parts, 
while Age is the audience. 

Cato: You conceive my meaning. 
The play is worthy for the gods to 
watch, it out-Shakespeares Shake- 


Cato: The second great acquisition 
that comes to Old Age is the mellowing 
and ripening of life. 

As I look back across the years I can 
see that I and my friends were all what 
are called individualists. We were all 
absorbed in self, just as you young men 
are. We went through our romantic 
period in which self, with a feather in 
its cap and a red waistcoat, strutted 
over the stage. It monopolized the 
theatre; everybody else parents, 
brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, 
schoolmates were supernumeraries, 
whose business was to look on while 
the hero recited his lines. With atten- 
tion concentrated all on self, the youth 
is shy of all other youths, of everybody 
whose insolent egotism may wish to 
push its way upon his stage and inter- 
rupt his monologue. The I of Youth 
insists upon its exclusive right to emo- 
tion, upon its right to knowledge of the 
world at first-hand, upon its right to 
repeat the follies of its father, of its 
father's father, of all its ancestors. 
Youth, bewildered by the excitement 
of self-consciousness, can hardly see 
beyond the boundaries of self. 

Youth is raw and suspicious. It 
looks askance at its neighbors, is indif- 
ferent to their lot, and delights in soli- 
tude, because solitude is favorable to 
egotism. The young are ashamed of 
their humanity. Boys regard the mass 
of boys as if they were of a different 
species; they fight shy of any general 
society among themselves; they form 
cliques. The smallest clique is the most 
honorable. And sacredly enshrined in 



the very centre of the inner ring 
stands the Palladium of self. You, 
Scipio, do not associate with Gaius 
or Balbus, though they are the best 
scholars in your class; nor do you, 
Lselius, frequent any but the Claudii. 
From the vantage-ground, as you 
think, of exclusiveness, you look down 
upon your fellows herded in larger 
groups. You turn up your aristocratic 
noses at the vulgarity of joy in com- 
monalty spread. Your judgments are 
narrow, your prejudices broad; you 
are distrustful and conservative; you 
are wayward and crotchety; you are 
all for precedent, or all for license. You 
rejoice in foolish divisions, your coun- 
try, your native province, your college, 
your club, your way of doing things; 
you despise all others, and all their 
ways. A boy represents the babyhood 
of the race; in him is incarnate the 
spirit of contempt for Barbarians. 

Age is a reaction from the restive 
individualism of Youth. It recognizes 
the human inability to stand alone; it 
perceives that the individual is a bit 
broken from the human mass, that our 
ragged edges still maintain the pattern 
of the break, and are ready to fit into the 
general mass again. The Old Man no 
longer dwells on the differences between 
one human creature and his fellows; he 
reflects upon their common qualities. 
He finds no solace in isolation; he re- 
joices in community. Youth is su- 
premely conscious of its own sensitive- 
ness, its own palate, its own comfort, 
it is full of individual appetite and 
greed; but Age is conscious of human- 
ity, of a universal sensitiveness, of 
palates untouched by delicacies, of 
bodies uncared for, of souls uncom- 
forted, and its queasy stomach cannot 
bear to be helped tenfold, a hundred- 
fold, a thousandfold, while fellow mem- 
bers of the indivisible body human 
sicken from want. 

Age perceives a thousand bonds 

where Youth sees discord. Age sets 
store by the common good of life, it 
conceives of our common humanity as 
the mere right to share, and of pleas- 
ure as sharing; it considers humanity 
partly as an enlargement of self, partly 
as a refuge from self; it lightly passes 
over the differences of speech, of ac- 
cent, of clothes, of ways and customs, 
which to boys like you, taken with the 
outward aspect of the world, seem to 
erect such insuperable barriers between 
them and their fellows. To Old Age 
the sutures of humanity, that to the 
youthful eye gape so wide, are all 
grown together, the several parts are 
merged into one whole. 

Of all pleasures, none is so satisfying 
as the full enjoyment of our common 
humanity. It loosens the swaddling 
clothes that wrap us round; it alone 
gives us freedom. No doubt this is 
partly due to the nearer approach of 
death; the chill of night causes the pil- 
grim to draw nearer his fellows and 
warm himself at the kindly warmth of 
human fellowship. But be the cause 
what it may, the enjoyment of human- 
ity is a taste that grows with man's 
growth; it is a part of the ripening of 
life, and comes quickest to those who 
ripen in the sun of happiness. 

There is another element in this pro- 
cess of mellowing with age. Old Age is 
intensely aware of the delicacy of this 
human instrument, on which fate can 
play all stops of joy and pain; it feels 
an infinite concern before the vast sum 
of human sentience; it sees in human- 
ity the harvest of all the tillage of the 
past; it ponders over the long stretch 
of toil, cruelty, suffering, bewilderment, 
and terror, of unnumbered generations, 
back through recorded time, back 
through the ages that paleontologists 
dimly discern, back through the first 
stirrings of organic life. All along the 
path life flickers up but to be quenched 
by death. In contemplation of this 



funeral march the Old Man nuzzles to 
the breast of humanity, and longs for 
more and more intimate human com- 
munion. To him humanity is not a 
mere collection of individual units, but 
a mighty organism, animated by a com- 
mon consciousness, proceeding onward 
to some far-off end, with whose destiny 
his own is inseparably joined. 


Lcelius: What do you say to the phys- 
ical weakness of Old Age? Surely the 
lack of physical vigor is a disadvantage. 

Cato: It is true, Laelius, that Old 
Age fences in a man's activities. We 
old men are no longer free to roam and 
amuse, or bore, ourselves with random 
interests. Our bounds are set. But 
with the diminishing of space comes 
what may well be a more than corre- 
sponding intensity of interest. The 
need of boundlessness is one of the illu- 
sions of youth; it is a consequence of 
youth's instability, of its unwillingness 
to hold its attention fixed. The tether 
of Old Age obliges us to fix our atten- 
tion; and no matter on what our at- 
tention is fixed, we can find there con- 
centrated the essential truths of the 
universe. The adjectives great and 
small are not God's words; they mark 
our inability to throw aside our ego- 
ism even for a moment. 

The Japanese general who has slain 
his tens of thousands on the plains of 
Manchuria, squats on his hams and 
contemplates the infinite beauties in 
the iris, as the sunshine flatters it, or the 
breeze bellies out the wrinkled petals 
of its corolla. Its purple deepens, its 
white emulates the radiance of morn- 
ing, its velvet texture outdoes the royal 
couch of fairyland, its pistil displays 
all the marvel of maternity, its labo- 
rious root performs its appointed task 
with the faithfulness of ministering 
angels. The armies of Russia and 

Japan could not tell as much concern- 
ing the history of the universe as does 
this solitary iris. A garden that will 
hold a lilac bush, a patch of mignonette, 
'a dozen hollyhocks, or a few peonies, 
is enough to occupy a Diocletian. A 
square yard of vetch will reveal the 
most profound secrets of our destiny; 
the fermentation of a cup of wine dis- 
closes enough to make a man famous 
for centuries; the disease of a silkworm 
will determine the well-being of a king- 
dom; the denizens in a drop of blood 
cause half the sufferings of humanity. 
The achievements of modern science 
merely confirm the intuitions of Old 
Age. Littleness is as full of interest as 

Youth has a longing for Sinai heights, 
for the virgin tops of the Himalayas, 
and the company of deep-breathing 
mountaineers; this is because he can- 
not see the wonder in common things. 
Blindly impatient with what he has, 
blindly discontented with what is 
about him, he postulates the beautiful, 
the real, the true, in the unattainable. 
But Old Age delights in what is near 
at hand, it sees that nothing is cut off 
from the poetry of the universe, that 
the littlest things throb with the same 
spirit that animates our hearts, that 
the word common is a mere subterfuge 
of ignorance. 

Lodius : If I conceive your meaning 
aright, Cato, Old Age is, through 
greater understanding, nearer the truth 
than Youth. 

Cato: Yes, Age understands that 
such revelation as may be vouchsafed 
to man concerning the working of the 
will of the Gods needs not be sought on 
MountSinai, but in whatever spot man 
is. Earth, the waters, the air, and all 
the starry space, are waiting to com- 
municate the secrets of the Gods to the 
understanding of man. Many secrets 
they will reveal; and many, perhaps, 
they will never disclose. 




Scipio: Excuse me, Cato, but are 
you not, in substance, claiming the ad- 
vantages of religion, and is not religion 
as open to Youth as to Old Age? 

Cato: By no means, Scipio; Old Age 
is more religious than Youth. I do not 
speak of the emotional crises that come 
upon young men and young women in 
early youth; those crises seem too 
closely related to physical growth and 
development to be religious in the 
same sense in which Old Age is reli- 
gious. That the emotional crises of 
Youth may bear as truthful witness to 
the realities of the universe as the tem- 
perate religion of Old Age, I do not 
deny. The God that Youth sees by 
the light of its emotional fires may be 
the real God, but that image of God is 
transitory, it appears in fire and too 
often disappears in smoke. The image 
of God that appears to Old Age is a 
more abiding image; it reveals itself 
to experience and to reason instead of 
to the sudden and brief conviction of 
vision. Old Age finds God more in its 
own image, calm, infinitely patient, not 
revealed merely by the vibrant intens- 
ity of passion, but in the familiar and 
the commonplace. To Old Age the 
common things of life declare the glory 
of God. 

Common things affect different 
minds differently; yet to most minds 
certain familiar phenomena stand out 
conspicuous as matter for reflection. 
Most extraordinary of all common 
things is human love. Throughout the 
universe of the stellar sky and the uni- 
verse of the infinitely little, so far as we 
can see, there is perpetual movement, 
change, readjustment; everywhere are 
velocities, potencies, forces pushing 
other forces, forces holding other forces 
in check, energies in furious career, 
energies in dead-lock, but always, 
everywhere, energy in travail. And, 

apart from our animal life, the whole 
machinery whirls along without a 
throb of emotion, without a touch of 
affection. Why should not men have 
been mechanical, swept into being and 
borne onward, by the same energies, 
in the same iron-bound way? Even if 
consciousness, unfolding out of the 
potential chaos that preceded man, was 
able to wheedle an existence from Ne- 
cessity, why was it expedient to add 
love? Would not mechanical means 
serve the determined ends of human 
life, and impel us to this action and to 
that, without the need of human affec- 
tion? Human affection is surely a very 
curious and interesting device. 

And if the world must be peopled, 
and the brute law of propagation be 
adopted in a universe of chemistry and 
physics, why was it necessary to cover 
it with visions of 'love and of honor 
that cannot die,' and to render the 
common man for the moment worthy 
of an infinite destiny? 

Then there is also the perplexity of 
beauty. Why to creatures whose every 
footstep is determined by the propul- 
sions of the past, should a flower, a tuft 
of grass, a passing cloud, a bare tree 
that lifts the tracery of its branches 
against a sunset sky, cause such de- 
light? Descended from an ancestry 
that needed no lure of beautiful sight 
or of pleasant sound to induce it to live 
its appointed life, why should mankind 
become so capriciously sensitive? 

Or consider human happiness. Here, 
for example, I live, in this little cottage 
that seems to have alighted, like a bird, 
on the slope of this gentle hill. Red and 
white peonies grow before the door, 
enriching the air with their fragrance. 
They charm both me and the bees. In 
yonder bush beside the door a chipping- 
sparrow sits upon her nest; and in the 
swinging branch of the elm tree over- 
head two orioles rear their brood, and 
as they flash by, their golden colors 



delight the human beings that watch 
them. Look over that stone wall, and 
mark how its flat line gives an incom- 
parable effect to the landscape. See 
our New England fields dotted with 
New England elms; and far beyond 
see those white-sailed schooners scud 
before the boisterous wind. The farm- 
er's boy, who fetches milk and eggs, 
left me that nosegay of wild flowers. 
Look! Look! See how the whiteness of 
that cloud glorifies the blue of the sky. 
Is it not strange that all these things, 
that go about their own business, 
should, by the way, perform a work of 
supererogation and give us so much 
unnecessary pleasure? 

The young do not see or do not heed 
these common things; they are busy 
with their own emotions. Youth is a 
time of tyrannical demands upon the 
universe. It expects a perpetual ban- 
quet of happiness, and at the first dis- 
illusion charges the universe with false- 
hood and ingratitude. It no sooner 
discovers that all creation is not hur- 
rying to gratify its impulses, than it 
cries out that all creation is a hideous 
thing. It arraigns the universe; it 
draws up an indictment of countless 
crimes. The long past becomes one 
bloody tragedy. Dragons of the prime 
rend one another, creature preys upon 
creature, all things live at the expense 
of others, and death is the one reality. 
All the records of the earth tell a tale of 
bloody, bestial cruelty. The globe is 
growing cold; man shall perish utterly, 
all his high hopes, all his good deeds, 
all his prayers, all his love, shall be- 
come as if they had never been. And 
Youth, because the universe for a mo- 
ment seems to neglect it, in a Prome- 
thean ecstasy defies the powers that 

But Old Age, rendered wiser by the 
mellowing years, concerns itself less 
with the records of paleontology and 
the uttermost parts of the universe, 

than with matters at closer range and 
more within its comprehension. It 
fixes its eye less on death than on life. 
It considers the phenomena of love, of 
beauty, of happiness, and the factors 
that have wrought them, and its 
thoughts " trace back the long, long 
sequence of causes that lie behind each 
contributing factor; they follow them 
back through recorded time, back 
through the ages of primitive man, 
through the dim times of the first stir- 
rings of organic life, through vast geo- 
logical periods, back to chaos and old 
night. They follow each contributory 
factor out through the universe, to the 
uttermost reaches of space, beyond the 
boundaries of perception; and every- 
where they find those contributory 
causes steadily proceeding on their 
several ways through the vast stretches 
of space and time, and combining with 
other factors from other dark recesses 
of the unknown, in order, at last, to 
produce love, beauty, happinesfe, for 
such as you and me. Consider, you 
young men, who pass these miracles 
by as lightly as you breathe, this 
marvelous privilege of life, the infin- 
ite toil and patience that has made it 
what it is, and then, if you dare, call 
the power that animates the universe 

Sdpio: I perceive, Cato, that you 
believe in a God, a God in sympathy 
with man, and I grant Lselius, too, 
will grant that such a belief, if a 
characteristic of Old Age, does indeed 
give Old Age one great advantage over 

Cato: No, I cannot claim that a belief 
in God is a necessary accompaniment 
of Old Age, but I think that Old Age 
is far more likely than Youth to dwell 
upon the considerations that fit in with 
such a belief. 

To Youth all the energy of the uni- 



verse is inexplicable, the things we be- 
hold are the products of blind forces; 
but to Old Age the essential element 
in the universe is the potential charac- 
ter of its infinitely little constituent 
parts. Out of the dust came the human 
eye, up from the happy combination of 
the nervous system came the human 
mind, and with the passage of time has 
come the new organic whole, human- 
ity. Do not these phenomena hint at a 
divine element in the potential ener- 
gies of the universe? What is all this 
motion and turmoil, all the ceaseless 
turnings and tossings of creation, but 
restless discontent and an endeavor to 
produce a higher order? Our human 
love, beauty, and happiness are less to 
be explained by what has gone before 
than by what is to come. You cannot 
explain the first streaks of dawn by 
the darkness of the night. All the 
processes of change gases, vapors, 
germs, human souls are the per- 
turbations of aspiration. This vibrant 
universe is struggling in the throes of 
birth. As out of the dust has come the 
human soul, so out of the universe 
shall come a divine soul. God is to be 
the last fruits of creation. Out of chaos 
He is evolving. 

You would laugh at me, Scipio, if it 
were not for your good manners. Wait 
and learn. Belief in deity is, in a meas- 
ure, the privilege of us old men. Age 
has lost the physical powers of Youth, 
and no one will dispute that the loss is 
great, but that loss predisposes men 
to the acceptance of religious beliefs. 
Physical powers, of themselves, imply 
an excessive belief in the physical uni- 
verse; muscles and nerves, in contact 
with unyielding things, exaggerate the 
importance of the physical world. 
Throughout the period of physical 

vigor the material world is a matter of 
prime consequence; but to an old man 
the physical world loses its tyrannical 
authority. The world of thought and 
the world of affection rise up and sur- 
pass in interest the physical world. In 
these worlds the presence of God is 
more clearly discernible than in the 
material world; but if He is in them, 
He will surely come into the material 

Even now, here and there, his glory is 
visible. A mother, at least, cannot be- 
lieve that the throbs of her heart over 
her sick child are of no greater signi- 
ficance than the dropping of water or 
the formation of a crystal. The pre- 
sence of deity has reached her heart; 
in course of time, it will also reach the 
water and the crystal. If matter of 
itself has produced the passion of hu- 
man love, it surely may be said, with- 
out presumption, to be charged with 
potential divinity. 

Old Age cares less and less for the 
physical world; it lives more and more 
in the worlds of thought and of affec- 
tion. It does not envy Youth, that 
lives so bound and confined by things 
physical. But you have been very 
patient. Make my compliments to 
your families, and perhaps in part to 
Harvard College, on your good man- 
ners, and remember when you, too, 
shall be old, to have the same gentle 
patience with Youth that you now 
have with Old Age. 

Scipio: Thank you, Cato. If we are 
not convinced, we desire to be. 

Lodius: Yes, indeed, we now doubt 
that those whom the Gods love die 

Cato: You must hurry or you will 
miss your train. Good-bye. 



THE importance of agriculture as an 
economic and social factor is not a 
newly discovered fact. As long ago as 
1859, in a speech before the Wisconsin 
Agricultural Society, Abraham Lin- 
coln said, 'Population must increase 
rapidly, more rapidly than in former 
times, and ere long the most valuable 
of all arts will be the art of deriving a 
comfortable subsistence from the small- 
est area of soil. No community whose 
every member possesses this art can 
ever be the victim of oppression in any 
of its forms. Such community will be 
alike independent of crowned kings, 
money kings, and land kings/ 

Unfortunately, perhaps, the truth 
contained in Lincoln's words was not 
sufficiently well-appreciated to modify 
the course of the economic develop- 
ment of the country. Nations, like 
individuals, are accustomed to regard 
lightly those things that are easily 
acquired. Conditions in this country 
always have been so favorable to agri- 
culture that it has been accepted as an 
industry needing little encouragement. 
On the other hand, manufacturing and 
commerce did not seem to possess the 
inherent qualities of self-development, 
and, as a result, the economic policy 
of the country has been consciously 
framed to build up these industries, 
not exactly at the expense of agricult- 
ure, but at least with the consequence 
of diverting the attention of the people 
from the danger of neglecting farming 
interests. Consequently, the industry 
of cultivating the soil has been left to 
develop along the lines of least re- 

sistance, that of seizing temporary 
profits, without regard to future possi- 
bilities. The complaisant indifference 
with which agricultural development 
has been regarded, has had its logical 
result. Agriculture has failed to pro- 
gress with anywhere near the rapidity 
with which the population of the coun- 
try and the demand for food-products 
have increased. 

From 1900 to 1910 the population 
of the United States increased twenty- 
one per cent; during the same period 
the number of farms increased only 
ten and five tenths per cent; which 
indicates that, in the ten years, rural 
population increased about one-half as 
much as the total population. In 1909 
the per-capita production of cereals 
was only forty-nine and one tenth 
bushels; in 1899 it was fifty-eight and 
four tenths, a decrease of nine bush- 
els per head in ten years. Between 
1899 and 1909 the aggregate produc- 
tion of cereals increased only one and 
seven tenths per cent, but their market 
value was higher by seventy-nine and 
eight tenths per cent in 1909 than in 
1899, the increase in price being 
forty-seven times the increase in quan- 
tity. In 1900 there was one farm for 
every thirteen and two tenths persons ; 
in 1910 there was one farm for every 
fourteen and five tenths persons. On 
the average, therefore, each farm now 
has to furnish food for more than one 
more person than in 1900. In 1900, 
there were five and five tenths acres of 
improved farm land per capita of popu- 
lation; by 1910 the per-capita improved 



acreage had declined to five and two 
tenths acres. 

These figures make it clear why the 
exports of food-stuffs in crude condi- 
tion, and food animals, have decreased 
from $227,300,000, or 16.59 per cent 
of the total exports, for the fiscal year 
of 1900, to $99,900,000, or only 4.6 per 
cent of the total for the fiscal year of 
1912; and why similar imports have 
increased from $68,700,000 in 1900, to 
$180,120,000 in 1912. Of course the 
splendid crops of this year will, for 
the time being, alter the tendency of 
imports of food-stuffs to increase and 
of exports to decrease, but unfortu- 
nately experience indicates that an- 
other bumper crop is not likely for 
several years. Regardless of other in- 
fluences the increasing disparity be- 
tween the supply of and demand for 
food-stuffs, as shown by the foregoing 
data, would seem almost to furnish an 
adequate explanation of the fact that 
on October 1, 1912, Bradstreet's index 
number of prices made a new high 
record of $9.4515. 

Surprising as it may seem, it is with- 
in the last few years that the people of 
the United States have recognized the 
danger that lies in the increasing prices 
of food. The uneasiness with which the 
rise in the prices of necessities is now 
regarded is amply justified, for if there 
is a further considerable advance, a 
lowering of the standard of living of a 
great number of the American people, 
with its certain inimical consequences 
to the quality of our citizenship, is 
bound to occur. It is largely the ap- 
prehension of this possibility that has 
impelled the national government, the 
states, various associations and indi- 
viduals, to undertake the promotion 
of scientific farming, to the end that 
the output of the farms of this country 
may be raised to a maximum consist- 
ent with economic production and the 
conservation of the vital qualities of 

the soil. Educational activity of this 
sort is excellent and necessary, and 
should, if possible, be continued with 
greater enthusiasm. However, agricult- 
ure is similar to other industries in 
that knowledge alone is not sufficient 
for success. Like those engaged in 
other kinds of business, farmers must 
have capital, in addition to knowledge 
and skill, and it is highly important 
that they obtain the capital they need 
on terms consistent with their credit. 

What is being done to promote bet- 
ter farming, through education and the 
establishment of land- and agricultural- 
credit institutions, is due to the great 
importance of the industry, and not to 
any lack of intelligence on the part of 
the farmers themselves. There is no 
more reason to assume that farmers 
are incapable of, or indifferent to, pro- 
gress than there is to assume that 
bankers are deficient because they 
operate under a faulty and inadequate 
banking system. The farmers of the 
United States are the intellectual su- 
periors of the farmers in any other 
country in the world, and, with equal 
facilities, they will set the pace in sci- 
entific agriculture. 

A superficial knowledge of agricult- 
ural conditions in the United States is 
all that is necessary to understand that 
the particular pressing need of Amer- 
ican farmers is financial machinery 
whereby the potential credit that they 
possess in abundance can be made 
negotiable. There is in this country a 
serious lack of financial institutions 
suited to supply farmers with funds. 
In this respect the United States is the 
most backward of any of the important 
nations of the world, and, consequent- 
ly, it is safe to say that this is the prime 
reason why this country is so far be- 
hind many other countries in the per- 
acre production of food-stuffs. The 
average yield of grain in the United 
States is about fifty per cent less than 



it is on the continent of Europe, and 
the average per-acre yield of potatoes is 
not more than thirty per cent of what it 
is in Germany. The most striking and 
important difference between farming 
conditions here and in many European 
countries, is that there farmers can 
readily obtain the funds they need, 
whereas in this country agricultural 
financing is difficult and costly. 

In its capital requirements, farming 
is not unlike other industries, and it 
is like other industries in that unless 
these capital requirements are sup- 
plied, progress will be slow and dubi- 
ous. Like the merchant and the manu- 
facturer, the farmer needs funds : first, 
for the purchase of property and for its 
permanent improvement; and second, 
for temporary purposes, such as 
financing crops. These two general 
divisions of agricultural capital re- 
quirements should be preserved in the 
nature of the loans that are made to 
secure funds. Each of these two divi- 
sions can and should support its own 
credit, known respectively as land 
credit and agricultural credit. For the 
purpose of buying land and making 
permanent improvements, farmers 
should be able to make mortgage loans 
which have a long time to run, and 
which they can gradually repay by 
small yearly installments. Money in- 
vested in land or permanent improve- 
ments becomes fixed capital, and the 
proportion of a farmer's income that 
can be attributed to this sort of cap- 
ital is so limited that it is illogical and 
unreasonable to expect the money so 
invested to be repaid except after a 
considerable period of years. The 
maximum length of a farm loan in this 
country is from three to five years, and, 
at the end of that time, it may or may 
not be possible to secure a renewal. As 
a rule, a farm-mortgage loan here has 
a very restricted market, and, conse- 
quently, the borrower frequently is 

obliged to pay an unreasonable rate of 
interest, and to submit to burdensome 
conditions from which the nature of 
the security he has to offer entitles him 
to be exempt. 

Until some way is provided by which 
farm mortgages can be made the basis 
of a long-time security, with the mark- 
etable qualities of a railroad or indus- 
trial bond, and which can be sold at 
a price very nearly determined by the 
soundness of the security, the farmers 
of this country will continue to be 
burdened by the terms they must ac- 
cept in making mortgage loans. That 
it is possible to create a security of 
this sort is shown by the success of 
the mortgage-loan companies and asso- 
ciations of foreign countries, whose 
obligations sell on a basis as favorable 
as that of bonds of the most successful 
railroad and industrial corporations. 
The farmers of the United States have 
as good a claim to cheap money as have 
railroad and industrial corporations, 
because farm land constitutes as good 
security as a railroad or a factory. The 
marvelous and rapid development of 
the railroads of the country, to a very 
large extent, is due to the low cost at 
which they have been able to obtain 
vast sums of money for purposes of 
development. There is absolutely no 
reason why just as cheap money should 
not be similarly available for the accel- 
eration of agricultural development. 

For the financing of temporary cap- 
ital requirements, the personal credit of 
farmers should be made available. A 
farmer should not be obliged to mort- 
gage his land to obtain funds to operate 
his property. As in the case of mort- 
gage loans, the facilities in this country 
for making negotiable the personal 
credit of farmers are inadequate. 
There is no reason why the industrious, 
capable farmer should not be able to 
borrow on his personal obligation as 
easily as does the merchant. A few 



American farmers do a banking busi- 
ness on a scale sufficiently large to 
make them desirable clients of local, 
state, and national banks, but, for the 
great majority, it is exceedingly diffi- 
cult, if not impossible, to secure the 
personal credit accommodation they 
need, and to which their responsibility 
entitles them. 

The success of foreign rural cooper- 
ative banking associations in reducing 
the rate of interest on loans to farmers, 
and the almost negligible amount that 
has been lost through the operations 
of these associations, clearly indicates 
that the high rate of interest that farm- 
ers in this country must pay, is due, 
not to any inherent weakness in their 
credit, but to the lack of properly or- 
ganized facilities for making their credit 
negotiable. The lack of agricultural 
banking facilities is a tremendous hard- 
ship for the farmers. It means that 
they are laboring under a handicap 
which those engaged in no other kind 
of industry have to bear. Under pre- 
sent arrangements, farmers are paying 
two, two and a half, and three per cent 
more for money than they should. 
Upon the enormous amount of bor- 
rowed funds that the farmers of this 
country are obliged to employ, the 
excessive interest amounts to a sum so 
large that if it could be saved and ex- 
pended in increasing the productivity 
of our farms, it would do much toward 
solving the problem of inadequate 

Fortunately, in the attempt to estab- 
lish banking facilities for the farmers of 
the United States, it is not necessary to 
work in the dark. Many of the farm- 
credit institutions of other countries 
are established on principles so broad 
and sound that, with some modifica- 
tions, they can be adapted to conditions 
in this country. It is important, there- 
fore, to know all we can of foreign land- 
and agricultural-credit institutions. 

Germany is, perhaps, the country 
where agriculture is the most thor- 
oughly and most intelligently organ- 
ized. There are organizations in Ger- 
many for the purpose of supplying 
farmers with capital, and organizations 
for carrying on nearly all of the opera- 
tions connected with the cultivation of 
the soil all owned and managed by 
the farmers themselves. These organ- 
izations have revolutionized agricult- 
ural conditions in Germany. They 
not only have been the means of im- 
mensely increasing the productivity of 
the farms, but have also wonderfully 
improved the economic and social 
status of the farmers themselves. The 
first kind of agricultural cooperative 
organization started in Germany was 
for credit or banking purposes, and the 
entire fabric of agricultural cooperation 
in Germany now rests on its elaborate 
and efficient system of credit societies. 
Consequently it is reasonable to assume 
that these credit societies are respon- 
sible for the advanced condition of 
agriculture. Agricultural credit in Ger- 
many is based on the principles of self- 
help and cooperation. 

In those European countries where 
land- and agricultural-credit facilities 
are the most complete, as a rule, long- 
time mortgage loans and short-time 
personal loans are made by different 
institutions organized along different 
lines. Of the two kinds of credit insti- 
tutions, perhaps the most successful 
and efficient are the Raiffeisen banks 
in Germany and the Credit Foncier in 
France. These two institutions differ 
in many essential particulars. A Raif- 
feisen bank is a mutual association, the 
Credit Foncier is an incorporated com- 
pany; the Raiffeisen banks loan for the 
most part on personal obligations, the 
Credit Foncier on first mortgages; the 
Raiffeisen banks secure most of their 
funds through the deposits of the farm- 
ers themselves, the Credit Foncier, 



through the debenture bonds that it 
issues, obtains funds for its loans from 
the conservative investors of all classes. 
It is because of these and other charac- 
teristic differences, and by reason of 
the wonderful success of these two in- 
stitutions, that a knowledge of how 
the Raiffeisen banks and the Credit 
Foncier operate, and what they have 
accomplished, is peculiarly illuminat- 
ing and profitable. Each of these two 
types of credit organizations possesses 
many features well adapted for sys- 
tems of farm-credit institutions in this 

The Raiffeisen banking system was 
founded by Frederick William Raiffei- 
sen primarily for the purpose of freeing 
small farmers from the exactions of 
usurers. Raiffeisen knew nothing of 
finance, but he did understand the 
needs of those who, under the most dis- 
couraging circumstances, were bravely 
trying to gain a living from the soil 
a class among whom credit was the 
particular and essential thing lacking. 
Sir Horace Plunkett, who has done so 
much for the agricultural development 
of Ireland, has said that the establish- 
ment of the Raiffeisen banks was sec- 
ond in economic importance only to 
the discovery of steam. 

The Raiffeisen banking system is 
based on the principle of combining 
borrowers, to the end that by associa- 
tion they may secure credit facilities 
which, as individuals, it would be im- 
possible for them to obtain. The fun- 
damental provisions of the Raiffeisen 
banks, as contemplated by Herr Raif- 
feisen, were those of gratuitous manage- 
ment, unlimited liability of members, 
and a strictly local field of operation. 
For the most part the Raiffeisen banks 
adhere to those provisions. The mem- 
bership of the banks is made up al- 
most exclusively of farmers. In 1909 
the number of members for each bank 
averaged 92. In the beginning the 

Raiffeisen banks had no capital stock, 
but in 1876 a law was passed which 
made it necessary for them to issue 
shares of stock. The value of the shares 
was fixed at what was little more than 
a nominal amount. In 1909 the aver- 
age paid-up capital per member was 
only 19 marks. The dividends that the 
Raiffeisen banks can pay are strictly 
limited in no event can they exceed 
the rate of interest charged on loans. 
In 1909 these banks made a net profit 
in excess of 7,000,000 marks, but of this 
only 13 per cent was paid out in divi- 
dends the balance being passed to 
the credit of the reserve fund. Because 
of the nature of its business the sphere 
of operation of each bank is very lim- 
ited. It is necessary for the members 
to know each other, and to know for 
what purpose each loan is made, and 
to see that the money is so used. The 
Raiffeisen banks have done much to 
encourage thrift, because they have 
supplied a new incentive for saving. 
Inasmuch as the successful manage- 
ment of these banks requires a keen 
sense of responsibility on the part of 
the individual members, their moral 
effect is very considerable. Through 
their membership in the Raiffeisen 
banks many German farmers have be- 
come familiar with the nature and uses 
of credit and have acquired a know- 
ledge of business. Altogether, these 
small rural banks have much improved 
the financial position and the moral 
and intellectual calibre of their mem- 

Because of its small size and restrict- 
ed field of operation, the management 
of a Raiffeisen bank is very simple and 
inexpensive. In 1909, the average cost 
of management per bank was only 638 
marks. The funds that the banks have 
to loan to their members are made up 
of the proceeds of the sale of capital 
stock, the reserve accumulated from 
profits, deposits, both savings and 



current account, and loans from the 
central cooperative banks, from other 
banks, and from individuals. In 1909, 
88 per cent of these funds consisted of 
the deposits of the farmers themselves. 
The size of the average deposit is about 

The loans which these banks make 
are either on current account a 
form of over-draft often used by Eu- 
ropean banks or for fixed periods. 
There is a tendency to extend the prac- 
tice of making loans on current ac- 
count, as that seems to be the form 
best suited for members. As a rule the 
loans made by the RaifFeisen banks are 
for a short period usually for one 
year, with a maximum of five. For the 
most part the loans are granted on the 
personal obligations of the borrowers, 
to which usually is added the guaranty 
of one or two associate members. Occa- 
sionally loans are secured by deposit of 
collateral, or by mortgages. The aver- 
age loan of the Raiffeisen banks in Ger- 
many is about $150. As the small size 
of the average loan indicates, the Raif- 
feisen banks primarily are institutions 
for supplying credit accommodations 
to the small landowner. 

The RaifFeisen banking system in 
Germany now comprises about 15,000 
local banks, with a membership of ap- 
proximately 2,000,000. These banks 
are now doing a yearly aggregate busi- 
ness of about $1,500,000,000. The local 
Raiffeisen banks are grouped under 35 
provincial banks, which, in turn, are 
affiliated with two general central co- 
operative banks. The local banks bor- 
row money from the provincial banks, 
when required, and also loan to them 
their surplus funds. The provincial 
central banks are cooperative societies, 
with limited liability, and they occupy 
much the same position to ward the local 
rural banks that the latter do toward 
their members. Their working capital 
is made up of the paid-up shares of their 

members (the local banks), of the de- 
posits of the local banks, and of loans 
from other banks. By means of these 
provincial and central cooperative 
banks, agricultural credit in those parts 
of Germany where these banks operate 
possesses the element of fluidity in 
a remarkable degree moving from 
those localities where it is not needed 
to those where it is needed. Altogether 
the RaifFeisen banks of Germany make 
up a wonderfully efficient organiza- 
tion, which, by supplying an enormous 
amount of agricultural credit, has rev- 
olutionized farming in Germany. 

Up to the middle of the last century, 
France was almost entirely lacking in 
land- and agricultural-credit facilities. 
As a result of much agitation there was 
passed in 1852 a law providing for land- 
mortgage banks, and under this the 
Credit Foncier was organized. Because 
of the success of the Landschaften in 
Germany, many of the principles and 
methods of these associations were in- 
corporated in the French law. The 
Credit Foncier is unlike the Landschaft- 
en in the very important particular that 
it is an incorporated company, not a 
cooperative association. The Credit 
Foncier has a capital of 200,000,000 
francs and operates under the super- 
vision of the state. In the beginning 
(1852) the government granted the 
Credit Foncier a subsidy of 10,000,000 
francs, in order to help it make loans 
at a rate advantageous for that time. 
The subsidy was not renewed, and the 
state does not now intervene, except 
occasionally, to exercise control. The 
Credit Foncier possesses many special 
privileges, pertaining to the issuance 
of bonds and to its loans, that give it 
a practical, if not a legal monopoly of 
the kind of business in which it is 

The purposes of the Credit Foncier 

1. Lending money to landowners, 



counties, communes, and public serv- 

2. Creating and negotiating mort- 
gage bonds, or, more properly, deben- 
tures, to a value which cannot exceed 
the amount of the sums due from its 

3. As a necessary accessory to its 
principal business, the Credit Foncier 
has the right to carry on ordinary 
banking operations, within well-defined 
limits, and, in that connection, it is 
permitted to receive deposits; but the 
aggregate of deposits must not exceed 
100,000,000 francs. 

A large part of the funds received 
on deposit is employed in discounting 
commercial bills, on condition that 
they have two signatures and do not 
run over three months. The shares of 
the Credit Foncier, which are dealt 
in on the Bourse, are issued at five 
hundred francs, and any one can own 
them. The stock now receives six per 
cent dividends, and sells for about 
750 francs a share. The government 
appoints the governor and two sub- 
governors, who, by virtue of their office 
are members of the Council of Admin- 
istration. There must also be three 
treasurers-general state officials 
among the 23 members of the Council 
of Administration. These treasurers 
are appointed by the general assem- 
bly of the company, but before pre- 
senting their names to the assembly it 
is customary to obtain the approval of 
the Minister of Finance. The general 
assembly represents all the stockhold- 
ers, and is composed of the two hun- 
dred who own the largest amount of 
stock. These stockholders meet once 
each year to ratify the accounts, vote 
the dividend, and dispose of such other 
business as may properly be presented 
to them. The general assembly elects 
a Council of Administration of 23 
members. The governor has a right to 
veto the acts of both the general as- 

sembly and the Council, but there are 
only a very few instances on record of 
his having used this power. The Coun- 
cil of Administration meets once each 
week, and, among other things, passes 
upon all loans. 

The two principal kinds of loans 
made by the Credit Foncier are mort- 
gage loans and communal loans, and its 
total outstanding loans now amount to 
about 4,000,000,000 francs. So far as 
this country is concerned, that part of 
its operations covering the making of 
mortgage loans to landowners is of the 
greatest interest. Our municipalities 
now have a broad and steady market 
for their securities. 

The Credit Foncier makes loans to 
landowners on the following terms : 

1. Short- time loans, without amorti- 
zation, for a period of from one to nine 

2. Long time loans, with annual 
amortization, for a period of from ten 
to seventy-five years. 

The rate of interest on these loans is 
4.30 per cent at the present time, and 
the rate is the same for all kinds of 
property. The rate charged on a loan 
must not exceed the rate at which 
money is obtained from the sale of 
bonds by more than six tenths of one 
per cent. Loans are made only on first- 
mortgage security, and the amount of 
the loan cannot exceed one half of the 
value of the property, except that loans 
on wine and timber lands must not 
exceed one third of their value. When 
the loan is made for a short period, the 
borrower pays each year only the 
amount of interest due, and the prin- 
cipal sum must be paid in full at the 
end of the term of the loan from one 
to nine years. Long-time loans are 
amortized; that is they are gradually 
paid by means of an annuity, which 
includes the interest and a small frac- 
tion of the principal. As a rule, the 
borrower himself fixes the length of 



time that the loan is to run. The amor- 
tization extends over the whole period 
of the loan, so that the total of the 
interest and capital amount is repaid 
from a constant yearly annuity. Con- 
sequently, the cost of amortization 
depends on the length of the loan, and 
on the rate of interest. On a loan run- 
ning for seventy-five years at 4.30 per 
cent interest, the annuity including 
interest and amortization is at the 
rate of 4.48 per cent per annum. The 
borrower has the right to pay the 
principal of the loan at any time, and 
to profit by the amortization already 
made. He can also make partial pay- 
ments and thereby reduce the amount 
of the annuity. 

The bonds issued by the Credit 
Foncier have no fixed maturity, but 
are called for payment by lot. Each 
payment of bonds must be of such an 
amount that the bonds remaining in 
circulation do not exceed the balance 
of the principal owed upon the hypoth- 
ecated loans. If the government ap- 
proves, there can be added to the bonds 
called for payment certain prizes and 
premiums. The funds received from 
the usual amortization, or anticipated 
payments, must be used to amortize or 
redeem bonds, or to make new loans. 
In general the bonds bear 3 per cent on 
the nominal capital, and the total cost 
of recent loans to the company, includ- 
ing interest, prizes, and premiums, is 
about 3.60 per cent. The bonds are 
sold by public subscription, and may 
be paid for in installments. About 
every three years the company issues 
bonds sufficient to yield from 300,000,- 
000 to 350,000,000 francs. The bonds 
are subscribed for by people of small 
means, and usually remain in their 
hands; consequently the quotations of 
the bonds show little fluctuation 
less than French railway bonds. The 
company always keeps a few bonds on 
hand for sale, but the bulk of them 
VOL. in -NO. 2 

are disposed of by public subscrip- 

The Credit Foncier has departed 
from its original purpose to the extent 
that at the present time a very large 
part of its loans are made on urban real 
estate. However, this is simply an 
incident, and does not reflect on the 
applicability of the principles on which 
the Credit Foncier is founded, to an 
institution confining its operations to 
loans on rural land. 

In view of the wonderful success of 
the Credit Foncier and kindred insti- 
tutions, it is hard to understand why 
the principle of debenture bonds, se- 
cured by long-time real-estate loans, 
payable by amortization, should not, 
long ago, have been put in practice in 
this country. The business of loaning 
money on farm mortgages in the Unit- 
ed States is still carried on in a prim- 
itive way. We are still making farm- 
mortgage loans for such short periods 
that frequent renewals often very 
embarrassing to debtors are inevi- 
table. The existence of facilities where- 
by farm-mortgage loans could be made 
for long terms say fifty years or 
more, with provision for easy payment 
by amortization would be a wonder- 
ful boon to American farmers, and a 
decided stimulant to the development 
of efficient, scientific farming. 

Neither the RaifFeisen banks nor the 
Credit Foncier involve strange finan- 
cial principles. In this country, the 
splendid record of the mutual savings 
banks proves that cooperation can be 
safely and wisely applied in banking. 
We are familiar with the principle of 
debenture bonds, and we know some- 
thing of the principle of amortization. 
Of course, it is impossible to pick up 
any of the foreign farm-credit systems, 
out of its social setting, and say, off- 
hand, that it would be as successful in 
this country. The history and success, 
as well as the details of organization, of 



every one of the foreign farm-credit 
systems have been very largely de- 
termined by the temperament, the 
social and economic status of the peo- 
ple, and by the conditions of climate 
and soil of the country in which they 
are situated. Consequently in working 
out the plans of agricultural- and land- 
credit systems for this country, we 
must be cautious in our adherence to 
foreign models. We must remember 
that the value and success of every in- 
stitution depends upon its being in 
harmony with its environment. 

The importance of adequate credit 
facilities for our farmers is beginning 

to be keenly appreciated. The Amer- 
ican Bankers Association, the South- 
ern Commercial Congress, and other 
organizations, are doing splendid pio- 
neer work by agitating the need of an 
agricultural banking system, and by 
disseminating information as to what 
has been accomplished abroad. 

The establishment of agricultural- 
and land-credit systems in this coun- 
try is not a political question; it is 
an economic question of the gravest 
import the proper solution of which 
demands a patriotic national purpose 
and constructive ability of a high 



SHE made a place for me beside her 
on the moss. 

'You see it will comfort me to talk 
it over. I have never talked of it with 
Marie. But if the good God takes me 
first, I should like her to know. You 
will tell her. She will let you know, 
even if you are far away, that I am 
gone; and then, you will either come 
and tell her, or you will write her. 

'I need not begin at the beginning; 
you know for Marie will have told 
you that once I was as straight and 
tall as Marie even a little taller; 
would you think it? Then there came 

1 'The Wished-For Child' is in the main a 
true story. Names and some of the lesser cir- 
cumstances have been altered, but the chief facts 
remain as they were told to the writer by one to 
whom the leading character of the story related 
them. THE AUTHOR. 

the accident. After that, not only my 
body was bent, but my dreams also.' 

She turned her misshapen shoulders 
a little toward me. 

'You see, up to that time I had 
dreams of being a mother. I do not 
mean that I was promised in marriage. 
But there was one who had loved me a 
little and whom I loved. Some day I 
would have been his wife, it must 
have been so; and some day I would 
be the mother of children. Well, after 
the accident, he went away to Paris. 
They tell me he became a great man in 
the milk trade there. There was never 
any more thought of marriage; and 
when I dreamed of children, it was 
of the children I could never have. 
One does not talk of suffering like 
that; it goes into the days somehow. 
And then, by-and-by, it passes into that 



strange thing that belongs to all of us 

'God is a great Rich Man, made- 
moiselle, there is no disputing that; 
and we are his children; and we each 
believe, secretly, that for us there is an 
inheritance, the inheritance of happi- 
ness, could we but find it. For, some- 
times, it is buried away like treasure; 
but it is there for us, could we but find 
it. And it is the hope of this that keeps 
us alive. Not bread and bodily com- 
forts. Bread and fire are but symbols. 
So I sought and hoped and wondered 
where now, now that I might never 
have children of my own, where now 
the treasure of my happiness was to 
be found. 

'Just then, Marie, who was young 
and tall, had a lover, Jean Marie; a 
man not of her station quite above 
her. She had always hands and a face 
and a little quiet air to attract the well- 
born. Jean Marie was the son of a rich 
carriage-maker. He was a student in 
the college at St. Gene vie ve, and he 
lived with his old uncle on the road to 
Bragin, the road that runs from St. 
Gene vie ve past our house. He always 
stopped to have a word with her at 
twilight, when he came by on his way 
home, with his books. She spoke to me 
none at all about him; but one needs 
not to be told such things. At this time 
I never touched her hand after twilight 
that her fingers were not cold. 

'When his studies were over and he, 
with the rest of the students, was to get 
his diploma, she dressed herself in her 
white dress. I had helped her to make 
it. We began making it at the time of 
the apple-blossoms, and neither of us 
said why we made it, though we both 
knew. And I tied about her waist a 
blue ribbon I had that had belonged 
to our mother. She went not like the 
rest, by the road, but a way all her own 
across the fields, to watch him go by 
in the long procession of students, She 

told me, a long time afterward, that 
by-and-by he came and spoke to her 
and held her two hands in gladness for 
a moment, while the rich and well- 
dressed ladies looked on; and that he 
laughed and was gay and sunny; and 
that he gave her a spray of pink lark- 
spur. His mother had brought him a 
big bunch of it for his graduation, as 
though he had been a girl. 

'That evening he came to the gate 
to tell her that he was going away to 
Paris, to study more; to be an apothe- 
cary. And then, he kissed her. I saw 
it myself; I could not help it. He said 
nothing to her about coming back; but 
I never doubted that he would. Marie 
was beautiful. In the white dress, with 
my mother's blue ribbon about her 
waist, and the pink larkspur in her 
hair, she was already a bride, a man's 
wife, the mother of a man's children, 
any man who had eyes to see. So 
I never doubted. 

'Well, I had found the way to my 
treasure at last, and to the happiness I 
longed for. " Marie and he will marry," 
I said. "They will have children. It 
is there that I shall find happiness. I 
shall feel the arms of those children 
about my neck. It is I who shall help 
them, guide them, teach them, rear 
them, I who am wiser, wiser than 
Marie. Marie is too yielding, too 
gentle. She has always been so. She 
herself is dependent on me. One child, 
perhaps, will need me, one at least, 
more than the rest. So you see I plan- 
ned for a child, oh, definitely planned 
for it ! And I began to borrow books 
from the library of old Philippe for 
I said, "If I read, Jean Marie will 
have more respect for me, he who 
is learned. Marie's beauty will satisfy 
him; but he will only weary of having 
me about unless I am clever and can be 
of help." So I studied a little of what 
an apothecary would study; and I 
studied the poets. "The poets," I said, 



"give dignity to the mind. The child 
will lean on me more if I know some 

' If, at any time, doubt came to me, 
I had only to remember that Marie, 
from I do not know where, had pro- 
cured some seed of the larkspur, that 
following spring; and great clumps of it 
grew by the little kitchen path, after 
that. That was proof enough. We 
both pretended that it had no meaning, 
whereas to both of us, well, such 
silences are but courtesies between 
sisters who love each other. 

'So I knitted a pair of white silk 
stockings for her, and made her a set of 
underwear from linen; only a little at 
a time. 

'It was not until two years after, 
that she spoke of this. Her face had 
grown more slender and had a beauty 
that reminded you of ten o'clock in the 
little church. You know how the light 
shines then, back of the altar, pale 
and waiting and sad. It was not until 
then that she asked me what I was 

'"I am knitting stockings for you, 
Marie," I said, "for when you are a 

'"I think it is of no use," she said; 
"I think he will not come back." 

'But we waited, she and I, for him 
to come. Eight years. Have you ever 
waited eight years for anything? At 
the end of the eight years Marie was 
not the same. She was beautiful, but 
with the beauty that loss and longing 
and waiting carve out. I knew she 
might have reconciled herself at last to 
giving up Jean Marie, though there 
was no other to take his place, but I 
knew that she, too, had dreamed of 
having little children; and that is a 
longing that one cannot relinquish. 

'I was not far wrong. One spring 
night, when the lilacs were in bloom, 
and she and I sat in the little stone 
doorway, she raised her arms a mo- 

ment, a gesture of despair, then 
dropped them straight and heavy in 
her lap and clasped her hands. 

'"Zephine, Zephine! I am tall and 
I am a woman but God has not 
given it to me to be the mother of a 

"'And I am bent and a woman," I 
answered quickly, and perhaps harshly, 
"and He has not given it to me either, 
nor will." 

'At that she was all penitence and 
chided herself. But I soothed her. "It 
is not your hand that can hurt me, 
little sister," I said; "it is the hand of 
God that has been heavy on me. And 
for eight years I, too, have waited for 
your happiness to come to you, not 
just for your sake, but for my own. 
For is not my happiness all bound up 
in yours? Have I not dreamed oh, 
more than you, I think of loving 
your children? I had meant that you 
should bear me one, one more mine 
than the rest, and you should give it to 
me who can bear none of my own." 

! "And, oh, they should have been 
yours, all," she said, very still and 
white, "and one in particular. If God 
had given me that joy it would have 
been great enough, full great enough 
for two." 

'So we sat a long while, mademoi- 
selle. We were two women, without so 
much as the hope of a child. It was not 
our custom to talk together. We are 
silent by nature. 

'I did not go to bed at once. I went 
instead into the garden to the little 
arbor near the gate. From there I 
could see her moving about upstairs 
in her little room with the low ceiling. 
Then very soon she put out the light. 
After that she sat by the window. I 
do not know how long she remained 

'But Jean Marie never came, ma- 
demoiselle. Life is like that. You 
may wait all day with your face turned 



down a dusty road, and all the while 
the horseman is riding only farther 
away. While she prayed so hard, per- 
haps he was strolling down one of the 
streets of Paris, singing a little tune, as 
I think men do; or maybe stopping to 
pat a dog. And did he guess all the 
while that he carried Marie's heart in 
his hand, and that in turning his face 
down that street instead of up the 
dusty road to Bragin, he was taking all 
motherhood away from her? 

'No, mademoiselle. Life is like that. 
I knew the road to Marie's life well and 
I knew none would pass her way. 
Since Jean Marie had turned his face 
to Paris not one had come past; not one 
who had stopped. Yet I prayed that 
night as I sat in the little arbor, and 
as I saw her sitting in the dark window, 
I prayed God to send her mother- 

'I do not remember how long I 
prayed. I remember, though, the odor 
of the lilacs and then, in the midst 
of my praying, I remember hearing 
horses' hoofs on the road. I waited for 
them to go past as all things else did, 
but they stopped. Then I heard the 
clank of a sword and spurs and a few 
words; I saw the light of a small lan- 
tern. Then I saw two men dismount; 
they were in uniform. One of them 
swung back the gate and almost 
brushed against me. 

* " What have we here ! " He held up 
his lantern and looked at me. "We 
want lodging and are of no mind to go 
farther. Will you give us a bed, my 

'I suppose I looked frightened. I 
think I was. 

'"If your horses can go no farther, 
you shall not go without a bed," I said. 

'The face of the other soldier, more 
tired and eager, appeared now over the 
shoulder of the first. 

"My friend's horse here has gone 
lame. We are sick of hunger. You will 

take us in? Besides the gold we can 
give, God finds ways to reward. You 
will take us in?" 

'Only it was hardly a question, more 
like an agreement. 

'We stood a moment, the three of us, 
in a little circle of light made by the 
lantern. I led the way. They follow- 
ed, the big horses coming in singly, 
.through the little gate, one limping 

'They followed me around the path. 
Once, as the lame horse stopped, one 
of the soldiers gave him a cut, and he 
threw his head in the air and swerved, 
tramping on the larkspur. 

: "Have a care!" I said. "Be more 
gentle. Those are flowers that you 

'For this speech the horse got an- 
other cut that brought him back in the 
middle of the path. 

"'There is the stable," I said; 
"make your horses comfortable and 
come back, and you shall have food 
and a bed." 

'I watched them go around the 
house. Then I entered and hurried up 
to Marie's room. She was standing 
facing the door in her nightdress, look- 
ing like the Virgin, and expecting me. 

'"They are two soldiers," I said, 
"who ask a bed and food; the horse of 
one of them is lame." 

She began putting on her clothes, 
and binding up her hair. In a few 
moments the men were back again. I 
set them chairs in the kitchen and laid 
the table. I had a cheese and some 
plum comfits, and plenty of bread. 
There was a yellow pitcher for milk. 
When Marie entered, both men looked 
at her; she just nodded to them once, 
and took up the pitcher and carried it 
to the shed to fill it. When she brought 
it back I had the supper nearly ready. 
One of the men got up and dragged 
his chair after him to the table, but 
the other one, the more tired, the more 



deliberate, still sat, his eyes openly 
watching Marie. 

'"Come, you of the hungry face," 
the other called out to him; and then 
he came, too, and they both scraped 
their chairs, and shuffled their feet 
about under the table, and served 
themselves, and bent down with their 
mouths to their plates, like hungry 
men, neither of them looking up once, 
save the hungry-faced one, when 
Marie refilled his milk cup for him. 
Then he straightened back, and kept 
his hand on the mug, and looked at her, 
a long, bold look. 

'I went to fix a bed in the lower 
chamber. When I returned, the hun- 
gry-faced one had his arm over the 
back of the chair, like a satisfied man, 
and was eating no more, but talking to 
Marie. I do not know what about. 

' I led the way with my candle. As 
the two followed me Marie shrank a 
little against the door, to let them pass 
by, and the hungry-faced one bowed to 
her as he went past, and paused, oh, 
the fraction of a little moment close to 
her, and his uniform touched her skirt; 
then he glanced at me who held the 
door open, an indifferent glance, and 
went on. 

'They liked the little room well 
enough, it is pretty and white, 
and the gayer of the two fell to pulling 
off his boots at once. 

; "God make a good bargain of this 
for you, sister," he said, cheerfully. 
"The bon Dieu is a good one to lend 
to. I do not doubt He will pay you 
with usury." 

'So I left them, and Marie and I 
cleared away the supper, and went to 
bed. The talk we had had before they 
came only an hour before seemed a 
very long time gone. I could not go to 
sleep at first. It was like a great adven- 
ture, oh, a great adventure, I assure 
you, in the little quiet house; the two 
tired men sleeping below. I could hear 

them snore as I lay in my bed. I make 
no doubt Marie lay awake too, think- 
ing of Jean Marie, and perhaps still 
praying for him to return. 

'The rest that I have to tell you is a 
thing difficult to tell. The soldiers 
went on their way in the morning, but 
it was not the last time that we saw 
them. The hungry-faced one, at least, 
came again. He was in command of 
some road-menders who were rebuild- 
ing, about three miles away, a bridge 
and a part of the road to Paris, where 
the rains had harmed it. He came 
again and still again. He had a way of 
twirling a little string in his fingers. It 
was not lovable, but you watched it; 
and other little ways that you re- 
marked and remembered and won- 
dered over; and something masterful, 
though I cannot remember where it 
lay, nor what it was. 

'I always made him welcome. If in 
time he could take the place of the one 
who was gone! I thought of it, and 
thought if it. Once I made bold to 
mention this to Marie, and she looked 
at me thin, and thoughtful. 

"You do not know/ she said; "Jean 
Marie is as diamond, this one is as jade. 
Jean Marie is as gold, this one is as 

; "But, Marie, if you could love him. 
You and I have need of more than each 
other. What will it be for us to grow 
old together. We have need of some 
one else. Besides, you have need of 
motherhood. It is the lot of woman. 
We have both need of a child." 

' "You do not know," she said again, 
quietly and sadly. "That kind has no 
wish to marry any woman. Jean Marie 
went away; and, not loving me enough, 
he will not come back; but this one will 
keep coming again, and again, and 

* " Eh bien ? " I said, a little impatient 
of her quietness. 
, '"Until " she shrank and turned 



away her face a little. "He will some 
day make his wish plain. He is a 
hungry-faced man." 

'At that, my brain seemed to spin; 
and my thoughts were like fire. That 
night it seems as though I .must have 
prayed nearly all the night. I made no 
bones of it. I prayed frank and direct 
for God knew my thoughts at any 
rate I prayed frank and direct that 
even without wedlock, He would put a 
little child in our lives. We needed it; 
needed it; I told God that. 

'One day when it was time for the 
soldier to come again, it chanced to be 
time also for me to borrow the but- 
cher's donkey as I always did at a 
certain season and the little cart, to 
go to Bragin, as was my custom, to sell 
cabbages, or whatever we had to sell. 
Lunch I would have, with coffee, at the 
little inn at Bouvet, but the black 
bread, and cheese, and a red apple, 
Marie put in my basket, as usual, for 
my supper, for I could not return until 
well into the night. 

'As I drove my miles, I came at 
last, as I knew I should, to the road- 

'The men scarcely glanced at me, 
but went on with their work. The 
soldier was ahead, keeping an eye on 
them. When I came to him he raised 
his cap and smiled, a crooked smile, 
with very white teeth showing. 

'"Where are you going, sister?" 

' " I am going all the way to Bragin," 
I said. 

! "A long distance," he said, his eyes 
on me in their own bold manner. 

'"Yes," I answered. 

'"You will not be back by night- 

"Not until long after moon-rise," I 
said, my heart going hard. Then sud- 
denly I made bold and feared nothing. 
"Marie is there," I said; "go and have 
supper and satisfy your hunger. There 
is bread and milk and honey and a pot 

of cheese." I said this last over my 
shoulder; then I drove on, not daring 
to look back. 

' When I got home there was no light 
in the little house. Had he come? It 
was white, white moonlight, made- 
moiselle, warm and white, with cool 
shadows. I cannot tell you how still 
it was. Perhaps it was not so still; 
perhaps some of the stillness was in 
myself. But it seemed as though the 
world had stopped. 

'I went softly around by the stable. 
I heard the quick click of a bit, as 
when a horse tosses its head. We had 
no horse of our own. Then suddenly, in 
all the stillness and moonlight, I saw 
her coming from the fields, and the 
soldier with her. I shrank back in the 
shadow and waited. I noticed that 
when his hand lifted the kitchen latch 
and let her and himself in, she went 
before him as though he were no longer 
a guest, but master in the place. A 
moment later there was the flare of a 
match in the kitchen. I could see from 
where I stood that it was the soldier, 
not she, who lighted .the candle. Still a 
moment later and he came out again, 
went to the stable, and led his horse 
out. When he was not far from me, 
and was near to the kitchen, I stepped 

"You are not going?" I said. 

'"Good-day, sister. Yes, I must 
go to-night; my regiment leaves for 
Algiers to-morrow." 

'I left them alone a moment, but 
I think they said no farewell. When I 
got back, he was busy adjusting his 
saddle-girth; and she was standing 
beside the larkspur, with a white face. 

'He did not come again, mademoi- 
selle. I think she knew that he would 
not. Little by little, as the days went, 
and she grew white and stricken, I had 
all I could do to bring her into any 
notice of me, or of the common things 
of life. She never needed to tell me her 



secret. Had I not planned Was it 
not more my secret; more mine than 
hers? She would sit by the hour with 
no word. I guessed that she had a great 
fear of God, and that she remembered, 
with fear, too, the one gone to Paris. 

'One day, when I could endure her 
silence no longer, I said, "Marie, 
Marie, my little sister! Did not God 
put your great longing in you and 
mine in me? Has He not fashioned us? 
Shall we be afraid to trust what He 
will do with us, and with these longings 
of ours?" 

'She did not answer, but only 
looked at me thin and startled, like a 
deer that faces the fear of death. 

'"There is one thing," I said, "that 
is clear between you and God and me. 
However else we may have sinned, 
though I do not think it sin, we 
have committed no sin against the 
unborn. The child that shall be ours 
is a wished-for child, an enfant voulu. 
There are women who sin in thought 
against the unborn, who do not desire 
little children; who are dismayed, 
angry, bitter, when they find them- 
selves possessed of the gift of God. 
But, oh, ours is better born, better 
born, Marie. It is a wished-for child, 
an enfant voulu. Think, Marie, of the 
ways of God. God knows. Need we 
teach Him? Is He so dull and we so 
wise? Are we his elders? Shall we set 
laws round about his laws, and limits 
on those longings He has implanted? 
Shall we try to stifle a fire that He with 
his breath has kindled in us? Shall we 
give excuses into his hands for his 

'She laid her head in my lap sud- 
denly and wept. After that she be- 
lieved me to be very wise, and very 
familiar with God's ways, and full of 
knowledge concerning Him. 

'From then on, the responsibility 
seemed to me mine wholly; and the sin, 
if it was sin, was mine, too, not hers. 

But I knew in my own wise heart that 
it was no sin. I exulted in God and in 
my own daring, though, out of respect 
for her more fearing nature, I said no 
more. But I waited and saw the young 
moon wax, and bloom full, and darken, 
like a flower that grows and blooms 
and fades and disappears, a dark seed 
in the dark of night, for a new moon to 
grow. Little by little, the long time 
was got over and God brought the 
waiting to an end. I used to lie in my 
bed, staring awake, when I lay down to 
rest, wondering what it must be like to 
be like Marie in the little room across 
the hall, with life and death on either 
side of the bed, and the gift of God 
trembling and crying against your 

' It was I who was with her. It was I 
who saw the child first. I do not know 
where the child's father was, in a 
hot barracks, playing cards by the 
light of a smoky lantern in Algiers, 
perhaps, never guessing. It did not 
matter. The child seemed not his but 
hers; not hers but mine. 

'You have wondered why I am 
more educated than Marie, why 
I even know about Helen of Troy and 
Raphael and Monsieur Thiers. Well, I 
had read some, studied some, before; 
but now I read more and more, to be 
the better fitted to be wise toward the 
child that was ours. I sent to Paris for 
some books. 

'I wish you could have seen Marie 
when the wonder was all new, all new 
and radiant and full of glory like the 
creche on Christmas morning. There 
was such a light about her face that I 
went away from her many a time in 
those first days, to go down on my 
knees. For I began to know now that 
there was indeed some sin, after all, 
that I had not suspected. For I knew 
that it must be a sin, surely, that any 
human hand should dare to create such 
glory the hand of one like me, least 



of all, to whom God had so expressly 
forbidden that joy. I cannot explain to 
you. It was as though in the darkness 
I had defied God and had said, "Let 
there be light," and there was light; 
and I was dazzled and afraid of it. 

'Yet this was only in moments, in 
big moments; for the rest there was the 
comfort, the piercing comfort of the 
little cry in the dark in the midst of the 

"The days went by. I grew more 
content as I grew more used to the 
presence of the child. If we were shut 
apart now from our kind, and if the 
butcher's wife would not speak to us 
what did it matter! We had the better 
treasure. The law and society are 
made by man, but the longing of a wo- 
man was put in her heart long ago 
when God fashioned her. I told myself 
this and I told myself, too, that God 
would never have fulfilled my wish if it 
had been wrong. God had denied me 
to be a mother, that is true; He had 
bent and twisted me with suffering. 
But shall you tell me God does not 
know what He is about? I was bent 
into a gnarled root with no hope of 
blossom of my own, but Marie was the 
branch and the child was the flower, 
and the flower was mine, after all. It 
could never be quite said that I had 
not tasted motherhood. 

* It was almost before I knew it that 
the child was three years old, with 
gold hair and little gentle ways. They 
were the happiest days of my life, the 
kind of days the Virgin must have had 
when the Christ Child was little, before 
all the trouble began. Only now and 
then a great dread came to me lest, as a 
punishment, some ill should befall the 

'One evening I was in the kitchen 
and Marie was in the little front door- 
yard to get the coolness. The child was 
on my lap and I was reading. Pre- 

sently I turned the lamp low, lifted the 
child, and went out into the cool, also, 
into the little arbor. It was so, often, 
that the child and I sat apart from 
Marie, and she from us. One must have 
one's own thoughts, and sometimes the 
stars to one's self. 

'The child was soon asleep on my 
arm. It was starlight, and the trees 
and the lilac bushes made big dark 
shadows; soft, as shadows are in the 
light of the stars. 

'Suddenly, I heard the sound of a 
horse's hoofs approaching on the road, 
then their pause at the gate. A mo- 
ment later I heard the gate click and a 
step on the gravel. My heart stood 
still. No one visited us now. It was a 
man's step. It was like the night long 
ago, like something that had hap- 
pened before. 

'All at once, like a stroke out of 
darkness I knew. I knew that the 
soldier had cared for her, after all, in 
his own fashion, and had returned to 
her. The child was not mine, then, 
after all; not hers and mine, and mostly 
mine. It was rightly his. If he cared 
for her enough to come back, he would 
care for the child, too, in some 
strange fashion, as men do. They 
like to possess things. That is why 
they like children of their own. 

'I could see that Marie had already 
risen. I could not tell whether she was 
alarmed or expectant. Perhaps she had 
cared, too. I could see his figure in the 
dim starlight come up the walk. I 
could see that he stopped before her 
and looked into her face. Then I 
heard him say, 

'"Is this Marie?" 

'She did not answer; only put her 
hand on her breast. He repeated the 

'"Is this Marie?" 

'Then her voice, 

'"Yes, it is I. Why do you ask?" 

'"Have you nothing to say to me? 



I have come back to you, because I 
could not forget you." 

* Then her voice in the same even, 
almost monotonous, tone : 

"Why should you think I do not 
know you. I have prayed, often, that 
you would come back." 

'This, too, was like another flash of 
lightning heat lightning, that left 
everything darker. Not only had the 
soldier come back, but she had longed 
for him to come back; yes, longed for 
him, as I had not dreamed she would. 
The child was, indeed, not mine, but 
theirs, quite theirs. 

'I knew, I had heard said, that the 
very bearing of the physical pain will 
make a woman care for the father of 
her child though she may not have 
cared before. It is God's way, it seems. 
It is such power that God has given to 
motherhood that it may, like Him- 
self, work miracles, from left to right as 
it goes. She had not borne this child 
for me, though that had been her first 
intent. She cared now for the child's 
father. Their whole world and the 
child seemed suddenly struck apart 
from mine. His coming back changed 
everything. I had lost the child, not by 
illness, as I had so often dreaded, not 
by death, but by the mere beat of hoofs 
on the Bragin road, and the click of a 
gate in the starlight, such little things 
as I would never have suspected. 

'Then I heard him speaking: 

'"Will you come to the light?" 
There was a patch of candlelight falling 
from within through an open window; 
falling across the grass, the little shell- 
path, and over the larkspur. "I want 
to see you. I want to see how you have 
changed since I have been gone." 

'I could just see that he stretched 
out his hand to her and led her over to 
where the light fell. She stepped into 
the soft glow. Her back was toward 

'Then, from the shadow, he, too, 

stepped into the light and looked down 
into her face. I bent forward and 
looked. I saw the whole thing now. I 
saw that the face of this man looking 
into hers was not the hungry face that 
I supposed it to be. It was lit with 
another feeling oh, another feeling 
and it was the face, not of the 
soldier, not of the soldier. It was the 
face of Jean Marie, of Jean Marie. 

'In the moment that he looked at 
her, my world fell apart. I was dazed, 
yet I knew. I saw. Everything was 
clear. What followed was flashed on 
my mind, before either of them spoke; 
like lightning that flashes fast, the 
thunder lagging after. But I had to 
listen. Then I heard him say, 

'"Oh, my well-beloved!" 

' She answered him nothing, nothing 
at all; just stood there allowing him to 
search her face for the old, lost girlhood. 

' By the look in his face I knew he had 
found it, to his own satisfaction. He 
had found it; for, with a little quick 
motion, he took her hands. 

'Then, like the older man he had 
grown to be, he bent and folded her to 
him and kissed her long, straight on the 
lips. It was like Marie to submit and 
speak afterwards, if he would have let 
her speak. But he spoke, himself, 
rapidly, urgently, kissing her between 
the rapid words. 

'"I have seen the women of Paris; 
but always beyond them, at their very 
shoulders, I saw you in your white 
dress," he kissed her at the mem- 
ory, "and the white stockings," 
he kissed her again and laughed, " for 
I even noticed those, and the blue 
ribbon, and the larkspur. Have you 
still got the dress?" holding away from 
her a little to look at her. 

'She nodded. 

'"Yes; in a drawer upstairs, where 
now and again I take it out and look at 

'He kissed her, and hurried on. 



'"And when I drank wine at little 
tables on the faubourg, and saw those 
small-mouthed women, with their high 
heels and their great over-sized hats 
and when I talked with them, do 
you know what I said? I said to my- 
self, ' These women are amusing for a 
time, if you like, for a time, Jean Marie, 
but la! la! good God! one knows well 
what city women with painted cheeks 
are! How a man may have them or 
leave them; and how other men have 
had them and left them before.' And 
then I would think of you, you in 
your white dress and the blue ribbon, 
you, you all untouched, by any 
man, you, Marie, you ! " 

'I could see that she pushed herself 
away from him a little, though he still 
had his way with her and his arms 
about her. Then, elated, I think, by her 
silence, remembering all the shyness 
and quietness of her, he drew her to 
him again like something lost and 
found and rejoiced over. He kissed her 
once, twice, then held her, looking 
down at her, then kissed her again. 
They seemed to be wholly one, the way 
a man and woman should be. 

'When she finally had pushed her- 
self gently free, I saw her brush her 
hair, which he had disordered, back 
from her eyes. 

'" You are mistaken," she said. Her 
voice sounded still and quiet like a part 
of the night. 

'"How?" he said. 
"I am not what you think me." 

'The short glory was over now, 
almost over. The great trouble had 
begun to touch him, too. 

"Will you tell me what you mean? 
You said you had prayed for me to 
return. Is it so?" He was puzzled. 

'She nodded. "Yes." 

'"You are not married, then?" 
There was a kind of quiet horror in his 

'She shook her head. 

He looked immensely relieved. He 
made a motion to take her to him 
again; but paused to think. 

'"You have not of late changed in 
your feeling for me?" 

'She shook her head. 

' " You care for me," he urged. " You 
have always cared. You are not mar- 
ried. What have we then to fear? 
Come; out with it! It is some duty 
some fancied duty to your crippled 
sister. Bah!" He tossed his head in 
quick contempt of such a reason. "I 
have always thought there would be 
doubtless some foolish devotion to her; 
yes, I have, positively. But because 
she will never marry does it mean, 
bon Dieu, that you and I must have 
spoiled lives and unfulfilled hopes?" 

'Yes, he said just that. 

'Then, it was like Marie to speak 
with such directness, and unlike, I 
think, every other woman in the world. 

'"I have had a child," she said 

' He recoiled from her a slow 
movement, a very slow movement 
as though he had come suddenly, yet 
in time, on something horrible and 
unbelievable. Then he said just one 


'It seemed a long time before he 
spoke; a long time that she stood there. 
When he put his next question it was 
that of a man, and full, as a man's 
questions are, of curiosity and jeal- 

'"And the man? You were in love 
with him?" 

'She shook her head again, and he 
recoiled from her a very little bit more. 

' It seemed again a long time. When 
he spoke his voice was that of a man 
who has passed through the worst of 
sorrow, the voice of a man not sorrow- 
ful but indignant; indignant not only 
with one woman, but with all woman- 



' " Do you know, loose woman, what 
you have shattered ? All my belief, all 
of it ! Through everything, everything, 
when every ideal was failing me, when 
I myself was not pure, and could 
count on no one, I said, "But Marie, 
Marie is pure! " The painted women of 
the boulevard, one expects not more of 
them. One would not have them other- 
wise. They were not meant to be more 
than puppets to play with; never to be 
the mother of men's children. But you, 
you !" He paused, and began again. 
"Do you know what it is to rob a man 
like that? Do you know what you 
steal, you women? Bah I" Returned 
away, unable to go on. 

* She just stood there, Marie did, with 
one hand on her breast. She made no 
defense, none at all. 

* I cannot recall, now, how it all hap- 
pened. I only know that by-and-by 
Jean Marie was gone. I heard the gate 
click after him. I only know that by- 
and-by I saw Marie enter the house. 

'Then, despite all these numbing 
blows that had fallen, my brain began 
to work again. I think I have a good 
brain. Something must be done. 

'I rose and laid the child down 
quickly, on the floor of the arbor, 
than I ran ran through the night. 

'By cutting across the little path 
and across the little patch of grass, one 
comes to the field and across that to the 
road, beyond the bend. If I ran I could 
get there before Jean Marie. I felt the 
dew wet on my shoes and I ran on. I 
fell once flat on my two hands in the 
little ditch, but I got up and ran on. I 
was faourdie -*- lost in my mind, per- 
haps. Presently, I found I had gone 
too much to the right and had come to 
the wall, where, instead, I should have 
come to the opening. I ran along be- 
side the wall; but I was losing time. I 
could hear the horse's hoofs coming, 
coming, coming at a great gallop. Be- 
yond the poplars I could see the road 

still at a little distance. I almost fell. 
I recovered myself and ran. I came 
at last to the opening and stumbled 
through it. Jean Marie was coming 
rapidly toward me. I ran forward, 
holding up my hands; but I was only 
a shadow in the darkness, no doubt. 
I would have called, but my voice 
was gone. If only I could be near when 
he passed by! I stumbled at last into 
the very ditch close by the road. His 
horse's hoofs almost touched me. They 
thundered past. The dust flew in my 
face. I was within two feet of Jean 
Marie, within two feet of him. Had I 
been tall instead of bent, I could even 
have snatched at his bridle. 

'He did not note. The last hope I 
had was riding with him away from 
me, swiftly away from me, in a fury, 
and with a beating of hoofs. Then, 
with a great effort, I raised myself in 
the ditch, flung my hands in the air, 
and cried, "Jean Marie! Jean Marie! 

' It may be that the beat of the hoofs 
drowned the sound. I do not know. It 
may be that he thought it was Marie, 
and would not turn. I called again, but 
the horse galloped on. The galloping 
of the horse grew fainter. It was begin- 
ning to be a long way off. Then, pre- 
sently, in a little while more, it was 
gone, lost in the night. 

'I do not know, rightly, how I got 
back to the house. I do not know, 
rightly, how any of the moments hap- 
pened after that except that by-and- 
by I entered the arbor and took up the 
child again, as one takes up a burden. 
It was the first time in the world that 
she had felt heavy to me. She slept 
soundly. I carried her upstairs and 
placed her in my room as I often did. 
Marie must have been already in bed, 
I thought. Her light was out and her 
door partly open, as she always left it. 
Far into the night it seemed to me that 
I must go to her and talk to her of this 



fearful thing. I got up softly. When I 
got to my door I looked across the 
hall. Her door was closed. It was 
enough neither she nor God wished 
to talk about this thing. I returned to 
my bed. I had the child I had wished 
for, by my side. So we remained all 
that night. 

'No, mademoiselle. I have never 
spoken to her about it, have never told 
her that I know. You see, it is this 
way: I have thought much and deep- 
ly, and I know that life is bearable 
so long as one is serving others, and 
above all so long as one is serving them 
better than they suspect. It is that 
that puts some little glory into life, 
to give to those we love always a little 
more than is required; to serve them 
covertly better than they guess. 

'If I told Marie that I knew about 
the coming-back of Jean Marie, it 
would be like robbing her of something 
more. As it is she can watch me often, 
with the child in my arms, and she can 
think, "It was for Zephine's happiness 
that all this was suffered. If she is 
happy it is worth while. She must 
never, never know that I suffer." And 
so, you see, she will have a new service 
to render and to make life worth the 
living. I shall be like another child, for 
whom she has suffered pangs of the 
flesh and spirit. 

Even when she sits at dusk, near 
the larkspurs, thinking of Jean Marie, 

this thought will give her strength. She 
will see me coming down the path with 
the child, and she will be glad at sight 
of me. For it is not those who sac- 
rifice themselves for us that we most 
love, but always, always, those for 
whom we sacrifice ourselves. That is 
the true motherhood, and it is Marie 
who has it. You see I have not sacri- 
ficed myself; not at all. I am no true 
mother, and that is as God intended it, 

but she is; she is.' 

'Your own silence is a sacrifice, too, 
perhaps/ I ventured. 

She shook her head and smiled. 

'Some day, I want you to tell her; 
, that is, if I should die first. In that case 
I want her to know. But if she goes 
first I shall leave it to God : He will take 
a moment aside some time to explain it 
to her. He could do it in a few words. 
As it is, she sits often at night there 
by the larkspur, with the candle-light 
from within falling in a patch across 
the flowers as it did that night, and 
I know that she sees Jean Marie's face 
and remembers the kisses that he gave 
her in the starlight; but she says 

' Not long ago I saw her take out the 
white dress and the white silk stock- 
ings and the blue ribbon. She wrapped 
them in a sheet and put them all away, 
up in the attic, in a trunk containing 
things that belong to my dead mother 

a trunk that we never open/ 


The following letters, written without thought of publication, are selected from a correspondence 
which still continues. The author is a young man who, soon after leaving Harvard College, started 
life with excellent prospects, and early in his career achieved marked material success. While still in 
the earliest thirties, he was making an income of $25,000 a year in a wholesale commission business; 
he was married, apparently happy, the father of two children, and, in the current phrase, 'fixed for 
life.' Then misfortunes came. He lost his position and his money, and at thirty-five, stripped of 
everything he possessed, he went, without money, friends, or references, to try a new start in the 
West. The following letters, practically unchanged except for the alteration and omission of names, 
take up his story at this point. THE EDITORS. 

March 28, 1912. 


I landed in Seattle with three dol- 
lars and a half, thoroughly dirty, and 
without any baggage except a tin box 
of cigarettes. As the cheapest lodging 
in sight, I spent about a week in a 
Turkish Bath (basement of Tourist 
Hotel) , my shirt studs and cuff buttons 
bought food for a while, while the hot 
room made a most excellent drying 
room after I had done my washing, 
underclothes and socks. I never before 
wore one shirt for so many days, but as 
I did n't haVe any money I could not 
buy another. 

During this time I did my best to get 
something to do in the coal business, in 
which I have had experience, but with 
one exception, the S. & W. Co., who 
run a mine at Renton, some eight miles 
from Seattle, and the Pacific Coal Com- 
pany (a subsidiary of the Harriman 
system), I did not get any sort of a bite. 
Both of these will not materialize until 
fall at the earliest. I went to every 
concern in the business, but no one 
seemed to desire my undoubtedly very 
valuable services. Also I went to every 
wholesale concern in Seattle, handling 
machinery, etc., but from these I did 
not get a smell. I presume my appear- 


ance was somewhat against me as my 
suit of clothes looked pretty tough. 

I tried everything I could think of, 
but all I could find was one night's 
work as a stevedore on S.S. Governor. 
Even that work is very hard to obtain. 
I went night after night; from 400 to 
500 men would be on hand and only 
from 60 to 75 would be taken. I tried 
all the concerns dealing in fish, but dis- 
covered they take no one excepting 
Swedes or Finns. 

I went to every Alaskan concern 
that has a Seattle office, all with no 

The nights in the Turkish Bath were 
interesting, had I the power of descrip- 
tion. A bunch of prize fighters boxed 
and were rubbed down there. Two of 
them were pretty decent sort of chaps. 
I acted as second for one in a fight that 
he won. If anybody in the crowd 
spotted me in the towel- waving second, 
he kept quiet. 

I lived at the Turkish Bath until I 
ran into a chap named Jones, that I 
used to know at home. He ran a hotel 
in Springfield and one in Greenfield. 
He, I found, was almost as destitute 
as I, but he did have four dollars, that 
looked like a small fortune. He had 
been working as a deckhand on a tug- 
boat but he got in a row with the Swede 



mate and was fired. We moved from 
the Bath to a dump called the Hotel 
Rainer, one of those places that have 
(to me) the most disagreeable smell in 
the world: that of poverty. We stayed 
there for about a week, paying 75 cents 
a day for the room. We answered news- 
paper advertisements and followed up 
every clue we could think of to get 
work. I always thought I had sufficient 
brain to earn my living with it, but it 
was n't possible to get anything to do 
in Seattle. So, in desperation, Jones 
and I went to an employment office 
and signed on for a job in the lumber 
mill of Grey's Harbor Commercial Co., 
located at Cosmopolis, which is about 
100 miles south of Seattle. 

Being entirely without proper clothes 
for a colder place, I went to a chap 

named Weeks that B had written 

would give me help as a last resort, and 
from him obtained the following : 

One dress-suit case 
One flannel shirt 
One pair underdrawers 
Last night Hotel Rainer 
Fee, employment agency 

$ .85 







The object of the dress-suit case (you 
can imagine what kind it is for 85 
cents) was that to get your fare ad- 
vanced from Seattle to Cosmopolis one 
had to have baggage. As Jones's be- 
longings consisted of a comb, one extra 
pair of shoes, and a second union suit, 
the dress-suit case really was quite im- 
portant. To get this large sum out of 
Mr. Weeks was like pulling teeth, al- 
though B had written me that he 

(Weeks) would advance me what funds 
I needed. Weeks was about as blood- 
less as a turnip. 

However, we left Seattle a week ago 
at five P.M. and arrived at Cosmopolis 
at ten-fifteen. A man met us at the 
station and led us to a boarding-house. 
Being very tired, I went to bed at once, 

where I stayed for perhaps thirty min- 
utes, then I arose and spent the balance 
of the night on the ground outside of 
the house. Bed-bugs. The mill whistle 
blew at six and we went to the mess- 
house for breakfast. The food was and 
is surprisingly good. Of course, as they 
feed over 400 at once, they throw it at 
you, but the place is clean and not at 
all bad, excepting the coffee, which is 
awful. Then we went to work. 

If you work with your hands from 
7 to 12 and from 1 to 6, handling 4X8s, 
three things happen : plenty of splin- 
ters in your fingers, a very, very lame 
back, and a devil of an appetite. I did 
this sort of work Tuesday, Wednes- 
day, and Thursday. In the mean time 
I discovered the remuneration was 
$26 a month and food; from this you 
have to subtract $5 a month for a room 
and $1 for the doctor: so, as the em- 
ployment agency in Seattle had ad- 
vanced the railroad fare, from March 
19 to April 19 I stood as follows (also 
Jones) : 



In the mean time, what the night at 
stevedoring had not done to my clothes, 
the three days in the mill here had 
(en passant, the Company keep your 
baggage until you have earned the 
price of the railroad fare) . So at four, 
Thursday afternoon, I was really fairly 
blue, and then the first glimmer of 
sunshine, since I left Boston, came to 
the front. Kelley, the boss, came to 
me, in a hurry, and said, 'The I. W. W. 
are outside; are you willing to take 
a chance?' As far as I can figure, the 
I. W. W. or, as they call themselves, 
The Industrial Workers of the World, 
is a labor organization that has no 
standing whatsoever in the eastern and 
central American Unions. (I under- 

March 19 to April 19 

Carfare $3.95 

Room 5.00 

Doctor 1.00 



scored American, because in the entire 
outfit there is not one in ten who can 
speak English.) 

PRINCE RUPERT, B. C., April 4. 

Being a jump of 650 miles north of 
Cosmopolis, which I will explain later. 

I was so damn tired of the lumber 
business I was willing to take a chance 
at anything, so I said, 'Yes,' and we 
beat it to the outside of the mill. There 
were about 300 I. W. W.'s just across 
the track, and after hooting and jeer- 
ing, about twenty started to run across 
the track and into the mill grounds. 
The manager, who was lined up with 
about 15 other brave defenders, yelled, 
'Stab them.' Allen, the sub-foreman, 
made a beautiful tackle on the extreme 
end of the enemy's line and I followed 
suit. My I. W. W.'s head struck the 
inside rail and after he hit he lay still. 
It had been so long since I'd played 
football I was considerable shook up 
myself, but some one hopped up and 
tried to kick me in the head; this made 
me sore, so, arising, I biffed a man in 
the left eye and he my right. Then the 
enemy retreated, and until the whistle 
blew at six, spent their time in yelling 
and making speeches. These were 
somewhat difficult to understand as 
the spouters used very indifferent Eng- 
lish, but the purport was that $26 per 
month, less deductions, was too little. 
To this I thoroughly agreed, but when 
the sheriff came around and offered me 
$5 a day to act as a guard, I decided it 
was plenty. Jones also became a night 
defender, so for a week we walked the 
streets and through the mill, when it 
was decided we were no longer re- 
quired. Then I agreed with the strik- 
ers once again, and we decided to quit. 

We had just money enough to get 
here; which was on Wednesday the 
3d. Our landing was not particularly 
cheerful: snowing very hard and our 
total cash resources just one American 

penny. I had walked the streets of 
Cosmopolis so vigorously that I wore a 
hole completely through my right shoe 
and the snow was wet. In fact, as I 
write, both feet are as wet as they can 
be. The steamship agents in Seattle 
told us we would secure work within 
five minutes of getting off the boat, but 
we did n't and have n't yet, though we 
have a half promise of being shipped 
Saturday noon to the most eastern 
construction camp of the Grand Trunk 
Pacific, a matter of 190 miles. 

A remark many men have made to 
me I remember well: 'Any man who 
really desires employment can readily 
obtain it.' Well, if anybody ever says 
such a thing to you, please reply that 
I say, 'It's a Damn Lie.' I went yes- 
terday and to-day to 28 offices, stores 
and docks, and asked for any kind of 
work, and could n't get it, and Jones 
did the same. Also we went 26 hours 
without food, and you take it from me 
it's a mighty unpleasant thing to do. 
This morning I walked up to a perfect 
stranger and said, 'Give me a dol- 
lar.' (I did n't say, I want to borrow, 
but Give.) He gave. Jones and I 
had a drink apiece, 25 cents' worth 
of food, and now at this writing have 
exactly ten cents for coffee and dough- 
nuts for breakfast. In other words, 
just 50 cents* worth of food in a day 
and a half. We have a bed, but remun- 
eration for the hotel man is extremely 

Now as to your letter. I also will 
never forget the fishing trips which, 
while not very productive of fish, were 
certainly most enjoyable occasions. 
It 's curious how certain unimportant 
occurrences stick in one's memory while 
later much more important ones are 
entirely forgotten. I remember dis- 
tinctly the first two years I fished 
with your father that I was greatly dis- 
tressed to see how little interest you 
showed in the game. That first year, 



my son, was just twenty-five years ago. 
A good deal has happened since then. 

With the rest of your letter I don't 
agree. I guess it 's true that they don't 
come back, and I guess I 'm down-and- 
out for all time. I 'm a sight, trousers 
torn and a week or ten days of beard 
which, I regret to say, is turning quite 
gray, giving me the appearance of a 
venerable old bum. I don't know when 
you will receive this effusion because I 
don't know when I will be able to buy 
envelope and stamp, but when I do I '11 
mail it. It seems hardly possible for 
one to seriously speak of the cost of a 
postage stamp, but I 'm in dead earnest. 
Some drop for one who has held the 
rather important positions that I did, 
such a short time ago. 

If it was n't for that confounded will 
I guess I 'd try the long swim to China. 
It's months since I heard whether my 
kiddies were dead or alive. 

Well, Old Fellow, if later there is 
anything to communicate I'll send it 

April 8, 1912. 

To resume the story of my life: 
Shortly after I stopped writing you on 
Thursday last, I received a telephone 
message from the head stevedore of 
G. T. P. to report at midnight to dis- 
charge coal on S.S. Princess Ena. 
This was unexpected luck as Jones and 
I had seen him every time a ship was 
due. She actually docked at one in the 
morning, and when her aft-hold hatch- 
covers were taken off I immediately 
knew why the regular crew of steve- 
dores had shied on the job. Hot coal. 
You would not know what you were 
up against, but it was an old story to 
me. Ten of us went into the lower hold 
and started loading the tubs. At two, 
an hour after we started, Jones fell 
over, and about twenty minutes later 
two others. Gas from the coal. Three 
VOL. in -NO. 2 

of us stuck it out to the end, ten- 
thirty Friday morning, whereupon I 
created quite a scene. On calling for 
our pay, 9^ hours at 35 cents an hour, we 
were told by the paymaster to call be~ 
tween three and four in the afternoon : 
I fainted and fell flat on my face in the 
snow. The fact was I was awfully 
hungry, my last meal having been on 
Thursday noon. The ten cents I men- 
tioned I gave to Jones when he keeled 
over. Besides I was pretty dizzy from 
the fumes. I felt like a damn fool when 
I got up, and got out of sight as quick- 
ly as possible. 

When I reached our dump, I found 
Jones in bed, but he had saved my ten 
cents, only having spent his own; so I 
had coffee and doughnuts and went to 
bed. I ached so that I did n't sleep 
much, and also I strained my back, but 
we were at the paymaster's at three, 
and Jones collected 35 cents and I 
$3.35. Whereupon we were reckless, 
we ate $1.10 worth of steak and 

Saturday morning we were much 
cast down when the shipping agent 
(for men), who had half promised us a 
job, said no. We followed him around 
all morning (so did about 75 others), 
and finally he turned to a chap called 
Mac and said, 'Can you use the lads?' 
Mac looked us over and allowed he 
could. So at one we started and arrived 
at our destination at five. Four hours 
going 59 miles, hardly fast and furious. 
A firm of contractors are putting in a 
steel bridge with concrete piers, abut- 
ments, etc., about 200 men on the job. 
After supper in the mess-house we ap- 
proached the office guiltily. We knew 
we should have brought blankets with 
us, but after handing the Prince Ru- 
pert landlord the entire privy purse we 
still owed him $1. 

After Jones had almost cried, the 
storeman handed each a perfectly good 
cotton blanket at $3.25 each, and we 



went to the bridge bunk-house. (Five 
in all, with different names.) 

This house has only white men. 
(Whites evidently means Canadians, 
Americans, Englishmen, and Germans.) 
No bugs, thank God! and straw mat- 

I hope, if yesterday was fine, that 
you and your wife walked from Massa- 
chusetts Avenue to Arlington Street, 
via Commonwealth Avenue. If so you 
probably saw some stunning sights. 
Boston, with the exception of Philadel- 
phia and Los Angeles, has, I think, the 
best-looking women on the continent. 

But though I worked the entire day 
with pick and shovel, I certainly saw 
a more stunning. We are on the Skeena 
River, a sizable stream, mountains on 
both sides as bold as I ever saw and in- 
finitely more beautiful than the Rock- 
ies. Of course, this effect may have been 
heightened by a beautiful day, bright 
sun, and no wind. We are engaged 
in bridging the second perfect-looking 
fly-fishing stream I have ever seen 
(the other being Grand Lake Stream, 
in Maine), though I presume that 
when the snow begins to melt it will be 
a torrent. 

This morning the same old snow and 
rain. Wet to the skin, of course. How 
I would like a pair of shoes, sweater, 
and oil-coat. If I had those then I 
would get a fly-rod and get some trout. 
(They look very much like landlocked 
salmon.) But as the prices they charge 
in the store are frightful (at least 100 
per cent extra), it will be a week before 
I can get even the boots. 

It was so wet this noon the company 
stopped work. This I did not like, as I 
could n't have been wetter if in the 
river, and you are charged with your 
meals whether you work or not. The 
remuneration is as follows. Wages $3 
for 10-hour day, less 90 cents for meals, 
$1 per month for doctor and $1 for hos- 

I hope that this very lengthy epistle 
will not bore you; it has at least helped 
me to pass some weary moments. Also 
I hope you can read it (the Camp 59 
part). I am in my bunk (only one 
table, used by card-players) using the 
celebrated Weeks Dress-Suit Case for 
a back. 

The surroundings are not at all bad. 
Forty-odd men listening to a phono- 
graph. If they were not so afraid of 
poisonous fresh air and would n't spit 
every second on the floor, I would be 

As our present job will probably last 
not over two weeks, 

Prince Rupert, B. C. 

H. D. P. 

CAMP No. 59, 

April 15, 1912. 

My DEAR : 

For some days I have meant to write 
you, but the present life I am leading 
makes it difficult to do anything ex- 
cept work and sleep. 

I am with the pick-and-shovel gang, 
which work, I take it, takes the least 
intelligence of any known. We are 
called at six, breakfast at six-thirty, 
work at seven until noon, then again 
from one until six. The bunk-house I 
sleep in is so dimly lighted it is almost 
impossible to see to use a pencil, the 
one table being used nightly by four 
confirmed whist-players. 

The work is not over-hard, but it is 
fearfully monotonous and uninterest- 
ing, but I must say the workman's 
view of life is novel and gives one quite 
a different idea of the world. Some- 
where about two hundred men are on 
this job, putting in concrete piers for a 
bridge, and also somewhat turning the 
course of the Skeena River (a stream 
about the size of the Kennebec). We 
have a babel of language, Canadians, 



Americans, Russians, Finns, Poles, 
Italians, etc., etc. The food is good 
and so far our bunk-house is free from 
vermin, but the one next to us is in- 
fested with both bed-bugs and lice, and 
we expect a visitation any day 

Wages in this country are a good 
deal of a delusion and a snare; I am re- 
ceiving three dollars a day which is, of 
course, nearly double what I would get 
in the East for similar work, but living 
is very expensive. Twenty-five cents 
for a ten-cent tin of Lucky Strike, nine 
dollars for a pair of shoes not worth 
over four, two dollars and a half for 
dollar overalls, etc., etc. For food, 
the contractors, Johnson, Carey, and 
Helmars, charge 90 cents a day, which, 
of course, one pays whether one works 
or not; and, of course, there is no Sun- 
day here, as the work goes on seven 
days a week. 

I object, as a workman, to a ten- 
hour day; it is too long, as a man should 
have a little daylight in which to shave, 
wash his clothes, etc. In fact, I believe 
if the work stopped here at five in the 
afternoon, or a nine-hour day, as much 
would be accomplished, as the last 
hour distinctly drags, and every man is 
hoping for the whistle every minute. 

I am really writing this letter on ac- 
count of my son John. When you re- 
ceive it, I will be thirty-six years old, 
working with my hands, with no pro- 
spect of improving my condition. Of 
course, there are chances for the man 
with a little money. I think with a 
thousand dollars one who knew the 
retail coal business could build up a 
very pretty tonnage in Prince Rupert, 
which bids fair to grow as fast as 
Vancouver, as it will be the western 
terminus of this railway. Without ex- 
ception it has the finest harbor I ever 
saw, eight miles of landlocked water 
surrounded by high mountains, a hun- 
dred feet in depth right up to the shore. 
Then the fish are here in almost incon- 

ceivable numbers, also great mineral 
wealth and much timber; but all this is 
for the capitalist and not for the work- 

There is, however, a demand for 
skilled labor. For instance, carpenters 
receive 45 cents an hour and engineers 
(donkeys) 50 cents. As I in all proba- 
bility will never see John again, I sug- 
gest you confer with my wife, with the 
view of letting John put in a few weeks 
in the summer learning some trade, so 
that if the worst comes to worst he 
would have something to fall back 
upon, and not find himself in the pre- 
dicament I am in at present. 

The chance to write this letter came 
through rather a nasty accident. The 
anchor-line on one of the bridge der- 
ricks broke about eleven this morning 
and the whole shooting-match pretty 
nearly went in the river. After dinner 
two other chaps and myself climbed 
out on the end (about forty feet above 
ground) to pass a line, when the leg 
fell. Both my companions were killed, 
one instantly, the other dying in about 
an hour. The bodies are lying at my 
feet, covered up with some meal-sacks. 
A good horse is worth $500, but a man 
nothing, in this country. When I felt 
the timbers going I jumped outwards 
and landed in the river, reaching shore 
some two hundred yards downstream 
in an eddy. As all the clothes I have 
were on my back, and I have no credit 
at the store, I am taking the afternoon 
off to dry out. 

If any one dies or any new ones 
arrive in the family I would like to be 
advised. As the work I am on will 
not last over ten days at the outside, 
General Delivery, Prince Rupert, Brit- 
ish Columbia, is my surest address. 

Will you please mail this letter to 

, as he seems to take some interest 

in my wanderings. 


H. D. P. 



PRINCE RUPERT, B. C. April 19, 1912. 

I am here as a witness in the Coro- 
ner's inquest, held to determine the 
cause of the death of the two men who 
were killed. No new news. I've been 
pressing my nose against the * Gent's 
Furnishing Stores,' wishing I had the 
price of an $18 suit. 

Have called on all the Civil and 
Mining engineers, with the hope of 
getting on some surveying party, but 
without success. 

The future does not look very rosy 
as I write. 

As ever, 

H. D. P. 

P.S. The harbor here is the most 
wonderful I ever saw or dreamed of. 

SEELEY, B. C., G. T. P. R., May 7, 1912. 


After the Coroner's inquest I went 
back to camp. There I stayed until 
yesterday morning, working on rock 
and gravel, and only left on account 
of the vermin, which were something 
awful. I got covered with lice and 
fleas, and, as they were general in the 
bunk-house, bathing was only a tem- 
porary relief. I begged the superin- 
tendent for sufficient lumber to build 
a shack of my own, but was answered 
by, * Stay in the bunk-house or get out ' ; 
so I got. Follows a diary of my days. 

Monday, May 6. Started up river 
at eight this A.M. Followed the grade 
of the new road (steam) as it seemed 
to be better hiking than on the wagon 
road, which was very wet. Passed 
twenty or twenty-five Italian laborers 
who seemed to be rather poor walkers, 
and then caught up to a more nonde- 
script bunch. Four of them in all, one 
a Dominion Government policeman 
whose chief duties, apparently, are to 
stop the sale of liquor to the Indians; 
another a railroad contractor by the 

name of Corrigan, an Irishman who 
looked fifty, and who told me he was 
seventy-three years old. He said he 
had spent the past winter in Southern 
California and that he had been drunk 
for four months. As he was feeling ex- 
ceedingly feeble, I guess, perhaps, he 
had. The third was a prospector, a 
man of fifty-five, who has spent twenty- 
five years in this country or north. I 
envied him his ability in carrying stuff 
on his back. His pack weighed about 
a hundred pounds, yet he only stopped 
to rest three times on our morning 
journey, a distance of fourteen miles. 
My own, which only weighs forty 
pounds, seemed fearfully heavy when 
we reached Seeley at noon. The fourth 
chap was a youngster who was looking 
for a chance to get on some survey. 

After dinner I hiked on alone for 
New Hazelton, which is the head- 
quarters of Messrs. Farrington, Weeks, 
and Stone, the contractors, who are 
building the railroad through B. C. for 
G. T. P. Arrived at four-thirty, pretty 
well played-out. Had a sponge bath in 
a hand-basin and changed my under- 
clothes and socks. Then went out and 
bought a pair of trousers and a shirt. 
Hated like the devil to spend the 
money, but it seemed rather necessary. 
Had no trousers, having worn out the 
only ones I owned, and my second 
flannel shirt disappeared a week ago. 
If I could get my hands on the man 
that stole it there would be a near mur- 
der. On reading the last sentence over 
it might appear that I went almost 
naked, while as a matter of fact I have 
a pair of overalls. 

Went to bed at seven-thirty, and, at 
once, I was reminded of an illustration 
in an old edition of Mark Twain's 
Roughing It. The cut depicted Brig- 
ham Young's bedroom, seventy beds 
for his wives. Mark goes on to say 
the bedroom was a failure because all 
the wives breathed in and out at the 



same time, and the pressure blew the 
walls down. My bedroom was an un- 
finished loft with some thirty-odd cots 
in it. I woke in the night and the snor- 
ing was strenuous. 

Tuesday, May 7. Twelve years 
ago to-day I left Boston for Washing- 
ton to be married. My prospects at 
that time seemed to be bright and se- 
cure, but as the late lamented Dan 
Daly used to say, 'Now look at the 
damn thing.' 

Went to F. W. & S. offices at nine, 
and to my disgust found that Mr. 
Stratton, the general superintendent, 
had left a short time before for Seeley, 
and as he was the man I must see to se- 
cure any sort of a position, I packed up 
and hiked back to Seeley. Arrived at 
Seeley at twelve, had a bite and caught 
Mr. S., a gruff and short Irishman of 
fifty, on the steamer. He listened to 
me for five minutes and then said, 
'You see Pat Maloney and say I said 
to take you on.' On inquiry I found 
that Mr. Maloney is chief auditor of the 
company; nobody seems to know his 
whereabouts, but he is somewhere up 
the line, he may be here to-morrow 
and may not be for a week. I hope it 's 
to-morrow as the exchequer is running 
extremely low. As I write I have a 
pay check for $4.70, and $4.50 in 
cash. Meals are 50 cents each, and a 
bed $1. 

Seeley is the last landing-place on 
the Skeena River for the G. T. P., as 
the river goes directly north from here, 
while the railroad is to go east. Sup- 
plies, of course, are very expensive. 
They come from Vancouver to Prince 
Rupert by water, Prince Rupert to 
Van Arsdal by rail, and from Van Ars- 
dal to Seeley by river steamers which 
are stern-wheelers and small copies of 
the freighters one sees on the Missis- 

These towns are amusing: Seeley has 
eleven board buildings and about 
twenty tents, and New Hazelton per- 
haps thirty frame buildings and as 
many tents, yet if you look at the real- 
estate advertisements in the Vancouver 
newspapers you might imagine both 
places were about ready for street cars. 
New Hazelton, however, boasts of a 
branch of the Union Bank of Canada, 
which is at least picturesque, as it is a 
very fine log cabin. 

In time a good deal of silver will 
come out of this country, but up to the 
present the lack of transportation has 
precluded any shipments of ore. Min- 
eral wealth, timber, and magnificent 
scenery complete the entire resources 
of the region, and the scenery is n't 
much of a help to the working-man. 

Here endeth the present writing. 

[The remaining * Letters of a Down- 
and-Out ' will be published in March.] 



I WENT to the Durbar the other 
night (in kinemacolor) and saw the 
King and Queen through India. I had 
found my way, with hundreds of others, 
into a gallery of the Scala Theatre, and, 
out of that big, still rim of watchful 
darkness where I sat, I saw there 
must have been thousands of them 
crowds of camels running. 

And crowds of elephants went 
swinging past. I watched them like a 
boy; like a boy standing on the edge of 
a thousand years and looking off at a 
world. It was stately and strange and 
like far music to sit quite still and 
watch civilizations swinging past. 

Then, suddenly, it became near and 
human, the spirit of playgrounds and 
of shouting and boyish laughter ran 
through it. And we watched the ele- 
phants naked and untrimmed, lolling 
down to the lake, and lying down to be 
scrubbed in it, with comfortable, low 
snortings and slow rolling in the water, 
and the men standing by, all the while, 
like little play nurses, and tending 
them their big bungling babies at 
the bath. A few minutes later we 
watched the same elephants, hundreds 
of them, their mighty toilets made, 
pacing slowly past, swinging their 
gorgeous trappings in our eyes, rolling 
their huge hoodahs at us, and, all the 
time, still those little funny dots of 
men beside them, moving them silently, 
moving them invisibly, as by a spirit, 
as by a kind of awful wireless those 
great engines of the flesh! I shall never 


forget it or live without it, that slow 
pantomime of those mighty, silent 
Eastern nations; their religions, their 
philosophies, their wills, their souls, 
moving their elephants past; the long 
panorama of it, of their little, awful, 
human wills; all those little black, help- 
less looking slits of Human Will astride 
those mighty necks! 

I have the same feeling when I see 
Count Zeppelin with his air-ship, or 
Grahame- White at Hendon, riding his 
vast cosmic pigeon up the sky; and it 
is the same feeling I have with the 
locomotives those unconscious, for- 
bidding, coldly obedient, terrible fel- 
lows! Have I not lain awake and lis- 
tened to them storming through the 
night, heard them out there, ahead, 
working our wills on the blackness, on 
the thick night, on the stars, on space, 
and on time, while we slept? 

My main feeling at the Durbar, 
while I watched those splendid beasts, 
the crowds of camels, the crowds of 
elephants, all being driven along by 
the little faint, dreamy, sleepy-look- 
ing people, was, * Why don't their ele- 
phants turn around on them and chase 

I kept thinking at first that they 
would, almost any minute. 

Our elephants chase us, most of us. 
Who has not seen locomotives come 
quietly out of their round-houses in 
New York and begin chasing people; 
chasing whole towns, tearing along 
with them, making everybody hurry 
whether or no; speeding up and order- 
ing around by the clock great cities, 



everybody alike, the rich and the poor, 
the just and the unjust, for hundreds of 
miles around? In the same way I have 
seen, hundreds of times, motor-cars 
turning around on their owners and 
chasing them, chasing them fairly out 
of their lives. And hundreds of thou- 
sands of little wood and rubber Things 
with nickel bells whirring may be seen 
ordering around people who pay 
them for it in any city of our mod- 
ern world. 

Now and then one comes on a man 
who keeps a telephone who is a gentle- 
man with it, and who keeps it in its 
place, but not often. 

There are certain questions to be 
asked, and to be settled, in any civiliza- 
tion that would be called great. 

First. Do the elephants chase the 
men in it? Second. And if as in our 
western civilization the men have 
made their own elephants, why should 
they be chased by them? 

There are some of us who have won- 
dered a little at the comparative infe- 
riority of organ music. We have come 
to the conclusion that, perhaps, organ 
music is inferior because it has been 
largely composed by organists, by men 
who sit at organ machines many hours 
a day, and who have let their organ 
machines, with all their stops and pe- 
dals, and with all their stop-and-pedal 
mindedness, select out of their minds 
the tones that organs can do best 
the music that machines like. 

Wagner has come to be recognized 
as a great and original composer for a 
machine age, because he would not let 
his imagination be cowed by the mere 
technical limitations, the narrowmind- 
edness of brass horns, wooden flutes, 
and catgut; he made up his mind that 
he would not sing violins. He made 
violins sing him. 

Perhaps this is the whole secret of 
art in a machine civilization. Perhaps 
a machine civilization is capable of a 

greater art than has ever been dreamed 
of in the world before, the moment it 
stops being chased by its elephants. 
The question of letting the crowd be 
beautiful in our world of machines and 
crowds, to-day, turns on our producing 
Machine-Trainers . 

Men possessed by watches in their 
vest pockets cannot be inspired; men 
possessed by churches or by religion- 
machines, cannot be prophets; men 
possessed by school-machines cannot 
be educators. 

The reason that we find the poet, or 
at least the minor poet, discouraged in 
a machine age, probably is because 
there is nothing a minor poet can do in 
it. Why should nightingales, poppies, 
and dells expect, in a main trial of 
strength, to compete with machines? 
And why should human beings running 
for their souls in a race with locomo- 
tives expect to keep very long from 
losing them? 

The reason that most people are dis- 
couraged about machinery to-day is 
because this is what they think a ma- 
chine civilization is. They whine at 
the machines. They blame the locomo- 

A better way for a man to do would 
be to stop blaming the locomotive and 
stop running along out of breath be- 
side it, and get up into the cab. 

This is the whole issue of art in our 
modern civilization getting up into 
the cab. 

First come the Machine-Trainers, or 
poets who can tame engines. Then the 
other poets. In the mean time, the less 
we hear about nightingales and poppies 
and dells and love and above, the 
better. Poetry must make a few iron- 
handed, gentle-hearted, mighty men 
next. It is because we demand and ex- 
pect the beautiful that we say that 
poetry must make men next. 

The elephants have been running 
around in the garden long enough. 




There are people who say that ma- 
chines cannot be beautiful and cannot 
make for beauty because machines are 

I would agree with them if I thought 
that machines were dead. 

I have watched in spirit, hundreds 
of years, the machines grow out of Man 
like nails, like vast antennae, a kind of 
enormous, more unconscious sub-body. 
They are apparently of less lively and 
less sensitive tissue than tongues or 
eyes or flesh; and, like all bones, they 
do not renew, of course, as often or as 
rapidly as flesh. But the difference be- 
tween live and dead machines is quite 
as grave and quite as important as the 
difference between live and dead men. 
The generally accepted idea of a live 
thing is that it is a thing that keeps 
dying and being born again every min- 
ute; it is seen to be alive by its respon- 
siveness to the spirit, to the intelligence 
that created it, and that keeps re-creat- 
ing it. I have known thousands of fac- 
tories, and every factory I have known 
that is really strong or efficient has 
scales like a snake, and casts off its old 
self. All the people in it, and all the 
iron and wood in it, month by month, 
are being renewed and shedding them- 
selves. Any live factory can always be 
seen moulting year after year. A live 
spirit goes all through the machinery, 
a kind of nervous tissue of invention, 
of thought. 

We already speak of live and dead 
iron, of live and dead engines or half- 
dead and half-sick engines, and we have 
learned that there is such a thing as 
tired steel. What people do to steel 
makes a difference to it. Steel is sensi- 
tive to people. My human spirit grows 
my arm and moves it and guides it and 
expresses itself in it; keeps re-creating 
it and destroying it; and daily my soul 
keeps rubbing out and writing in new 

lines upon my face; and in the same 
way my typewriter, in a slow, more 
stolid fashion, responds to my spirit, 
too. Two men changing typewriters 
or motor-cars are, though more subtly, 
like two men changing boots. Sewing- 
machines, pianos, and fiddles grow in- 
timate with the people who use them, 
and they come to express those par- 
ticular people, and the ways in which 
they are different from others. A 
brown-eyed typewriter makes her ma- 
chine move differently every day from a 
blue-eyed one. Typewriting machines 
never like to have their people take the 
liberty of lending them. Steel bars and 
wooden levers all have little manner- 
isms, little expressions, small souls of 
their ow'n, habits of people that they 
have lived with, which have grasped 
the little wood and iron levers of their 
wills, and made them what they are. 

It is somewhere in the region of this 
fact that we are going to discover the 
great determining secret of modern 
life, of the mastery of man over his 
machines. Man at the present mo- 
ment, with all his new machines about 
him, is engaged in becoming as self-con- 
trolled, as self-expressive, with his new 
machines, with his wireless telegraph 
arms, and his railway legs, as he is with 
his flesh-and-blood ones. The force in 
man that is doing this is the spiritual 
genius in him that created the machine, 
the genius of imperious and implacable 
self-expression, of glorious self-asser- 
tion in matter, the genius for being hu- 
man, for being spiritual, and for over- 
flowing everything he touches, and 
everything he uses, with his own will, 
and with the ideals and desires of his 
soul. The Dutchman has expressed 
himself in Dutch architecture and in 
Dutch art, the American has expressed 
himself in the motor-car, the English- 
man has expressed himself, has carved 
his will and his poetry, upon the hills, 
and made his landscape a masterpiece 



by a great nation. He has made his 
walls and winding roads, his rivers, his 
very tree-tops, express his deep, silent 
joy in the earth. So the great, fresh, 
young nations to-day, with a kind of 
new stern gladness, implacableness, and 
hope, have appointed to their souls 
expression through machinery. Our 
engines and our radium shall cry to 
God. Our wheels sing in the sun! 

Machinery is our new art-form. A 
man expresses himself first in his hands 
and feet, then in his clothes, and then 
in his rooms or in his house, and then 
on the ground about him; the very hills 
grow like him, and the ground in the 
fields becomes his countenance, and 
now, last and furthest of all, requiring 
the liveliest and noblest grasp of his 
soul, the finest circulation of will, of 
all, he begins expressing himself in the 
vast machines, in his three-thousand- 
mile railways, his vast, cold-looking 
looms, and dull steel hammers. With 
telescopes for Mars-eyes for his spirit, 
he walks up the skies; he express- 
es his soul in deep and dark mines, 
and in mighty foundries melting and 
remoulding the world. He is making 
these things intimate, sensitive and 
colossal expressions of his soul. They 
have become the subconscious body, 
the abysmal, semi-infinite body of the 
man, sacred as the body of the man is 
sacred, and as full of light or darkness. 

So I have seen the machines go 
swinging through the world. Like arch- 
angels, like demons, they mount up our 
desires on the mountains. We do as we 
will with them. We build Winchester 
Cathedral all over again, on water. We 
dive down with our steel wheels and 
nose for knowledge, like a great fish, 
along the bottom of the sea. We beat 
up our wills through the air. We fling 
up, with our religion, with our faith, 
our bodies on the clouds. We fly rev- 
erently and strangely, our hearts all 
still and happy, in the face of God! 


The whole process of machine- 
invention is itself the most colossal 
spiritual achievement of history. The 
bare idea we have had of unraveling all 
creation, and of doing it up again to 
express our own souls, the idea of 
subduing matter, of making our ideals 
get their way with matter, with radium, 
ether, antiseptics, is itself a religion, 
a poetry, a ritual, a cry to heaven. The 
supreme spiritual adventure of the 
world has become this task that man 
has set himself, of breaking down and 
casting away forever the idea that there 
is such a thing as matter belonging to 
Matter matter that keeps on in a 
dead, stupid way, just being matter. 
The idea that matter is not all alive with 
our souls, with our desires and prayers, 
with hope, terror, worship, with the 
little terrible wills of men, and the spirit 
of God, is already irreligious to us. Is 
not every cubic inch of iron (the cold- 
est blooded scientist admits it) like a 
kind of little temple, its million million 
little atoms in it going round and 
round and round, dancing before the 

And why should an Oxford man be 
afraid of a cubic inch of iron, or afraid 
of becoming like it? 

I daily thank God that I have been 
allowed to belong to this generation. 
I have looked at last a little cubic inch 
of iron out of countenance! I can sit 
and watch it, the little cubic inch of 
iron, in its still coldness, in all its little 
funny play-deadness, and laugh! I 
know that to a telescope or a god, or to 
me, to us, the little cubic inch of iron 
is all alive inside; that it is whirling 
with will, that it is sensitive in a rather 
dead-looking, but lively, cosmic way, 
sensitive like another kind of more 
slowly quivering flesh, sensitive to 
moons and to stars and to heat and 
cold, to time and space, and to human 



souls. It is singing every minute, low 
and strange, night and day, in its little 
grim blackness, of the glory of things. 
I am filled with the same feeling, the 
same sense of kinship, of triumphant 
companionship, when I go out among 
them, and watch the majestic family 
of the machines, of the engines, those 
mighty Innocents, those new, awful 
sons of God, going abroad through all 
the world, looking back at us when we 
have made them, unblinking and with- 
out sin! 

Like rain and sunshine, like chem- 
icals, and like all the other innocent, 
godlike things, and like waves of water 
and waves of air, rainbows, starlight, 
they say what we make them say. 
They are alive with the life that is in 

The first element of power in a man 
in getting control of his life in our 
modern era is the having spirit 
enough to know what matter is like. 

The Machine-Trainer is the man who 
sees what the machines are like. He is 
the man who conceives of iron and 
wood machines, in his daily habit of 
thought, as alive. He has discovered 
ways in which he can produce an im- 
pression upon iron and wood with his 
desires, and with his will. He goes 
about making iron and wood machines 
do live things. 

It is never the machines that are 

It is only mechanical-minded men 
that are dead. 


The fate of civilization is not going 
to be determined by people who are 
morbidly like machines, on the one 
hand, or by people who are morbidly 
unmechanical, on the other. 

People in a machine civilization who 
try to live without being automatic 
and mechanical-minded part of the 
time, and in some things, people who 

try to make everything they do artis- 
tic and self-expressive and hand-made, 
who attend to all their own thoughts 
and finish off all their actions by 
hand themselves, soon wish they were 

People who do everything they do 
mechanically, or by machinery, are 
dead already. 

It is bad enough for those of us who 
are trying to live our lives ourselves, 
real true hand-made individual lives, 
to have to fight all these machines 
about us trying daily to roar and roll 
us down into humdrum and nothing- 
ness, without having to fight besides 
all these dear people we have about 
us, too, who have turned machines, 
even one's own flesh and blood. Does 
not one see them, see them every- 
where, one's own flesh and blood, 
going about like stone-crushers, road- 
rollers, lifts, and lawn-mowers? 

Between the morbidly mechanical 
people and the morbidly unmechan- 
ical people, modern civilization hangs 
in the balance. 

There must be some way of being 
just mechanical enough, and at the 
right time and right place, and of being 
just unmechanical enough, at the right 
time and right place. And there must 
be some way in which men can be me- 
chanical and unmechanical at will. 

The fate of civilization turns on men 
who recognize the nature of machin- 
ery, who make machines serve them, 
who add the machines to their souls, 
like telephones and wireless telegraph, 
or to their bodies, like radium and rail- 
roads, and who know when and when 
not, and how and how not, to use them 
who are so used to using machines 
quietly, powerfully, that they do not 
let the machines outwit them and un- 
man them. 

Who are these men? 

How do they do it? 

They are the Machine-Trainers. 


They are the men who understand 
people-machines, who understand iron- 
machines, and who understand how to 
make people-machines and iron-ma- 
chines run softly together. 

There was a time, once, in the old, 
simple, individual days, when dry- 
goods stores could be human. They 
expressed in a quiet, easy way the souls 
of the people who owned them. 

When machinery was invented, and 
when organization was invented, ma- 
chines of people dry-goods stores 
became vast selling-machines. 

We then faced the problem of mak- 
ing a dry-goods store with twenty-five 
hundred clerks in it as human as a 
dry-goods store with fifteen. 

This problem has been essentially, 
and in principle, solved. At least we 
know it is about to be solved. We are 
ready to admit most of us that 
it is practicable for a department store 
to be human. Everything the man 
at the top does expresses his human 
nature and his personality to his 
clerks. His clerks become twenty-five 
hundred more of him in miniature. 
What is more, the very stuff in which 
the clerks in department stores work 
the thing that passes through their 
hands is human, and everything 
about it is human, or can be made 
human; and all the while vast currents 
of human beings, huge Mississippis of 
human feeling, flow past the clerks 
thousands and thousands of souls a 
day and pour over their souls, mak- 
ing them and keeping them human. 
The stream clears itself. 

But what can we say about human 
beings in a mine, about the practica- 
bility of keeping human twenty-five 
hundred men in a hole in the ground? 
And how can a mine-owner reach down 
to the men in the hole, make himself 

felt, as a human being, on the bottom 
floor of the hole in the ground? 

In a department store, the employer 
expresses himself and his clerks through 
every one of the other twenty-five 
hundred; they mingle, and stir their 
souls and hopes and fears together, 
and he expresses himself to all of them 
through them all. But in a mine 
two men work all alone down in a dark 
hole in the ground. Thousands of other 
men, all in dark holes, are near by, 
with nothing but the dull sound of 
picks to come between. In thousands 
of other holes men work, each man 
with his helper, all alone. The utmost 
the helper can do is to grow like the man 
he works with or like his own pick 
or like the coal he chips out or like 
the black hole. The utmost the man 
he works with can do, in the way of 
being human, is with his helper. 

In a factory, for the most part, the 
only way, during working hours, that 
an employer can express himself and his 
humanness to his workman, is through 
the steel machine the workman works 
with through its being a new, good, 
fair machine, or a poor one. He can 
only smile and frown at him with steel, 
be good to him in wheels and levers, 
or now and then, perhaps, through a 
foreman pacing down the aisles. 

The question the modern business 
man in a factory has to face is very 
largely this : * I have acres of machines 
all roaring my will at my men. I have 
leather belts, printed rules, white 
steam, pistons, roar, air, water, and fire, 
and silence, to express myself to my 
workmen in. I have long, monotonous 
swings and sweeps of cold steel, buckets 
of melted iron, strips of wood; bells, 
whistles, clocks to express myself, 
to express my human spirit to my 
men. Is there any possible way in 
which my factory, with its machines, 
can be made as human and expressive 
of the human as a department store? 



This is the question that our machine 
civilization has set itself to answer. 

All the men with good, honest, work- 
ing imaginations the geniuses and 
freemen of the world are setting 
themselves the task of answering it. 

Some say, machines are on the necks 
of the men. We will take the machines 

Others say, we will make our men as 
good as our machines. We will make 
our inventions in men catch up with 
our inventions in machines. 

We naturally turn to the employer 
first, as having the first chance. What 
is there an employer can do, to draw 
out the latent force in the men evoke 
the divine, incalculable passion sleep- 
ing beneath in the machine- walled 
minds, the padlocked wills, the dull, 
unmined desires of men? How can he 
touch and wake the solar-plexus of 

If an employer desires to get into the 
inner substance of the most common 
type of workman, be an artist with 
him, express himself with him, and 
change the nature of that substance, 
give it a different color or light or 
movement, so that he will work three 
times as fast, ten times as cheerfully 
and healthfully, and with his whole 
body, soul, and spirit, how is he 
going to do it? 

Most employers wish they could do 
this. If they could persuade their men 
to believe in them, to begin to be 
willing to work with them instead 
of against them, they would do it. 

What form of language is there 
whether of words or actions that an 
employer can use to make the men 
who work nine hours a day for him, 
and to whom he has to express himself 
across acres of machines, believe in him 
and understand him? 

The modern employer finds himself 
set sternly face to face, every day of 
his life, with this question. All civiliza- 

tion seems crowding up, day by day; 
seems standing outside his office door 
as he goes in and as he goes out, and 
asking him, now with despair, now 
with a kind of grim, implacable hope, 
* Do you believe, or do you not believe, 
that a factory can be made as human 
as a department store?' 

This question is going to be answer- 
ed first by men who know what iron 
machines really are, and what they 
are really for, and how they work; who 
know what people-machines really are, 
and what they are really for, and how 
they work. They will base all they 
do upon certain resemblances and cer- 
tain differences between people and 

They will work the machines of iron 
according to the laws of iron. 

They will work the machines of men 
according to the laws of human nature. 

There are certain human feelings, 
enthusiasms, and general principles, 
concerning the natural working rela- 
tion between men and machines, that 
it may be well to consider as a basis 
for a possible solution. 

What are our machines, after all? 
How are the machines like us? And on 
what theory of their relation can ma- 
chines and men expect in a world like 
this to work softly together? These 
are the questions that men are going 
to answer next. In the mean time I 
venture to believe that no man who is 
morose to-day about the machines, or 
who is afraid of machines in our civiliza- 
tion, because they are machines, 
is likely to be able to do much to save 
the men in it. 


Every man has, according to the 
scientists, a place in the small of his 
back which might be called roughly, 
perhaps, the soul of his body. All the 
little streets of the senses or avenues 
of knowledge, the spiritual conduits 



through which he lives in this world, 
meet in this little mighty brain in the 
small of a man's back. 

About nine hundred millions of his 
grandfathers apparently make their 
headquarters in this little place in the 
small of his back. 

It is in this one little modest unno- 
ticed place that he is supposed to keep 
his race-consciousness, his subcon- 
scious memory of a whole human race; 
and it is here that the desires and the 
delights and labors of thousands of 
years of other people are turned off and 
turned on in him. This is the brain 
that has been given to every man for 
the heavy, everyday hard work of liv- 
ing. The other brain, the one with 
which he does his thinking, and which 
is kept in an honored place up in the 
cupola of his being, is a comparatively 
light- working organ, merely his own 
private personal brain, a conscious, 
small, and supposably controllable af- 
fair. He holds on to his own particular 
identity with it. The great lower brain 
in the small of his back is merely lent 
to him, as it were, out of eternity 
while he goes by. 

It is like a great engine, which he has 
been allowed the use of as long as he 
can keep it connected up properly with 
his cerebral arrangements. 

This appears to be mainly what the 
cerebral brain is for, this keeping the 
man connected up. It acts as a kind of 
stop-cock for one's infinity, for screw- 
ing on or screwing off one's vast race- 
consciousness, one's all-humanityness, 
all those unsounded deeps or reservoirs 
of human energy, of hope and memory, 
of love, of passionate thought, of earth- 
ly and heavenly desire, that are lent 
to each of us, as we slip softly by for 
seventy years or so, by a whole human 

A human being is a kind of factory. 
The engine and the works and all the 
various machines are kept in the base- 

ment, and he sends down orders to 
them from time to time, and they do 
the work which has been conceived up 
in headquarters. He expects the works 
down below to keep on doing these 
things without his taking any particu- 
lar notice of them, while he occupies 
his mind, as the competent head of a 
factory should, with the things that 
are new and different and special, and 
that his mind alone can do; the things 
which, at least in their present initial 
formative or creative stage, no ma- 
chines as yet have been developed to 
do, and which can only be worked out 
by the man up in the headquarters, 
himself, personally, by the handiwork 
of his own thought. 

The more a human being develops, 
the more delicate, sensitive, strong, 
and efficient, the more spirit-informed, 
once for all, the machines in the base- 
ment are. As he grows, the various 
subconscious arrangements for dis- 
criminating, assimilating, classifying 
material, for pumping up power, light, 
and heat to headquarters, all of which 
can be turned on at will, grow more 
masterful every year. They are found 
all slaving away for him, dimly, down 
in the dark, while he sleeps. They hand 
him up, in his very dreams, new and 
strange powers to live and to know 

The men who have been most de- 
veloped of all, in this regard, civiliza- 
tion has always selected and set aside 
from the others. It calls these men, in 
their generation, men of genius. 

Ordinary men do not try to compete 
with men of genius. 

The reason that people set the genius 
to one side, and do not try to compete 
with him, is that he has more and bet- 
ter machinery than they have. It is 
always the first thing one notices about 
a man of genius the incredible num- 
ber of things that he manages to get 
done for him; apparently, the things 



that he never takes any time off, like 
the rest of us, to do himself. The 
subconscious, automatic, mechanical 
equipment of his senses; the extraordin- 
ary intelligence and refinement of his 
body; the way his senses keep his spirit 
informed automatically and convey 
outer knowledge to him; the power he 
has, in return, of informing this outer 
knowledge with his spirit, with his will, 
with his choices, once for all, so that he 
is always able afterwards to rely on his 
senses to work out things beautifully 
for him, quite by themselves, and to 
hand up to him, when he wants them, 
rare, deep, unconscious knowledge, 
all the things he wants to use for what 
his soul is doing at the moment, it is 
these that make the man of genius 
what he is. He has a larger and better 
factory than others, and has developed 
a huge subconscious service in mind 
and body. Having all these things 
done for him he is naturally more free 
than others, and has more vision and 
more originality, his spirit is swung 
free to build new worlds, to take walks 
with God, until at last we come to look 
upon him upon the man of genius 
a little superstitiously. We look 
up every little while from doing the 
things that he gets done for him by 
his subconscious machinery, and we 
wonder at him; we wonder at the 
strange, the mighty feats he does, at 
his thousand-league boots, at his ap- 
parent everywhereness. His songs and 
joys, sometimes his very sorrows, look 

And yet it is all merely because he 
has a factory, a great automatic equip- 
ment, a thousand-employee sense-per- 
ception, down in the basement of his 
being, doing things for him that the 
rest of us do, or think we are obliged to 
do, ourselves, and give up all of our 
time to. He is not held back as we are; 
he moves freely. So he dives under the 
sea familiarly, or takes peeps at the 

farther side of the stars; or he flies in 
the air, or he builds unspeakable rail- 
roads, or thinks out ships or sea-cities, 
or he builds books, or he builds little, 
new, still undreamed-of worlds out of 
chemistry; or he unravels history out'of 
rocks, or plants new cities and mighty 
states without seeming to try; or, per- 
haps, he proceeds quietly to be inter- 
ested in men, in all these little funny 
dots of men about him; and out of the 
earth and sky, out of the same old 
earth and sky that everybody else has 
had, he makes new kinds and new sizes 
of men with a thought, like some 
mighty, serene child playing with dolls. 

It is generally supposed that the 
man of genius rules history and dic- 
tates the ideals and activities of the 
next generation; writes out the specifi- 
cations for the joys and sorrows of a 
world, and lays the ground-plan of na- 
tions, because he has an inspired mind. 
It is really because he has an inspired 
body, a body that has received its 
orders once for all from his spirit. We 
should never wonder that everything 
a genius does has that vivid and strange 
reality if we realized what his body is 
doing for him, how he has a body 
which is at work automatically drink- 
ing up the earth into everything he 
thinks, drinking up practicability, art, 
and technique for him into everything 
he sees, and everything he hopes and 
desires. And every year he keeps on 
adding a new body; keeps on handing 
down to his basement new sets, every 
day, of finer and yet finer things to do 

The great spiritual genius becomes 
great by economizing his conscious- 
ness in one direction, and letting it 
fare forth in another. He converts 
his old inspirations into his new ma- 
chines. He converts heat into power 
and power into light, and comes to live 
at last as almost any man of genius 
can be partly seen living in a kind 



of transfigured or lighted-up body. The 
poet transmutes his subconscious or 
machine-body into words, and the art- 
ist transmutes his into color or sound, 
or into carved stone. The engineer 
transmutes his subconscious body into 
long buildings, into aisles of windows, 
into stories of thoughtful machines. 
Every great spiritual and imaginative 
genius is seen sooner or later to 
be the transmuted genius of some 
man's body. The things in Leonardo 
da Vinci that his unconscious, high- 
spirited, automatic senses gathered to- 
gether for him, piled up in his mind for 
him and handed over to him for the use 
of his soul, would have made a genius 
out of anybody. It is not as if he had 
to work out every day all the old de- 
tails of being a genius, himself. 

The miracles he seems to work are 
all made possible to him because of his 
thousand-man-power, his deep subcon- 
scious body, his tremendous factory of 
sensuous machinery. It is as if he had 
practically a thousand men all working 
for him, for dear life, down in his base- 
ment, and the things that he can get 
these men to attend to for him give 
him a start with which none of the rest 
of us could ever hope to compete. We 
call him inspired, because he is more 
mechanical than we are, and because his 
real spiritual life begins where our lives 
leave off. 

So the poets who have filled the 
world with glory and beauty, have been 
free to do it because they have had 
more perfect, more healthful, and im- 
proved subconscious senses handing up 
wonder to them than the rest of us 

And so the engineers, living as they 
always live, with that fierce, silent, 
implacable curiosity of theirs, woven 
through their bodies and through their 
senses and through their souls, have 
tagged the Creator's footsteps under 
the earth, and along the sky, every now 
and then throwing up new little 
worlds to Him like his worlds, saying, 
'Look, O God, look at this I 9 the en- 
gineers whose poetry is too deep to 
look poetic have all done what they 
have done because the unconscious 
and automatic gifts of their senses, of 
the powers of their observation, have 
swung their souls free, have given them 
long, still reaches of thought, and vast 
new orbits of desire, like gods. 

All the great men of the world have 
always had machinery. 

Now everybody is having it. The 
power to get little things, innumerable, 
omnipresent, forever-and-ever things, 
tiny just-so things, done for us auto- 
matically, so that we can go on to our 
inspirations, is no longer to-day the 
special prerogative of men of genius. 
It is for all of us. Machinery is the 
stored-up spirit, the old saved-up in- 
spiration of the world turned on for 
every man. And as the greatness of a 
man lies in his command over machin- 
ery, in his power to free his soul by 
making his body work for him, the 
greatness of a civilization lies in its 
getting machines to do its work. The 
more of our living we can learn to do 
to-day automatically, the more in- 
spired and creative and godlike and 
unmechanical our civilization becomes. 

Machinery is the subconscious mind 
of the world. 



[In the late sixties of the last century, Joshua 
Van Cleve, a well-to-do Ohio business man, died, 
leaving a widow with three grown children, two 
daughters and a son, and a handsome fortune. 
Shortly afterwards the daughters married, be- 
coming, respectively, Mrs. Kendrick and Mrs. 
Lucas; and each had a child. One of these latter 
was a boy, Van Cleve Kendrick. Van Cleve's 
parents both died when he was a baby; and by 
the time he grew up, his grandfather's estate 
had been almost entirely dissipated, so that, at 
eighteen years of age, the young fellow found 
himself practically the only support of the fam- 
ily, which now consisted of his grandmother, 
his aunt, who was a widow, with her daughter 
Evelyn, and his uncle, Major Stanton Van 
Cleve, a broken-down ex-officer of the Civil 
War. Van Cleve accordingly went to work, and 
after sundry experiences, secured a position with 
the National Loan and Savings Bank of Cincin- 
nati, Ohio. 




'THE rolling stone gathers no moss,' 
and 'The setting hen never gets fat,' 
are two worthy old proverbs not less 
true, it would seem, for being diamet- 
rically contradictory; and liable, like 
most proverbs, to excite the retort that 
everything depends on the individual. 
For instance, there was Van Cleve 
Kendrick, after some five years at the 
bank, as solid a fixture as its marble 
steps or safe-deposit vaults, the very 
reverse of a rolling stone; yet no supine 
and starveling setting hen, for all that. 
On the contrary, the young fellow was 
considered unusually active, shrewd, 
self-reliant, and capable; his integrity 
was above question; his ability such as 

It was at this time, that is, as nearly as I recol- 
lect, about 1892 or 1893, that I first met Van Cleve 
and his people, who had just come to Cincinnati 
to live. Van must have been twenty-one or so. 
They had friends here who introduced them, 
Professor Gilbert of our university and his fam- 
ily. There were two young Gilberts, a boy and 
girl of Van Cleve's own age. Bob Gilbert had not 
had a very promising career so far; he was rather 
wild at college, and got to drinking and into other 
bad habits, after he came home. At this time he 
had a position with a firm of brokers where a 
college chum of his, a Mr. Cortwright, was also 
employed. Nobody knew much about Phil Cort- 
wright, who was not a native Cincinnatian; he 
was a very good-looking young man, inclined to 
be fast, we understood, and in the habit of mak- 
ing love violently to every girl he met. He was be- 
ginning now to be quite devoted to Lorrie Gilbert; 
and Van Cleve Kendrick disliked him heartily 
from which we drew our own conclusions.] 

to put him * right in line for promotion,' 
according to what people heard. In- 
deed, the president of the National 
Loan, Mr. Gebhardt himself, was the 
original source of this rumor. He was 
an enthusiastic man, a big, blond, fine- 
looking man with the heavy beard and 
roving, distant blue eyes of a Viking, 
and when he came out with one of his 
strong encomiums about 'my young 
friendt Van Cleef Kendrick,' in his 
deep and melodious bass voice, with the 
faint German accent which he always 
betrayed in moments of earnestness 
or excitement, the effect was very im- 
pressive and convincing. 

At twenty-seven years of age, Mr. 
Kendrick held eight shares in the Na- 
tional, on which he had paid a third 
of what he had borrowed to buy them; 
he had six hundred dollars laid by; 
he was drawing a salary of twenty- 



three hundred a year, and making 
a little 'on the side,' in the manage- 
ment of various small savings and 
bits of real estate for half a dozen or 
more of those same honest hucksters, 
seamstresses, dairymen, and so on, 
whom he had used to watch coming in 
with their deposits Saturday nights; he 
had put his cousin Evelyn through the 
Art School, and given her an extra 
twelvemonth of study in New York; 
he had been supporting a family for 
years, if not in luxury, certainly in 
ordinary comfort. 

At twenty-seven, also, Van's hair 
was thinning a little on the temples, 
there was a hard line at the corner of 
his flat, straight mouth, another be- 
tween his eyebrows. Since he began 
to work, he had seldom had, and never 
asked for, a vacation, even of a week, 
even of a day. There he stuck at his 
desk, or at and about kindred desks 
and offices, cool, steady, briefly civil, 
ageing before his time, an edifying 
example of American thrift and in- 
dustry yet I know one person, at 
least, to whom there was something 
not far from pathetic in the spectacle. 
Youth's a stuff that can't endure; and 
what was Van Cleve doing with his? 
What was he doing with these beauti- 
ful, unreturning days, and what, what 
would he be doing at sixty or seventy- 
five? He was providing against that 
very time ! * It 's a bad thing to be old,' 
he used to say in his dry and cold way. 
His manner may have inspired confi- 
dence and respect, but it was never 
gracious. 'It's a bad thing to be old,' 
said Joshua Van Cleve's grandson; 
'but it's the worst thing that can hap- 
pen to be poor and old!' 

The young man, with all his harsh- 
ness, took care not to betray any such 
opinion to his family, all of whom, set- 
ting aside Evelyn, were well under way 
in years; if old age would not find them 
in poverty, that was owing solely to 
VOL. in -NO. 2 

Van Cleve's own efforts, a fact, 
however, of which he never would have 
dreamed of reminding them, even if he 
himself had fully realized it. He was of 
the temper to work hard and direct his 
affairs with economy and prudence, 
without any need or incentive what- 
ever; and it was with a kind of satirical 
patience that he received, or rather 
endured, the devotion and admiration 
of his domestic circle. 'Why, Grand- 
ma, you've got me down fine, have 
n't you? And of course you're a pret- 
ty good judge of men at your time of 
life and with all your experience!' he 
would say, in reply to the old lady's 
half- tearful eulogies; 'I'm a hero and a 
saint, and the biggest thing on top of 
the ground. You say so, and you ought 
to know. My services to the bank are 
invaluable; I don't believe they could 
find more than forty or fifty bright 
young men to fill my place, in case ' 

'Oh, don't talk that way, Van! ' cried 
his Aunt Myra, aghast at this sugges- 
tion; 'if you should lose your posi- 
tion !' Her eyes roved wildly over 
the pretty, comfortable room; in a 
trice she saw it a garret, a hovel, an 
almshouse, and herself and Evelyn 
starving in rags! 

'You you don't think they're 
going to discharge you, do you, Van 
Cleve?' she said, trembling. 

'Why, not that I know of. I guess 
I'll stay with the job a while yet,' said 
Van, amused, reading her easily, per- 
haps somewhat contemptuously. He 
knew his aunt to be a sincerely good 
woman, and he supposed that all good 
women contrived to be not at all self- 
indulgent, yet thoroughly selfish, after 
her fashion. 'Don't fly off the handle 
that way,' he said; ' I '11 always manage 
to take care of you somehow or other, 
Aunt Myra.' 

' Well, I hope / count for something ,' 
interposed Evelyn, haughtily; 'I ex- 
pect to do something with my brush. I 



think I've shown there's something in 
me already, for that matter, getting a 
picture in the Women's Art League 
Exhibit with that awfully critical jury 
that refused some of the most famous 
artists in Ohio ' 

'All right, Rosa Bonheur, you get 
busy "with your brush" and stave off 
the poor house when the time comes, 
will you? In the meanwhile I may as 
well keep on working,' said Van Cleve, 
cutting her short with the good-humor- 
ed indifference his cousin found so ex- 
asperating. Many a genius has suffered 
thus from a lack of appreciation in the 
family; and I fear Evelyn was no fonder 
of Van Cleve because he had contrib- 
uted to her artistic education with un- 
hesitating liberality, perhaps at the 
cost of some scrimping and self-denial ; 
nor did she like him any the better for 
having forgotten all about these sacri- 
fices, or for holding them of no mo- 
ment. Yet she was not ungrateful; all 
that she wanted was for him to take 
her seriously and he refused to take 
her seriously. It was obvious that he 
left her and her talents and her achieve- 
ments out of his reckoning altogether. 

'All you think about is money, Van 
Cleve Kendrick!' she burst out angri- 
ly; 'that's the only standard you've 
got. If I sold a picture for seventy-five 
or a hundred dollars, you'd believe I 
could paint you 'd think I was worth 
while I 9 

' You bet I would ! ' Van Cleve agreed 
heartily, if somewhat absently; he had 
got out his fountain-pen and, sitting 
at the little old-fashioned black- walnut 
desk in the corner of the dining-room, 
was running over the monthly bills 
which Mrs. Lucas always collected 
and bestowed in a certain old Jap- 
anese lacquer box, to await pay-day. 
' Ought n't there to be a bill here from 
Doctor McCrea ? ' said Van, looking up ; 
'he generally sends it at the half year.' 

No one answered immediately; and 

to his surprise Van Cleve detected a 
conscious glance pass among the three 
women. His grandmother spoke at 
last. 'Evelyn has arranged about that 
bill,' she said proudly and, at the same 
time, rather timidly; 'it was forty-five 
dollars, and Evelyn went to see the 
doctor and arranged to pay it herself.' 

Van Cleve turned his light gray eyes 
on the girl. 'How?' he asked. 'How 
are you going to pay it?' He looked 
interested. 'Did you save it up your- 
self Evie? By George, that's pretty 

'Never mind, Van dearest, we did 
n't want to bother you with it; we 
were n't going to say a word to you 
about it,' his aunt cried out, in a hectic 
excitement. 'You're always so splen- 
did and honorable, we knew you 'd pay 
the doctor and go without a new spring 
suit and you ought to have a spring 
suit, you said so yourself the other 
day. And we could n't bear to have you 
disappointed; it's a perfect shame the 
way you deny yourself all the time, 
and you have all of us hanging around 
your neck like millstones.' Her eyes 
filled up; she almost sobbed the next 
words. 'So Evelyn thought out a 
p-plan, and she went to see the doctor, 
and you tell him, Evie Oh, Van, 
she is the noblest girl!' 

' I simply suggested that I could pay 
him with a picture, Van,' said Evelyn, 
not without complacency. ' I told him 
that I had three that had been exhib- 
ited and very highly spoken of, and he 
could have his choice. You know any 
one of them is worth ever so much 
more than his bill, Van,' said Evelyn, 
earnestly; 'but of course I did n't tell 
him that in so many words. Only I 
thought it was n't any harm to let him 
know that they were very valuable, 
and that he was n't getting cheated. 
He said he did n't know much about 
pictures. So I just told him in a general 
sort of way, you know, what I would 



ask for these, and I could see he was 
perfectly astonished and very much 
impressed. I'm going to send the pic- 
tures over to-morrow for him to pick 
out. It's that View of Paradise Park 
by Moonlight, and Over the Rhine, 
and that lovely Bend in the River, 
Fort Thomas ' 

'Have you got his bill?' interrupted 
the other; and, the document being 
produced, Van Cleve silently folded it 
away in his letter-case, alongside the 
rest, with an expression that somehow 
disconcerted the little assembly. 

* I think you 'd better give up this 
this arrangement, Evelyn,' he said un- 
emotionally. 'I'll send the doctor a 
check to-day. I 'd rather you did n't 
pay any bills that way.' 

'Why, Van, why not?' Evelyn pro- 
tested; 'oh, of course, I see ! You think 
my paintings are n't worth forty-five 
dollars. You think they are n't worth 
anything. You don't realize that my 
pictures are just the same as money.' 

'Maybe so. You could n't pay the 
butcher with 'em,' said Van Cleve 
a remark that momentarily silenced 
argument. He rose, the three women 
staring at him, hurt, angry, bewildered. 
'Now look here, Evelyn,' he said, not 
unkindly, 'you're not to do anything 
like this again, you understand me? 
I'm not saying anything against your 
pictures; they may be worth all you 
claim. But they are n't the same as 
money, not by a long sight. I look after 
a little piece of property for a man 
that's a marble-cutter over here on 
Gilbert Avenue; what would you think 
if he offered to pay me with a statue of 
Psyche, hey? Now I know you want 
to help me, but that's not the way to 
do it to go and bunko somebody 
into taking one of your pictures in 
return for his work that he 's trying to 
make his living by. Sell your picture 
first, and do what you want with the 
money ' 

'Stop, Van Cleve! Don't you see 
you're breaking her heart!' Mrs. Lu- 
cas screamed, starting to her feet and 
rushing to throw her arms around her 
daughter; both of them were sobbing 
vehemently. 'How can you talk so? 
How can you be so brutal?' She faced 
him in tragic indignation. ' If it had 
been any other man, anybody but you, 
Van Cleve, I'd say he ought to be 
horsewhipped I ' 

'Don't, Mother darling, don't! Now 
she '11 have one of her heart attacks 
Van, how could you ! ' proclaimed 
Evelyn in her turn. Mrs. Van Cleve 
ran for the smelling-salts; the maid 
whirled in from the kitchen; there was 
a terrifying to-do; in the midst of it, 
the young man, who was not unfamil- 
iar with this sort of scene, made his es- 
cape. He was so little moved by the 
distress he left behind that he even 
grinned to himself as he took his way 
down town, thinking, ' I 'd like to have 
seen McCrea's face when Evie handed 
him that gold brick!' Apart from per- 
formances of this nature, which were 
likely to be annoying, Mr. Van Cleve 
attached scarcely any importance to 
what women said and did; all women, 
he supposed, were hysterical fools 
ahem ! well, not that exactly, but 
ill-balanced and excitable and reason- 
less all but one, that is. Van had 
seen enough of Lorrie Gilbert to know 
that she, at least, could control her- 
self, and act to good purpose when 
need arose. 

He thought about Lorrie a good deal 
these days, tried to put her out of his 
mind, and found it returning to her 
again and again with a commingled 
pain and pleasure which he now at last 
understood. As usual he was ruthless- 
ly clear-eyed and clear-headed about 
it, ruthlessly plain-spoken with him- 
self. He knew that he was nothing to 
Lorrie; she had never encouraged him; 
if Van Cleve had ever assumed a defi- 



nitely lover-like attitude, she would 
have denied him with real distress and 
regretted keenly the lost friend; and, 
besides, she was credibly reported en- 
gaged to another man. Van worked 
harder than this other man, and he 
made as much money; if not so orna- 
mental to the community, he was a 
deal more useful; he was the good ap- 
prentice and the worthy steward; but 
he could not marry. Even had Lorrie 
been as much in love with him as he 
with her, he could not have asked her 
to marry him. His sense of duty and 
his hard pride would have restrained 

* I 'm not going to ask any girl to live 
with my family I'm not going to 
put that on her, and I'm not going to 
ask her to "wait for me," either,' was 
his idea; 'I don't want anybody taking 
a chance on me. What would that be, 
anyhow, but hinting to her to hang on 
till some of my people died off and left 
me a little freer? Not for me! When 
I'm making ten thousand a year will 
be time enough for marrying. Lorrie '11 
be a grandmother by that time, most 
likely! Oh, well!' he sometimes fin- 
ished with a touch of his harsh fun. 
Mr. Kendrick did not lack a gift of 
philosophy; and it was equally char- 
acteristic that he never for an instant 
doubted he would some day make 
that ten thousand a year and much 

In the meanwhile, life was not unin- 
teresting even to a hopeless lover a 
lover, that is, with as hard a head and 
as stanch a digestion as this hero's. 
This very day, when Van caught the 
next down-going car, he found its crowd- 
ed passengers reading the latest news 
from the insurrection in that neigh- 
boring West Indian island of which we 
were beginning to hear so much in 
those days, and conclamantly airing 
their views on the subject. 'DooM OF 

man read out of the paper. 'That set- 
tles it, boys! ' he announced with much 
solemnity; ' the Spanish '11 have to give 
up now. They can't get any washing 
done!' And everybody laughed, and 
another remarked that he had never 
understood the Spanish were very 
strong on laundry-work, anyhow. Van 
Cleve, clinging to his strap, listened 
inattentively; this kind of talk was 
rife that winter had been going 
the rounds, indeed, for the past year. 
Maceo Weyler McKinley con- 
centration camps filibusters the 
* Commodore ' expedition do we not 
all of us remember it? 

Mr. Kendrick was among those who 
were against intervention when he 
thought about Cuba's troubles at all, 
which was seldom. Of late he had 
been giving a stricter attention than 
ever, if that were possible, to the Na- 
tional Loan's affairs. He thought they 
were in danger of * going to sleep' at 
that institution, to use his own words, 
notwithstanding the fact that to out- 
siders, at least, it seemed to be prosper- 
ing greatly. The simple old building 
itself had recently been remodeled at 
a handsome cost; you might see the 
plain citizens who were its patrons sur- 
veying with awe the new marble stairs, 
the figures of ' Commerce ' and * Indus- 
try* in the triangular brow above 
the doors, and the bronze tablets 
set into the corner-stone with the mys- 
tifying legend A.D. MDCCCXCVI. 
Van Cleve did not wholly approve of 
the changes, being by nature severely 
opposed to any sort of show; but he 
could not deny that the bank took in 
a number of fresh accounts about that 
time which may have been due in large 
part to the increased majesty and sol- 
idity of its appearance. Still Van was 
critical; he had not been with the Loan 
and Savings all these years for nothing, 
and he had gone a long way since his 



early days in the office, when he had 
felt an unquestioning respect for his 
elders and a readiness to learn of 

'This bank is Julius Gebhardt,' he 
used to say to himself shrewdly; 'he is 
the National Loan and Savings, body 
and bones, hide, horns, and tallow. 
Every one of the directors is a back 
number. They keep on electing them- 
selves over and over again, and when 
they come trailing in here Monday 
mornings it looks like an overflow meet- 
ing from the Old Men's Home. I '11 bet 
they do just what Gebhardt says, and 
half the time they don't know what 
he's saying. Of course he's used to it, 
but it's a pretty big responsibility for 
one man. He knows the banking busi- 
ness as well as the next man, I suppose, 
but nobody's infallible.' If he had 
owned a few more shares, say twenty 
instead of eight, Van was confident he 
would be on the board, and what was 
more, would probably be cashier in 
place of Schlactman, who was in ill 
health, and talked of moving to Col- 
orado. In fact, Mr. Gebhardt had 
hinted as much, in his big, warm- 
hearted, almost fatherly, way. He 
liked Van Cleve and did not hesitate 
to show it. The cashier's salary was 
three thousand. 'I'd have a use for 
it,' Van thought, with a grim smile. 

The family had lately been showing 
signs of their perennially recurrent rest- 
lessness, which Van recognized from 
ancient acquaintance. Once in a long 
while it crossed Van Cleve's mind that 
he might some day surprise them by 
putting his foot down on all this foolish- 
ness; but the time never came. He al- 
ways had too much to do, and too many 
things on his mind, to burden himself 
further by futile attempts at argu- 
ment with his household; it was easier 
and infinitely more peaceful to let 
them have their own way. As for dis- 
cussing his plans and prospects with 

them, or confiding to them all that 
about the bank and the president and 
his methods, and Van's own opinions, 
the young man never dreamed of such 
a thing. They could not have under- 
stood a word of it; they were devoted 
to him heart and soul, but they could 
not speak his language, or live in his 
world. The Office and the Street were 
his real home, and under his own roof 
he had companions, but no compan- 

He had forgotten all about the morn- 
ing's disturbance by dinner-time, when 
he reached home; and was only re- 
minded of it by finding the house as 
yet unlighted, in a kind of symbolic 
gloom, and everybody tiptoeing about 
in an impressive anxiety. * Mother 
has been very ill, Van Cleve,' Evelyn 
told him with a species of reproachful 
resignation; 'it has been an unusually 
sharp seizure. Doctor McCrea could 
n't understand this attack at all, and 
kept saying she must have had some 
nervous shock. But of course we did 
n't tell him about this morning,' said 
Evelyn, magnanimously. 'It does n't 
make any difference about me. Van, 
but I hope you won't be so cruel again 
to poor Mother, who only wanted to 
help you and give you a pleasure.' 

'Well, that's so; I'm sorry about 
that,' said Van, troubled; ' I forgot how 
easy Aunt Myra gets sick. But you 
know, Evelyn, I can't have you doing 
things like that, if only for the looks 
of the thing. These doctors all keep a 
pretty good line on who can pay them 
and who can't; they've got to. Doctor 
McCrea knew I could afford that bill; 
it was n't exorbitant ' 

'Doctor McCrea was very much dis- 
appointed! 9 his cousin interrupted tri- 
umphantly. 'I explained to him in a 
tactful way, so as not to put you in 
a bad light, and he said, "Oh, don't 
I get any picture, then?" and I could 
see he did n't like it at all, though he 



gave a kind of queer laugh. I could n't 
say anything, of course.' 

Van Cleve grunted, but was other- 
wise silent, after the exasperating fash- 
ion he had of allowing Evelyn the last 
word, and the peculiar barrenness of 

* And there's something else, Van 
something you ought to know. The 
doctor says that Mother ' She was 
beginning importantly; but was check- 
ed by a look from her grandmother. 

* Dinner's ready, and we'd better 
wait till afterward to tell Van Cleve 
about that,' interrupted the old lady, 
hastily, remembering other days and 
the late Joshua. It was always advis- 
able to feed a man first. And accord- 
ingly after the meal, during which 
everybody was painstakingly amiable 
and lively, she herself reintroduced the 

'The doctor thinks that your Aunt 
Myra ought to be in a different cli- 
mate, Van Cleve. I have been think- 
ing it myself for some time, and when 
I spoke of it this morning, he said 
at once that I was right, and that a 
change was good for everybody. He 
said if she could go away for a while, 
it would undoubtedly make her feel 

'Then I explained with perfect frank- 
ness, because that is always best,' Eve- 
lyn interrupted; * that we could n't take 
trips South and all that sort of thing, 
which I could see he was about to 
suggest. "Oh, Doctor McCrea," I said, 
"we can't be running off on jaunts 
that way just for pleasure. We have 
to make a permanent move. And, 
besides, we've been here for seven 
years now, and I think Mother ought 
to get out of it for good. The Ohio 
Valley climate never has agreed with 
her, and now she is fairly saturated 
with it, and you can see she 's losing 
ground every day." He said, "Oh, I 
think you exaggerate "; but of course, 

you know, he said that just to soothe 
me and keep me from being fright- 
ened ' 

'You mean to say you want to get 
up and leave here you want me to 
quit my job, and look for another 
somewhere else,' said Van Cleve, un- 
moved as usual. 

'But if it's a question of Mother's 
health, Van Cleve' 

'You can always get something to 
do you 're not appreciated in the 
bank, anyhow. You could get Mr. Geb- 
hardt to transfer you to some other 
bank; they do things like that all the 
time, don't they? Mr. Gebhardt thinks 
so highly of you, he 'd do anything for 
you, Van you could go anywhere on 
his recommendation,' cried Mrs. Van 

'Where d' ye want to go now?' said 
Van Cleve, coming to the point with 
his disconcerting directness. 

Evelyn began eagerly, 'Why, I 
thought at once of New York. I could 
look after Mother, and still go on with 
my professional career. It would be 
an ideal arrangement ' 

' I never heard New York talked up 
much for a health resort,' said Van 

' Well, a health resort is n't what she 
needs, you know. It's the complete 
change that would be so beneficial. 
Doctor McCrea was enthusiastic; he 
said it could n't possibly do her any 
harm, and would probably be just as 
good for her as anywhere. And you 
know New York is so interesting, Van. 
I loved it when I was studying there. 
I have such clever, stimulating, excep- 
tional friends. The change in the social 
atmosphere alone would brace Mother 
right up, I know ' 

' New York is a wonderful city,' said 
Major Van Cleve; 'I remember Gen- 
eral Grant making that very remark to 
me once when we were walking up 
Fifth Avenue; we were both of us just 



back from the War, but it was before 
he had been elected to the Presidency. 
He turned to me and said, "Well, 
Mage," that was his nickname for 
me, " New York is a marvelous place, 
is n't it?" Rather odd that he should 
have died and been buried there after- 
ward, I always thought.' 

Van Cleve let them talk; he was not 
angry or out of patience; he was only 
sourly amused. This was Van's day 

a fair sample of all his days. Peo- 
ple who happened to be pretty well 
acquainted with the family used to re- 
peat around a saying of Bob Gilbert's 
that always brought a laugh from the 
men, whatever the women thought of 
it. I suppose it was really dreadfully 
coarse. "S shame!' says Bob, who was 
about three parts drunk, with tearful 
vehemence; * 's shame zose Van Cleves. 
Kept Van's nose grindstone years 
always will keep it 's shame. Know 
what they all need? Spankin' hie 

ol' lady an' all of 'em need spank- 
in' reiterated Bob with dark and 
frowning emphasis. 'Goo* spankin'!' 



I DO not remember whether it is 
recorded that the Industrious Appren- 
tice ever took the Idle Apprentice 
aside, and pointed out to him the folly 
of his ways, scolded him heartily, and 
pleaded with him to reform. A man 
must have a tolerably good conceit of 
himself who will undertake to direct 
another man how to live, even though 
this other may be as notoriously in 
need of direction as was Robert Gil- 
bert. Van Cleve hesitated and shrank 
before the task. He told himself that 
he had too stiff a job doing his own 
duty, to be qualified to preach theirs 
to other people. Was he his brother's 
keeper, anyhow? It was impatience 

and indignation that roused him to 
hunt Bob out and lecture him, at last. 
Van thought the world was too kind, 
too stupidly kind, to this culprit; it 
liked him too well; it was ruinously 
soft-hearted; it kept on giving him a 
chance when it should have brought 
him up with a round turn! And all this 
in the face of the strange fact that 
Robert himself asked no quarter; he 
never offered any excuses; he was the 
most amiably unashamed and unre- 
pentant sinner on earth, and the most 
incurably sanguine. * Never mind, Van 
old man, don't worry yourself so over 
me. I hate to see you so worried!' he 
said affectionately, when the sober Mr. 
Kendrick had painfully got through 
with his exhortations. 'I'm going to 
come out all right, you see if I don't. 
I'll get out even, don't you worry.' 

'You're always saying that, Bob,' 
said Van Cleve, glumly; 'you know 
very well you can't keep up this gait 
and come out anywhere but behind. 
You're ruining your health, and spoil- 
ing your chances, and making your 
people unhappy. You 've got plenty of 
sense, Bob, and I can't see why ' 

'Well, I'm glad you'll allow me that 
much, anyhow!' said Bob, with the ut- 
most good temper. He met his friend's 
severe gaze with one full of amusement, 
insuperable -nonchalance, honest affec- 
tion. 'You're not much of a preacher, 
Van; your heart's not in it. You don't 
really want to reform the bad little boy 
and make him a good little boy, and 
have him sign the pledge and all that, 
in the interest of virtue and respecta- 
bility not a bit of it, you time- 
serving old utilitarian, you! You 

' Oh, good, bad that 's not what 
I'm talking about!' interrupted Van 
Cleve, with a movement of irritation; 
' I don't want you to make an everlast- 
ing fool of yourself, that 's all ! All this 
drinking and having a good time with 



the boys, what does it amount to? 
Can't you see there's nothing in it? 
You can't keep on with that all your 
life. Why, why damn it, Bob, 
there's nothing in it! Can't you see 

* There! Did n't I say that was the 
way you felt!' Bob stated, grinning. 
He made an extravagant display of 
surprise. 'Why, Van Cleve, it looks to 
me as if you were trying to get me to 
settle down and work like yourself! 
And I used to think you had a sense of 
humor! Now Phil Cortwright says ' 

'Oh, cut it out!' said Van, scowling. 
'All right, just as you say,' the other 
retorted tolerantly. 

* I 'm only talking because I be- 
cause I I think a lot of you, you 
know, Bob,' said Van Cleve, looking 
down, chewing hard at the end of his 
cigar, mortally abashed by this senti- 
mental admission. 

The sight moved Bob as no amount 
of arguing or hectoring could have done. 
'Why, of course I know that, Van!' 
he cried. The moisture sprang into 
his eyes; he wiped them unaffectedly. 
'Why, I know that, my dear old fellow! 
You 're all right everything you say 
is pretty near right, I guess,' he said 
incoherently. He pulled himself to- 
gether and went on with more steadi- 
ness, even earnestness for him. 
* You see, Van Cleve, I ' ve got a differ- 
ent way of looking at it from you. I 
believe in in well, I believe a 
man's life's his own to do what he 
wants with, so long as he does n't harm 
anybody else. Well, then / don't harm 
anybody else, do I? Suppose I do 
well lush some off and on, and 
and all that, you know all the other 
things you say why, it does n't hurt 
anybody but me, does it? If I'm will- 
ing to take the consequences, why, it 
does n't need to worry you any. I don't 
ask anybody to suffer for it but myself. 
Then where 's the harm? I'm not re- 

sponsible for any one else, and nobody 
else needs to feel responsible for me. 
That's the way I look at it.' 

'Do the family look at it that way, 
too?' Van Cleve asked. 

'The family? Oh, well, they of 
course they think more or less as you 
do, and the rest of the representative 
citizens,' said Bob, smiling, but for the 
first time a little restive under his 
friend's eye. 'Hang it, you goody-good 
people don't know how funny and in- 
consistent you are!' he burst out in 
a sort of good-natured impatience. 
'There 're plenty of respectable old 
skinflints walking around town this 
minute that gouge and grind and pile 
up the dollars and do more mischief in 
a day than I can in a year, and because 
they pass the plate in church, and go 
home to bed with the chickens, and 
never drink anything stronger than 
cold tea, you hold 'em up to me for 
models ' 

'I wasn't holding up any models. 
You're dodging, Bob,' said the other, 

But Bob had returned to his thesis. 
'Of course I don't mean to keep it up 
all my life, as you were saying. I can 
stop whenever I want to when I get 
tired of it. In the meanwhile I'm not 
hurting anybody but myself, and I'm 
not hurting myself anything to speak 
of. And I'll pay that score myself,' he 
repeated, rather grandiloquently. 

' I don't know whether a man can do 
that or not,' said Van Cleve; 'pay for 
himself, I mean. Looks to me some- 
times as if everybody got assessed for 
him all around.' 

Robert had left Messrs. Steinberger 
& Hirsch some while before this date, 
those gentlemen having, in fact, inti- 
mated that his services were no longer 
required. Even their not unduly ex- 
alted standards were too high for the 
young man, it seemed. 

The next news was that young Gil- 



bert had got a berth on the Record- 
World, which was a penny sheet that 
used to come out in six or eight suc- 
cessive editions of an afternoon, with 
detonating head-lines, every smallest 
event decorated with the most lurid 
purple patch conceivable. For a while 
the young man was quite faithful to his 
duties, perhaps finding in the haste and 
tension of the work almost enough of 
the false excitement he seemed to 
crave. As invariably happened, every- 
body in this new world liked him; they 
liked him even after they, too, had 
begun to shake their heads over him 
even when they, too, had to * speak to* 
him. In the end, like all the rest of the 
friends he was constantly making and 
constantly disappointing, they also 
acknowledged that Bob was indeed 
4 no good/ He had some fine, warm- 
blooded virtues; he was loyal, gener- 
ous, and humane; he was curiously 
clean-minded and simple with all his 
gross self-indulgence. But they 
agreed sorrowfully he was not over- 
clever; he could not be depended on for 
half an hour; he did not know the 
meaning of duty and ambition; put 
him to the test, in short, and you 
would find Bob Gilbert pretty nearly 

The family accepted the unhappy 
fact with a plain and prosaic dignity, 
as do almost all families. No doubt 
they got used to it in the course of 
time; and, of course, the Professor and 
his wife had realized the truth from the 
first, even when Lorrie was doing her 
best to shield them from it. Van Cleve 
told her so in his hard, matter-of-fact 
way. 'It's no use, Lorrie,' he said; 
'you can't keep this thing about Bob 
dark. Your mother's probably known 
all along. I should n't wonder if she 
thought she was keeping it from you 
all the while you thought you were 
keeping it from her. I don't know why 
women make believe that way. It 

does n't do any good. Might as well 
look at things square in the face/ 

* You don't understand men can't 
understand,' said Lorrie, sadly; 'why, 
Mother and I can't talk about it, even 
now, to each other. We keep on pre- 
tending. Why, you yourself have never 
talked about it like this before, and yet 
you knew, you must have known about 
Bob for two or three years, even if you 
did n't know before that. Is that why 
you have n't you have n't been with 
him so much?' 

'Well, Bob's never around where I 
am, you know,' said Van Cleve, a little 
lamely; it was not easy to explain his 
position to Bob's sister. ' I 'm busy 
I have n't any time to hunt him up. 
I'm sorry, but ' 

'But you'll have to let Bob go?' 
Lorrie finished for him, unable to keep 
the bitterness out of her voice. ' I 'm 
sorry, too, Van. You're one of the 
people that can do the most with him 

that he pays the most attention to. 
If his own friends give him up But 
I dare say you are right. You can't 
sacrifice your own interests you 
have yourself to think about and your 
own future, and you can't be burden- 
ed with Bob.' 

'Yes, I've got to think about myself 

I'm always thinking about myself,' 
Van Cleve agreed with her dryly. Her 
words- stung him to the quick; he was 
conscious of a certain truth underlying 
their unkindness and unfairness. He 
was constantly thinking about Van 
Cleve Kendrick's affairs and prospects 

he was thinking about himself, but 
surely, surely not wholly for himself! 
That very morning Evelyn and his 
aunt had begun again with their New 
York plan. They had written to a 
dozen friends and fellow students, 
wonderfully able, astute persons, and 
got all manner of reports, figures, and 
estimates pointing unanimously to the 
fact that it was incalculably cheaper 



and healthier to live in New York than 
anywhere else on the face of this globe! 
Two hundred would move them beau- 
tifully * You know we 're very good 
managers, Van dearest.' 'Two hun- 
dred, hey? You must think I get my 
money from the pump!' he had said in 
vain jocularity. Now a sudden melan- 
choly invaded the young man; what 
was he but a money-making machine? 
he thought dispiritedly. Even Lorrie 
believed that that was all he cared for 

even Lorrie! 

As for Lorrie herself, did she know 
how she hurt him? She was a tender- 
hearted, good woman, and shrank from 
inflicting pain on anybody; but even 
a tender-hearted, good woman may 
sometimes take advantage of her posi- 
tion to visit some of her own unhap- 
piness on another's head. And Lorrie 
would have been more than a mortal 
girl not to have suspected her power 
over the young fellow. At any rate, 
swift contrition and a desire to make 
amends took hold of her. 

'That sounded horrid, but I did n't 
mean it that way, you know,' she said 
hastily and penitently; 'it's only that 
I do wish you have such an influence 
over Bob if he was only out of that 

that atmosphere he 's got into if 
he was with people like you ' 

'Oh, influence /' Van broke in harsh- 
ly; 'I tell you, Lorrie, this talk about 
"unfortunate surroundings" and "bad 
influence" and "good influence" 
makes me very tired. Any fellow that 's 
too weak-kneed to resist "evil influ- 
ence" is too weak-kneed to be bol- 
stered up much by good ones. Not you 
nor I nor the Almighty can make a 
man go crooked any more than we can 
make him go straight; he's got to do it 
himself. " I got into bad company " 
"I wasn't directed right" "No- 
body looked after me." Pooh! that's 
the old eternal incessant yawp of folly 
and feebleness and guilt you don't 

want to begin excusing Bob that way. 
Of course, I know you will forgive him, 
and keep on forgiving him, no matter 
what he does ' 

'And what kind of a sister would I 
be, if I didn't?' cried Lorrie with a 
great deal of spirit. 'I don't at all be- 
lieve what you say, Van. People are 
different. We can't all be pillars of 
strength. Mr. Cortwright says ' She 
stopped short. ' Well ? ' she said sharp- 
ly; for Mr. Kendrick's countenance 
had assumed an extremely forbidding 
and unpleasant expression at the 
sound of that name. 

'Bob started quoting Cortwright at 
me, too,' he said acridly. 'That's 
where he's got his precious theories 
about irresponsibility, and all the rest 
of it. I recognized the brand.' 

'Oh! Then you don't think Mr. 
Cortwright is the proper sort of friend 
for Bob to have, is that it ? ' said Lorrie, 
in an ominous calm. 

'Well, I don't, Lorrie, since you ask 
me. I think that association has been 
the worst thing in the world for a fellow 
of Bob's disposition,' said Van Cleve; 
and he was honest and disinterested 
in saying it. 'I believe Cortwright's 
influence ' 

'I thought you said just now that 
influence had nothing to do with it,' 
said Lorrie. And Van Cleve had no 
answer, alas! His own words con- 
founded him. He was sure he was 
right right in his theory, right about 
the facts; but no juggling would fit the 
two together! 

The interview ended rather stiffly on 
both sides. Lorrie went upstairs after 
the young man had left, with a fire-red 
spot on each cheek. 'The idea of his 
hinting that about Philip!' she thought 
with an anger no criticism of herself 
could have aroused; 'Phil never says a 
word about him. And he's tried and 
tried, and done his best for Bob. What 
did Van Cleve Kendrick ever do, I'd 



like to know? He's ashamed of the 
way he's abandoned Bob, that's all 

he's ashamed and and jealous, 
that's what made him talk that way!' 

And that was all Mr. Kendrick got 
for his interference. It would have 
darkened his skies enough to know 
that he had offended Lorrie or hurt her; 
but not long after a piece of news de- 
scended upon him like another blight 

news which, by the way, was al- 
ready common property, and seemed 
to have traveled around to everybody 
before reaching him, who was secret- 
ly the most concerned. It had a 
paragraph all to itself in next Sunday 
morning's Society Jottings: 'The en- 
gagement is announced of Miss Laura 
Gilbert, daughter of Professor and Mrs. 
Gilbert, who has been a great favor- 
ite ever since she made her bow to so- 
ciety, two or three seasons ago, to Mr. 
Philip Cortwright. Mr. Cortwright is 
a Eureka College man, a member of the 
old Cortwright family of Kentucky,' 
etcetera, etcetera. 

Van Cleve heard the announcement 
silently, with as indifferent a face as he 
could manage. ' I chose a good time to 
tell her I did n't approve of Cortwright 

tactful and opportune in me, was n't 
it?' he remarked inwardly, with savage 
irony. The next time he saw her there 
were others about, and a good deal of 
joking allusion going on, and it would 
undoubtedly have been the proper 
moment for Mr. Kendrick to tender 
his compliments on the happy event; 
but, in point of fact, he did nothing 
of the kind; he kept silence and it 
may be Miss Gilbert liked him just as 
well for saying nothing and looking 
morose; she was only human, after all. 

In truth, Lorrie was human enough 
to be very happy these days, in spite 
of the skeleton in the family closet. It 
would be hard for a girl yet in her 
twenties, engaged to be married to a 
very handsome, devoted, popular (or, 

at least, well-known) young fellow, 
with whom she is quite openly and 
genuinely in love it would be a hard 
matter, I say, for any girl to be seri- 
ously unhappy in these circumstances. 
Of course, they were not to be married 
for a while yet Philip's business. It 
was understood that perhaps next year 
her mother's wedding-day had been 
the tenth of June; if Lorrie should be 
married next year, the tenth of June, 
eighteen-ninety-nine, it would be thirty 
years to the day, after her mother 
remarkable fact! That would be the 
last year of the century, too another 
remarkable fact! 

'No, it won't be the last year. Nine- 
teen hundred's the last year,' said 
Cortwright, laughing. He recited the 
hundred-pennies-in-a-dollar argument 
which people were making use of to 
convince one another on this often dis- 
puted point. 'Why, you wise, practical 
little person, who would have thought 
you would have had to have that ex- 
plained to you?' he said fondly. It 
pleased him singularly to catch her 
tripping; he liked to feel even so trivial 
a superiority, for there were many mo- 
ments, when, secure as he was in his 
own conceit, he was a little afraid, a 
little abashed, in the presence of this 
girl whom he was to marry; sometimes 
he wished uncomfortably that Lorrie 
were not quite so good! 'Why won't 
you let me kiss you?' he once said to 
her aggrievedly, in the first hours of 
their betrothal. 'You belong to me 
now. I would n't be a man if I did n't 
want to. Most girls like it I mean I 
always supposed they did I always 
understood so. How can you be so 
so cold?' He put an arm around her, 
at once masterful and beseeching. 
'Please, Lorrie! You know you really 
like want me to ' he murmured 
with lips very close. 

'You can kiss me, but not not my 
neck, that way,' said Lorrie, backing 



off, turning scarlet, troubled rather 
than angry. *I I don't like to have 
you kiss my neck ' for indeed it was 
some such intimate caress which he 
had already attempted that had led to 
this scene. The young woman shrank 
from it undefinably; she shrank from 
the act and from the look in her lover's 

Cortwright obeyed, resenting what 
he called inwardly her prudery, even 
while clearly conscious that it was 
precisely that quality about her which 
most strongly attracted him. She 
was n't cheap, he thought, with an 
exultant thrill; and naturally coveted 
her the more. 

This news of Lorrie Gilbert's engage- 
ment created only a mild stir socially, 
having been expected any time these 
two or three years. Lorrie might have 
done better, doubtless she had never 
lacked attention from men, some of 
whom had been better off in the world- 
ly way, and perhaps more 'settled' 
than Mr. Cortwright. But it looked as 
if he was very much in love with Lorrie, 
and certainly she was over head and 
ears in love with him. People in gen- 
eral were glad to hear anything pleas- 
ant connected with the poor Gilberts, 
who had had so much that was sad 
and discreditable to endure from that 
ne'er-do-well, Robert. It had got to 
the pass that their friends seldom even 
mentioned Robert nowadays. The 
girls whom he used to know, who came 
to see Lorrie and gave her engagement 
luncheons and engagement presents of 
little silver candlesticks and orna- 
mental spoons and after-dinner coffee- 
cups, who were already planning linen- 
showers, and chattering to her about 
the lovely four-room suites in the new 
apartment buildings, those girls never 
asked after Bob. They never invited 
him to their homes any more; they 
contrived not to see him on the street. 
How could they? He had got to look- 

ing so seedy and run-down and dissi- 
pated, they said. Nobody would want 
to be seen with him nobody could 
afford to be seen with him! It was a 
universal taboo, excepting on the part 
of Miss Paula Jameson, whom Bob 
continued to visit in his ostracism 
more often than ever before. At the 
moment, however, he was deprived 
even of that resource, for Paula went 
to Palm Beach with her mother in 
March; conceivably, Robert was the 
only person who missed her. The 
young lady had never counted at all, 
socially; she had no friends, and heard 
from and wrote to nobody, not even 
Lorrie. * She 's got such hotel manners ! ' 
was a criticism I once overheard from 
some other young lady; 'and the way 
she simply fastened herself on to 
Lorrie Gilbert! I suppose she found 
she could n't get in, after all, because 
she does n't stick to Lorrie so much 
now, but it used to be, really !' 



That winter all the world of our 
town, as of a hundred other towns all 
over the country, went about its busi- 
ness and pleasure as usual without the 
slightest suspicion that a tremendous 
national event was going to take place, 
though this will doubtless seem to our 
descendants to have been abundantly 
foreshadowed. The world was bring- 
ing its daughters 'out' at dances and 
dinners and teas, and going to its clubs 
and Symphony concerts, and com- 
plaining about its servants and the 
high cost of living, even as it does to- 
day. Every morning the world got up 
and read in its newspaper about Zola 
and Dreyfus with a kind of indignant 
amusement; it read about the last mur- 
der, the last divorce, the last serum 
discovery and Edison invention; and, 


perhaps, wondered indifferently if these 
mechanical piano-players and motor- 
vehicles they were experimenting with 
would ever be of any practical value! 
It also read that the Spanish minis- 
ter, whose name it considered unpro- 
nounceable and therefore outlandish, 
had resigned, following some unpleas- 
antness at Washington, 'Dupuy de 
Lome, gone home, no more to roam!' 
the comic editor facetiously chanted, 
and that a bomb had exploded in the 
Hotel Inglaterra in the city of Havana, 
and another bomb in the mayor's 
office; and that one of our big battle- 
ships had been sent down there to pro- 
tect American interests. 

Then came the morning of the 16th 
of February with some appalling news. 
Bob Gilbert's paper, being an after- 
noon one, did not get that * scoop ' ; but 
it made a gallant effort and came out 
at noon with mighty head-lines and 
exclamation points, with columns of 
information or misinformation, with 
pictures of the unfortunate vessel, her 
captain and officers, and complete 
details about the Maine's size, 'dis- 
placement,' * armament,' cost, and pre- 
vious career. Bob himself fell into the 
wildest state of excitement; it kept 
him sober for a week! To be sure, he 
was not the only one who lost his head 
and fumed and fretted and girded at 
the Administration, and denounced 
the investigations as cowardly and 
farcical delays. Within a week of the 
disaster there were militia companies 
drilling furiously all over the State, 
and all over every other state in the 
Union; there were fiery speeches on 
the floor of every legislature; and at a 
big public banquet, while the temper 
of the Administration still seemed to be 
for peace, the Assistant Secretary of 
the Navy got up and made a speech of 
such strength and significance that 
everybody present nudged his neigh- 
bor, and one gentleman went so far as 

to say to the presiding genius of the 
gathering, * Mr. Hanna, may we please 
fight Spain now?' So, at any rate, the 
newspapers reported. 

Mr. Van Cleve Kendrick, so far as 
was known, made but one comment on 
the situation. ' I guess we can't get out 
of it without a fight; and if we do have 
war, wheat ought to jump some,' he 
said; and studied the market reports 
and gave closer attention to business 
than ever, these days. The news that 
troops of the regular army had actually 
been ordered to Key West, that some 
millions of dollars had been voted for 
'defense,' that the Oregon had started 
for Cape Horn and Atlantic waters, 
that the Vizcaya had anchored off 
Manhattan Island (to the terror of 
the unprotected Manhattanese!); the 
talk about the Philippines, with conse- 
quent searchings of the map, and about 
the Pacific Squadron; the withdrawal 
of the United States consul from Ha- 
vana, and of Mr. Woodford from the 
Embassy at Madrid all this news 
and all the heroic excitement of the 
times affected Van Cleve not in the 

The young man was not unpatri- 
otic; he had as much pride and spirit as 
any of his fellows, and, it cannot be 
doubted, heard the songs and speeches, 
and saw the massed soldiery under the 
banner of his country, with an honor- 
able stirring of the heart. But what- 
ever befell, and, like the rest of us, 
he had a hearty belief in the power of 
our arms and an unshakable expecta- 
tion of success, Van must still stay 
at home and make a living for himself 
and those dependent on him. He was 
in odd contrast to that time-honored 
warrior, Major Stanton, who, if his age 
and state of health had not prohibited 
it, as he was careful to assure every- 
body, would have been the first to offer 
himself to the Cause. 'It's hard for us 
hard ! We old fellows that went out 



for the Union in sixty-one hard to 
be shelved now!' he would say with a 
magnificent break in his voice, and 
wagging the grizzled whiskers sadly. 
It was an impressive spectacle, and 
Major Van Cleve was very popular on 
all political-military occasions, where, 
indeed, he cut an admirable figure, and 
exercised handsomely his fine gift of 

Van Cleve's family, by the way, 
were going to New York to live. The 
news created an interest in their set of 
acquaintances hardly second to that 
roused by the international complica- 
tions. They had a dozen reasons for 
going, any one of them unanswerable : 
Mrs. Lucas's health, the possibility 
of much greater economy in living, a 
wider sphere for Evelyn, and a thor- 
oughly artistic atmosphere they re- 
cited all these arguments with their 
customary fervor and certainty. It 
developed that Van Cleve was not 
intending to move with them; they 
explained that he could n't give up his 
position here, of course; but equally, 
of course, they would n't be so selfish 
as to walk off and leave him without 
knowing that he was perfectly com- 
fortable; and accordingly a wonderful, 
ideal, Elysian boarding-house had been 
discovered where they kept such a 
table, and he would have such a room, 
so large, light, and sunny! 

Van had made no comment on these 
arrangements; the women, indeed, 
wondered and were aggrieved at his 
unsympathetic silence; it was true 
that he gave them ungrudgingly what- 
ever money they asked for, and in 
fairness it must be said they asked for 
as little as possible, but he paid no 
heed to their explanations, he took no 
interest in the plans they made either 
for themselves or for his own comfort. 
He would not even go to look at the 
matchless boarding-house. 'Why, I 
suppose it 's all right, if you say so 

it'll be just as good as home,' he said, 
cheerfully indifferent. 

* Van Cleve, how can you say such a 
thing? As if any place could be the 
same as your own home! 9 they ex- 
claimed in reproachful chorus; nor 
could they at all understand why he 
laughed. They said to each other that 
Van Cleve was getting more and more 
wrapped up in his affairs it would 
end by making him hard and selfish 
he might even become miserly! 

It is strange to think that such small 
doings as these can go on side by side 
with the great stirring business of the 
nation on the edge of war, and receive 
within their own circle quite as much 
attention. People did not cease to be 
interested in spring wardrobes and 
summer trips, in weddings and new 
houses and house-cleaning and the 
Musical Festival; everybody, I repeat, 
thought and talked as much as ever 
about these things that month of April, 
as if nothing of moment had been go- 
ing forward. And on there at Wash- 
ington, the debate about arbitration 
and intervention rumbled on, and the 
Senate recognized Cuba, and the Pre- 
sident called out the troops, and the 
Ultimatum was issued and forestalled; 
and that energetic Assistant Secretary 
of the Navy resigned and set about 
forming his regiment of Rough Riders. 
The last did really touch us closer, for 
here and there we heard of some pro- 
spective recruit or aspirant for that 
body, somebody's cousin or brother, 
some young fellow at Harvard or 
ranching it out West. One of the ru- 
mors credited that young Cortwright, 
Phil Cortwright that was with Stein- 
berger & Hirsch, Lorrie Gilbert's 
Mr. Cortwright, with ambitions in 
that direction. Nobody was surprised 
to hear it; he was a dashing sort of 
fellow and would make a first-rate 
cavalryman any man that came out 
of Kentucky could ride and shoot, for 



that matter. Cortwright could pro- 
bably get a commission with ease; at 
any rate, he was going to Washington 
to make a try for it, everybody pre- 
sently understood. 

Lorrie, looking a little pale, but 
sweetly resolute and cheerful, con- 
firmed the report. 'Yes. He's going. 
He thinks he ought to; he wants to do 
his duty/ she said, with a beautiful 
pride in her hero; she had no concep- 
tion of the tinsel and spot-light allure- 
ments this martial drama held out for 
him, as for nine tenths of the other 
young fellows; and, for the matter of 
that, when this brave, eager, self- 
centred restlessness overtakes a man, 
is there a woman on earth who can hold 
him? 'I'd go myself with the Red 
Cross, you know if Mother thought 
she could get along without me. But 
she wants me here, and there will be 
plenty of women that can go/ said 
Lorrie, who never had to explain to 
anybody that she wanted to do her 
duty. 'Bob's going, too not with 
the army his paper's sending him. 
He's quite wild about it,' she told 
people. They were liable to remark to 
one another afterwards that Bob would 
be no great loss whatever became of 
him, but the way those things gener- 
ally turned out, a fellow like Bob came 
through it all scot-free without a 
scratch or a day's sickness, while any 
number of fine, useful men succumbed 
to the hardships or the enemies' 

Robert, however, showed a disposi- 
tion to straighten up, under all the ex- 
citement, queerly enough; he took him- 
self with gratifying seriousness in the 
capacity of war-correspondent to the 
Record-World, and was too absorbed 
in preparations for the campaigning 
to spare any time to his former dis- 
reputable company and diversions. 
In the beginning, with some idea of 
enlisting, he had gone and got him- 

self examined at the recruiting station 
for the regular army. 'Those are the 
fellows that are sure to go, you know,' 
he said cannily; and he came away a 
little chopfallen at being rejected by 
the doctor and sergeant. 'Said my 
teeth were defective! Did you ever 
hear of anything so fine-drawn as 
that?' he told Van Cleve in a comical 

'Teeth, hey?' said Van Cleve, look- 
ing the other over with his shrewd, 
hard, gray eyes; 'they must make a 
pretty searching examination.' 

'Oh, yes, you have to strip, of 
course. They measure you and test 
your lungs, and you have to come up to 
some standard they've got. The doc- 
tor said I was a little too light too 
thin for my height, you know; but I 
don't think that would have made any 
trouble. I told him I'd make it my 
business to get heavier, and he kind of 
laughed. He asked me how long I'd 
had this cough, too it 's nothing but 
a cold I ' ve had off and on this winter 
and I noticed him thumping around 
my chest; that shows you how particu- 
lar they are. That's all right, too; I'm 
not kicking about that. They've got 
to have sound men physically in 
the army. But teeth piffle!' Robert 
ejaculated disgustedly. 'Well, as long 
as I'm going, anyhow, for the paper, 
I've got the laugh on 'em. But to be 
with the army itself would be more 

Van Cleve listened to him with an 
extraordinary inward movement of 
affection and pity; there were times 
when he felt old enough to be Bob's 
father. 'Well, you want to fatten up 
and and get rid of your cold so as to 
be in first-class shape, because it's 
bound to be a good deal like hard work 
part of the time, anyhow,' he advised 
Robert. But when they had parted, he 
shook his head over the teeth episode. 
' I should n't wonder if they said that 



to every poor devil they reject, rather 
than tell him right out what the matter 
is with him,' he opined sagely; and 
wondered if the humanity of doctors 
was not sometimes ill-judged. It did 
not need a doctor's experience to see at 
a glance what sort of a fellow Bob was : 
the pace he went was beginning to tell 
on him; and even if he behaved him- 
self, he was not of the type wanted in 
the United States Army. 

Bob's mother and sister, who had 
awaited the verdict in terror, were too 
much relieved to sympathize with him; 
his position was likely to be exciting 
and hazardous enough, anyhow, they 
thought. Mrs. Gilbert was never seen 
to shed a tear, or heard to utter a word 
in opposition; but she used to follow 
him to the door whenever he left the 
house, and watch him every step of 
the road, if he went no farther than 
the corner or across the street. When 
he was at home, she would be forever 
visiting his room on slight errands, 
even slipping in like a small, gentle, 
noiseless ghost at any hour of the night 
to look at him while he slept, as she 
had when he was a little boy in his crib, 
years ago. All the things he liked to 
eat were, constantly on the table; and 
the mother even went so far as to rout 
out a photograph of Paula Jameson in 
a striking pose, like a variety actress, a 
photograph that Mrs. Gilbert cordially 
detested, and restore it to the place on 
Bob's bureau whence she had removed 
it in a temper six months before. 'I 
want him to remember everything 
pleasantly,' she said to Lorrie. 

Robert himself was quite unconscious 
or unobservant of these efforts, though 
he was kind after his fashion. 'Don't 
you worry, Moms, correspondents never 
get hurt. They don't have to stand up 
to be fired at, you know they can 
run like rabbits, when they get scared, 
and nobody blames 'em,' he said, in a 
laughing but sincere attempt to reas- 

sure her. * There's no Roman soldier, 
nor boy- stood - on - the - burning - deck 
about me. I'll bet the first volley I 
hear I '11 establish a new world's record 
for the running high jump. I'll land 
somewhere in the next county, and I 
won't get back till New Year's!' 

'No, you won't run, Bob; you'd 
never run away in the wide world!* 
cried his mother, flushing all over her 
pretty, faded face; -and though she 
joined in the laugh against herself, the 
flush remained. The Virginia woman 
remembered the Shenandoah and the 
guns of Chancellorsville. It was with 
faces of resolute calm that she and his 
sister kissed the young man good-by 
the morning he started for Tampa and 
'the front'; his father wrung his hand; 
the little boys of the neighborhood 
hung around, and scrabbled for the 
honor of carrying his suit-case; Mrs. 
Gilbert watched him down the street 
for the last time; and he swung on to 
the rear platform of the trolley-car, 
and his figure lessened in the distance, 
waving his new Panama hat. Down at 
the Louisville and Nashville station, 
here was Van Cleve Kendrick, that 
stoic and cynic and temperance lec- 
turer, with a box of cigars and some 
kind of wonderful confection in leather 
and nickel-plate, combining a knife, 
fork, spoon, cup, flask, and goodness 
knows what else, for camp use! He 
thrust the gifts confusedly upon Bob 
while they bade each other good-by. 
'Well, so long, Van!' 'Here's luck, 
Bob!' It was a simple ceremony. 

The train-shed was crowded with 
a great rush of arriving and departing 
travelers, not a few military-looking 
gentlemen with military-looking lug- 
gage among them, for these were war- 
times. On Bob's own train, there were 
a score of newspaper men bent on sim- 
ilar business jolly fellows all; his 
kind, gay, boyish face shone on Van 
Cleve from the midst of them; the 



train pulled out; and Van walked off to 
the office, perhaps envying them a 

In the meanwhile, Lome's Mr. Cort- 
wright got his appointment, according 
to his confident expectation, and came 
back to her in high spirits. He had seen 
and had interviews with the President 
and the Secretary of War; he was 
to 'report for duty' at such and such 
a place, on such and such a date; he 
was planning his baggage; he had 
his photograph taken in uniform for 
Lorrie; the girls used to see it standing 
on her dressing-table, looking more 
than ever reckless and handsome, and 
said to one another that it was a pity 
he had n't always br on in the army, it 
seemed to suit him so well somehow, 
he appeared to so much advantage as a 
military man. Some of her friends may 
have even envied Lorrie her romantic 
position; and, in truth, I am not sure 
that, in spite of her miserable moments 
of apprehension for him, these last 
few weeks may not have been the hap- 
piest Lorrie had ever spent with her 

He had never been so devoted, so 
thoughtful and tender; and when the 
dreaded time of parting came, spoke to 
her in a fashion that became him well, 
gravely and manfully. * You 're a deal 
too good for me, my dear; it makes me 
ashamed to see you care so much,' he 
said, with real humility; the depth of 
her feeling, for the first time revealed, 
surprised and touched and a little awed 
Philip. 'I I almost wish you did n't 
care so much, ' he stammered nervous- 
ly; and he did not offer to kiss her neck 
now, but, instead, took her hand and 
laid it against his lips with something 
like reverence. * I wish I wish !' 
He was silent, looking down in a swift, 
passing, useless pain and shame and 

regret. After all, he told himself, he 
was n't much worse than the next man 

men could n't help some things 
and anyhow that life was all over and 
done with forever for him now no 
use bewailing the spilled milk the 
thing was to live straight from this on, 
and be worthy of this splendid girl. 
Lorrie and he would be married 
they would have children ! He 
kissed her and held her close in hon- 
est pride and tenderness. 

' I 'm not going to be silly any more 

I did n't mean to be silly at all 
only I c-could n't quite help it,' said 
Lorrie, bravely, swallowing the rest of 
her sobs, and raising her head from his 
shoulder. 'And you may not be in any 
battles, anyway! ' she added, so naively 
hopeful that Cortwright laughed aloud. 

'That's right, little woman. I'm 
going to come back all right,' he said 
gayly; 'but when it's over, I believe 
I'll stay in the army; I could get into 
the regulars, I think. A lot of the 
volunteer officers did after the Civil 
War, didn't they? I'll stay in the 
army and end up a major-general. 
That'll be better than pegging along 
with old Leo Hirsch, hey? Give me one 
more kiss, Mrs. Major-General!' 

He went off buoyantly, with his 
head up and a free step, in his familiar, 
carelessly graceful style; and Lorrie, 
standing on the steps, looked after him, 
strained her eyes after him, as every 
woman has looked and strained her 
eyes some time in her life after some 
man since this world began its journey 
through the stars. It happened to be a 
Sunday morning, the first of May, very 
leafy, green, fresh, and warm; people 
were coming home from church, and 
children skipping on the pavements. 
Lorrie thought she would remember it 
to her last hour. 

(To be continued.) 

VOL. in -NO. 2 


Leo: A Yellow Cat 

IF, to your twilight land of dream, 

Persephone, Persephone, 
Drifting with all your shadow host, 
Dim sunlight comes with sudden gleam, 
And you lift veiled eyes to see 
Slip past a little golden ghost, 
That wakes a sense of springing flowers, 
Of nesting birds, and lambs new-born, 
Of spring astir in quickening hours, 
And young blades of Demeter's corn; 
For joy of that sweet glimpse of sun, 
O goddess of unnumbered dead, 
Give one soft touch, if only one, 
To that uplifted, pleading head! 
Whisper some kindly word, to bless 
A wistful soul who understands 
That life is but one long caress 
Of gentle words and gentle hands. 



AN American town, large enough to 
contain a fairly complete representa- 
tion of the different classes and types 
of people and social organizations, and 
yet not so large that individualities are 
submerged in the general mass, or the 
lines between the classes blurred and 
made indistinct, is a real epitome of 
American life. And the best and most 
typical qualities are to be found in sub- 
urban towns. In a town situated near 
a large city where it can draw nourish- 
ment from the city's life and constant- 
ly react to it, and yet having a history 
and tradition of its own so that it does 
not become a mere colorless reflection 
of that other, one gets the real flavor 
of American life, and an insight into 
the way in which its fabric is woven. 

If a modern writer wishes to win an 
imperishable name as a historian, he 
has only to write an exhaustive mono- 
graph on the life of such a town, 
what kind of people live there, how 
they make their living, what are the 
social cliques, what the children are 
being taught in the schools, what the 
preachers are preaching from the pul- 
pit, what the local political issues are, 
who form the ruling class, and how 
the local political machine is made up, 
what the newspapers and the leaders 
and the different classes think about 
things, what magazines and books the 
people read, how the people amuse 
themselves, even how they dress and 
what their houses look like, in short, 
all those obvious things that we never 
think of mentioning; things that we 
would give much to know about our 

ancestors, but that we get only by the 
most laborious research, and then only 
in unsatisfactory fragments. 

The writer who did this would 
not only have produced a complete 
sketch of American civilization in this 
year of 1913, but he would have given 
his contemporaries something serious 
and important to think about. We 
should then see ourselves for the first 
time in the glass, not in the touched-up 
portraits or hideous caricatures which 
now pass muster for what we know of 
ourselves. I shall not be foolish enough 
to attempt any such broad survey as 
this; but certain of the more obvious 
features of the social life of a suburban 
town where I used to spend my sum- 
mers have tempted me to try to un- 
ravel its social psychology, and study 
the classes of people who live there and 
the influences and ideals that sway 
them as classes, in short, the way 
they are typical of American life. 

The 'lure of the city' is a fact fa- 
miliar enough in our social introspec- 
tions, but its dramatic quality never 
grows stale. This contest between the 
city and the country that has been go- 
ing on for fifty years has left the coun- 
try moribund, and made the city cha- 
otic. The country has been stripped of 
its traditions, and the city has grown 
so fast that it has not had time to form 
any. The suburban town is a sort of 
last stronghold of Americanism. It is 
the only place, at least in the East, 
where life has a real richness and 
depth. But it is on the firing-line; it has 
to struggle valiantly for its soul. The 



city cuts a wider and wider swath, and 
the suburbs are stretching in an ever- 
widening circle from all our cities. The 
vortex of the city, even the smaller city, 
is so powerful that it sucks in the hard- 
iest and sometimes the most distant 
towns, and strips them of all their in- 
dividuality and personal charm. The 
city swamps its neighbors, turns them 
into mere aggregations of expression- 
less streets lined with box-like houses 
or shanties of stores, and degrades their 
pleasant meadows into parks and sites. 
These suburban annexes cease to have 
a life of their own, and become simply 
sleeping-places for commuters. The 
populations are so transient that the 
towns seem almost to be rebuilt and 
repopulated every ten years. And the 
only alternative to this state of affairs 
seems to be oblivion, stagnation, and 
slow decay. 

When one does come, therefore, into 
a town which is near enough to a city 
to be stimulated by it, and yet which 
has been able to retain its old houses 
and streets, its old families, its old 
green, and its stone church, its mead- 
ow-land still stretching long fingers 
straight into the heart of the town, one 
breathes a new air. Here is America, 
what it used to be, and what one wants 
to keep it. One strikes root in such a 
place, gets connected with something 
vital, begins to blot out the feeling of 
homelessness and sordidness that one 
has after a protracted journey through 
the dreary city outskirts and ram- 
shackle towns and unkempt country 
that make up so much of our Eastern 

In the East, between the pull of the 
city and the inundation of foreign im- 
migration, we feel the slipping-away of 
the American ways more keenly. An 
Eastern town must be unusually tena- 
cious to maintain itself against the cur- 
rents, but it is for that reason all the 
more worthy of intensive study; for the 

forces and divisions and outlines in its 
social life are seen with the greater dis- 
tinctness. Class lines that in other 
parts of the country, although very 
real, are softened and blurred, are seen 
here in clearer light. All the colors are 
much brighter and, for that very rea- 
son, the picture can be plainly seen and 

One cannot live long in a town like 
the one of which I speak, without feel- 
ing that the people are graded into 
very distinct social levels. It is a com- 
mon enough saying that there are no 
classes in America, and this, of course, 
is true if by * class ' is meant some rigid 
caste based on arbitrary distinctions of 
race or birth or wealth. But if all that 
is meant by class is a grading of social 
and economic superiority and inferior- 
ity, with definite groupings and levels 
of social favor, then such a town has 
classes, and America has classes. And 
these distinctions are important; for 
they influence the actions and ideas 
and ideals of the people in countless 
ways and form a necessary background 
for any real understanding of their 

Lowest in the social scale is, of course, 
the factory class. The town has long 
been an important manufacturing cen- 
tre, and it is possible to see here almost 
a history of industrialism in America. 
There is the old type of mill, now rap- 
idly dying out, and only preserved in 
favored industries by a beneficent tariff. 
There is a woolen mill which is the 
most beautiful example of paternal feu- 
dalism that can be found. The present 
owner inherited it from his father, who 
had inherited it from his. He lives in a 
big house overlooking the mill-pond, 
and personally visits the office every 
day. The mill employs hundreds of 
men, women, and children, and one 
would say that they were fortunate to 
be so singularly free from absentee cap- 
italism. The owner is one of the most 



respected men in the community, head 
of the board of education, president of 
the local bank. And yet to an outsider 
it does not seem as if his employees 
are one whit better off than if they 
were working for a soulless corpora- 
tion. The hours are the maximum al- 
lowed by law, the ages of the children 
the minimum, and there is much night 

One who has had ideas of the so- 
lution of social problems by the de- 
veloping of more brotherhood between 
employer and employee is rudely unde- 
ceived by the most cursory glance at 
an institution such as this. The em- 
ployees of the mill are typical. There 
are little, dried-up men who have 
worked there for fifty years, their 
sons and daughters joining them as 
fast as they grew up, steady, self-re- 
specting men who have perhaps saved 
enough to buy a little cottage near the 
mill. Then there are the younger men 
and women, mostly drifters, who stay 
in a factory until they are ' laid off' in a 
season of depression, and then move 
about until they find work somewhere 
else. Lastly there is the horde of Ital- 
ian and Polish boys and girls, 'be- 
grimed, chattering children who pour 
out of the mill-gates at night when the 
whistle blows, and whom one hears 
running past again in the morning be- 
fore seven, always hurrying, always 

The town can already boast a Pol- 
ish quarter and an Italian quarter, the 
former somehow infinitely the superior 
in prosperity and attractiveness, and 
apparently possessing a vigorous com- 
munity life of its own. The Italian 
quarter is typical enough of the strug- 
gles of too many of our immigrants. It 
can hardly be possible that these peo- 
ple have left anything worse in the 
old country than this collection of in- 
describable hovels, most of them built 
by the owners, this network of un- 

paved streets and small gardens and 
ashes and filth; and the suffering in 
that mild native climate of theirs must 
have been far less than it is here. 
The town has given them a school 
and a chapel, but their fearful squalor, 
apparent to every man who walks 
about the town, has not seemed to dis- 
tress their American neighbors in the 
least. The attitude of the latter is 
typical. They are filled with an almost 
childlike faith in the temporary nature 
of this misery. These people are in 
America now, you are told, and will 
soon be making money and building 
themselves comfortable homes. Mean- 
while all that can be done is to sur- 
round them with the amenities of civ- 
ilization, and wait. 

The most impressive thing about the 
working class, on the whole, is the pro- 
found oblivion of the rest of the popu- 
lation to them. They form a very con- 
siderable proportion of the population, 
and yet it would be difficult to find any 
way in which they really count in the 
life of the town. The other classes have 
definite social institutions which bind 
them together, and give them not only 
recreation but influence. This work- 
ing class has nothing of the kind. For 
amusements in their hours of leisure 
they go to the neighboring city; an oc- 
casional employees' ball and a small 
Socialist local make up practically all 
of the institutional life of the people. 
The town thus seems to have a whole 
class living in it, but not of it, quite 
apart and detached from the currents 
of its life. 

The psychology of this working class 
is different from that of the other 
classes. The prevailing tone is apathy. 
There is no discontent or envy of the 
well-to-do, but neither is there that 
restless eagerness to better their posi- 
tion, and that confidence in their 
ultimate prosperity, which the Ameri- 
can spirit is supposed to instil into a 



man. Men in the trades seem to have 
this spirit, but it is noticeably absent 
from the factory class. Even the immi- 
grants seem quickly to lose that flush 
of hope and ambition with which they 
arrive in this country. The factory 
routine seems to get into their very 
souls, so that their whole life settles 
down to a monotonous drudgery with- 
out a look forward or backward. They 
are chiefly concerned in holding their 
jobs, and escaping the horrors of un- 
employment in making both ends 
meet. Beyond this there is little hori- 
zon for day-dreaming and ambition. 
Life to them is a constant facing of 
naked realities, and an actual * econ- 
omy/ or management, of resources, not 
an effort to impress themselves on their 
neighbors, and to conform to the ways 
of those about them. This deep-seated 
divergence in standards and interests 
from the rest of American life may or 
may not be important, for the factory 
class is thus far politically negligible; 
but it is interesting, and well calculated 
to suggest many unpleasant things to 
American minds. 

The rest of the people, while they 
comprise two distinct classes, are much 
more homogeneous. They touch each 
other at all points that make for the 
broader life of the town, and diverge 
only on aspects of manners and social 
qualifications. There is first the ruling 
class, in this case really hereditary, 
consisting of the direct descendants of 
the early settlers, and of the men who 
built the old church in 1789. The old 
church has been the stronghold of their 
power; it preceded the town, and gave 
the old families a political preeminence 
which, until very recently, has never 
been seriously questioned. These fami- 
lies still own much of the land of the 
town, and their power and influence 
shows itself in a thousand ways. Their 
members are elders and trustees of the 
old church, officers of the banks, honor- 

ary members of committees for patri- 
otic celebrations. No local enterprise 
can be started without their assent and 
approbation. They are not all rich 
men, by any means, but they are all 
surrounded by the indefinable glamour 
of prestige. They are the town, one 
somehow feels. They rule as all aris- 
tocracies do, by divine right. They are 
the safe men, the responsible men. 
Their opinions of people and things 
percolate down through the rest of the 
people. Their frown is sufficient to 
choke off a local enterprise; a word 
from them will quench the strongest of 
enthusiasms for a new idea or pro- 
gramme or project. It is their interest 
that determines town policy in the last 
resort. New schools, parks, fire-houses, 
municipal ownership, all these ques- 
tions are settled finally according to the 
effect they will have on the pockets and 
interests of this ruling class. 

And yet, strange to say, their activ- 
ity is seldom direct. They work rather 
through that great indispensable mid- 
dle class that makes up the third di- 
vision of the townspeople. It is hard to 
define what separates these from the 
ruling class. Many of the families have 
lived in the town for many years; many 
of them are wealthy; many of them 
have profitable businesses. And yet it 
is true that in most of the affairs of the 
town, this class seems to act as the 
agents of the ruling class. The mem- 
bers of this class are the real backbone 
of the town's life. They organize the 
board of trade, "boom" the town, in- 
augurate and carry through the cele- 
brations, do the political campaigning 
and organizing, and in general keep 
the civic machinery running. But little 
of what they do seems to be carried 
through on their own prestige. It is 
always with the advice and consent of 
the bigger men. This is the curious 
irony of aristocracies the world over, 
that they can wield the ultimate 



power without bearing any of the re- 
sponsibility, or doing any of the actual 
work. The ruling class in this town no 
longer assumes even political responsi- 
bility. The town committee is com- 
posed of members of the middle class, 
and all the political workers and 
henchmen throughout the town are 
equally plebeian. Those good people 
who lament that politics are corrupt 
because the 'best men* will not enter 
public life, forget that this ruling class 
is behind everything that is done, and 
is getting its political work done at an 
extremely cheap rate. If the real rulers 
had any serious objection to the way 
things are run, they would soon enough 
be in politics. They remain out because 
their interests are well taken care of; 
another class bears for them all the 
burden and strife of the day. 

The difference between the ruling 
class and the middle class in our com- 
munity, though apparently so intangi- 
ble, shows itself in a dozen different 
ways. There is a distinct line of cleavage 
in social matters, in church matters, in 
recreation and business. * Society/ of 
course, in the community is synony- 
mous with the ruling class. An. infal- 
lible instinct guides the managers of 
receptions and balls, and the lines are 
as jealously guarded as if there were 
actual barriers of nobility erected. The 
ladies have their literary clubs, where 
quiet, but none the less effective, cam- 
paigns are waged against the admission 
of undesirable plebeians. The young 
people ape their elders in everything. 
The epithet used by 'society' for those 
who are excluded from its privileges is 
* ordinary' or * common'; the term is at 
once an explanation and an excuse for 
the exclusion. 

The middle class, on their part, have 
their own society, and their own ex- 
clusions. Their social functions, how- 
ever, have the virtue of being less 
formal and less secular. The nucleus 

of their social life is the church, and 
it is curious to observe how closely 
church lines follow these social lines. 
The aristocracy is centred in the old 
church, stanchly Presbyterian. Its 
temporal and spiritual affairs are in 
these aristocratic hands as absolutely 
as they were in the hands of the great- 
grandfathers who f built the church. 
There is, of course, a strong admixture 
of the middle class, but little can zeal 
and hard work do to win for them a 
seat at the councils. Their strongholds 
are the Baptist and Methodist church- 
es, and it is the few members of the 
ruling class who happen to belong to 
those confessions who are the governed 
and disfranchised. The church means 
much more to these middle-class peo- 
ple than it does to the aristocracy. 
The services are conducted with great- 
er ardor, and attended with much 
more regularity. The class of * ordi- 
nary' people that support them have 
not reached the degree of sophistica- 
tion that makes them ashamed of the 
hearty church-going of their ancestors. 
There is a Catholic church, but it con- 
fines its ministrations strictly to the 
working class. Nothing is known of 
it by the members of the other classes, 
and any entrance of its priest into 
public affairs is looked upon with the 
deepest suspicion. 

In business matters the line be- 
tween the two classes is equally sharp. 
The members of the ruling class hold, 
as a rule, business positions of consid- 
erable importance in the neighboring 
city, while the middle class is largely 
engaged in local trade, or in smaller po- 
sitions in the city. There is a certain 
slight social stigma that attaches itself 
to a young man who takes up work in 
town, and the city is thus the goal of 
all the socially ambitious. There is a 
distinct prejudice, also, on the part of 
the ruling class against anything that 
savors of mechanical labor, and this is 



another point of divergence from the 
middle class, who are less squeamish. 
It would be unjust to imply that the 
ruling class is not industrious. There 
are no idle rich in the town, and the dif- 
ferences between the classes are differ- 
ences of taste and business position, and 
not in the least of industry and ability. 

Lastly, the two classes diverge in the 
way they amuse themselves. To the 
outsider it looks as if the middle class 
contrived to have a better time of it 
than the aristocracy. The most strik- 
ing institution of the former is the 
lodge, Masons and Odd Fellows and 
Elks and Woodmen. The class mem- 
bership of these fraternal organizations 
is very evident. Of all the institutions 
of the town, the lodge is the most de- 
finitely middle-class. No member of 
the ruling class or the factory class can 
be found within the ranks. On the 
other hand, inclusion in the * Assembly ' 
dances is the badge of aristocracy. The 
ruling class has only a near-by country 
club to compensate it for its exclusion 
from the lodges, and its native con- 
servatism and thrift permit its giv- 
ing to this club only a grudging and 
half-hearted patronage. In compari- 
son with the busy social, political, and 
church life of the middle class, that of 
the aristocracy appears almost tame 
and uninteresting. Their natural cau- 
tion, prudence, and reserve, and the 
constant sense of their position in the 
community, have kept them almost as 
poorly provided with social institutions 
as the factory class itself. 

Thus these two classes live side by 
side in the town, strangely alike, yet 
strangely different, constantly reacting 
upon each other, each incomplete with- 
out the other. The ruling class is much 
more dependent, of course, on the mid- 
dle class than the middle class is on it. 
For it draws its sustenance only from 
the inferiority of the middle class. 
Without that middle class, the spice 

and joy of aristocracy would be ab- 
sent. The factory class is too utterly 
alien, indeed is hardly aware of the ex- 
istence of an aristocracy, and could 
not, at its best, even serve and fortify 
and supplement the ruling class as does 
that class which the latter affects to 
despise as * ordinary.' 

In quiet times the two classes seem 
almost merged into one, but let some 
knotty local issue arise, and the di- 
vergence is clearly seen. There is a 
certain amount of class jealousy exhib- 
ited at such times, and while it rarely 
affects the political field, it is apt to 
play havoc in the affairs of a church. 
That is why church politics are so care- 
fully shunned; they have such fearful 
potentialities of trouble, and trouble 
that does not confine itself to the 
church, but reaches out into every 
aspect of town life. Religion is a very 
real thing in an American town, and 
a middle class that will take dicta- 
tion in political matters from the * best 
men' of the community will bitterly 
resent any attempt to force its church 
into action of which it does not ap- 
prove, or which it is afraid it will not 
be able to lead. Proposals for church 
union, for civic organizations of men's 
clubs, or for organized charity socie- 
ties are fruitful causes of hard feelings 
and jealousies. It is hard to preach 
Christian unity in a town where a 
church is not only a religious body but 
the stronghold of a social class. The 
classes must evidently be merged be- 
fore the churches can be. 

Politically there is not this sensitive- 
ness between the two classes. It is the 
presence of a foreign element that cre- 
ates local issues, or it is the injection of 
religious personalities into a campaign. 
In suburban towns the dramatic politi- 
cal contests are not between the settled 
classes in the town, but between the 
old residents and the new, between the 
natives and the commuters. And since 



the commuter is simply an aggravated 
type of the modern nomadic American, 
the political fight in this town that I 
am speaking of may be fairly typical of 
a struggle that is going on with more 
or less virulence all over the land. In 
some ways the commuter is the most 
assimilable of all Americans. He is 
indeed far more fortunate than he de- 
serves to be, for it is he who destroys 
the personality of a town. Passing 
lightly from suburb to suburb, sinking 
no roots, and moving his household 
gods without a trace of compunction 
and regret, this aimless drifter is the 
deadliest foe to the cultivation of that 
ripening love of surroundings that gives 
quality to a place, and quality, too, to 
the individual life. This element of 
the population depersonalizes Amer- 
ican life by not giving it a chance to 
take root and grow. When it becomes 
strong enough it begins to play havoc 
with the politics of a town. For the 
commuters have permeated all the 
classes, and when they begin to take an 
interest in the local issues, party and 
class lines are slashed into pieces. It is 
the perennially dramatic contest be- 
tween the old and the new, and it makes 
an issue that is really momentous for 
the future of the town. For the shifting 
of power means the decay of a tradi- 
tion, and however self-centred and de- 
stitute of real public spirit may have 
been the rule of the aristocracy, no 
lover of his town wishes to see things 
turned over to a loose herd of tempo- 
rary residents. 

In the towns surrounding our town, 
political control has long since passed 
out of the hands of the old leaders into 
those of the commuters, and the com- 
munities have paid the penalty in the 
loss of their distinctive note and charm. 
In my town, also, it looks as if the fate 
of the ruling class were irretrievably 
sealed. They have recently alienated 
their middle-class following by a pro- 

posal to annex the town to the neigh- 
boring city, the argument being that 
annexation must come some time, and 
that it might as well be now, before all 
is lost. But this measure has called out 
all the latent patriotism of the people, 
and it will undoubtedly be defeated at 
the polls. 

These later developments have 
brought out much that is typical of 
American life, for this contest has 
betrayed the incorrigible un-social- 
mindedness of the ruling class, the 
most thoroughly American of all. In 
spite of their pride in their station in 
the community, these men, living on 
the lands of their great-great-grand- 
fathers, with ancestries stretching back 
to the early settlements, seem to have 
no sentiment for their community as a 
community. There is plenty of senti- 
ment for their own class and their own 
lands, but none for the town. Since 
they are no longer at the helm, the 
town is to them almost as if it were 
not. They are sincerely puzzled and 
pained at the indignant outcry against 
the merging of the town with a corrupt, 
machine-ridden city. They say it will 
be good for the town to be known as a 
part of the city. It will raise the value 
of real estate, and they cannot see the 
exquisite naivete which is lent to this 
argument by the fact that they them- 
selves own most of the real estate in 
the town. This argument seems to 
have had weight, however, for the pa- 
triotic pride which the average land- 
less American feels in the increase in 
real-estate values in his community 
seems to be quite undisturbed by any 
consideration of the increased tribute 
that he must pay for the indulgence of 
that sentiment. 

The social spirit of this ruling class 
seems to consist in the delusion that its 
own personal interests are identical with 
those of the community at large. Some 
such philosophy animates, I suppose, 



many of the large corporate and finan- 
cial American bodies to-day. 

The direct result of this annexation 
contest in my town has been a disil- 
lusionment of the middle class. The 
hearty admiration for the 'best men' 
has turned into disgust at the meagre- 
ness of their local patriotism. The rul- 
ing class could keep its power only so 
long as nothing came to try it. But 
the heart of the people is in the right 
place; they admire the great ones of 
the ruling class because they attribute 
to them virtues which they do not pos- 
sess; they admire the successful man 
because they think he is brave and 
generous and big, when really he may 
be only mean and grasping. They are 
beginning to remind one another that 
the leading men have never done any- 
thing for the town. Any one of half a 
dozen could endow a Young Men's 
Christian Association, or some similar 
institution, which the town needs. 
Only recently did the town obtain a 
library, and then not through any exer- 
tion of the citizens, but as a windfall 
from an industrial princeling who had 
been born in the town, but had never 
lived there since his childhood. 

There is something in the old nota- 
bles of a town like this that wins al- 
most a grudging admiration. Their 
self-respect is so stolid, their individu- 
alism so incorrigible, their lack of sen- 
sitiveness to the social appeal so over- 
whelming. In command of the board of 
education, they kept school facilities at 
the lowest possible point for years, until 
an iconoclastic superintendent aroused 
public sentiment and forced the erec- 
tion of new buildings. The ruling class 
in command of the old church does 
nothing to extend its work beyond the 
traditional services and societies, al- 
though there is crying need for social 
work among the foreign population of 
the town. And since this ruling class 
exercises all the spiritual initiative of 

the town, none of the other churches or 
societies stir out of the beaten paths 
or try any hazardous reforms or risky 

This spiritual initiative is not a 
thing that is lightly lost. I have not 
meant to imply that the disillusion- 
ment of the middle class was likely to 
be permanent. On the contrary, even 
if political control does pass out of the 
hands of both classes into those of 
newcomers, the latter will soon be 
brought under the spell. Wealth and 
social position will still lead the town. 
Even though discontent puts political 
power completely into the hands of the 
newcomers, they will find themselves 
unable to make headway against the 
ideals and prejudices of the ruling class. 
The neighboring towns have lost their 
personality because they have lost their 
ruling class, or because the ruling class 
has been in too hopeless a minority to 
maintain its influence. Where it can 
retain its hold on property and in 
church affairs, it will continue, though 
defeated, to be the salt of the earth; 
its tone will permeate the life of the 
town. That prevailing tone is, of 
course, conservative. 

The town has been, as I have said, 
on the firing-line, in constant danger 
from capture by the commuter ele- 
ment, and consequently the ruling class 
has been thrown even more strongly 
on the defensive than is usual. This 
has shown itself in a distrust of the 
younger men; their entrance into 
church and political life has been de- 
precated, through fear that hot-head- 
edness and an impatience with dila- 
tory methods might lead them to take 
rash steps that would betray the whole 
class to the enemy. 

Another of the prevailing ideas 
(typically American) is that the ruling 
class is ipso facto competent to lead in 
every department of the town's life. A 
wealthy manufacturer is elected head 



of the board of education, a coal- 
merchant is chairman of the library 
committee, and so forth. There is no 
specialization of functions in the rul- 
ing class. And this comprehensive 
scope of activities is acquiesced in by 
the middle class; indeed is regarded 
almost as axiomatic. The expert has 
no opportunity of influencing his fel- 
low-citizens. What can he know in 
comparison with a man who has lived 
all his life along the town green and 
who owns forty houses? 

The third dominant ideal is Puritan- 
ism. It must be confessed that among 
the ruling class this is more of an ideal 
than a rule of life. The town is so near 
the city that it catches a good deal of 
the sophistication of the latter. In the 
ruling class, Puritanism is kept more 
for public use than for private. Yet it 
is always correct, even though it is a 
little uneasy at times, as if it were half 
ashamed of itself. A candidate for of- 
fice must have exceptional qualifica- 
tions if he is to counterbalance the dis- 
advantages of not being a church-goer 
and a Protestant. It is necessary to 
'keep the Sabbath* with considerable 
strictness. Dances and parties on Sat- 
urday night must end promptly at 
twelve. If Sunday golf and tennis-play- 
ing occur among the ruling class, they 
are discreetly hidden from public gaze. 
The Presbyterian and Episcopalian 
ministers direct their philippics against 
these forms of vice. In the churches of 
the middle class, the world, the flesh, 
and the devil appear in the guise of 
dances and the theatres of the neigh- 
boring city. Both classes think very 
highly, however, of punctilious be- 
havior. The need of maintaining the 
tone of the community, therefore, pre- 
vents the urban sophistication from 
sinking in very deep. 

The most striking form in which 
Puritanism asserts itself is in the an- 
nual contest with the saloon. The sub- 

ject of licenses is a thorny question in 
local politics, and much good casuistry 
is expended in explaining the position 
of the ruling class in the matter. Re- 
ligiously the saloon is anathema, but 
practically it is an established institu- 
tion, and therefore entitled to all that 
respect which our ruling class pays to 
what is. Prohibition is unthinkable; 
diminution of the number of licenses is 
an attack on property rights. Moral 
sentiment can only be rightfully ex- 
pended, therefore, on the maintenance 
of the existing number. It is surprising 
what a wave of moral fervor will sweep 
over the town at such a crisis. The 
existence of eighteen saloons seems to 
every one, churchman and infidel alike, 
as tolerable and natural: the presence 
of nineteen would constitute an inex- 
piable communal sin against the Al- 
mighty. The pulpits thunder, the town 
committee is besieged with letters and 
beset with * personal influence/ peti- 
tions are drawn up, a mass-meeting is 
held, the moral crisis spoken of, and 
all good men are called upon to rally 
to preserve the civic righteousness of 
the community. 

This perennial moral excitement and 
indulgence illustrate excellently well 
the American zest for * moral issues.' 
Philosophers tell us that an emphasis 
on strictly moral solutions of political 
and economic problems argues a rela- 
tively primitive state of civilization, 
in other words, that the only valid 
solution of a problem is a scientific 
solution. But even to the wisest of 
the ruling class of the town it seems 
never to have occurred that the saloons 
might be regulated on some basis of a 
minimum legitimate demand, and of 
their being situated in those sections 
of the town where they will be least 

This Puritanism of the ruling class, 
then, supported and even forced by the 
middle class, is not a reasonable ideal, 



but simply an hereditary one. A ruling 
class follows the line of smallest resis- 
tance. The prestige of the 'man of 
property' gives him an oracular valid- 
ity that nothing can shake. The ef- 
forts of the other classes will only be 
against the current. The middle class 
gets carried along with the aristocracy, 
furnishing power, but no initiative, 
while the factory class sleeps out its 
dreamless sleep, untouched, and with- 
out influence. The latter class is cer- 
tainly not touched by the Puritanism 
of the town; it is little touched by the 

The High School is practically a class 
institution; a very small percentage of 
the school children continue their edu- 
cation so far. Neither is the culture of 
the town, as a whole, particularly im- 
pressive. The university man may well 
feel that he has been wandering about 
among the moonbeams, so few of the 
modern points of view and interests 
have seeped down into the intellectual 
life of the town. The annual course of 
lectures, managed by representatives of 
the ruling class, carefully side-tracks all 
the deeper questions of the time; min- 
isters on patriotic subjects, naturalists 
and travelers, readers of popular plays, 
make up the list of speakers. The 

library caters to an overwhelming de- 
mand for recent fiction. A woman's 
club discusses unfatiguing literary 
subjects. A quiet censorship is exer- 
cised over the public library. Anything 
that suggests the revolutionary or the 
obscene is sternly banned. It is con- 
sidered better to err on the side of pru- 
dence. To an outsider the culture of 
the town seems at times to evince an 
almost unnecessary anxiety to avoid 
the controversial and the stimulating. 
So long as life is smooth and unper- 
turbed, the people do not care whether 
it is particularly deep or not. And 
they are content to leave all contro- 
versial questions in the hands of their 
'best men.' 

Shall we be un-American enough 
to criticize them? Is our national 
attitude toward our ruling class very 
different from the attitude in this little 
town? Just as the ruling class in the 
town is the converging point for all 
the currents in town life, so is the rul- 
ing class in America the converging 
point for our national life. Only by 
understanding it and all its workings, 
shall we understand our country. One 
can begin by understanding that little 
cross-section of American life, the 
suburban town. 



THERE were three professors as- 
sociate and full in the Department 
of Modern History. There was also an 
office-boy. His printed title was De- 
partment Assistant, but his duties were 
less dignified than his title. 

Each of the professors had his priv- 
ate office opening from the main office. 
The assistant had a desk in the main 
office with the telephone close beside it. 
He answered the telephone and took 
messages over it, he assorted roll-cards 
and made out class-books and hunted 
through the files for records of former 
students. In the intervals of his occu- 
pation he crammed sedulously from ill- 
printed source-books, in preparation for 
the work of various advanced courses 
in history. And now and then, between 
the two kinds of labor, he lifted down 
the receiver of the telephone from 
its hook and, very softly, held over it 
converse quite unrelated to historical 

It was, unfortunately, the bachelor 
professor who first discovered the rea- 
son for this diversion. He took his in- 
formation straight to the head of de- 
partment and launched it in the form 
of a question. 

* It was Hawke of Illinois who recom- 
mended Barker to us, was n't it?' 

'Not Hawke; Holland. He said that 
he had found him so earnest ' 

'Did he say he'd found him mar- 
ried?' asked the bachelor professor. 

He answered the question himself. 
'Very likely Holland did n't know. It 
may have come off this summer. What 
do we pay him, by the way?' 

'It amounts to about forty-five dol- 
lars a month,' the head of department 
calculated. 'Are you sure, McFar- 
land? I supposed he'd be engaged, 
all graduate students are, but for 
anything more than that ' 

' I met the lady in the office just now, 
looking for her husband. Well, of 
course he has private means or he 
could n't have done it.' 

'Ought n't to have done it,' the head 
of department corrected him. 'You 
can get a marriage license, McFarland, 
for considerably less than forty-five 

'And pay your bills with it after- 
wards ? ' the bachelor professor retorted. 

He went out across the main office 
to his own quarters. The assistant had 
not yet come in. The bachelor profes- 
sor stopped for an instant beside his 
desk and went on, laughing. Among 
the litter of papers at the back of the 
desk was visible the head of a purple 

He saw the pansy later in the assist- 
ant's buttonhole and commented on it. 
The assistant reddened to his crisp, 
fair forelock. 

'My Mrs. Barker left it for me. 
We've a bed of them at the house 
where we have our rooms/ 

'And said it without shame,' the 
bachelor professor reported to his col- 
leagues. 'Seemed to expect me to take 
an interest in her.' 

'I do not know that it would have 
compromised you to take an interest/ 
commented the head of department. 
He spoke with irritation. 'It was out- 




side of my province but I I question- 
ed Mr. Barker. It seems he has a little 
money laid up from working in sum- 
mer. And with that and the hope of 
holding his position here till such time 
as he gets his degree ' 

'So that 's why he's so abominably 
conscientious/ the bachelor professor 
interpolated. 'Well, commend me to 
wives ! Next time I see her, I shall con- 
gratulate her/ 

Next time he saw her, however, he 
only bowed and hurried through the 
office with a distinct and amused sensa- 
tion of being in the way. It was at the 
end of a working-day, and the assistant 
and his wife were departing on some 
evidently planned expedition, an ob- 
trusive box bespeaking lunch, a bundle 
of wraps promising late return. 

'And on forty-five a month!' the 
bachelor professor wondered. He stop- 
ped to chat beside the assistant's desk 
next day, with a real humility of spirit, 
to obscure his curiosity. 

But the assistant was not shy of 
gratifying curiosity. All the office 
knew presently of his expedients; how 
he earned the rental of their two rooms 
by taking care of furnace and lawn 
'No more than I'd do if I lived 
in a house of my own'; how he had 
engaged to sell books in the Christmas 

'Much as my room-mate used to 
plan/ the bachelor professor admit- 
ted. 'He worked his way through col- 
lege. But to do it handicapped by a 

They had occasional glimpses of the 
wife for a time. Then no more glimpses, 
but still the chance appearance of pur- 
ple pansies on the assistant's desk. 
He wore one daily, too. The bache- 
lor professor found himself wondering 
whether the giver raised them in pots, 
to have a constant supply; or whether, 
on an assistant's stipend, she dared to 
patronize hot-houses. 

'She'll get over it, either way/ he 
prophesied to himself. ' It 's all very 
well for a year or two. After that, I 
notice they don't pay much attention 
to aesthetics/ 

As the frosts came on, he was con- 
sciously observant of the symbolic 
flower. There came a day in Decem- 
ber when it was visibly drooping; then 
a second day when only a dead wisp 
of it hung limply to the thread of his 

'I thought they'd get down to a 
bread-and-butter basis/ the bachelor 
professor rejoiced to the head of de- 
partment. 'I tell you, Callend, it's 
a justification of bachelorhood. If 
the pansies won't outlast the first 
winter ' 

'It's a justification of poor work, 
apparently/ said the head of depart- 
ment. 'He's forgotten my syllabus 
sheets/ He opened the door. 'There 
was to be a syllabus from the type- 
writer this morning, Mr. Barker. If 
you have it there ' 

'I I forgot to stop for it/ said the 
assistant. He reached for his hat. 'It 
won't take me ten minutes to get it. 
Only if the telephone should ring 
' He was turning the hat round and 
round between his fingers. The set 
crease of his smile was like a scar 
across his face. ' I 'm expecting a mes- 
sage. That is, we The doctor 

'Not sick?' said the bachelor pro- 
fessor under his breath. 

But the head of department was 
himself a man of family. He had the 
assistant by the shoulders. 

'Go home, man!' he was command- 
ing. 'Go home, and don't come back 
till it's a week old!' 

He must have followed his command 
with inquiries, with further injunc- 
tions, for for five days the assistant 
disappeared from his desk. In the in- 
terval three professors of modern his- 



tory carried their own syllabus sheets, 
kept their own roll-books two of 
them self-consciously, with an air of 
furtive understanding, the third with 
irritation and obvious injury. 

'I never asked any man to discom- 
mode himself for me,' the manner of 
the bachelor professor announced ag- 
gressively as he made his occasional 
journeys to the neglected telephone. 
He was careful to evince no undue in- 
terest when the assistant returned, but 
he could not ignore the little hum of 
felicitation which filled the outer of- 
fice. 'A boy,' he learned through the 
medium of the Professor of the Far 
East. 'Weighed eight pounds/ 

The Professor of the Far East had 
himself a son, a late addition to his 
married happiness, and had become 
since its arrival, so the bachelor pro- 
fessor noted, 'a regular old woman.' 
He stopped often beside the assistant's 
desk to compare notes on unmanly 
topics, his wife called on the assistant's 
wife, and there was an interchange of 
advices between them. 

It was through the medium of the 
wives that there filtered into general 
department knowledge certain facts 
concerning the assistant's household 
that Mrs. Barker was 'no manager/ 
that the baby was inclined to be deli- 
cate, that the assistant himself had 
duties not included in the curriculum. 

'Though he does not neglect his 
work,' the head of department pointed 
out. 'Sometimes I almost wish he 
would. When I recollect how a child 
breaks into your time ' 

'And he ought to know,' the bache- 
lor professor reminded himself. 'Mrs. 
Callend would give him chance enough 
to find out.' He went over to the as- 
sistant's desk. 'If you're crowded, 
Mr. Barker,' he suggested, ' don't trou- 
ble with that list of references for next 
week. If you want to let them go over 
till after Commencement ' 

'Why, thank you, Dr. McFarland,' 
said the assistant, gratefully. He 
looked up with a smile so brilliant that 
it was obviously false. 'I shall have 
time enough, I think. In fact, I was 
just telling Professor Helmer that I 'm 
rather looking for something to fill in 
my evenings typewriting or tutor- 
ing or something of the kind. If you 
should hear of anything ' 

'Idiot!' said the bachelor profes- 
sor, inside his own office. 'Idiot! And 
yet you can't offer to help him out 
not while he keeps up a front like 

He was surer than ever of the impos- 
sibility when, next day, the assistant 
knocked at his office door. If the as- 
sistant's smile had been brilliant the 
day before, it was glittering tinsel now. 
His bearing was almost offensively 

'May I trouble you a moment, Dr. 
McFarland? About those references, 
if you are quite sure it would n't in- 
convenience you You see, I was 
interrupted last night ' 

'Something wrong at home?' said 
the bachelor professor. 

The smile wavered, came back rein- 

'The boy was n't quite himself. He 
seemed to have a little cold ' 

The telephone rang and he hurried 
to answer it. All the office could hear 
his quick replies an anguish of mono- 

'Yes? What? Yes. Two degrees? 
Yes, I'll be right home." 

He was back at his post in the after- 
noon. The Professor of the Far East 
clapped him jocularly on the shoulder 
and spoke of his baby's first cold. 

'Called a doctor every time he 
sneezed. Two hundred and thirty dol- 
lars I paid out last winter for a baby 
that never was sick at all.' 

' Mine 's sick,' said the assistant, with 
his haunted smile. ' He 's got fever.' 



He was late in his arrival next morn- 
ing. The bachelor professor, stopping 
with an inquiry, was answered before 
he spoke by the elaborate indifference 
of the father's manner. 

'No; I don't know that I can call 
him better. Some little thing wrong 
about his teeth. They 're going to op- 
erate ' 

'What!' cried the bachelor profes- 

' Going to operate this afternoon. 
They're to telegraph me ' 

The bachelor professor crossed the 
room to the office of the head of de- 
partment. He stopped beside the desk 
as he had stopped beside the assistant's 
desk, and scowled down at its occu- 

'Callend, young Barker's no busi- 
ness to be here to-day. His baby ' 

' I spoke with Mr. Barker as I came 
in/ said the head of department. He 
looked up under gray brows. * There 
seems to be nothing he could do if he 
were at the hospital. I did not sug- 
gest his going. You see, McFarland, 
you ' ve never been under a strain of this 

'No; thank the Lord!' said the 
bachelor professor. 

'And, perhaps, you underestimate 
the value of occupation. One thing, 
though. If you could somehow suggest 
to Helmer that he talk less to Mr. 
Barker about his baby ' 

'He'll be dumb, then,' commented 
the colleague of Helmer sourly. 

Matters grew worse as the morning 
went on. The bachelor professor had 
an engagement for luncheon. He tele- 
phoned his regrets at eleven; returning 
from the telephone to his own quarters, 
he was fiercely irritated to observe 
that the head of department was still 
in his office. 

'And with his door open,' he noted. 

He shut his own door with unneces- 
sary emphasis. 

But the assistant seemed to observe 
neither the closed door nor the open 
one. He went about his duties, smiling 
valiantly smiling while he distrib- 
uted History 9 syllabus sheets to the 
class in History 7; smiling while his 
unsteady fingers shook ink over the 
bachelor professor's immaculate roll- 
book. Just after noon the Professor 
of the Far East burst in on his col- 

'Find an errand for him somewhere,' 
he demanded. ' I can't work while he 's 
around. I keep on thinking all the 
while, " What if it were my boy? " 

'What if it were, indeed!' said the 
head of department, a little flatly. 
He gathered up some loose sheets off 
his desk. 'Mr. Barker, will you take 
these over to the typewriter? Don't 
hurry; if you want to stay out in the 

The assistant rose unreadily. 'Thank 
you. I'll be right back, though. If 
there should be any word ' 

He was gone before the sentence 
was finished. 

From the head of department's win- 
dow they watched him hurry across the 

' He '11 be back, certainly, if he keeps 
up that pace,' the bachelor professor 
commented. 'But whatever is to hap- 
pen will happen while he's gone, none 
the less.' 

He wandered about the room, pluck- 
ing at the books and papers. Present- 
ly, at a sound, he stopped and looked 
into the outer office. 'See there?' he 
demanded, with a kind of triumph. 

A small boy stood in the office. He 
held a yellow envelope between his fin- 
gers. For an instant all three waited, 
staring at him; then the head of de- 
partment went forward, took the en- 
velope, and signed the necessary re- 
ceipt. He came back, balancing it. 

'I don't know There's hardly 
time to send it after him.' 



'Lay it on his desk,' the Professor 
of the Far East suggested. 

'And for decency's sake, shut the 
door. Don't let him feel we're spying 
on him,' the bachelor professor in- 

But the head of department hesi- 
tated, his hand on the knob. 

'I think I'll leave it open, McFar- 
land. If it should be the worst news 

However, there 's no need for three 
of us. If you two have other things on 

* You've a one-thirty class yourself, 
have n't you?' the bachelor professor 
inquired. He resumed his pacing. 

They heard the assistant on the 
stairs presently. They heard him hurry 
into the room; stop; drag his way to- 
ward the desk. There was a noise of 
tearing paper, the crackle of the sheet 
spread large; then, unmistakably, a 

'Oh, my God, if it was Harold!' said 
the Professor of the Far East, under his 

It was a long minute before the as- 
sistant stirred. When he did, he came 
toward the threshold, and the head of 
department went forward to meet him 


VOL. Ill - NO. 2 

' Mr. Barker there 's not much I 
can say. My own oldest boy ' 

'I just heard,' said the assistant. 

He held out the paper. 

The bachelor professor leaned for- 
ward and plucked the yellow sheet 
from his fingers. There were four 
words in the message. He took them 
in at a glance. 

'Tooth through. Temperature nor- 

'Callend,' said the bachelor profes- 
sor gently, 'you've still time to make 
that one-thirty class if you wish to 
make it. I think I'll get back to work 
myself, too.' 

Inside his own quarters he stood 
still, looking down at the paper. 

'And when they're sick,' he ana- 
lyzed, 'when they're sick, you're in 
torment. And when they're well, you 
dare n't rejoice for fear they '11 fall sick 
again. And yet you could n't per- 
suade any one of them it was n't worth 
while not even on forty-five dol- 
lars a month. There's something 
something I miss Well, thank the 
Lord, the Department of Modern His- 
tory at least can resume operations. 
The assistant's baby has safely cut a 



IN Matthew Arnold's essay on 'St. 
Paul and Protestanism,' there is a well- 
known passage from which I may quote 
a few words to serve as a text for the 
present essay.- These words express 
what many would call a typical mod- 
ern view of an ancient problem. 

In this essay, just before the words 
which I shall quote, Matthew Arnold 
has been speaking of the relation be- 
tween Paul's moral experiences and 
their religious interpretation, as the 
Apostle formulates it in the Epistle to 
the Romans. Referring to a somewhat 
earlier stage of his own argument, Ar- 
nold here says, 'We left Paul in col- 
lision with a fact of human nature, but 
in itself a sterile fact, a fact upon which 
it is possible to dwell too long, although 
Puritanism, thinking this impossible, 
has remained intensely absorbed in the 
contemplation of it, and, indeed, has 
never properly got beyond it, the 
sense of sin. Sin/ continues Matthew 
Arnold, ' is not a monster to be mused 
on, but an impotence to be got rid of. 
All thinking about it, beyond what is 
indispensable for the firm effort to get 
rid of it, is waste of energy and waste 
of time. We then enter that element 
of morbid and subjective brooding, 
in which so many have perished. This 
sense of sin, however, it is also possible 
to have not strongly enough to beget 
the firm effort to get rid of it; and the 
Greeks, with all their great gifts, had 
this sense not strongly enough; its 


strength in the Hebrew people is one of 
this people's mainsprings. And no He- 
brew prophet or psalmist felt what sin 
was more powerfully than Paul.' In 
the sequel, Arnold shows how Paul's 
experience of the spiritual influence of 
Jesus enabled the Apostle to solve his 
own problem of sin without falling into 
that dangerous brooding which Arnold 
attributes to the typical Puritan spirit. 
As a result, Arnold identifies his own 
view of sin with that of Paul, and coun- 
sels us to judge the whole matter in the 
same way. 

We have here nothing to do with the 
correctness of Matthew Arnold's criti- 
cism of Protestantism; and also nothing 
to say, at the present moment, about 
the adequacy of Arnold's interpreta- 
tion either of Paul or of Jesus. But we 
are concerned with that characteris- 
tically modern view of the problem of 
sin which Arnold so clearly states in 
the words just quoted. What consti- 
tutes the moral burden of the indi- 
vidual man what holds him back 
from salvation may be described 
in terms of his natural heritage, his 
inborn defect of character, or in 
terms of his training, or, finally, in 
terms of whatever he has voluntarily 
done which has been knowingly un- 

In the present essay I am not in- 
tending to deal with man's original de- 
fects of moral nature, nor yet with the 
faults which his training, through its 
social vicissitudes, may have bred in 
him. I am to consider that which we 
call, in the stricter sense, sin. Whether 



correctly or incorrectly, a man often 
views certain of his deeds as in some 
specially intimate sense his own, and 
may also believe that, among these 
his own deeds, some have been willfully 
counter to what he believes to be right. 
Such wrongful deeds a man may regard 
as his own sins. He may decline to 
plead ignorance, or bad training, or un- 
controllable defect of temper, or over- 
whelming temptation, as the ground 
and excuse for just these deeds. Before 
the forum of his own conscience he 
may say, * That deed was the result of 
my own moral choice, and was my sin.' 
For the time being I shall not pre- 
suppose, for the purpose of this argu- 
ment, any philosophical theory about 
free will. I shall not assert that, as a 
fact, there is any genuinely free will 
whatever. At the moment, I shall pro- 
visionally accept only so much of the 
verdict of common sense as any man 
accepts when he says, 'That was my 
own voluntary deed, and was knowing- 
ly and willfully sinful.' Hereupon I 
shall ask: Is Matthew Arnold's opin- 
ion correct with regard to the way in 
which the fact and the sense of sin 
ought to be viewed by a man who be- 
lieves that he has, by what he calls his 
own 'free act and deed,' sinned? Is 
Arnold's opinion sound and adequate, 
when he says, ' Sin is not a monster to 
be mused on, but an impotence to be 
got rid of. All thinking about it, be- 
yond what is indispensable for the firm 
effort to get rid of it, is waste of energy 
and waste of time a brooding in 
which so many have perished.* Arnold 
praises Paul for having taken sin seri- 
ously enough to get rid of it, but also 
praises him for not having brooded 
over sin except to the degree that was 
'indispensable to the effort to get rid 
of it.' Excessive brooding over sin is, 
in Arnold's opinion, an evil character- 
istic of Puritanism. Is Arnold right in 
his definition of what constitutes ex- 

cess in thinking about sin? Is he right 
when he says, 'Sin is an impotence to 
be got rid of? 

'Get rid of your sin,' says Mat- 
thew Arnold. Paul did so. He did so 
through what he called a loving union 
with the spirit of Christ. As he ex- 
pressed the matter, he ' died ' to sin. He 
' lived ' henceforth to the righteousness 
of his Master and of the Christian 
community. So far as sin is concerned, 
is not this version heartily acceptable 
to the modern mind? Is it not sensible, 
simple, and in spirit strictly normal, 
as well as moral and religious? Does it 
not dispose, once for all, both of the 
religious and of the practical aspect of 
the problem of sin? 

I cannot better state the task of this 
essay than by taking the opportun- 
ity, which Arnold's clearness of speech 
gives me, to begin the study of our 
question in the light of so favorite a 
modern opinion. 


It would not be useful for us to con- 
sider any further, in this place, Paul's 
own actual doctrine about such sin as 
an individual thinks to have been due 
to his own voluntary and personal 
deed. Paul's view regarding the nature 
of original sin involves other questions 
than the one which is at present before 
us. We speak here not of original sin, 
but of knowing and voluntary evil- 
doing. Paul's idea of salvation from 
original sin through grace and through 
loving union with the spirit of the Mas- 
ter, is inseparable from his special 
opinions regarding the church as the 
body of Christ, and regarding the su- 
pernatural existence of the risen Christ 
as the spirit of the church. These 
matters also are not now before us. 
The same may be said of Paul's views 
concerning the forgiveness of our vol- 
untary sins. For, in Paul's mind, the 
whole doctrine of the sins which the 



individual has knowingly and willfully 
committed, is further complicated by 
the Apostle's teachings about predes- 
tination. And for an inquiry into those 
teachings there is, in this essay, nei- 
ther space nor motive. Manifold and 
impressive though Paul's dealings with 
the problem of sin are, we shall there- 
fore do well, upon this occasion, to ap- 
proach the doctrine of the voluntary 
sins of the individual from another side 
than the one which Paul most empha- 
sizes. Let us turn to aspects of the 
Christian tradition about willful sin 
for which Paul is not mainly respons- 

We all know, in any case, that Ar- 
nold's own views about the sense and 
the thought of sin are not the views 
which have been prevalent in the past 
history of Christianity. And Arnold's 
hostility to the Puritan spirit carries 
him too far when he seems to attribute 
to Puritanism the principal responsi- 
bility for having made the fact and the 
sense of sin so prominent as it has been 
in Christian thought. Long before 
Puritanism, mediaeval Christianity had 
its own meditations concerning sin. 
Others than Puritans have brooded 
too much over their sins. And not all 
Puritans have cultivated the thought 
of sin with a morbid intensity. 

I have no space for a history of the 
Christian doctrine of willful sin. But, 
by way of preparation for my princi- 
pal argument, I shall next call to mind 
a few of the more familiar Christian 
beliefs concerning the perils and the 
results of voluntary sin, without caring 
at the moment whether these beliefs 
are mediaeval, or Puritan, or not. 
Thereafter, I shall try to translate the 
sense of these traditional beliefs into 
terms which seem to me to be worthy 
of the serious consideration of the mod- 
ern man. After this restatement and 
interpretation of the Christian doc- 
trine, not of original sin, but of the 

voluntary sin of the individual, we 
shall have new means of seeing whether 
Arnold is justified in declaring that no 
thought about sin is wise except such 
thought as is indispensable for arous- 
ing the effort 'to get rid of sin.' 


Countless efforts have been made to 
sum up in a few words the spirit of the 
ethical teaching of Jesus. I make no 
new effort, I contribute no novel word 
or insight, when I now venture to say, 
simply in passing, that the religion of 
the founder, as preserved in the say- 
ings, is a religion of Whole-Hearted- 
ness. The voluntary good deed is one 
which, whatever its outward expression 
may be, carries with it the whole heart 
of love, both to God and to the neigh- 
bor. The special act whether it be 
giving the cup of cold water, or whe- 
ther it be the martyr's heroism in con- 
fessing the name of Jesus in presence 
of the persecutor matters less than 
the inward spirit. The Master gives 
no elaborate code to be applied to each 
new situation. The whole heart de- 
voted to the cause of the Kingdom of 
Heaven, this is what is needed. 

On the other hand, whatever willful 
deed does not spring from love of God 
and man, and especially whatever deed 
breaks with the instinctive dictates of 
whole-hearted love, is sin. And sin 
means alienation from the Kingdom 
and from the Father; and hence, in the 
end, means destruction. Here the au- 
gust severity of the teaching is fully 
manifested. But from this destruction 
there is indeed an escape. It is the es- 
cape by the road of repentance. That 
is the only road which is emphatically 
and repeatedly insisted upon in the 
sayings of Jesus, as we have them. 
But this repentance must include a 
whole-hearted willingness to forgive 
those who trespass against us. Thus 



repentance means a return both to the 
Father and to the whole-hearted life 
of love. Another name for this whole- 
heartedness, in action as well as in re- 
pentance, is faith. For the true lover 
of God instinctively believes the word 
of the Son of Man who teaches these 
things, and is sure that the Kingdom 
of God will come. 

But, like the rest of the reported 
sayings of Jesus, this simple and august 
doctrine of the peril of sin, and of the 
way of escape through repentance, 
comes to us with many indications 
that some further and fuller revelation 
of its meaning is yet to follow. Jesus 
appears in the Gospel reports as himself 
formally announcing to individuals 
that their sins are forgiven. The escape 
from sin is therefore not always wholly 
due to the repentant sinner's own 
initiative. Assistance is needed. And 
Jesus appears in the records as assist- 
ing. He assists, not only as the teacher 
who announces the Kingdom, but as 
the one who has * power to forgive sins.' 
Here again I simply follow the well- 
known records. I am no judge as to 
what sayings are authentic. 

I am sure, however, that it was but 
an inevitable development of the orig- 
inal teaching of the founder, and of 
these early reports about his authority 
to forgive, when the Christian com- 
munity later conceived that salvation 
from personal and voluntary sin had 
become possible through the work 
which the departed Lord had done 
while on earth. How Christ saved from 
sin became, hereupon, a problem. But 
that he saved from sin, and that he 
somehow did so through what he won 
for men by his death, became a cen- 
tral constituent of the later Christian 

A corollary of this central teaching 
was a further opinion which tradition 
also emphasized, and, for centuries, 
emphasized the more, the further the 

Apostolic age receded into the past. 
This further opinion was, that the 
willful sinner is powerless to return to 
a whole-hearted union with God 
through any deed of his own. He could 
not 'get rid of sin,' either by means 
of repentance or otherwise, unless the 
work of Christ had prepared the way. 
This, in sum, was long the common tra- 
dition of the Christian world. How the 
saving work of Christ became, or could 
be made, efficacious for obtaining the 
forgiveness of the willful sin of an in- 
dividual, this question, as we well 
know, received momentous and con- 
flicting answers as the Christian Church 
grew, differentiated, and went through 
its various experiences of heresy, of 
schism, and of the learned interpreta- 
tion of its faith. Here, again, the de- 
tails of the history of dogma, and the 
practice of the church and of its sects 
in dealing with the forgiveness of sins, 
concern us not at all. 

We need, however, to remind our- 
selves, at this point, of one further as- 
pect of the tradition about willful sin. 
That sin, if unforgiven, leads to 
'death,' was a thought which Judaism 
had inherited from the religion of the 
prophets of Israel. It was a grave 
thought, simple in its origin, essential 
to the ethical development of the faith 
of Israel, and capable of vast develop- 
ment in the light both of experience 
and of imagination. Because of the 
later growth of the doctrine of the 
future life, the word ' death ' came to 
mean, for the Christian mind, what it 
could not yet have meant for the early 
prophets of Israel. And, in conse- 
quence, Christian tradition gradually 
developed a teaching that the divinely 
ordained penalty of unforgiven sin 
the doom of the willful sinner is a 
'second death,' an essentially endless 
penalty. The Apocalypse imagina- 
tively pictures this doom. When the 
church came to define its faith as to 



the future life, it developed a well- 
known group of opinions concerning 
this endless penalty of sin. In its out- 
lines this group of opinions is familiar 
even to all children who have learned 
anything of the faith of the fathers. An 
essentially analogous group of opinions 
is found in various religions that are 
not Christian. In its origin this group 
of opinions goes back to the very 
beginnings of those forms of ethical 
religion whose history is at all closely 
parallel to the history of Judaism or of 
Christianity. The motives which are 
here in question lie deeply rooted in 
human nature; but I have no right and 
no space to attempt to analyze them 
here. It is enough for my purpose to 
state that the idea of the endless pen- 
alty of unforgiven sin is by no means 
peculiar to Puritanism; and that it is 
certainly an idea which, for those who 
accept it with any hearty faith, very 
easily leads to many thoughts about 
sin which tend to exceed the strictly 
artistic measure which Matthew Ar- 
nold assigns as the only fitting one for 
all such thoughts. 

To think of a supposed * endless pen- 
alty 5 as a certain doom for all unfor- 
given sin, may not lead to morbid 
brooding. For the man who begins 
such thoughts may be sedately sure 
that he is no sinner. Or again, although 
he confesses himself a sinner, he may 
be pleasantly convinced that forgive- 
ness is readily and surely attainable, at 
least for himself. And, as we shall soon 
see, there are still other reasons why 
no morbid thought need be connected 
with the idea of endless penalty. But 
no doubt such a doctrine of endless pen- 
alty tends to awaken thoughts which 
have a less modern seeming, and which 
involve a less sure confidence in one's 
personal power to 'get rid of sin' than 
Matthew Arnold's words, as we have 
cited them, convey. If, without any 
attempt to dwell further, either upon 

the history or the complications of the 
traditional Christian doctrine of the 
willful sin of the individual, we reduce 
that doctrine to its simplest terms, it 
consists of two theses, both of which 
have had a vast and tragic influence 
upon the fortunes of Christian civiliza- 
tion. The theses are these. First: By 
no deed of his own, unaided by the 
supernatural consequences of the work 
of Christ, can the willful sinner win 
forgiveness. Second : The penalty of un- 
forgiven sin is the endless second death. 


The contrast between these two tra- 
ditional theses and the modern spirit 
seems manifest enough, even if we do 
not make use of Matthew Arnold's 
definition of the reasonable attitude 
toward sin. The old faith held that 
the very essence of its revelation con- 
cerning righteousness was bound up 
with its conception of the consequences 
of unforgiven sin. On the other hand, 
if the education of the human race 
has taught us any coherent lesson, it 
has taught us to respect the right of a 
rational being to be judged by moral 
standards which he himself can see to 
be reasonable. Hence the moral dignity 
of the modern idea of man seems to de- 
pend upon declining to regard as just 
and righteous any penalty which is 
supposed to be inflicted by the merely 
arbitrary will of any supernatural 
power. The just penalty of sin, to the 
modern mind, must therefore be the 
penalty, whatever it is, which the en- 
lightened sinner, if fully awake to the 
nature of his deed, and rational in his 
estimate of his deed, would voluntar- 
ily inflict upon himself. And how can 
one better express that penalty than 
by following the spirit of Matthew 
Arnold's advice : * Get rid of your sin ' ? 
This advice, to be sure, has its own de- 
liberate sternness. For 'the firm effort 



to get rid of sin/ may involve long 
labor and deep grief. But * endless 
penalty/ a * second death/ what 
ethically tolerable meaning can a mod- 
ern mind attach to these words? 

Is not, then, the chasm between the 
modern ethical view and the ancient 
faith, at this point, simply impassable? 
Have the two not parted company al- 
together, both in letter and, still more, 
in their inmost spirit? 

To this question some representa- 
tives of modern liberal Christianity 
would at once reply that, as I have al- 
ready pointed out, the early Gospel 
tradition does not attribute to Jesus 
himself the more hopeless aspects of the 
doctrine of sin, as the later tradition 
was led to define them. Jesus, accord- 
ing to the reports of his teaching in the 
Gospels, does indeed more than once 
use a doctrine of the endless penalty of 
unforgiven sin, a doctrine with which 
a portion of the Judaism of his day was 
more or less familiar. In well-known 
parables he speaks of the torments of 
another world. And, in general, he 
deals with willful sin unsparingly. But 
he seems to leave the door of repent- 
ance always open. The Father waits 
for the Prodigal Son's return. And the 
Prodigal Son returns of his own will. 
We hear nothing in the parables about 
his being unable effectively to repent 
unless some supernatural plan of sal- 
vation has first been worked out for 
him. Is it not possible, then, to recon- 
cile the Christian spirit and the modern 
man by simply returning to the Christ- 
ianity of the parables? So, in our day, 
many assert. 

I do not believe that the parables, 
in the form in which we possess them, 
present to us any complete view of the 
essence of the Christian doctrine of sin, 
or of the sinner's way of escape. I do 
not believe that they were intended 
by the Master to do so. Our reports of 
the founder's teachings about sin indi- 

cate that these teachings were intend- 
ed to receive a further interpretation 
and supplement. Our real problem 
is whether the interpretation and sup- 
plement which later Christian tradi- 
tion gave, through its doctrine of sin, 
and of the endless penalty of sin, was, 
despite its tragedy, its mythical set- 
ting, and its arbitrariness, a teaching 
whose ethical spirit we can still accept 
or, at least, understand. Is the later 
teaching, in any sense, a just devel- 
opment of the underlying meaning 
of the parables? Does any deeper idea 
inform the traditional doctrine that 
the willful sinner is powerless to save 
himself from a just and endless penalty 
through any repentance, or through any 
new deed, of his own? 

As I undertake to answer these ques- 
tions, let me ask the reader to bear in 
mind one general historical considera- 
tion. Christianity, even in its most 
imaginative and in its most tragic 
teachings, has always been under the 
influence of very profound ethical mo- 
tives, the motives which already in- 
spired the prophets of Israel. The 
founder's doctrine of the Kingdom, as 
we now possess that doctrine, was an 
outline of an ethical religion. It was 
also a prologue to a religion that was yet 
to be more fully revealed, or at least 
explained. This, as I suppose, was the 
founder's personal intention. 

When the early church sought to 
express its own spirit, it was never 
knowingly false, it was often most flu- 
ently, yet faithfully, true, to the deep- 
er meaning of the founder. Its ex- 
pressions were borrowed from many 
sources. Its imagination was construct- 
ive of many novelties. Only its deep- 
er spirit was marvelously steadfast. 
Even when, in its darker moods, its 
imagination dwelt upon the problem 
of sin, it saw far more than it was 
able to express in acceptable formulas. 
Its imagery was often of local, or of 



heathen, or even of primitive, origin. 
But the truth is that the imagery, ren- 
dered edifying and teachable, often 
bears, and invites, an interpretation 
whose message is neither local nor prim- 
itive. Such an interpretation, I believe, 
to be possible in case of the doctrine of 
sin and of its penalty; and to my own 
interpretation I must now invite at- 

There is one not infrequent thought 
about sin upon which Matthew Ar- 
nold's rule would surely permit us to 
dwell; for it is a thought which helps 
us, if not wholly * to get rid of sin/ still, 
in advance of decisive action, to fore- 
stall some temptations to sin which we 
might otherwise find too insistent for 
our safety. It is the thought which 
many a man expresses when he says, of 
some imagined act, If I were to do that, 
I should be false to all that I hold most 
dear; I should throw away my honor; 
I should violate the fidelity that is to 
me the very essence of my moral inter- 
est in my existence. The thought thus 
expressed may be sometimes merely 
conventional; but it may also be very 
earnest and heartfelt. Every man who 
has a moral code which he accepts, not 
merely as the customary and, to him, 
opaque or senseless verdict of his tribe 
or of his caste, but as his own chosen, 
personal ideal of life, has the power to 
formulate what for him would seem 
(to borrow the religious phraseology) 
his 'sin against the Holy Ghost,' 
his own morally 'impossible* choice, 
so far as he can now predetermine what 
he really means to do. Different men, 
no doubt, have different exemplary 
sins in mind when they use such words. 
Their various codes may be expressions 
of quite different and largely accidental 
social traditions; their diverse exam- 
ples of what, for each of them, would be 
his own instance of the unpardonable 

sin, may be the outcome of the tabus 
of whatever social order you please. 
I care for the moment not at all for the 
objective ethical correctness of any one 
man's definition of his own moral code. 
And I am certainly here formulating 
no ethical code of my own. I am simply 
pointing out that, when a man becomes 
conscious of his own rule of life, of his 
own ideal of what makes his voluntary 
life worth while, he tends to arrange his 
ideas of right and wrong acts so that, 
for him at least, some acts, when he 
contemplates the bare possibility of 
doing them himself, appear to him to be 
acts such that they would involve for 
him a kind of moral suicide, a de- 
liberate wrecking of what makes life, 
for himself, morally worth while. 

One common-sense way of express- 
ing such an individual judgment upon 
these extreme acts of wrongdoing, is 
to say, If I were to do that of my own 
free will, I could thereafter never for- 
give myself. 

Now, in case a man thinks of his own 
possible actions in this way, he need 
not be morbidly brooding over sins of 
which it is well not to think too much. 
He may be simply surveying his plan 
of life in a resolute way, and deciding, 
as well as he can, where he stands, 
what his leading ideas are, and what 
makes his voluntary life, from his 
own point of view, worth living. Such 
thoughts tend to clear our moral air, 
if only we think them in terms of our 
own personal ideals, and do not, as is 
too often the case, apply them solely 
to render more dramatic our judg- 
ments about our neighbors. 


In order to be able to formulate 
such thoughts, one must have an 
'ideal,' even if one cannot state it in 
an abstract form. One must think of 
one's voluntary life in terms of fidelity 



to some such * ideal,' or set of ideals. 
One must regard one's self as a creature 
with a purpose in living. One must 
have what they call a * mission ' in one's 
own world. And so, whether one uses 
philosophical theories or religious be- 
liefs, or does not use them, one must, 
when one speaks thus, actually have 
some sort of spiritual realm in which, 
as one believes, one's moral life is 
lived, a realm to whose total order, as 
one supposes, one could be false if one 

One's mission, one's business, must 
ideally extend, in some fashion, to the 
very boundaries of this spiritual realm, 
so that, if one actually chose to com- 
mit one's supposed unpardonable sin, 
one could exist in this entire realm only 
as, in some sense and degree, an out- 
cast, estranged, so far as that one 
unpardonable fault estranged one, 
from one's own chosen moral hearth 
and fireside. At least this is how one 
resolves, in advance of decisive ac- 
tion, to view the matter, in case one 
has the precious privilege of being able 
to make such resolves. And I say that 
so to find one's self resolving, is to find 
not weakness and brooding, but reso- 
luteness and clearness. Life seems 
simply blurred and dim if one can no- 
where find in it such sharp moral out- 
lines. And if one becomes conscious of 
such sharp outlines, one is not saying, 
Behold me, the infallible judge of 
moral values for all mankind. Behold 
me with the absolute moral code pre- 
cisely worked out. For one is so far 
making no laws for one's neighbors. 
One is accepting no merely traditional 
tabus. One is simply making up one's 
mind so as to give a more coherent 
sense to one's choices. The penalty of 
not being able to make such resolves 
regarding what would be one's own 
unpardonable sin, is simply the penalty 
of flabbiness and irresoluteness. To 
remain unaware of what we propose to 

do, never helps us to live. To be aware 
of our coherent plan, to have a moral 
world and a business that, in ideal, ex- 
tends to the very boundaries of this 
world, and to view one's life, or any 
part of it, as an expression of one's own 
personal will, is to assert one's genuine 
freedom, and is not to accept any ex- 
ternal bondage. But it is also to bind 
one's self, in all the clearness of a calm 
resolve. It is to view certain at least 
abstractly possible deeds as moral 
catastrophes, as creators of chaos, as 
deeds whereby the self, if it chose 
them, would, at least in so far, banish 
itself from its own country. 

To be able to view life in this way, to 
resolve thus deliberately what genuine 
and thorough-going sin would mean 
for one's own vision, requires a certain 
maturity. Not all ordinary misdeeds 
are in question when one thinks of the 
unpardonable sin. Blunders of all sorts 
fill one's childhood and youth. What 
Paul conceived as our original sin may 
have expressed itself for years in deeds 
that our social order condemns, and 
that our later life deeply deplores. And 
yet, in all this maze of past evil-doing 
and of folly, we may have been, so far, 
either helpless victims of our nature 
and of our training, or blind followers 
of false gods. What Paul calls sin may 
have * abounded.' And yet, as we look 
back, we may now judge that all this 
was merely a means whereby, hence- 
forth, 'grace may more abound.' We 
may have learned to say, it may be 
wise, and even our actual duty to say, 
I will not brood over these which 
were either my ignorant or my helpless 
sins. I will henceforth firmly and simply 
resolve 'to get rid of them.' That is 
for me the best. Bygones are bygones. 
Remorse is a waste of time. These 
* confusions of a wasted youth,' must 
be henceforth simply ignored. That is 
the way of cheer. It is also the way of 
true righteousness. I can live wisely 



only in case I forget my former follies, 
except in so far as a memory of these 
follies helps me not to repeat them. 

One may only the more insist upon 
this cheering doctrine of Lethe and 
forgiveness for the past, and of 'grace 
abounding' for the future, when there 
come into one's life those happenings 
which Paul viewed as a new birth, 
and as a * dying to sin.' These ' work- 
ings of grace,' if they occur to us, may 
transform our 'old man' of inherited 
defect, of social waywardness, of con- 
tentiousness, and of narrow hatred for 
our neighbors and for 'the law,' into 
the 'new life.' It is a new life to us be- 
cause we now seem to have found our 
own cause, and have learned to love 
our sense of intimate companionship 
with the universe. Now, for the first 
time, we have found a life that seems 
to us to have transparent sense, unity 
of aim, and an abiding and sustaining 
inspiration about it. 

If this result has taken place, then, 
whatever our cause, or our moral opin- 
ions, or our religion, may be, we shall 
tend to rejoice with Paul that we have 
now ' died ' to the old life of ignorance 
and of evil- working distractions. Here- 
upon we may be ready to say, with 
him, and joyously, 'There is no con- 
demnation' for us who are ready to 
walk after what we now take to be 
'the spirit.' The past is dead. Grace 
has served us. Forgiveness covers the 
evil deeds that were gone. For those 
deeds, as we now see, were not done 
by our awakened selves. They were 
not our own 'free acts' at all. They 
were the workings of what Paul called 
'the flesh.' 'Grace' has blotted them 

I am still speaking not of any one 
faith about the grace that saves, or 
about the ideal of life. Let a man find 
his salvation as it may happen to him 
to find it. But the main point that I 
have further to insist upon is this: 

Whenever and however we have be- 
come morally mature enough to get 
life all colored through and through by 
what seems to us a genuinely illumin- 
ating moral faith, so that it seems to 
us as if, in every deed, we could serve, 
despite our weakness, our one highest 
cause, and be faithful to all our moral 
world at every moment, then this 
inspiration has to be paid for. The 
abundance of grace means, henceforth, 
a new gravity of life. For we have now 
to face the further fact that, if we have 
thus won vast ideals, and a will that is 
now inspired to serve them, we can 
imagine ourselves becoming false to this 
our own will, to this which gives our 
life its genuine value. We can imag- 
ine ourselves breaking faith with our 
own world- wide cause and inspiration. 
One who has found his cause, if he 
has a will of his own, can become a 
conscious and deliberate traitor. One 
who has found his loyalty is indeed, at 
first, under the obsession of the new 
spirit of grace. But if, henceforth, he 
lives with a will of his own, he can, by a 
willful closing of his eyes to the light, 
become disloyal. Our actual voluntary 
life does not bear out any theory as to 
the fatally predestined perseverance 
of the saints. For our voluntary life 
seems to us as if it were free either to 
persevere or not to persevere. The 
more precious the light that has seem- 
ed to come to me, the deeper is the 
disgrace to which, in my own eyes, I 
can condemn myself, if I voluntarily 
become false to this light. Now, it is 
indeed not well to brood over such 
chances of falsity. But it is manly to 
face the fact that they are present. 

In all this statement, I have presup- 
posed no philosophical theory of free- 
will, and have not assumed the truth 
of any one ethical code or doctrine. I 
have been speaking simply in terms of 
moral experience, and have been point- 
ing out how the world seems to a man 



who reaches sufficient moral maturity 
to possess, even if but for a season, 
a pervasive and practically coherent 
ideal of life, and to value himself as a 
possible servant of his cause, but a 
servant whose freedom to choose is still 
his own. 

What I point out is that, if a man 
has won practically a free and conscious 
view of what his honor requires of him, 
the reverse side of this view is also pre- 
sent. This reverse side takes the form 
of knowing what, for this man himself, 
it would mean to be willfully false to 
his honor. One who knows that he 
freely serves his cause, knows that he 
could, if he chose, become a traitor. 
And if indeed he freely serves his cause, 
he knows whether or no he could for- 
give himself if he willfully became a 
traitor. Whoever, through grace, has 
found the beloved of his life, and now 
freely lives the life of love, knows that 
he could, if he chose, betray his be- 
loved. And he knows what estimate 
his own free choice now requires him to 
put upon such betrayal. Choose your 
cause, your beloved, and your moral 
ideal, as you please. What I now point 
out is that so to choose is to imply your 
power to define what, for you, would 
be the unpardonable sin if you com- 
mitted it. This unpardonable sin would 
be betrayal. 


So far I have discussed the moral 
possibility of treason. We seem to be 
free. Therefore, it seems to us as if trea- 
son were possible. But now, do any of 
us ever actually thus betray our own 
chosen cause? Do we ever actually 
turn traitor to our own flag, to the 
flag that we have sworn to serve, 
after taking our oath, not as unto men, 
but as unto ourselves and our cause? 
Do any of us ever really commit that 
which, in our own eyes, is the unpar- 
donable sin? 

Here, again, let every one of us" judge 
for himself. And let him also judge 
rather himself than his neighbor. For 
we are here considering not customary 
codes, or outward seeming, but how 
a man who knows his ideal and knows 
his own will finds that his inward 
deed appears to himself. Still, apart 
from all evil-speaking, the common ex- 
perience of mankind seems to show that 
such actual and deliberate sin against 
the light, such conscious and willful 
treason, occasionally takes place. So 
far as we know of such treason at all, 
or reasonably believe in its existence, 
it appears to us to be, on the whole, 
the worst evil with which man afflicts 
his fellows and his social order in this 
distracted world of human doings. The 
blindness and the naive cruelty of 
crude passion, the strife and hatred 
with which the natural social order is 
filled, often seem to us mild when we 
compare them with the spiritual harm 
that follows the intentional betrayal of 
great causes once fully accepted, but 
then willfully forsaken, by those to 
whom they have been intrusted. 'If 
the light that is in thee be darkness, 
how great is that darkness.' This is 
the word which seems especially fitted 
for the traitor's own case; for he has 
seen the great light. The realm of the 
spirit has been graciously opened to 
him. He has willingly entered. He has 
chosen to serve. And then he has 
closed his eyes; and, by his own free 
choice, a darkness, far worse than that 
of man's primal savagery, has come 
upon him. And the social world, the 
unity of brotherhood, the beloved life 
which he has betrayed, how desolate 
he has left what was fairest in it! He 
has brought back again to its primal 
chaos the fair order of those who 
trusted and who lived and loved to- 
gether in one spirit. 

But we are here little concerned with 
what others think of the traitor, if such 



traitor there be. We are interested in 
what (if the light against which he has 
sinned returns to him) the traitor is 
henceforth to think of himself. Arnold 
would say, Let him think of his sin, 

that is, in this case, of his treason, 

only in so far as is indispensable 
to the 'firm resolve to get rid of it.' 
We ask whether Arnold's rule seems 
any longer quite adequate to meet 
the situation. Of course I am not vent- 
uring to assign to the supposed trai- 
tor any penalties except those which his 
own will really intends to assign to 
him. I am not acting in the least as his 
providence. I am leaving him quite 
free to decide his own fate. I am cer- 
tainly not counseling him to feel any 
particular kind or degree of the mere 
emotion called remorse. For all that I 
now shall say, he is quite free, if that is 
his desire, to forget his treason once for 
all, and to begin business afresh with a 
new moral ideal, or with no ideal at all, 
as he may choose. 

What I ask is simply this : // he re- 
sumes his former position of knowing 
and choosing an ideal, if he also re- 
members what ideal he formerly chose, 
and what and how and how deliber- 
ately he betrayed, and knows himself 
for what he is, what does he judge re- 
garding the now inevitable and endless 
consequences of his deed? And what 
answer will he now make to Matthew 
Arnold's kind advice, 'Get rid of your 
sin '? He need not answer in a brood- 
ing way. He need be no Puritan. He 
may remain as cheerful in his pass- 
ing feelings as you please. He may 
quite calmly rehearse the facts. He 
may decline to shed any tear, either of 
repentance or of terror. My only hy- 
pothesis is that he sees the facts as 
they are and confesses, however coolly 
and dispassionately, the moral value 
which, as a matter of simple coherence 
of view and opinion, he now assigns to 


He will answer Matthew Arnold's 
advice, as I think, thus : Get rid of my 
sin? How can I get rid of it? It is 
done. It is past. It is as irrevocable 
as the Archaean geological period, or as 
the collision of stellar masses, the light 
of whose result we saw here on earth 
a few years ago, in the constellation 
Perseus. I am the one who, at such 
a time, with such a light of the spirit 
shining before me, with my eyes thus 
and thus open to my business and to the 
moral universe, first, so far as I could 
freely act at all, freely closed my eyes, 
and then committed what my own will 
had already defined to be my unpar- 
donable sin. So far as in me lay, in all 
my weakness, but yet with all the wit 
and the strength that just then were 
mine, I was a traitor. That fact, that 
event, that deed, is irrevocable. The 
fact that I am the one who then did 
thus and so, not ignorantly, but know- 
ingly, that fact will outlast the ages. 
That fact is as endless as time. And, in 
so far as I continue to value myself as 
a being whose life is coherent in its 
meaning, this fact that then and there 
I was a traitor, will always constitute 
a genuine penalty, my own penalty, 
a penalty that no god assigns to me, but 
that I, simply because I am myself, 
and take an interest in knowing my- 
self, assign to myself, precisely in so 
far as, and whenever, I am awake to the 
meaning of my own life. I can never 
undo that deed. If I ever say, I have 
undone that deed, I shall be both a 
fool and a liar. Counsel me, if you will, 
to forget that deed. Counsel me to do 
good deeds without number to set 
over against that treason. Counsel me 
to be cheerful, and to despise Puritan- 
ism. Counsel me to plunge into Lethe. 
All such counsel may be, in its way and 
time, good. Only do not counsel me 
'to get rid of just that sin. That, so 



far as the real facts are concerned, can- 
not be done. For I am, and to the 
end of endless time shall remain, the 
doer of that willfully traitorous deed. 
Whatever other value I may get, that 
value I retain forever. My guilt is as 
enduring as time. 

But hereupon a bystander will nat- 
urally invite our supposed traitor to 
repent, and to repent thoroughly, of his 
treason. The traitor, now cool and 
reasonable once more, can only apply 
to his own case Fitzgerald's word in 
the stanza from Omar Khayyam: 

The moving finger writes, and having writ. 
Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit 
Can lure it back to cancel half a line 
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. 

These very familiar lines are sometimes 
viewed as oriental fatalism. But they 
are, in fact, fully applicable to the 
freest of deeds when once that deed is 

We need not further pursue any sup- 
posed colloquy between the traitor and 
those who comment upon the situation. 
The simple fact is that each deed is ipso 
facto irrevocable; that our hypotheti- 
cal traitor, in his own deed, has been 
false to whatever light he then and 
there had, and to whatever ideal he 
then viewed as his highest good. Here- 
upon, no new deed, however good or 
however faithful, and however much of 
worthy consequences it introduces into 
the future life of the traitor, or of his 
world, can annul the fact that the one 
traitorous deed was actually done. No 
question as to whether the traitor, 
when he first chose the cause which he 
later betrayed, was then ethically cor- 
rect in his choice, aids us to estimate 
just the one matter which is here in 
question, namely, the value of the 
traitor as the doer of that one traitor- 
ous deed. For his treason consists not 
in his blunders in the choice of his 
cause, but in his sinning against such 
light as he then and there had. The 

question is, furthermore, not one as to 
his general moral character, apart from 
this one act of treason. To condemn at 
one stroke the whole man for the one 
deed is, of course, absurd. But it is the 
one deed which is now in question. 

This man may also be the doer of 
countless good deeds. But our present 
question is solely as to his value as the 
doer of that one traitorous deed. This 
value he has through his own irrevoc- 
able choice. Whatever other values 
his other deeds may give him, this one 
value remains, never to be removed. 
By no deed of his own can he ever es- 
cape from that penalty which consists 
in his having introduced into the moral 
world the one evil which was, at the 
time, as great an evil as he could, then, 
of his own will, introduce. 

In brief, by his own deed of treason, 
the traitor has consigned himself 
not indeed his whole self, but his self as 
the doer of this deed to what one 
may call the hell of the irrevocable. All 
deeds are indeed irrevocable. But only 
the traitorous sin against the light is 
such that, in advance, the traitor's own 
free acceptance of a cause has stamp- 
ed it with the character of being what 
his own will had defined as his own 
unpardonable sin. Whatever else the 
traitor may hereafter do, however 
much he may later become, and remain, 
through his life, in this cr any other 
world, a saint, the fact will remain: 
there was a moment when he freely 
did whatever he could to wreck the 
cause that he had sworn to serve. The 
traitor can henceforth do nothing that 
will give to himself, precisely in so far 
as he was the doer of that one deed, any 
character which is essentially different 
from the one determined by his trea- 

The hell of the irrevocable : all of us 
know what it is to come to the border 
of it when we contemplate our own 
past mistakes or mischances. But we 



can enter it and dwell there only when 
the fact, 'This deed is irrevocable,' is 
combined with the further fact, 'This 
deed is one that, unless I call treason 
my good, and moral suicide my life, I 
cannot forgive myself for having done.' 

Now to use these expressions is not 
to condemn the traitor, or any one else, 
to endless emotional horrors of remorse, 
or to any sensuous pangs of penalty 
or grief, or to any one set of emotions 
whatever. It is simply to say, If I 
morally value myself at all, it remains 
for me a genuine and irrevocable evil 
in my world, that ever I was, even if 
for but that one moment, and in that 
one deed, with all my mind and my 
soul and my heart and my strength, a 
traitor. And if I ever had any cause, 
and then betrayed it, such an evil 
not only was my deed, but such an evil 
forever remains, so far as that one deed 
was done, the only value that I can at- 
tribute to myself precisely as the doer 
of that deed at that time. 

What the pungency of the odors, 
what the remorseful griefs, of the hell 
of the irrevocable may be, for a given 
individual, we need not attempt to de- 
termine, and I have not the least right 
or desire to imagine. Certainly re- 
morse is a poor companion for an act- 
ive life; and I do not counsel any one, 
traitor or not traitor, to cultivate re- 
morse. Our question is not one about 
one's feelings, but about one's genuine 
value as a moral agent. Certainly for- 
getfulness is often useful when one 
looks forward to new deeds. I do not 
counsel any one uselessly to dwell upon 
the past. Still the fact remains, that 
the more I come to the large and co- 
herent views of my life and of its mean- 
ing, the more will the fact that, by my 
own traitorous deed, I have banished 
myself to the hell of the irrevocable, 
appear to me both a vast and a grave 
fact in my world. I shall learn, if I 
wisely grow into new life, neither to be 

crushed by any sort of facing of that 
fact, nor to brood unduly over its ever- 
lasting presence as a fact in my life. 
But so long as I remain awake to the 
real values of my life, and to the coher- 
ence of my meaning, I shall know that 
while no god shuts me, or could pos- 
sibly shut me, if he would, into this 
hell, it is my own will to say that, for 
this treason, just in so far as I willfully 
and knowingly committed this trea- 
son, I shall permit none of the gods to 
forgive me. For it is my precious priv- 
ilege to assert my own reasonable will, 
by freely accepting my place in the hell 
of the irrevocable, and by never for- 
giving myself for this sin against the 

If any new deed can assign to just 
that one traitorous deed of mine any 
essentially novel and reconciling mean- 
ing, that new deed will in any case 
certainly not be mine. I can do good 
deeds in future; but I cannot revoke 
my individual past deed. If it ever 
comes to appear as anything but what 
I myself then and there made it, that 
change will be due to no deed of mine. 
Nothing that I myself can do will ever 
really reconcile me to my own deed, so 
far as it was that treason. 

This, then, as I suppose, is the essen- 
tial meaning which underlies the tra- 
ditional doctrine of the endless penalty 
of willful sin. This deeper meaning is 
that, quite apart from the judgment of 
any of the gods, and wholly in accord- 
ance with the true rational will of the 
one who has done the deed of betrayal, 
the guilt of a free act of betrayal is as 
enduring as time. This doctrine so in- 
terpreted is, I insist, not cheerless. It 
is simply resolute. It is the word of 
one who is ready to say to himself, 
Such was my deed, and I did it. No 
repentance, no pardoning power can 
deprive us of the duty and as I 
repeat the precious privilege of say- 
ing that of our own deed. 



(Horatio speaks.) 

BEYOND these ancient walls of Elsinore 
A shrouding mist is folded on the snow. 
(Here by the battlements he leans no more, 
Watching the guard below.) 

League after league along the cliff the gray 
Wide water darkens with the darkening west. 
(O troubled soul, by what uncharted way 
Hast thou gone forth to rest?) 

Within, the shadows creep across the walls, 
Through the long corridors as dusk grows dim. 
(The echoing vastness of the vaulted halls 
To-night is full of him.) 

A gust of wind steals shuddering down the floor 
Where once he paced his hours of heart-wrung watch. 
(It may be that his foot is at the door, 
His hand upon the latch.) 

'The rest is silence/ Ah, my liege, my prince! 
Though storm-winds sweep the seas, and cannon roar, 
Silence is on thy lips, and ever since 
Silence in Elsinore! 



*"!F there's no meaning in it, that 
saves a world of trouble, as we need n't 
try to find any." ! Unfortunately this 
sage declaration of the King of Hearts, 
uttered when he was examining the 
cryptic anonymous document intro- 
duced at the historic trial, represents 
only too accurately the attitude of 
most readers of Lewis Carroll. They 
prefer to follow the fantastic adven- 
tures and marvelous wanderings of 
Alice in a mood of otiose enjoyment, 
untroubled by any glimmer of wonder 
whether the careless and happy feet of 
childhood might not lead them to some 
glorious kingdom. But the true spirit, 
in which we ought to read, breathes in 
the peremptory monarch's later declar- 
ation. '"And yet I don't know," he 
went on, spreading out the verses on 
his knee and looking at them with one 
eye. "I seem to see some meaning 
in them after all." ' Then he proceeds 
with laudable energy to search for reli- 
able evidence beneath the meaningless 

This inspiring example has been con- 
stantly before me in the preparation of 
the present paper, which is the out- 
come of a long and painstaking exam- 
ination of the two masterpieces per- 
vaded by the personality of Alice, 
undertaken in the belief that under the 
winsome mask of delicious mockery 
would be found many serious and abid- 
ing truths. And I may state forthwith 
that my study soon led irresistibly to 
the conclusion that these apparently 


frivolous fables were really an allegory 
of education. 

Of a general tendency to symbolic 
presentation we have very definite and 
unescapable examples in many of 
Professor Dodgson's recognized works. 
The Hunting of the Snark, published in 
1876, is accepted by every intelligent 
commentator as an allegory. It is true 
that the poem is rather bewildering, 
and students are not all agreed as to 
the exact hidden meaning, although 
there is a preponderance of opinion 
that 'The Pursuit of Fame' is the real 
subject cloaked by this whimsical 
verse. Again, both parts of Sylvie and 
Bruno give unmistakable evidence of 
this same tendency; for beneath all the 
drollery is a manifest effort to com- 
municate profound theological dogma. 
Moreover, his inherent incapacity to 
separate the serious from the lighter 
vein is seen most strikingly in Euclid 
and His Modern Rivals (1879). Here- 
in Professor Dodgson made a profound 
and valuable contribution to Euclidean 
geometry; but it was thrown into dra- 
matic form, and, despite the advice of 
all his friends, contained so much ap- 
parent levity, so many clutching jokes, 
that most readers refused to take it 

Space forbids my adducing further 
arguments of this type; but I am sure 
that with the foregoing I may count 
upon the sympathetic toleration of my 
readers, if not upon their unhesitating 
acquiescence. For their complete con- 
viction I must await the ineluctable 
collusiveness of specific passages and 



interpretations to which we shall turn 
in a moment. 

I have no desire to blink the fact 
that Professor Dodgson formally de- 
nies that our two books are anything 
more than they appear on the surface. 
But no carefully trained investigator 
will be deceived by this threadbare 
device, which is as old as literature 
itself, and was particularly in vogue 
about the time these volumes were 
given to the world. The example of 
Kingsley is enough. Water-Babies ap- 
peared in 1863, two years before Alice 
in Wonderland; and the reverend 
author goes out of his way to declare 
that the tale has no moral whatsoever. 
But nobody is deceived. We all know 
that Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid repre- 
sents the old dispensation, and Mrs. 
Doasyouwouldbedoneby the new, while 
tiny Tom is nothing less than the hu- 
man soul. 

But in whatever sense we take Tom 
(I always find pleasure in thinking 
that he and Alice might have been 
playmates), it is clear that 

The dream-child moving through a land 
Of wonders wild and new, 

is simply the human race in its search, 
ever eager and ever puzzled, for educa- 
tion and educational methods. 


With this unavoidable clearing of 
the ground, I feel that we may now 
turn to a few of the anticipations that 
impart to these allegories their real 
value. In my more ambitious study, 
which I plan to make as nearly exhaust- 
ive as the nature of the subject will 
permit, I hope to expound Professor 
Dodgson's system as a unified and 
philosophic whole, and to place him in 
a niche of honor a little below Plato, 
but well above such pedagogical celeb- 
rities as Comenius and Herbert Spen- 
cer. In the mean time, I must limit 
VOL. Ill -NO. 2 

myself to a few of those esoteric cogita- 
tions that are obviously relevant to the 
stage of educational evolution repre- 
sented by the twentieth century, which 
William Morris prophesied might well 
prove to be the Century of Education. 

From the many tempting themes we 
may select first, * The Play Element in 
the Development of the Child.' 

We all know the history of the move- 
ment. Long prior to the proud and 
grand doctrine of onto-phylogenetic 
parallelism, and to the invaluable Teu- 
tonic researches on the play of beast 
and man, we find Rousseau hinting 
that we must employ the superabun- 
dant energy of childhood. From Rous- 
seau it was but a step to the epoch- 
making conclusion of Froebel, who 
fixed upon the restlessness of children 
as the most potent utilizable factor in 
their education. From this seed sprang 
the kindergarten. If their restless act- 
ivity was to be turned to account, 
the children would have to play; and 
from the kindergarten the play-element 
spread upward and outward until we 
have reached our present superb devo- 
tion to a theory which declares that 
the child must never do what he dis- 
likes or does not understand, and that 
whatever is hard is to be shunned. We 
must not only utilize the play-impulse, 
but magnify it. 

This stage was clearly anticipated 
by the chapter on the Lobster Quad- 
rille. In order to emphasize the im- 
portance attached thereto by Professor 
Dodgson I would point out not only that 
it occupies one fourteenth of the whole 
Wonderland volume, but also that the 
author employs a very effective device 
to quicken our attention; for in the 
preceding chapter, just as our interest 
in the subject of lessons was keyed to 
the highest pitch, the Gryphon inter- 
rupted in a very decided tone with in- 
structions to the Mock Turtle to Hell 
her something about the games.' 



The Lobster Quadrille itself is evi- 
dently intended to represent a kinder- 
garten game that shall entertain the 
child, improve his knowledge of living 
creatures, develop the imagination, 
and bring him to unity with himself, 
quite as Froebel demanded. As a mat- 
ter of pedagogical method, one ob- 
serves instantly that the Mock Turtle, 
after vividly describing a part of the 
dance, proposed that he and the Gry- 
phon should do the first figure. No 
mere verbal presentation for him. 
Then, just as in a well-regulated kinder- 
garten, the two creatures executed the 
interesting movements, while one of 
them sang, and both waved their fore- 
arms to mark the time. 

With reference to the song itself, 
which begins, '"Will you walk a little 
faster," said a whiting to a snail,' and 
could be quoted by any of my readers, 
I would merely point out that the 
rhythm is strongly marked, so as to be 
caught easily by the childish ear; that 
there is enough repetition to avoid 
fatiguing the delicate organisms; and 
that, while many of the thoughts are 
familiar, there is just enough novelty 
to stimulate curiosity and thereby 
insure mental growth. It may be con- 
fidently asserted that the most cap- 
tious of my readers will feel the superi- 
ority of this poetry for it is poetry 
to such favorite songs as, * My heart 
is God's little garden,' or, 'The grass- 
hopper green had a game of tag with 
some crickets that lived near by.' 

In passing, we should not neglect the 
reference to the doctrine of immortal- 
ity, the comforting assurance of a life 
hereafter, not formally obtruded, but 
gently and graciously intimated in that 
always attractive phrase, ' the other 
shore.' The sterling moralist in Profes- 
sor Dodgson is never thrust upon our 
notice; but he is never quite absent. 

At the conclusion of the song, the 
Gryphon and Mock Turtle skillfully 

utilized the interest and curiosity now 
aroused to impart some valuable in- 
formation as to marine life. I must not 
quote the passage, but everybody will 
remember how the Gryphon explained 
to Alice that the whiting was so-called 
because it did the boots and shoes un- 
der the sea, where they obviously must 
be done with whiting; and that the 
shoes were made of soles and eels. 

Later on, still with due attention to 
method, Alice was herself made to re- 
peat a verse, but, like some children, 
being dimly and half-resentfully aware 
that she was being taught, she became 
so confused that the voice of the slug- 
gard turned into the voice of the lob- 
ster. (It has always been suspected 
that the prominence of the lobster 
throughout the chapter has some 
special meaning.) Eventually she sat 
down with her face in her hands, won- 
dering if anything would ever happen 
in a natural way again. 

If it should appear to any teacher 
that Professor Dodgson goes rather far 
in the importance assigned to play and 
the principles of ease and pleasantness 
in juvenile training, I would suggest 
that he represents a natural reaction 
from the formalism then in vogue; and 
that in particular he is striving to re- 
fute a passage in Water-Babies, which 
had appeared two years before, and 
was being widely quoted with strong 
approval. Tom had been playing 
with lobsters (again that symbolic 
crustacean) and other aquatic creat- 
ures, and had asked to go home with 
Ellie on Sunday. To his request, the 
fairy, Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid, replies, 
* Those who go there, must go first 
where they do not like, and do what 
they do not like, and help somebody 
they do not like.' It is no wonder that 
such a progressive intellect and tender 
heart as Professor Dodgson was driven 
to an extreme in his protests against 
this benighted and barbarous mediae- 



valism. It is no wonder that we still 
follow in his gentle footsteps. 

From a consideration of the play- 
element, we have a natural transition 
to Nature Study. The Alice books 
not only advocate this pursuit, but 
breathe about it the charming aura of 
novelty. I have not been able to de- 
termine how directly Professor Dodg- 
son is indebted to Pestalozzi; for, as 
a matter of fact, even later students 
have failed to attach due importance 
to that educator's substantial service 
in this field, when he was working at 
Stanz. But without Pestalozzi, or any 
other one thinker, this beneficent step 
of pedagogical evolution was bound to 
be taken. We could not see children 
confined forever in mud- walled prisons. 
Liberation was inevitable. And who 
can fail to recognize the tremendous 
gain when, as one of Mr. Punch's 
young men has felicitously voiced the 

We gave up Euclid and rule of three 
And nature-studied the bumble-bee. 

It was only to be expected that our 
educational Lynceus should grasp the 
uttermost possibilities of this emanci- 
pating movement. It is no accident 
that one of the first stopping-places of 
Alice after passing through the looking- 
glass, was the ' Garden of Live Flowers.' 
Nor is it merely by hap that she enters 
into such close communion with these 
children of Proserpina that she can 
actually share their thoughts. Would 
that every child in America might 
learn the lesson ! 

* " Tiger-lily," said Alice, " I wish 
you could talk." 

' "We can talk," said the Tiger-lily, 
"when there's anybody worth talking 

There is the secret. Furthermore, 
like all really profound teachers, as 
distinguished from those who merely 
seem profound, he shuns the senti- 
mental fallacy of over-idealizing. The 

flowers have personalities; they are not 
merely uniform entities of angelic tem- 
perament. The regal Rose and the 
lowly Daisy alike will have their joke, 
declaring that the tree will take care of 
them, for it says 'Bough-wough,' and 
can bark in time of danger. The im- 
perial Tiger-lily loses her temper at the 
garrulous smaller flowers; while the 
Violet and the Rose are distinctly rude 
to Alice, the former snarling out in a 
severe tone, ' It 's my opinion you never 
think at all,' and the latter exclaim- 
ing, with even more startling asperity, 
'I never saw anybody that looked 
stupider.' This same insistence on the 
unfriendly possibilities of nature may 
be marked in the scene in Maeterlinck's 
Blue Bird, where the trees are repre- 
sented as frankly hostile to mankind. 
And both teachers are right in refusing 
to darken knowledge with half-truths. 

Even more inspiring than the won- 
derful live flowers are the looking-glass 
insects. We must learn the fauna as 
well as the flora. Beginning with the 
Horse-fly we pass to the Rocking-horse- 
fly; and the importance of drawing for 
children is driven home by Sir John 
Tenniel's copy from life of that do- 
mestic insect, to which I have often 
compared the curious stick-insects of 
Ceylon. The Snapdragon-fly, with the 
Bread-and-butter-fly, must likewise 
appeal to the budding sense of child- 
hood, if only the opportunity is given. 
But here again our teacher will not 
have us neglect the final, bitter truth. 
If the Bread-and-butter-fly cannot 
find its proper food it must die. * "But 
that must happen often," remarked 
Alice thoughtfully.' (Children will 
think if we only let them.) '"It al- 
ways happens," said the Gnat.' Na- 
ture, that is the universal creator, is 
also the universal destroyer. 

Just a little later comes a real diffi- 
culty. The Gnat, you will remember, 
having made a very silly pun, 'sighed 



deeply, while two large tears came roll- 
ing down its cheeks.' '"You shouldn't 
make jokes," Alice said, "if it makes 
you so unhappy." ' One of my Parisian 
correspondents will have it that the 
Gnat was unhappy simply because the 
pun was so bad; but I am inclined to 
believe, with a fellow investigator at 
Berlin, that the incident is hinting once 
more at the idea that all living things 
feel joy and grief, even as mankind. 
Life is one. From the lowest forms of 
protozoa to the godlike genius who 
passes beyond the flaming battlements 
of the world to storm their secrets from 
the stars, life is one. 

However, from this tangle, we are 
carried to the idyllic scene where Alice 
and the Fawn converse together. They 
have forgotten their different worlds, 
have forgotten their very selves, in this 
moment of complete understanding. I 
could quote passage after passage deal- 
ing with the theme of nature-study, but 
here, I think, is the supreme lesson; 
and I prefer to bid farewell to this sub- 
ject with the picture of our gentle 
heroine gazing wistfully into the great 
soulful eyes of this creature of the wild. 
It is the burgeoning genius of the race 
learning to read, with love, the manu- 
script of God. 

But the more advanced educational 
thought of to-day is so completely in 
accord with the above deductions from 
my master's teaching, that there is no 
occasion to carry the discussion further. 

I had planned to continue this part 
of my paper with a number of other 
anticipations of our modern theories 
and practice, including: The Abuse of 
Memory (cf. Alice and the White 
Queen and King) ; Shortening the Peri- 
od of Formal Study (cf. the Gryphon's 
explanation of lesson as that which 
lessens from day to day) ; Self-Expres- 
sion and Vocational Activity (cf. the 
Cook); Methods in Education (cf. 
Tweedledum and Tweedledee) ; Devel- 

oping the Imagination (passim) ; The 
Emotions in Education (cf. The Wal- 
rus and the Carpenter); and many 
others. Then, with the light shed by 
these general discussions, I had hoped 
to consider the curricula of primary 
and secondary schools, and to move 
from them to the college and univer- 


However, I must omit all the inter- 
vening stages in order to take up one 
or two of his anticipations of the pro- 
blems of higher education ; for herein, 
I think, we shall find some of his most 
pointed and pertinent reflections. 
Among these fundamental questions 
are The Elective System and Original 
Research; and inasmuch as the former 
offers an instance of our author's pass- 
ing even beyond our position at the 
beginning of the twentieth century, we 
may give it prior consideration. 

Nobody has failed to observe the 
triumphant progress of the elective 
system. It came to many as a glorious 
ennobling emancipation from the old 
hide-bound curriculum. To others it 
seemed to offer the possibility of de- 
veloping breadth of horizon without 
exacting depth of thought. It increased 
the number of students in many insti- 
stutions, thereby encouraging state 
legislatures or generous private bene- 
factors to open the flood-gates of the 
golden life-giving stream. It evoked 
reams of debate, always earnest, and 
often bitter. But somehow the con- 
troversy has been softened, until even 
the most earnest partisan ought to be 
able to read with keen enjoyment 
Professor Dodgson's inimitable de- 
scription of the elective system, under 
the guise of the Caucus Race. If a few 
of my readers have hitherto questioned 
my interpretations, I look for their 
instant agreement on this point. If our 
author was not writing of the elective 



system, he was writing of nothing seri- 
ous whatever. On this I am willing to 
stake my exegetical reputation. 

It will be remembered that they 
formed a damp and queer-looking 
party on the bank of the pool. 'There 
was a Duck, and a Dodo, a Lory and 
an Eaglet, and several other curious 
creatures.' The Lory, with his assump- 
tion of superiority, and the Mouse, with 
his technical aridity, may well repre- 
sent the older curriculum. They have 
nothing to offer that promises imme- 
diate results. But the Dodo proceeds 
to move for the adoption of more ener- 
getic remedies, and, notwithstanding 
the protests against his long words, 
he carries the day. His solution comes 
in the proposal for a Caucus race; and 
with truly commendable pedagogical 
instinct he declares that the best way 
to explain it is to do it. 
, ' First it marked out a race-course, in 
a sort of circle ("the exact shape 
does n't matter," it said), and then all 
the party were placed along the course, 
here and there. There was no "One, 
two, three, and away," but they began 
running when they liked, and left off 
when they liked, so that it was not easy 
to know when the race was over. How- 
ever, when they had been running half- 
an-hour or so, and were quite dry again, 
the Dodo suddenly called out, "The 
race is over!" and they all crowded 
round it, panting, and asking, "But 
who has won?" 

'This question the Dodo could not 
answer without a great deal of thought, 
and it sat for a long time with one fin- 
ger pressed upon its forehead (the posi- 
tion in which you usually see Shakes- 
speare, in the pictures of him), while 
the rest waited in silence. At last the 
Dodo said, "Everybody has won, and 
all must have prizes." 

'"But who is to give the prizes?" 
quite a chorus of voices asked. 

'"Why, she, of course," said the 

Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; 
and the whole party at once crowded 
round her, calling out in a confused 
way, "Prizes! Prizes!"' 

So the colleges and universities, like 
Alice, having no idea what to do, put 
their hands in their pockets and took 
out a number of diplomas. These, 
after being tied with the beautiful and 
sentimental college colors, were dis- 
tributed as prizes, and it always 
'turned out that there was one apiece 
all round.' 

There can be no doubt, however, that 
my revered teacher disapproved of the 
elective system. His own training had 
been quite the reverse; and he explic- 
itly states that, 'Alice thought the 
whole thing very absurd; but they all 
looked so grave that she did not dare to 
laugh.' Accordingly, despite the emi- 
nence of the most distinguished spon- 
sor of the elective system, despite the 
brilliance and number of its advocates, 
I can only declare in favor of a group 
system. Malo err are cum Platone quam 
cum istis vera s entire. 

'There is nothing more beautiful 
than a key, as long as we do not know 
what it opens.' Readers of Maeterlinck 
will recognize the suggestive avowal of 
Aglavaine, which I have borrowed to 
apply to the thrill of the student when 
he is introduced by the professor to 
original research. Only a master sym- 
bolist, like Maeterlinck, has a right to 
attempt to utter in prose our profound 
emotion, when 

We felt a grand and beautiful fear, 

For we knew a marvelous thought drew near. 

Organized work in original investiga- 
tion by students in our American uni- 
versities may be said to date from the 
foundation of Johns Hopkins. Before 
that event, research was largely a mat- 
ter of individual initiative and pursuit, 
while facilities for the publication of 
original articles were inadequate. In 
an article on 'Three Decades of the 



American University/ I have already 
paid generous tribute to the solid, pio- 
neer services rendered by that institu- 
tion. In the last forty years, however, 
the spirit of investigation has poured 
through a million channels. It has 
been of incalculable benefit ; but by its 
side there has spread a keenness of con- 
tention for the recognition of the inves- 
tigator's service that is dangerously 
near to being unphilosophical. Indeed, 
the proverbial odium theologicum could 
scarcely exhibit greater acerbity than 
the rivalry of fellow specialists about 
priority of discovery, accuracy of ob- 
servation, or interpretation of minu- 
tiae. The struggle never ends; but 
occasionally a truce is patched up, 
with public assurances of good-will and 
private confidence of complete victory 
on both sides. Inevitably there has 
sprung up a certain distrust on the part 
of the more aggressive Philistines, al- 
though the world at large is generally 
content with a smiling, tolerant, more 
or less disdainful, aloofness. All of these 
phases were manifestly before Profes- 
sor Dodgson's mind when he was com- 
posing under the caption, * It 's my own 

Turning first to inventive originality 
and investigation, we are attracted at 
once by the eager, active persistence of 
the White Knight. This chevalier of 
education has the unusual spirit that 
can delight in discovery or invention 
purely for its own sake, without de- 
spising practical results. To word the 
thought in Huxley's matchless phrase- 
ology, he can enjoy a sail over the 
illimitable ocean of the unknowable, 
without begrudging to applied science 
its utilization of the flotsam and 

As examples of the utilitarian aspect, 
we have his painful elaboration of the 
beehive and the mouse-trap, which he 
has hung to his saddle, in case any bees 
or mice should come near; and the ank- 

lets round the horse's feet, to guard 
against the biting of sharks. Equally 
humane and practical are some of the 
other results of his investigations, such 
as the plan for preventing one's hair 
from falling out, or the discovery that 
the great art of riding is to keep your 
balance properly. Nor should we fail 
to note that his heart is never daunted 
by the skepticism of Alice. 

But even finer, more professorial, 
more like Thales, is the unsullied, ob- 
livious, self-effacing devotion to unre- 
warded research, the final joy of the 

: "How can you go on talking so 
quietly, head downwards?" Alice 
asked, as she dragged him out by his 
feet, and laid him in a heap on the 

'"What does it matter where my 
body happens to be?" he said. "My 
mind goes on working all the same.'" 

Then he described his invention of a 
new pudding, and Alice, like the dis- 
trustful Philistine, raised the query as 
to its practicability. This evokes the 
superb rejoinder, uttered with bowed 
head and lowered voice, 

'"I don't believe that pudding ever 
was cooked. In fact, I don't believe 
that pudding ever will be cooked. And 
yet it was a very clever pudding to 

The famous retort of Pasteur to the 
shoddy French nobility, when he de- 
clared that the spirit of science was 
above thoughts of personal gain, was 
no finer than this hushed self-revela- 
tion, coming straight from the heart. 

Herewith, the remaining points of 
this topic may be promptly dismissed. 
We have seen that the comments of 
Alice represent both the carping Phil- 
istine and the uncomprehending pub- 
lic. It only remains for us to notice 
that the bickerings of researchful 
enthusiasts are depicted both by the 
quarrel between the two White Knights 



over the ownership of the helmet, and 
by the bout between the Red Knight 
and the first White Knight when they 
come upon Alice. Indeed, the choice 
of knights for the leading personse of 
this instructive drama hints at the 
same tendency, although it is doubt- 
less intended also to suggest the chiv- 
alrous devotion of the true investi- 

The next question would naturally 
have been The Study of the Classics 
in our Colleges, to which a new inter- 
est has been given by the agitation at 
Amherst. Both sides of the contro- 
versy are represented in our volume, an 
excellent starting-point being offered 
by the different impressions of the 
Classical Master we receive from the 
Gryphon and the Mock Turtle. The 
former maintained that he was an old 
crab, whereas the latter asserted that 
he taught Laughing and Grief. Assur- 
edly the Turtle's phrase has in mind 
the strong humanistic tendency of 
classical studies, while the Gryphon's 
vigorous but contemptuous designation 
intimates a belief that such studies lead 
to * progress backwards,' if I may be- 
come indebted to Mr. Cable's lovable 

Omitting this and many other top- 
ics, I may tarry a moment on Professor 
Dodgson's surprising references to 
philosophy; and it must not be taken 
as an admission either of slothfulness 
or incapacity, if I confess that a few 
details are not quite clear to me. De- 
spite the fact that a Kantian discussion 
of time is placed on the lips of the Mad 
Hatter; despite the fact that the same 
problem, together with the non-exist- 
ence of space and the unsubstantiality 
of matter, is suggested by the cake that 
must be served first and cut after- 
wards, I am nevertheless convinced 
that the household of the Duchess 
must represent the penetralia contain- 
ing the ultimate arcana. 

That noble personage herself prob- 
ably symbolizes the older, more purely 
metaphysical schools. This is indi- 
cated by her dignified vocabulary and 
stately copious presentation, as well as 
by her contempt for lower mathema- 
tics, and for mere human affections. 

The latter aspects are perceived at 
once in the dialogue following Alice's 
uncertainty whether the period re- 
quired for the earth to revolve on its 
axis might be twenty-four hours or 
twelve; for the Duchess exclaims im- 
patiently that she never could abide 
figures, and begins that most unfeel- 
ing of all lullabies: * Speak roughly 
to your little boy and beat him when 
he sneezes.' Furthermore, that titled 
lady's subsequent treatment of her off- 
spring corresponds very closely to what 
is recorded of two or three famous 
representatives of the metaphysical 
school. This behavior of hers cannot 
be explained, much less justified, on 
any other basis. 

The former aspects, the character- 
istic vocabulary and presentation, are 
so unmistakably set forth in the follow- 
ing passage that I merely transcribe it. 

* " It 's a mineral, I think," said Alice, 
in support of her contention that mus- 
tard was not a bird. 

'" Of course it is," said the Duchess, 
"there's a large mustard-mine near 
here. And the moral of that is 'The 
more there is of mine, the less there is 
of yours." 

'"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, 
who had not attended to this last re- 
mark. "It's a vegetable. It doesn't 
look like one, but it is." 

"I quite agree with you," said the 
Duchess; "and the moral of that is 
' Be what you would seem to be ' or, 
if you'd like it put more simply 
'Never imagine yourself not to be 
otherwise than what it might appear to 
others that what you were or might 
have been was not otherwise than 


what you had been would have ap- 
peared to them to be otherwise.' " 

'"I think I should understand that 
better," Alice said very politely, "if I 
had it written down; but I can't quite 
follow it as you say it." 

4 "That's nothing to what I could 
say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in 
a pleased tone.' 

The Cheshire Cat, on the other hand, 
most probably anticipates the more 
optimistic development of pragma- 
tism; and I hope I may be forgiven the 
personal intrusion, if I point out that 
I was the first writer to emphasize the 
lightly mentioned fact that the cat is 
part of the household of the Duchess and, 
therefore, must be interpreted philosoph- 

That it pictures optimism in some 
form is incontrovertible. The insist- 
ence that the comfort-giving grin ap- 
pears before the body of the animal, 
and remains after the latter's vanish- 
ing, can only be explained by reference 
to a philosophy that will have all well 
with the world regardless of dishar- 
monies and defects in the system of 
things; a philosophy, as is suggested 
by a clever French litterateur, that 
strives to erect a world temple with 
such a beautiful fagade that it shall 
hide the bitter disappointment of man- 
kind within the sanctum. And if we 
are dealing with some form of optim- 
ism, I can only conclude that it is the 
more hopeful and vigorous phase of 

The most pertinent, I might almost 
say, the most unanswerable, passage in 
favor of this pragmatic interpretation 
is the following: 

"Would you tell me, please, which 
way I ought to go from here?" 

'"That depends a good deal on 
where you want to get to," said the 

'"I don't much care where " said 

"Then it doesn't much matter 
which way you go," said the Cat. 

so long as I get somewhere," 
Alice added as an explanation. 

: "Oh, you're sure to do that," said 
the Cat, "if you only walk long 

None of my readers can fail to recog- 
nize the essentials of pragmatism in 
this passage. There is the crucial re- 
cognition that philosophy must be con- 
nected with actual needs; that it must 
deal with actual conditions; that it 
must appreciate human limitations. 
Indications of the same trend are to be 
seen in the Cat's vivid interest in the 
baby that turned into a pig, as well as 
in his friendly converse with Alice at 
the croquet party. 

One argument, suggested to me by 
a conservative, philosophical friend, I 
shrink from introducing; but, inasmuch 
as he insists that it is finally conclusive, 
I indulge his fancy. You will remember 
that when the King and Queen order 
the beheading of the Cat, there springs 
up an argument as to whether you can 
cut off a head when there is no body to 
cut it off from. Then, at the critical 
moment of the inquisition, the Cat's 
head begins to fade away and soon 
entirely disappears. My colleague 
maintains most stoutly that this can 
only represent pragmatism before a 
searching examination at the hands of 
an expert dialectician. If he is right, I 
could set down as final the explanation 
I have proposed. But in any event the 
evidence is very strong, and until some 
other student shall propose a more 
satisfactory theory, we may continue 
to regard the Cheshire Cat as a sym- 
bol of the more optimistic phases of 


Topic after topic crowds upon me 
like imprisoned birds fluttering toward 
the door of their cage; but I must leave 



them all unreleased save one. In both 
volumes the master leaves the supreme 
lesson until the end, and in both vol- 
umes the lesson is the same. He would 
have us remember in all education that 
human creatures are the one thing 
really important. We spin our theories 
and weave them into the fabric of a 
system; but the child and the man are 
above systems and theories. Bergson 
has rendered a genuine service by his 
insistence that life is self-developing 
and self-comprehending. On ultimate 
metaphysical analysis, life is the uni- 
verse discovering itself and creating 
itself; it is at once natura naturans and 
natura naturata. Ever and ever it 
works and plays with the visible and 
invisible world, to find its highest ex- 
pression in man. And for this highest 
manifestation, who shall make a final 
system of education? But our puny 
systematizers will have at least a day 
for their schematic panaceas, not real- 
izing how soon they must cease to be, 
when mankind, half-smiling, half-an- 
gry, bids them go. And this truth, the 
eternal lesson, the final message, is 
delivered to us in redoubled clarity. 
At the close of the Wonderland volume 
our heroine declares, '"Who cares for 
you? You are nothing but a pack of 
cards." ' Likewise, at the climax of the 
Looking-Glass allegory, she breaks up 
the fantastic banquet : ' One good pull, 
and plates, dishes, guests, and candles 
come crashing down together in a 
heap on the floor.' 

So has it fared, so will it ever fare 
with all systems and theories of educa- 
tion that place their faith in methods 
or mechanism, and would raise them- 
selves above human nature. Eventu- 
ally the children of men will eat bread 
and butter instead of dream-cakes; will 
shake the Red Queen into a compan- 
ionable kitten; will come back from 
Wonderland to the simple natural life 
of healthful human beings. 

Here, with reluctance and no little 
difficulty, I check my eager pen. As I 
review the paper, I am painfully aware 
that it is both incomplete and frag- 
mentary. I can only pray that my 
readers will view the disjecta membra 
with mercy, and wait with patience for 
my authoritative and exhaustive treat- 
ment. Howbeit, even this popular pre- 
sentation in simple form may have 
served to establish the contention with 
which I began. Nor can I quite resign 
the hope that, as a result of my efforts, 
many lovers of Professor Dodgson will 
read him with enlarged understanding 
as well as with enhanced pleasure. 

If it shall appear to the more prac- 
tical-minded critics of my paper that I 
have occasionally discovered a hidden 
meaning where none existed, I can 
only point out that in such recondite 
matters, making constant demands on 
the creative imagination, a pioneer is 
bound to go astray at times. But he 
must persist in his task, strengthening 
himself with the encouragement of 
mighty souls like Schiller, whose words 
seem almost prophetic in the closeness 
of their application: Wage du zu irren 
und zu trdumen: Hoher Sinn liegt oft 
in kind'schem Spiel. My sole aim has 
been the discovery of the truth; and 
if I have ever doubted that under some 
astounding detail of this childish alle- 
gory there lay an ultimate lesson, I 
have always been saved from disheart- 
enment by the comforting assurance 
of our author himself: 

'"I can't tell you now what the 
moral of that is," said the metaphys- 
ical Duchess, "but I shall remember 

'"Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice 
ventured to remark. 

"'Tut, tut, child," said the Duchess, 
"everything's got a moral, if only you 
can find it."' 



I LEARNED arithmetic in Scotland 
without understanding any of it, al- 
though I had the rules by heart. But 
when I was about fifteen or sixteen 
years of age I began to grow hungry 
for real knowledge, and persuaded fa- 
ther, who was willing enough to have 
me study provided my farm work was 
kept up, to buy me a higher arithme- 
tic. Beginning at the beginning, in one 
summer,! easily finished it, without as- 
sistance, in the short intervals between 
the end of dinner and the afternoon 
start for the harvest and hay-fields, ac- 
complishing more without a teacher in 
a few scraps of time, than in years in 
school before my mind was ready for 
such work. Then in succession I took 
up algebra, geometry, and trigonome- 
try, and made some little progress in 
each, and reviewed grammar. I was 
fond of reading, but father brought 
only a few religious books from Scot- 

Fortunately, several of our neigh- 
bors brought a dozen or two of all 
sorts of books, which I borrowed and 
read, keeping all of them except the 
religious ones carefully hidden from 
father's eye. Among these were Scott's 
novels, which, like all other novels, were 
strictly forbidden, but devoured with 
glorious pleasure in secret. Father was 
easily persuaded to buy Josephus's 
Wars of the Jews, and D'Aubigne's 
History of the Reformation, and I tried 
hard to get him to buy Plutarch's 

1 Former chapters from John Muir's life have 
appeared in the past three issues of the Atlan- 


Lives, which, as I told him, everybody, 
even religious people, praised as a grand 
good book; but he would have nothing 
to do with the old pagan until the 
graham bread and anti-flesh doctrines 
came suddenly into our backwoods 
neighborhood, making a stir something 
like phrenology and spirit-rappings, 
which were mysterious in their attacks 
as influenza. He then thought it pos- 
sible that Plutarch might be turned to 
account on the food question by re- 
vealing what those old Greeks and 
Romans ate to make them strong; so 
at last we gained our glorious Plutarch. 

Dick's Christian Philosophy, which I 
borrowed from a neighbor, I thought 
I might venture to read in the open, 
trusting that the word 'Christian' 
would be proof against its cautious con- 
demnation. But father balked at the 
word 'Philosophy,' and quoted from 
the Bible a verse which spoke of 'phi- 
losophy falsely so-called.' I then ven- 
tured to speak in defense of the book, 
arguing that we could not do without 
at least a little of the most useful kinds 
of philosophy. 

'Yes, we can,' he said, with enthusi- 
asm, ' the Bible is the only book human 
beings can possible require throughout 
all the journey from earth to heaven.' 

'But how,' I contended, 'can we find 
the way to heaven without the Bible, 
and how after we grow old can we 
read the Bible without a little helpful 
science? Just think, father, you can- 
not read your Bible without spectacles, 
and millions of others are in the same 
fix; and spectacles cannot be made 



without some knowledge of the science 
of optics/ 

'Oh,' he replied, perceiving the drift 
of the argument, ' there will always be 
plenty of worldly people to make spec- 

To this I stubbornly replied with a 
quotation from the Bible with refer- 
ence to the time coming when ' all shall 
know the Lord from the least even to 
the greatest/ and then who will make 
the spectacles? But he still objected to 
my reading that book, called me a con- 
tumacious quibbler too fond of dispu- 
tation, and ordered me to return it to 
the accommodating owner. I managed, 
however, to read it later. 

On the food question father insisted 
that those who argued for a vegeta- 
ble diet were in the right, because our 
teeth showed plainly that they were 
made with reference to fruit and grain, 
and not for flesh like those of dogs 
and wolves and tigers. He therefore 
promptly adopted a vegetable diet, and 
requested mother to make the bread 
from graham flour instead of bolted 
flour. Mother put both kinds on the 
table, and meat also, to let all the fam- 
ily take their choice; and while father 
was insisting on the foolishness of eat- 
ing flesh, I came to her help by calling 
his attention to the passage in the 
Bible which told the story of Elijah the 
Prophet, who, when he was pursued by 
enemies who wanted to take his life, 
was hidden by the Lord by the brook 
Cherith, and fed by ravens; and surely 
the Lord knew what was good to eat, 
whether bread or meat. And on what, 
I asked, did the Lord feed Elijah? On 
vegetables or graham bread? No, he 
directed the ravens to feed his prophet 
on flesh. The Bible being the sole rule, 
father at once acknowledged that he 
was mistaken. The Lord never would 
have sent flesh to Elijah by the ravens 
if graham bread were better. 

I remember as a great and sudden 

discovery that the poetry of the Bible, 
Shakespeare, and Milton was a source of 
inspiring, exhilarating, uplifting pleas- 
ure and I became anxious to know all 
the poets, and saved up small sums to 
buy as many of their books as possible. 
Within three or four years I was the 
proucl possessor of parts of Shake- 
speare's, Milton's, Cowper's, Henry 
Kirk White's, Campbell's, and Aken- 
side's works, and quite a number of 
others seldom read nowadays. I think 
it was in my fifteenth year that I began 
to relish good literature with enthusi- 
asm, and smack my lips over favorite 
lines; but there was desperately little 
time for reading, even in the, winter 
evenings only a few stolen minutes 
now and then. 

Father's strict rule was, straight to 
bed immediately after family wor- 
ship, which in winter was usually over 
by eight o'clock. I was in the habit 
of lingering in the kitchen with a 
book and candle after the rest of the 
family had retired, and considered my- 
self fortunate if I got five minutes 
reading before father noticed the light 
and ordered me to bed; an order that, 
of course, I immediately obeyed. But 
night after night I tried to steal min- 
utes in the same lingering way; and 
how keenly precious those minutes 
were, few nowadays can know. Father 
failed, perhaps, two or three times in 
a whole winter to notice my light for 
nearly ten minutes, magnificent golden 
blocks of time, long to be remembered 
like holidays or geological periods. One 
evening when I was reading Church 
History father was particularly irrita- 
ble and called out with hope-killing 
emphasis, * John, go to bed ! Must I give 
you a separate order every night to get 
you to go to bed ? Now, I will have no 
irregularity in the family; you must go 
when the rest go, and without my hav- 
ing to tell you.' Then, as an after- 
thought, as if judging that his words 



and tone of voice were too severe for so 
pardonable an offense, he unwarily 
added, 'If you will read, get up in the 
morning and read. You may get up in 
the morning as early as you like.' 

That night I went to bed wishing 
with all my heart and soul that some- 
body or something might call me out 
of sleep to avail myself of this won- 
derful indulgence; and next morning, 
to my joyful surprise, I awoke before 
father called me. A boy sleeps soundly 
after working all day in the snowy 
woods, but that frosty morning I sprang 
out of bed as if called by a trumpet 
blast, rushed downstairs scarce feeling 
my chilblains, enormously eager to see 
how much time I had won ; and, when I 
held up my candle to a little clock that 
stood on a bracket in the kitchen, I 
found that it was only one o'clock. I 
had gained five hours, almost half a 
day! 'Five hours to myself!' I said, 
'five huge, solid hours!' I can hardly 
think of any other event in my life, any 
discovery I ever made that gave birth 
to joy so transportingly glorious as the 
possession of these five frosty hours. 

In the glad tumultuous excitement 
of so much suddenly acquired time- 
wealth I hardly knew what to do with 
it. I first thought of going on with my 
reading, but the zero weather would 
make a fire necessary, and it occurred 
to me that father might object to the 
cost of firewood that took time to chop. 
Therefore I prudently decided to go 
down cellar, where I at least would find 
a tolerable temperature very little be- 
low the freezing point, for the walls 
were banked up in the fall to keep the 
potatoes from freezing. There were a 
few tools in a corner of the cellar, a 
vise, a few files, a hammer, and so 
forth, that father had brought from 
Scotland, but no saw excepting a 
coarse, crooked one that was unfit for 
sawing dry hickory or oak. So I made 
a fine-tooth saw suitable for my work 

out of a strip of steel that had formed 
part of an old-fashioned corset, that 
cut the hardest wood smoothly. I also 
made my own brad-awls and punches, 
a pair of compasses, and so forth, out 
of wire and old files, and went to work 
on a model of a self-setting sawmill 
I had invented. 

Next morning I managed joyfully to 
get up at the same gloriously early 
hour. My cellar workshop was imme- 
diately under father's bed and the filing 
and tapping in making cog-wheels, jour- 
nals, cams, and so forth, must no doubt 
have annoyed him; but with the per- 
mission he had granted, in his mind, 
and doubtless hoping that I would soon 
tire of getting up at one o'clock, he 
impatiently waited about two weeks 
before saying a word. I did not vary 
more than five minutes from one 
o'clock all winter, nor did I feel any 
bad effects whatever, nor did I think at 
all about the subject as to whether so 
little sleep might be in any way injur- 
ious; it was a grand triumph of will 
power over cold and common comfort 
and work-weariness in abruptly cut- 
ting down my ten hours' allowance of 
sleep to five. I simply felt that I was 
rich beyond anything I could have 
dreamed of or hoped for. I was far 
more than happy. Like Tam-o'-Shan- 
ter, I was 'glorious, O'er a' the ills of 
life victorious.' 

Father, as was customary in Scot- 
land, gave thanks and asked a blessing 
before meals, not merely as a matter of 
form and decent Christian manners, 
for he regarded food as a gift derived 
directly from the hands of the Father in 
heaven. Therefore every meal was to 
him a sacrament requiring conduct and 
attitude of mind not unlike that befit- 
ting the Lord's supper. No idle word 
was allowed to be spoken at our table, 
much less any laughing or fun or story- 
telling. When we were at the breakfast- 
table, about two weeks after the great 



golden time-discovery, father cleared 
his throat, preliminary, as we all knew, 
to saying something considered impor- 
tant. I feared that it was to be on the 
subject of my early rising, and, dreaded 
the withdrawal of the permission he 
had granted on account of the noise I 
made, but still hoping that, as he had 
given his word that I might get up as 
early as I wished, he would as a Scotch- 
man stand to it, even though it was 
given in an unguarded moment and 
taken in a sense unreasonably far- 
reaching. The solemn sacramental si- 
lence was broken by the dreaded ques- 

'John, what time is it when you get 
up in the morning?' 

* About one o'clock/ I replied in a 
low, meek, guilty tone of voice. 

'And what kind of a time is that, 
getting up in the middle of the night 
and disturbing the whole family?' 

I simply reminded him of the permis- 
sion he had freely granted me to get up 
as early as I wished. 

'I know it,' he said, in an almost 
agonizing tone of voice; 'I know I gave 
you that miserable permission, but I 
never imagined that you would get up 
in the middle of the night.' 

To this I cautiously made no reply, 
but continued to listen for the heaven- 
ly one-o'clock call, and it never failed. 

After completing my self-setting saw- 
mill I dammed one of the streams in the 
meadow and put the mill in operation. 
This invention was speedily followed 
by a lot of others, water-wheels, 
curious door-locks and latches, ther- 
mometers, hygrometers, pyrometers, 
clocks, a barometer, an automatic con- 
trivance for feeding the horses at any 
required hour, a lamp-lighter and fire- 
lighter, an early- or-late-rising machine, 
and so forth. 

After the sawmill was proved and 
discharged from my mind, I happened 
to think it would be a fine thing to 

make a timekeeper which would tell 
the day of the week and the day of the 
month, as well as strike like a common 
clock and point out the hours; also to 
have an attachment whereby it could 
be connected with a bedstead to set me 
on my feet at any hour in the morning; 
also to start fires, light lamps, and so 
forth. I had learned the time laws of 
the pendulum from a book, but with 
this exception I knew nothing of time- 
keepers, for I had never seen the inside 
of any sort of clock or watch. After 
long brooding, the novel clock was at 
length completed in my mind, and was 
tried and found to be durable, and to 
work well and look well, before I had 
begun to build it in wood. I carried 
small parts of it in my pocket to 
whittle at when I was out at work on 
the farm, using every spare or stolen 
moment within reach without father's 
knowing anything about it. 

In the middle of summer, when har- 
vesting was in progress, the novel 
time-machine was nearly completed. 
It was hidden upstairs in a spare bed- 
room where some tools were kept. I 
did the making and mending on the 
farm; but one day at noon, when I 
happened to be away, father went up- 
stairs for a hammer or something and 
discovered the mysterious machine 
back of the bedstead. My sister Mar- 
garet saw him on his knees examining 
it, and at the first opportunity whis- 
pered in my ear, 'John, fayther saw 
that thing you're making upstairs.' 
None of the family knew what I was 
doing, but they knew very well that all 
such work was frowned on by father, 
and kindly warned me of any danger 
that threatened my plans. The fine in- 
vention seemed doomed to destruction 
before its time-ticking commenced, al- 
though I had carried it so long in my 
mind that I thought it handsome, and 
like the nest of Burns's wee mousie it 
had cost me mony a weary whittling 



nibble. When we were at dinner sev- 
eral days after the sad discovery, father 
began to clear his throat, and I feared 
the doom of martyrdom was about to 
be pronounced on my grand clock. 

'John,' he inquired, 'what is that 
thing you are making upstairs?' 

I replied in desperation that I did n't 
know what to call it. 

'What! You mean to say you don't 
know what you are trying to do?' 

'Oh, yes,' I said, 'I know very well 
what I am doing.' 

'What then is the thing for?' 

'It's for a lot of things,' I replied, 
'but getting people up early in the 
morning is one of the main things it is 
intended for; therefore, it might per- 
haps be called an early-rising ma- 

After getting up so extravagantly 
early, to make a machine for getting up 
perhaps still earlier seemed so ridicu- 
lous that he very nearly laughed. But 
after controlling himself, and getting 
command of a sufficiently solemn face 
and voice, he said severely, ' Do you not 
think it is very wrong to waste your 
time on such nonsense?' 

'No,' I said meekly, 'I don't think 
I 'm doing any wrong.' 

'Well,' he replied, 'I assure you I do; 
and if you were only half as zealous in 
the study of religion as you are in con- 
triving and whittling these useless, 
nonsensical things, it would be infinite- 
ly better for you. I want you to be like 
Paul, who said that he desired to know 
nothing among men but Christ and 
Him crucified.' 

To this I made no reply, gloomily 
believing my fine machine was to be 
burned, but still taking what comfort I 
could in realizing that anyhow I had 
enjoyed inventing and making it. 

After a few days, finding that no- 
thing more was to be said, and that 
father, after all, had not had the heart 
to destroy it, all necessity for secrecy 

being ended, I finished it in the half- 
hours that we had at noon, and set it 
in the parlor between two chairs, hung 
moraine boulders, that had come from 
the direction of Lake Superior, on it 
for weights, and set it running. We 
were then hauling grain into the barn. 
Father at this period devoted himself 
entirely to the Bible and did no farm 
work whatever. The clock had a good 
loud tick and when he heard it strike, 
one of my sisters told me that he left 
his study, went to the parlor, got down 
on his knees, and carefully examined 
the machinery, which was all in plain 
sight, not being inclosed in a case. 
This he did repeatedly, and evidently 
seemed a little proud of my ability to 
invent and whittle such a thing, though 
careful to give no encouragement for 
anything more of the kind in future. 

But somehow it seemed impossible to 
stop. Inventing and whittling faster 
than ever, I made another hickory 
clock, shaped like a scythe to symbolize 
the scythe of Fat her Time. The pendu- 
lum is a bunch of arrows symbolizing 
the flight of time. It hangs on a leafless 
mossy oak snag showing the effect of 
time, and on the snath is written, 'All 
flesh is grass.' This, especially the in- 
scription, rather pleased father, and of 
course mother and all my sisters and 
brothers admired it. Like the first, it 
indicates the days of the week and 
month, starts fires and beds at any 
given hour and minute, and though 
made more than fifty years ago, is still 
a good timekeeper. 

My mind still running on clocks, I 
invented a big one like a town clock, 
with four dials, with the time figures so 
large they could be read by all our im- 
mediate neighbors as well as ourselves 
when at work in the fields, and on the 
side next the house the days of the 
week and month were indicated. It 
was to be placed on the peak of the 
barn roof. But just as it was all but 



finished father stopped me, saying that 
it would bring too many people around 
the barn. I then asked permission to 
put it on the top of a black oak tree 
near the house. Studying the larger 
main branches I thought I could secure 
a sufficiently rigid foundation for it, 
while the trimmed sprays and leaves 
would conceal the angles of the cabin 
required to shelter the works from the 
weather, and the two-second pendu- 
lum, fourteen feet long, could be snug- 
ly incased on the side of the trunk. 
Nothing about the grand, useful time- 
keeper, I argued, would disfigure the 
tree, for it would look something like a 
big hawk's nest. * But that, 5 he object- 
ed, 'would draw still bigger, bothersome 
trampling crowds about the place, for 
who ever heard of anything so queer as 
a big clock on the top of a tree.' So I 
had to lay aside its big wheels and cams 
and rest content with the pleasure of 
inventing it, and looking at it in my 
mind and listening to the deep, solemn 
throbbing of its long two-second pen- 
dulum, with its two old axes back to 
back for the bob. 

One of my inventions was a large 
thermometer made of an iron rod, 
about three feet long and five-eighths 
of an inch in diameter, that had formed 
part of a wagon-box. The expansion 
and contraction of this rod was multi- 
plied by a series of levers made of strips 
of hoop-iron. The pressure of the rod 
against the levers was kept constant 
by a small counterweight, so that the 
slightest change in the length of the rod 
was instantly shown on a dial about 
three feet wide, multiplied about 
thirty-two thousand times. The zero 
point was gained by packing the rod 
in wet snow. The scale was so large 
that the big black hand on the white 
painted dial could be seen distinctly, 
and the temperature read, while we 
were ploughing in the field below the 
house. The extremes of heat and cold 

caused the hand to make several rev- 
olutions. The number of these revolu- 
tions was indicated on a small dial 
marked on the larger one. This ther- 
mometer was fastened on the side of 
the house, and was so sensitive that 
when any one approached it within 
four or five feet the heat radiated from 
the observer's body caused the hand 
of the dial to move so fast that the 
motion was plainly visible, and when he 
stepped back, the hand moved slowly 
back to its normal position. It was re- 
garded as a great wonder by the neigh- 
bors, and even by my own all-Bible 

Talking over plans with me one day, 
a friendly neighbor said, 'Now, John, 
if you wish to get into a machine-shop, 
just take some of your inventions to 
the state fair, and you may be sure 
that as soon as they are seen they will 
open the door of any shop in the coun- 
try for you. You will be welcomed 
everywhere.' And when I doubtingly 
asked if people would care to look at 
things made of wood, he said, 'Made 
of wood ! Made of wood ! What does it 
matter what they're made of when 
they are so out-and-out original. 
There's nothing else like them in the 
world. That is what will attract atten- 
tion, and besides they 're mighty hand- 
some things anyway to come from the 
backwoods.' So I was encouraged to 
leave home and go at his direction to 
the state fair when it was being held 
in Madison. 

When I told father that I was about 
to leave home, and inquired whether, 
if I should happen to be in need of 
money, he would send me a little, he 
said, 'No. Depend entirely on your- 
self.' Good advice, I suppose, but sure- 
ly needlessly severe for a bashful home- 
loving boy who had worked so hard. I 
had the gold sovereign that my grand- 
father had given me when I left Scot- 
land, and a few dollars, perhaps ten, 


that I had made by raising a few bush- 
els of grain on a little patch of sandy, 
abandoned ground. So when I left 
home to try the world I had only fif- 
teen dollars in my pocket. 

Strange to say, father carefully 
taught us to consider ourselves very 
poor worms of the dust, conceived in 
sin, and so forth, and devoutly believed 
that quenching every spark of pride 
and self-confidence was a sacred duty, 
without realizing that in so doing he 
might, at the same time, be quenching 
everything else. Praise he considered 
most venomous, and tried to assure me 
that when I was fairly out in the wick- 
ed world, making my own way, I would 
soon learn that, although I might have 
thought him a hard taskmaster at 
times, strangers were far harder. On 
the contrary, I found no lack of kind- 
ness and sympathy. All the baggage I 
carried was a package made up of the 
two clocks and a small thermometer 
made of a piece of old washboard, all 
three tied together, with no covering 
or case of any sort, the whole looking 
like one very complicated machine. 

The aching parting from mother and 
my sisters was of course hard to bear. 
Father let David drive me down to 
Pardeeville, a place I had never before 
seen, though it is only nine miles south 
of the Hickory Hill farm. When we 
arrived at the village tavern it seemed 
deserted. Not a single person was in 
sight. I set my clock baggage on the 
rickety platform. David said good-bye 
and started for home, leaving me alone 
in the world. The grinding noise made 
by the wagon in turning short brought 
out the landlord, and the first thing 
that caught his eye was my strange 
bundle. Then he looked at me and 
said, * Hello, young man, what's this?' 

'Machines,' I said, 'for keeping time 
and getting up in the morning, and so 

'Well! Well! That 's a mighty queer 

get-up. You must be a Down-East 
Yankee. Where did you get the pat- 
tern for such a thing?' 

'In my head,' I said. 

Some one down the street happened 
to notice the landlord looking intently 
at something and came up to see what 
it was. Three or four people in that lit- 
tle village formed an attractive crowd, 
and in fifteen or twenty minutes the 
greater part of the population of Par- 
deeville stood gazing in a circle around 
my strange hickory belongings. I kept 
outside of the circle to avoid being 
seen, and had the advantage of hear- 
ing the remarks without being embar- 

I stayed overnight at this little tav- 
ern, waiting for a train. In the morning 
I went to the station, and set my bun- 
dle on the platform. Along came the 
thundering train, a glorious sight; the 
first train I had ever waited for. 
When the conductor saw my queer 
baggage, he cried, 'Hello! What have 
we here? ' 

'Inventions for keeping time, early 
rising, and so forth. May I take them 
into the car with me?' 

'You can take them where you like,' 
he replied, 'but you had better give 
them to the baggage-master. If you 
take them into the car they will draw a 
crowd and might get broken.' 

So I gave them to the baggage-mas- 
ter, and made haste to ask the conduc- 
tor whether I might ride on the engine. 
He good-naturedly said, 'Yes, it's the 
right place for you. Run ahead, and 
tell the engineer what I say.' But the 
engineer bluntly refused to let me on, 
saying, ' It don't matter what the con- 
ductor told you. / say you can't ride 
on my engine.' 

By this time the conductor, standing 
ready to start his train, was watching 
to see what luck I had, and when he 
saw me returning came ahead to meet 



'The engineer won't let me on,' I re- 

* Won't he?' said the kind conductor. 
'Oh, I guess he will. You come down 
with me.' And so he actually took the 
time and patience to walk the length of 
that long train to get me on to the 

'Charlie,' said he, addressing the 
engineer, 'don't you ever take a pas- 

'Very seldom,' he replied. 

'Anyhow, I wish you would take this 
young man on. He has the strangest 
machines in the baggage car I ever saw 
in my life. I believe he could make 
a locomotive. He wants to see the 
engine running. Let him on.' Then, 
in a low whisper, he told me to jump 
on, which I did gladly, the engineer 
offering neither encouragement nor 

As soon as the train was started the 
engineer asked what the 'strange 
thing' the conductor spoke of really 

'Only inventions for keeping time, 
getting folks up in the morning, and so 
forth,' I hastily replied; and before he 
could ask any more questions I asked 
permission to go outside of the cab to 
see the machinery. This he kindly 
granted, adding, ' Be careful not to fall 
off, and when you hear me whistling 
for a station you come back, because if 
it is reported against me to the super- 
intendent that I allow boys to run all 
over my engine, I might lose my job.' 

Assuring him that I would come back 
promptly, I went out and walked along 
the footboard on the side of the boiler, 
watching the magnificent machine 
rushing through the landscape as if 
glorying in its strength like a living 
creature. While seated on the cow- 
catcher platform I seemed to be fairly 
flying, and the wonderful display of 
power and motion was enchanting. 
This was the first time I had ever been 
VOL. 111 -NO. 2 

on a train, much less a locomotive, 
since I had left Scotland. When I got 
to Madison I thanked the kind conduc- 
tor and engineer for my glorious ride, 
inquired the way to the fair, shoul- 
dered my inventions, and walked to 
the fair-ground. 

When I applied for an admission 
ticket at a window by the gate I told 
the agent that I had something to ex- 

'What is it?' he inquired. 

'Well, here it is. Look at it.' 

When he craned his neck through 
the window and got a glimpse of my 
bundle he cried excitedly, 'Oh! you 
don't need a ticket come right in.' 

When I inquired of the agent where 
such things as mine should be exhibit- 
ed, he said, 'You see that building up 
on the hill with a big flag on it? That's 
the Fine Arts Hall and it's just the 
place for your wonderful invention.' 

So I went up to the Fine Arts Hall 
and looked in, wondering if they would 
allow wooden things in so fine a place. 

I was met at the door by a dignified 
gentleman who greeted me kindly and 
said, 'Young man, what have we got 

'Two clocks and a thermometer/ I 

'Did you make these? They look 
wonderfully beautiful and novel and 
must I think prove the most interesting 
feature of the fair.' 

'Where shall I place them?' I in- 

'Just look around, young man, and 
choose the place you like best, whether 
it is occupied or not. You can have 
your pick of all the building, and a car- 
penter to make the necessary shelving 
and assist you in every way possible!' 

So I quickly had a shelf made large 
enough for all of them, went out on the 
hill and picked up some glacial boulders 
of the right size for weights, and in fif- 
teen or twenty minutes the clocks were 



running. They seemed to attract more 
attention than anything else in the hall. 
I got lots of praise from the crowd and 
the newspaper reporters. The local 
press reports were copied into the East- 
ern papers. It was considered wonder- 
ful that a boy on a farm had been able 
to invent and make such things, and al- 
most every spectator foretold good for- 
tune. But I had been so lectured by my 
father to avoid praise, above all things, 
that I was afraid to read those kind 
newspaper notices, and never clipped 
out or preserved any of them, just 
glanced at them, and turned away my 
eyes from beholding vanity, and so 
forth. They gave me a prize of ten or 
fifteen dollars, and a diploma for won- 
derful things not down in the list of 

Many years later, after I had written 
articles and books, I received a letter 
from the gentleman who had charge of 
the Fine Arts Hall. He proved to have 
been the Professor of English Litera- 
ture in the University of Wisconsin at 
this fair-time, and long afterward he 
sent me clippings of reports of his lec- 
tures. He had a lecture on me, discuss- 
ing style, and so forth, and telling how 
well he remembered my arrival at the 
hall in my shirt sleeves with those me- 
chanical wonders on my shoulder, and 
so forth, and so forth. These inventions, 
though of little importance, opened all 
doors for me, and made marks that have 
lasted many years, simply because they 
were original and promising. 

I was looking around in the mean 
time to find out where I should go to 
seek my fortune. An inventor at the 
fair, by the name of Wiard, was exhib- 
iting an ice-boat he had invented to run 
on the upper Mississippi from Prairie 
du Chien to St. Paul during the winter 
months, explaining how useful it would 
be thus to make a highway of the river 
while it was closed to ordinary naviga- 
tion by ice. After he saw my inven- 

tions, he offered me a place in his foun- 
dry and machine-shop in Prairie du 
Chien, and promised to assist me all he 
could. So I made up my mind to accept 
his offer and rode with him to Prairie 
du Chien in his ice-boat, which was 
mounted on a flat car. I soon found, 
however, that he was seldom at home, 
and that I was not likely to learn much 
at his small shop. I found a place 
where I could work for my board and 
devote my spare hours to mechanical 
drawing, geometry, and physics. Mak- 
ing but little headway, however, al- 
though the Pelton family for whom I 
worked were very kind, I made up my 
mind after a few months' stay in 
Prairie du Chien to return to Madison, 
hoping that in some way I might be 
able to gain an education. 

At Madison I raised a few dollars by 
making and selling a few of those bed- 
steads that set the sleepers on their 
feet in the morning inserting in the 
footboard the works of an ordinary 
clock that could be bought for a dollar. 
I also made a few dollars addressing 
circulars in an insurance office, while 
at the same time I was paying my 
board by taking care of a pair of horses 
and going errands. This is of no great 
interest except that I was thus earning 
my bread while hoping that something 
might turn up that would enable me to 
make money enough to enter the state 
university. This was my ambition, 
and it never wavered, no matter what I 
was doing. No university it seemed to 
me could be more admirably situated, 
and as I sauntered about it, charmed 
with its fine lawns and trees and beau- 
tiful lakes, and saw the students going 
and coming with their books, and oc- 
casionally practicing with a theodolite 
in measuring distances, I thought that 
if I could only join them it would be the 
greatest joy of life. I was desperately 
hungry and thirsty for knowledge and 
willing to endure anything to get it. 



One day I chanced to meet a student 
who had noticed my inventions at the 
fair and now recognized me. And 
when I said, 'You are fortunate fel- 
lows to be allowed to study in this 
beautiful place; I wish I could join you,' 
'Well, why don't you?' he asked. 
' I have n't money enough,' I said. ' Oh, 
as to money,' he reassuringly explain- 
ed, 'very little is required. I presume 
you're able to enter the Freshman 
class, and you can board yourself, as 
quite a number of us do, at a cost of 
about a dollar a week. The baker and 
milkman come every day. You can 
live on bread and milk.' 'Well,' I 
thought, ' maybe I have money enough 
for at least one beginning term.' Any- 
how I could n't help trying. 

With fear and trembling, overladen 
with ignorance, I called on Professor 
Stirling, the dean of the faculty, who 
was then acting president, presented 
my case, told him how far I had got on 
with my studies at home, and that I 
had n't been to school since leaving 
Scotland at the age of eleven years 
(excepting one short term of a couple 
of months at a district school), because 
I could not be spared from the farm 
work. After hearing my story the kind 
professor welcomed me to the glorious 
university next, it seemed to me, to 
the Kingdom of Heaven. After a few 
weeks in the preparatory department, 
I entered the Freshman class. In Latin 
I found that one of the books in use I 
had already studied in Scotland. So 
after an interruption of a dozen years I 
began my Latin over again where I had 
left off; and strange to say, most of it 
came back to me, especially the gram- 
mar which I had committed to memory 
at the Dunbar Grammar School. 

During the four years that I was in 
the university I earned enough in the 
harvest-fields during the long summer 
vacations to carry me through the bal- 
ance of each year, working very hard, 

cutting with a cradle four acres of 
wheat a day, and helping to put it in 
the shock. But having to buy books 
and paying I think thirty-two dollars 
a year for instruction, and occasionally 
buying acids and retorts, glass tubing, 
bell-glasses, flasks, and so forth, I had 
to cut down expenses for board now 
and then to half a dollar a week. 

One winter I taught school ten miles 
north of Madison, earning much-need- 
ed money at the rate of twenty dollars 
a month, 'boarding round,' and keep- 
ing up my university work by study- 
ing at night. As I was not then well 
enough off to own a watch, I used one 
of my hickory clocks, not only for keep- 
ing time, but for starting the school-fire 
in the cold mornings, and regulating 
class times. I carried it out on my 
shoulder to the old log schoolhouse, and 
set it to work on a little shelf nailed to 
one of the knotty, bulging logs. The 
winter was very cold, and I had to go 
to the schoolhouse and start the fire 
about eight o'clock, to warm it before 
the arrival of the scholars. This was a 
rather trying job, and one that my 
clock might easily be made to do. 
Therefore, after supper one evening, I 
told the head of the family with whom 
I was boarding that if he would give me 
a candle I would go back to the school- 
house and make arrangements for light- 
ing the fire at eight o'clock, without 
my having to be present until time to 
open the school at nine. He said, ' Oh, 
young man, you have some curious 
things in the school-room, but I don't 
think you can do that.' I said, 'Oh, 
yes! It's easy'; and in hardly more 
than an hour the simple job was com- 

I had only to place a teaspoonful 
of powdered chlorate of potash and 
sugar on the stove hearth near a few 
shavings and kindlings, and at the re- 
quired time make the clock, through a 
simple arrangement, touch the inflam- 



mable mixture with a drop of sulphuric 
acid. Every evening after school was 
dismissed I shoveled out what was left 
of the fire into the snow, put in a little 
kindling, filled up the big box-stove 
with heavy oak wood, placed the light- 
ing arrangement on the hearth, and set 
the clock to drop the acid at the hour 
of eight; all this requiring only a few 

The first morning after I had made 
this simple arrangement I invited the 
doubting farmer to watch the old squat 
schoolhouse from a window that over- 
looked it, to see if a good smoke did not 
rise from the stovepipe. Sure enough, 
on the minute, he saw a tall column 
curling gracefully up through the 
frosty air; but, instead of congratulat- 
ing me on my success, he solemnly 
shook his head and said in a hollow, 
lugubrious voice, * Young man, you 
will be setting fire to the schoolhouse/ 
All winter long that faithful clock-fire 
never failed, and by the time I got to 
the schoolhouse the stove was usually 

At the beginning of the long summer 
vacations I returned to the Hickory 
Hill farm to earn the means in the har- 
vest-fields to continue my university 
course, walking all the way to save rail- 
road fares. And although I cradled 
four acres of wheat a day, I made the 
long hard sweaty day's work still long- 
er and harder by keeping up my study 
of plants. At the noon hour I collected 
a large handful, put them in water to 
keep them fresh, and after supper got 
to work on them, and sat up till after 
midnight, analyzing and classifying, 
thus leaving only four hours for sleep; 
and by the end of the first year after 
taking up botany I knew the principal 
flowering plants of the region. 

I received my first lesson in botany 
from a student by the name of Gris- 
wold who is now county judge of the 
county of Waukesha, Wisconsin. In 

the university he was often laughed at 
on account of his anxiety to instruct 
others, and his frequently saying with 
fine emphasis, * Imparting instruction 
is my greatest enjoyment/ 

Nevertheless I still indulged my 
love of mechanical inventions. I in- 
vented a desk in which the books I had 
to study were arranged in order at the 
beginning of each term. I also made a 
bed which set me on my feet every 
morning at the hour determined on, 
and in dark winter mornings just as 
the bed set me on the floor it lighted 
a lamp. Then, after the minutes al- 
lowed for dressing had elapsed, a click 
was heard and the first book to be stud- 
ied was pushed up from a rack below 
the top of the desk, thrown open, and 
allowed to remain there the number of 
minutes required. Then the machinery 
closed the book and allowed it to drop 
back into its stall; then moved the rack 
forward and threw up the next in order, 
and so on, all the day being divided ac- 
cording to the times of recitation, and 
the time required and allotted to each 
study. Besides this, I thought it would 
be a fine thing in the summer-time 
when the sun rose early, to dispense 
with the clock-controlled bed-machin- 
ery, and make use of sunbeams in- 
stead. This I did simply by taking a 
lens out of my small spy-glass, fixing it 
on a frame on the sill of my bedroom 
window, and pointing it to the sunrise; 
the sunbeams focused on a thread 
burned it through, allowing the bed- 
machinery to put me on my feet. When 
I wished to get up at any given time 
after sunrise I had only to turn the 
pivoted frame that held the lens the 
requisite number of degrees or minutes. 
Thus I took Emerson's advice and 
hitched my dumping-wagon bed to a 

Although I was four years at the 
university, I did not take the regular 
course of studies, but instead picked 



out what I thought would be most 
useful to me, particularly chemistry, 
which opened a new world, and mathe- 
matics and physics, a little Greek and 
Latin, botany and geology. I was far 
from satisfied with what I had learned, 
and should have stayed longer. Any- 
how I wandered away on a glorious 
botanical and geological excursion, 
which has lasted nearly fifty years and 
is not yet completed, always happy 
and free, poor and rich, without 
thought of a diploma or of making a 

name, urged on and on through endless 
inspiring Godful beauty. 

From the top of a hill on the north 
side of Lake Mendota I gained a last 
wistful lingering view of the beauti- 
ful university grounds and buildings 
where I had spent so many hungry and 
happy and hopeful days. There with 
streaming eyes I bade my blessed 
Alma Mater farewell. But I was only 
leaving one university for another, 
the Wisconsin University for the Uni- 
versity of the Wilderness. 

(The End.) 



BAG in hand, brother stops in for 
fifteen minutes, from campaigning, to 
get some clean shirts. He says the 
candidate will be in town day after 
to-morrow. Do we want him to come 
here, or shall he go to a hotel? 

We want him, of course. But we de- 
precate the brevity of this notice. Also 
the cook and chambermaid are new, 
and remarkably inexpert. Brother, 
however, declines to feel any concern. 
His confidence in our power to cope 
with emergencies is flattering if exas- 

There is nothing in the markets at 
this time of year. Guests have a malig- 
nant facility in choosing such times. 
We scour the country for forty miles in 
search of green vegetables. We confide 
in the fishmonger, who grieves sym- 
pathetically over the 'phone, because 
all crabs are now cold-storage, and 

he'd be deceiving us if he said other- 

Still we are determined to have 
luncheon prepared in the house. Last 
time the august judge dined with us we 
summoned a caterer from a hundred 
miles away, and though the caterer's 
food was good, it was late. We love 
promptness, and we are going to have 
it. Ladies knew all about efficiency 
long before Mr. Frederick Taylor. Only 
they could n't teach it to servants, 
and he would find he could n't either. 
But every mistress of a house knows 
how to make short cuts, and is expert 
at * record production' in emergencies. 

The casual brother says there will be 
one or two dozen people at luncheon. 
He will telephone us fifteen minutes 
before they arrive. Yes, really, that's 
the best he can do. 

So we prepare for one or two dozen 



people, and they must sit down to 
luncheon because men hate a buffet 
meal. We struggle with the problem, 
how many chickens are required for 
twelve or twenty-four people? The 
answer, however, is really obvious. 
Enough for twenty-four will be enough 
for twelve. 

Day after to-morrow arrives. The 
gardener comes in to lay hearth-fires 
and carry tables. We get out china and 
silver. We make salad and rolls, fruit- 
cup and cake. We guide the cook's fal- 
tering steps over the critical moments 
of soup and chicken. We do the oysters 
in our own particular way, which we 
fancy inimitable. We arrange bushels 
of flowers in bowls, vases, and baskets, 
and set them on mantels, tables, book- 
cases, everywhere that a flower can 
find a footing. The chauffeur comes in 
proudly with the flower-holder from 
the limousine, and we fill it in honor of 
the distinguished guest. 

Then we go outside to see that the 
approach to the house is satisfactory. 
The bland old gardener points to the 
ivy-covered wall, and says with inno- 
cent joy,* it, ain't that ivory 

the prettiest thing you ever saw in 
your life? ' And we can't deny that the 
lawn looks well, with ivy, and cosmos, 
and innumerable chrysanthemums. 

The cook and chambermaid will 
have to help wait on the table. The 
chambermaid, who is what the butler 
contemptuously calls 'an educated 
nigger,' and so knows nothing useful, 
announces that she has no white uni- 
form. All she has is a cold in her head. 
We give her a blouse and skirt, wonder- 
ing why Providence does n't eliminate 
the unfit. 

We run upstairs to put on our cost- 
liest shoes and stockings, and our most 
perishable gown. The leisurely brother 
gets us on the wire to say that there 
will be twenty guests in ten minutes. 

Descending, we reset the tables to 

seat twenty guests, light the wood- 
fires, toss together twenty mint-juleps, 
and a few over for luck, repeat our 
clear instructions to the goggling 
chambermaid, desperately implore the 
butler to see that she keeps on the job, 
drop a last touch of flavoring in the 
soup, and are sitting by the fire with an 
air of childish gayety and carelessness 
when the train of motor-cars draws up 
to the door. 

Here is the judge, courteous and 
authoritative. Here is his assiduous 
suite. The room fills with faces well 
known in every country that an illus- 
trated newspaper can penetrate. From 
the Golden Gate and the Rio Grande, 
from New York and Alabama, these 
men have come together, intent on 
wresting to themselves the control of 
the Western Hemisphere. Now they are 
a sort of highly respectable guerillas. 
To-morrow, very likely, they will be 
awe-inspiring magnates. 

Theoretically we are impressed. 
Actually they have mannerisms, and 
some of them wear spectacles. We 
reflect that the triumvirs very likely 
had mannerisms, too, and Antony him- 
self might have been glad to own spec- 
tacles. We try to feel reverence for the 
high calling of these men. We hope 
they'll like our luncheon. 

The butler brings in the juleps and 
we maintain a detached look, as though 
those juleps were just a happy thought 
of the butler himself, and we were as 
much surprised as anybody. The judge 
won't have one, but most everybody 
else will. The newspaper men look love 
and gratitude at the butler. 

That earnest youth is the judge's 
secretary. The huge, iron-gray man 
expects to be a governor after Novem- 
ber fifth, if dreams come true. The 
amiable old gentleman who never 
leaves the judge's side, has come two 
thousand miles out of pure political 
enthusiasm, to protect the candidate 



from assassins. He can do it, too, we 
conclude, when we look past his smil- 
ing mouth into his steely eyes. 

Here is the campaign manager, busi- 
ness man and man-of-the- world. 

This pretty little newspaper-woman 
from Utah implores us to get an utter- 
ance on suffrage from the judge. Just a 
word. It will save him thousands of 
votes. Well, she's a dear little thing, 
but we can't take advantage of our 

Luncheon is announced. Brother, 
slightly apologetic, murmurs that there 
are twenty-three. Entirely unforeseen. 
He babbles incoherently. 

But it's all right. We women won't 
come to the table. Voting and eating 
and things like that are better left to 
the men anyway. Why should women 
want to do either, when they have 
fathers and brothers to do it for them? 
We can sit in the gallery and watch. 
It's very nice for us. And exclusive. 
Nothing promiscuous. Yes, go on. 
We '11 wait. 

Whoever is listening to our conver- 
sation professes heartbreak at our de- 
cision, and edges toward the rapidly 
filling dining-room. 

We sit down to play lady of leisure, 
in various affected attitudes. We are 
not going near the kitchen again. The 
luncheon is simple. Everything is per- 
fectly arranged. The servants can do 
it all. It's mere machine work. 

From afar we observe the soup van- 
ishing. Then one by one we stammer, 
* The mayonnaise ' * I wonder 
if the rolls are hot ' * Cook's 
coffee is impossible, ' fade silently up 
the front stair, and scurry down the 

We cover the perishable gown with a 
huge white apron, we send up a fervent 
prayer for the costly shoes, and go 
where we are needed most. 

We save the day for good coffee. 
With the precision of a juggler we 

rescue plates from the chambermaid, 
who is overcome by this introduction 
to the great world and dawdles con- 
templatively through the pantry door. 
Charmed with our proficiency, she 
stands by our side, and watches us 
clear a shelf of china in the twinkling of 
an eye. If she could find a stool, she 
would sit at our feet, making motion 
studies. But she could n't find it if it 
were already there. She could n't find 
anything. We order her back to the 
dining-room, where she takes up a 
strategic position by the window, from 
which she can idly survey the mob out- 
side, and the hungry men within. 

The last coffee-cup has passed 
through the doorway. Cigars and 
matches are circulating in the butler's 
capable hands. No more need for us. 

We shed the enveloping aprons, dis- 
appear from the kitchen, and mate- 
rialize again, elegantly useless, in the 
drawing-room. Nobody can say that 
luncheon was n't hot and promptly 

Chairs begin to clatter. They are 
rising from the table. A brass band 
outside bursts into being. 

Brother had foretold that band to 
us, and we had expressed vivid doubts. 
He said it would cost eighty dollars. 
Now eighty dollars in itself is a re- 
spectable sum, a sum capable even of 
exerting some mild fascination, but 
eighty dollars viewed in relation to a 
band becomes merely ludicrous. 

We said an eighty-dollar band was 
a thing innately impossible, like free- 
trade, or a dachshund. Brother at- 
tested that the next best grade f band 
would demand eight hundred. We just- 
ly caviled at eight hundred. We inquir- 
ed, Why any band? Brother claimed 
that it would make a cheerful noise, 
and we yielded. 

So at this moment the band begins 
to make a noise. We perceive at once 
that the price was accurately gauged. 



It is unquestionably an eighty-dollar 
band. We begin to believe in dachs- 

To these supposedly cheerful strains 
the gentlemen stream into the drawing- 
room. They beam repletely. They tell 
us what a fine luncheon it was. They 
are eloquent about it. All the condi- 
tions of their entertainment were ideal, 
they would have us believe. They im- 
ply that we are mighty lucky, in that 
our men can provide us with such a 
luxurious existence. They smile with 
majestic benignity at these fair, but 
frivolous, pensioners on masculine 
bounty. American women are petted, 
helpless dolls, anyway. Foreigners have 
said so. They clasp our useless hands in 
fervent farewells. They proceed in state 
to the waiting cars. They hope we 
will follow them to the meeting. Oh, 
yes, we will come, though incapable 
of apprehending the high problems of 

Led by the honest band, surrounded 
by flags, followed by cheers, they dis- 
appear in magnificent procession. Now 
we may straggle to the dining-room 
and eat cold though matchless oysters, 
tepid chicken, and in general whatever 
there is any left of. 

The chambermaid has broken a 
lovely old Minton plate. We are glad 
we did n't use the coffee-cups that were 
made in France for Dolly Madison. She 
would have enjoyed wrecking those. 

We hurry, because we don't want to 
miss the meeting altogether. We think 
enviously of the men. In our secret 
souls, we'd like to campaign. We love 
to talk better than anything else in the 
world, and we could make nice speech- 
es, too. But we must do the oysters 
and the odd jobs, and keep the hearth- 
fires going, like responsible vestal vir- 
gins. It 's woman's sphere. Man gave 
it to her because he did n't want it 



IT is strange how persistently one is 
dogged and tracked down by one's 
dreams. A dream is the toughest of 
living things. I myself have been 
hounded through life by an ideal. As 
an infant I burned with a spirit of 
adoption, expansive, indiscriminate,im- 
personal; while I was still of years to 
be myself coddled and kissed, curled, 
cribbed, scoured, and spanked, I im- 
aged myself the mother of an orphan 
asylum. Still uncertain in speech, I 
lisped lullabies to armfuls of babies, of 
every size, sex, and condition. The 

babies were delivered at my door by 
packet, singly and by the dozen, in all 
degrees of filth, abuse, and emacia- 
tion. Vigorously I tubbed them, fed 
them, bedded them, patted them, or 
paddywhacked them, just as my ma- 
ternal conscience demanded. Oh, it 
was a brave institution, that orphan 
asylum of mine; it solaced my waking 
hours, and at night I fell asleep suck- 
ing the thumb of philanthropy. 

The orphan asylum lasted into my 
teens, and then it contracted, restrict- 
ed itself in the sex and number to be 
admitted; but the spirit of things was 
much the same; for he was to be lonely 



and abused, world-worn and weary, 
and twenty-nine or thirty perhaps. 
Gladly would he seek refuge for his 
battered head on the wise and wifely 
bosom of sixteen. But he did n't. The 
brisk little years came trudging along, 
and they carried him and my sixteenth 
birthday far and far away, but still the 
world, for all of me, was unadopted. 
Then the orphan asylum came sneak- 
ing back again, but this time it was 
only one, one baby. Why could not 
I, I asked myself, when the days of 
my spinsterhood should be grown less 
busy, pick up a bit of a boy- or girl- 
thing, and run off with it, and have it 
for my own, somewhere in the house 
where Joy lives? 

Then, while I dreamed of these 
things, I heard a little noise outside, 
and there at my door sat two waifs and 
strays whom fate and fortune had 
tossed and buffeted until they were 
forespent. I lifted up the hat of the 
one, and I undid the blessed bonnet- 
strings of the other, and lo, it was my 
parents; and here was my orphan asy- 
lum at last, fallen on my very doorstep! 

Only consider how much better for- 
tune had done for me than I should 
have done for myself! How much bet- 
ter than adopting an unlimited orphan 
asylum, a stray foundling, or a spouse 
'so outwearied, so foredone,' as the one 
previously mentioned, was it to find 
myself in a twinkling the proud pos- 
sessor of a lusty brace of parents be- 
tween whom and the world I stand as 
natural protector! Here is adoption 
enough for me. My orphan asylum, 
my foundling, my husband, might have 
been to me for shame and undoing. 
The asylum might have gone on a mu- 
tiny; the foundling might have broken 
out all over in hereditary tendencies; for 
the choice flowers of English speech in 
which I should have sought to instruct 
its infant tongue, the vicious suckling 
might have returned me profanity and 

spontaneous billingsgate; it might too 
have been vulgar, tending to sneak into 
corners and chew gum. These are not 
things I have reason to expect of my 
parents. As for a man, a living, eat- 
ing, smoking man, I need not en- 
large on the temerity of a woman who 
would voluntarily adopt into a well- 
regulated heart a totally unexplored 

No; if a woman will adopt, parents 
are the best material for the purpose. 
They will not be insubordinate; from 
the days when from the vantage of my 
high chair I clamored sharply with my 
spoon for attention, and received it, 
have they not been carefully trained 
in the docility befitting all good Amer- 
ican parents? Nor, being in their safe 
and sober sixties, are they likely to 
blossom into naughtinesses, large or 
small, so that the folk will shoot out 
their lorgnettes at me, sneering, ' Pray 
is this the best you can do in the 
way of imparting a bringing-up?' 
And how much better than an adopted 
husband are an adopted father and 
mother! They will not go about tap- 
ping cigar ashes over my maidenly pre- 
judices; they will tread gingerly and 
not make a horrid mess of my very best 
emotions. Yes; to all ladies about to 
adopt, I recommend parents. 

I warn you, however, that you must 
go about your adopting pretty cau- 
tiously. It is never the desire of the 
genuinely adoptive to inspire awe, still 
less gratitude. The parent becomes 
shy under adoption ; at first he recoiled 
from my fire that warmed him, and 
she held back from my board that fed 
her. They flagrantly declared that 
they wanted to go home, their own 
home, the home that was n't there. 
But I held on to them, affirming that I 
had caught them, fair prey in a fair 
chase, and never, never would I let 
them escape into any little old den in a 
great waste world that they might have 



the bad taste to prefer. At this they 
sulked, courteously, resignedly. Worst 
of all, they looked at me with the 
strange eyes with which one regards 
that alien to all men, a benefactor. The 
adopter must be patient, waiting, 
showing slowly how shabby it is of par- 
ents, when their children give them 
bread, to give them in return that 
stone, gratitude. 

Thus, after a while, the parents will 
find themselves growing warm and 
well-fed and cosy and comfortable, and 
they will begin to put forth little shoots 
of sprightliness and glee. Instead of 
concealing their shabby feet under 
petticoats and desks and tables, out 
will come the tattered seam and worn 
sole, and, 'Shoe me, child!' the par- 
ent will cry. Or, when one goes trip- 
ping and comes home again, the parents 
will come swarming about one's pock- 
ets and one's portmanteau demanding, 
'What have you brought me, daugh- 
ter?' These are the things the adopter 
was waiting and watching for, and 

Thus my dreams have come true, 
my ideal has found me. In the streets 
and on the trolleys of the world I am no 
longer a stranger. * Allow me, sir, my 
turn at the car-strap, none of your 
airs with me, if you please; despite pet- 
ticoats, I, too, am a family man. I am 
none of your lonely ones; I, also, be- 
long to a latch-key, have mouths to 
feed, have little ones at home.' At the 
sound of my key they will fly down the 
stairs, fall upon and welcome me in to 
my hearth and my slippers, and to- 
gether in the fire-glow, the parents and 
I shall have our glorious topsy-turvy 
Children's Hour. 

You, sir, who elbow me going busi- 
nessward, are you plotting surprises 
for birthdays and Christmas Days and 
holidays and other days? So, too, I. 
Sometimes a pretty little check comes 
in, not too small nor yet so big as to 

be serious. Then I scamper over the 
house until I find him. The rascal 
knows what's coming. We regard the 
check right-side up first, then over I 
flip it on its face and write, * Pay to the 

order of ,' and by that time down 

he is and deep he is, among those pre- 
cious book-catalogues previously anno- 
tated, noting wantonly, like the pro- 
digal father heaven made him. 

Do you, sir, in your pride and fat- 
ness, marshal your brood to the thea- 
tre? So I, mine. And do the eyes of 
your brood, that is young, glow and 
brighten, twinkle or grow dim, as you 
watch, half so prettily as do those of 
my brood, that is old? Can you, you 
commonplace, sober-going fathers and 
mothers of families obtained by the 
ordinary conventions of nature, know 
the fine, aromatic flavor of my fun? 

What exhilaration have you known 
like my pride of saying, * Whist you, 
there, parents out in the cold world, 
in here quick, where it is warm, where 
I am! in, away from that bogey, Old 
Age, who will catch you if he can, 
and who will catch me, too, before the 
time, if I don't have you to be young 


WAS it not Jane Austen, most scrup- 
ulous and also most aristocratic of 
artists, who dared to reply to the 
Prince Regent's request for an histor- 
ical novel, that she did not feel it possi- 
ble to undertake work outside the lim- 
its of her own observation? Disloyal, 
and yet most loyal, Jane! who said 
much of forms and respect, whose 
heads of families are ' looked up to ' by 
circle upon circle of kinsmen and neigh- 
bors, who said less than little of Art and 
Structure and Theme, but who could, 
upon occasion, daintily and distinctly 
make her choice between deferences, 
and follow the voice of her artistic con- 



science. Why is there not more of Jane 
with us? with us who make and buy 
many editions of her and write essays 
upon her, deliver lectures upon her, 
construct synopses of her, and wring 
the withers of the undergraduate by 
sternly bidding him note that, at his 
age, Miss Austen had finished Pride 
and Prejudice. 

It is good for criticism that it be per- 
sonal and intimate. Why, for instance, 
when even I wish to go over to the 
majority and write a short story, why 
do not I overhaul my bedside copy of 
Jane and make note of that one most 
golden precept, to remain within the 
limits of my own observation? Suffice 
that I do not. Video meliora proboque, 
deteriora sequor. I rise from a diet of 
Italian vermicelli and cold Slav, or 
from long observation of those patient 
jewelers whom Thackeray uncon- 
sciously immortalized as Messrs. How- 
ell and James of Bond Street, and I go 
out in search of a situation. Or rather, 
I combine shop-worn bits in that lit- 
erary bargain-counter, my mind. And 
I picture to myself a man, a man of 
some forty years, pacing his bachelor 
chambers, looking out ever and anon 
into a dull, wintry, London street, and 
returning toward his bookcases by a 
desk littered with the pads, the proof- 
sheets, the marked volumes of the pro- 
fessional writer. He sits down and 
draws to him paper and the letter he 
has to answer, which, with the privilege 
of my class, I read over his shoulder. 
From a woman, of course, and a wo- 
man of dignity, though loving. 'Do 
not,' she writes, 'make the unavoidable 
harder for us both. We have both seen 
it clearly, planned for it. Father's need 
does not grow less, and we must still 
put away the thought of futures.' 

And now, nothing being further 
from me than the male mind, or the 
male mind working under such circum- 
stances, I have decided that a short 

story can be constructed out of his 
answer. For would not the manufac- 
ture of that answer enable me to dis- 
play Method, Subtlety, Technique? 
could not I, by taking much thought, 
create for posterity the picture of a 
very mean mind of literary ability 
trying to wound a woman's heart.? 
Could not I, by showing the various 
stages of that letter, the evolutions of 
the brain contriving it, succeed in in- 
geniously building up, by implication, 
two human characters and their mu- 
tual past? By implication only, no 
vulgar direct narrative. 

Opportunity is here abundant for the 
management of that much-prized thing, 
to be spoken of only with respectful 
capitals, Suggestive Detail. My hero, 
my subject rather, reaches a point in 
his composition where the chill fear 
strikes him that a dexterous turn of 
phrase, colored rich with reminiscence 
of some older artist, and yet his own, 
which flows from his pen, has been used 
by him recently. Accursed human trick 
of repetition ! He searches his memory 
for evidence to convict or clear himself. 
Unfortunately the rough draft of that 
other letter was not kept as usual, and 
a temporary illness had prevented its 
harvesting into the note-book. But the 
matter is serious, since the two women 
are friends. Women, one knows, are 
not of stern stuff; the stricter mascu- 
line code of honor does not prevail 
among them. Letters have been 
shown, letters may yet be shown. 
Thus would I suggest, subtly, as one 
perceives, and stiffening the too-fluid 
movement of my narrative by allusion 
and echo from older literature. And 
my final phrase, that was long ago de- 
cided upon. The letter dispatched, the 
door closing upon the silent servant, 
who goes out into the storm with the 
perfected work in his hand, the writer 
should fling himself with a sigh of sat- 
isfaction upon the fireside couch, and 



take down a volume of Meredith with 
a sense of intellectual kinship. 

What would Jane say? I think I 
hear an echo, * outside the limits of 
my own observation.' And yet, indig- 
nant, I demand, What would Jane 
write about in my place? Would Jane 
go out into the kitchen and gather the 
romantic material which flourishes 
there hot and hot while I do rechauffes 
in the study? The cook is thirty-five, 
short-tempered but sunshiny; she has 
been divorced, and her one child lies 
buried far away in a prairie state; her 
husband, after drunken threats and 
wearisome prayers for forgiveness, has 
at length gone his solitary road; the 
absurdly opportune * lover of my child- 
hood/ with no money saved in the 
past, no prospect of work in the future, 
and a very large black cigar in his 
mouth in the present, has appeared. 
And my cook, regardless of these many 
tenses, is trustfully featherstitching her