The Cosmopolitan 1904-05: Vol 37 Iss 1

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THE VoL. XXXVII COSMOPOLITAN. Fiom every man according to hrs abilit MAY, v: lo every one according to his needs. 1904. No. I. SIGNING PAPERS OF ENLISTMENT ON A ERITISH WAR-SHIP. THE MAKING OF By BROUGHTON HEN it is said that naval statistics show about twenty per cent. of a foreign element in the American service, and that this can be very nearly doubled so as to include the number who have for reasons enlisted as American citizens, when they are really foreign-born and -trained, the British process of turning out a tar becomes of consummate interest to all Americans. Not for this reason alone, but as well because the United States is using very nearly identically the same system as the British for producing men for the navy, and ten years from this time there will be little if any difference. Of course, there are at all times more liberality and individual consideration in American methods, and the raw material, whether it be a boy from an Ohio canal- boat, a lad from the mines of Colorado or a confident imp from the streets of New York, is always more apt in seamanship, Copyright, 1904, by COSMOPOLITAN PUBLISHING COMPANY, A BRITISH TAR. BRANDENBURG. gunnery, mechanics and small-arms exer- cises. To the dirty, unpleasant and ex- hausting work before the firing ends of the boilers, and trimming coal in the bunkers, the American-born youth takes with very ill grace, and there is where the German or Scandinavian finds his opportunity in the navy of the United States. Since Great Britain has had a navy, there never has been a want of seafaring men to man it. Drake and Nelson are still names with which to work wonders in the fishing- villages of Devonshire, Cornwall and the north-of-Ireland coast, in the merchant- marine centers of Bristol, Swansea, Ports- mouth, Liverpool, the Hartlepools, Hull or Glasgow. If England, Ireland, Scot- land and Wales were a thousand miles inland and had no coast, even so the colo nials of Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Australia, India, New Zealand and the Indies would easily supply the need.

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4 THE MAKING, OF A BRITISH TAR. BRITISH FIRST-CLASS BATTLE-SHIP ‘* FORMIDABLE,"* 15 000 TONS, BUILT IN 1898 Just as young gentlemen who wish to enter Woolwich and Sandhurst are far greater in number than the allowances of these institutions, so are there more boys who aspire to become blue-jackets than there are places for them. But the wise government is careful to see that the hope- fuls are turned over, whenever possible, to apprenticeships in the great liners, if they cannot be got into some sailing-vessel of size. Five years in a square-rigger in vari- ous parts of the world is going to tit a boy to fill considerably more than an able seaman’s place on board a man-o’-war after he has had a little gunnery, and boys who are trained under good officers on big liners are fit to be transferred suddenly to government service. The admiralty knows this full well, and consistently encour- ages British naval officers in retiring early or taking indefinite leave in order that they may take places as first and second officers in big ships of the merchant marine. If the list of commanding and navigating officers of English mail-boats, some hun- dreds in number, should be compiled and scanned, it would be found to be largely made up of naval officers. 3ut for the lad who has the fortune to be taken into the navy proper, a strange vista stretches out for the twelve years of his service. His country asks him to give the best years of his life, the years before thirty, to her, and offers inducements com- mensurate with the scale of wages in the United Kingdom. No youth, no matter how promising intellectually or physically, is taken after his sixteenth year. If he wants to serve under arms at sea and is older than that, he may only go to the marines. He can never be a blue-jacket. The boys are first taken aboard a receiving- ship, and their pay begins at once at the rate of a few pence per day. After being trained aboard the receiving-ships, which are for the most part old wooden men-o’- war, they are transferred to cruising school-ships in some cases, in others sent to sea in men- o*-war. It is in the training-ship stage that the ‘‘hand-work’’ is the salient feature. To begin with, no puny boys come aboard, and those that have not spirit are soon forced to display some in self-defense. There are born leaders among them and born followers, of course; but it is a

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THE MAKING Zz GUN-CREW AND SHORE-GUN FROM THE strange metamorphosis through which a shy, difiident youngster of fourteen who has never been out of his coastwise county will become a bold, aggressive lad of fifteen, sharp in his wits and with due deference to his superiors, wherein he shows that he knows ‘‘wat end o° the bleedin’ gun to eye.’ The life of an officer aboard a training- ship is not that of a Sunday-school teacher ERTHING A WAR-SHIP AT THE INDEFATIGABLE,” SQUADRON, AT DOCK; BRITISH TAR. FLAGSHIP OF THE HALIFAX BRITISH NORTH ATLANTIC He must know with a heavy hand and when to for No matter how experienced he may be, he can never hope to be as keen with a small class of girls. when to bear down make allowance young spirits. and discerning as the boys are inventive. They can always go him one or two tricks better. One lad, joined the not more than twelve when he receiving-ship in the Thames, TIGHTENING UP THE HAWSER.

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6 THE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAR. soon earned a reputation for general ability and likelihood, mixed with abnormal devil- try. One time, as punishment for his misde- meanors, he was given over to the _ officers’ servant to help do ‘‘boots,’’ et cetera, for a fortnight in ad- dition to his usual appren- tice duties. The captain was congratulating himself that he had little Ed- wardes too busy at last to think up trouble-making schemes, but SAILOR AND MARINE, SHOWING he had mis- counted trumps. The second day of Edwardes’ punishment, a retired admiral, some other officers and a number of ladies were coming aboard to tea. Edwardes knew that the ship’s officers would want their dress-boots at 4:15 in order to pre- sent themselves on deck punctually at 1:30. He carefully put in the toe of each boot a small bit of cotton waste, just enough to prevent the officer’s foot from getting in. When the officers awoke from their afternoon naps to dress, the result can be imagined. Each thought ‘‘boots’’ had given him some other man’s shoes. The puzzled servant tried to exchange the boots properly, but succeeded only in really mixing them up. The ‘‘old man,’’ as the commanding officer aboard is called, was roaring with fury. He had tried on every pair twice without getting any he could wear, when there came the ominous sound of the boatswain piping the first guests over the side. Not an officer to receive them! Another small rascal created a stir aboard a training-ship lying off Progresso not long ago. He had been caught stealing some detona- tors to be used in his own pri- vate amuse- ment later on, and as a pun- ishment was sent up to the CTOSstrees about three o’clock in the afternoon and told to stay there till called down. Sorrow- ful to relate, the executive ofticer forgot all about him. A norther be- gan to blow about nine that evening, and the vessel was riding poorly. Some one asked about the boy, and the executive officer, looking up, could just see a small black bundle in the royals. He shouted to the boy to come down. There was no answer and the bundle did not stir. He paid no heed to the cries of others, and at last the chief rigging-instructor went up to see what was the matter. He found the culprit fast asleep in the howling gale one hundred and twenty feet above the RESPECTIVE ACCOUTERMENTS deck ! On the theory that, while the knowl- edge of how to make sail, to refit all deck gear, to steer for and to the wind, and to do everything in the way of rigging, is not necessary on board a steam war-boat, the training of a sailor is the best in the world to give quickness and accuracy of hand and eye, steadiness of nerve and foot; and to make squads of men mobile under direction, the boy is taught how to do all sorts of work in wire, rope and canvas; to take hand-lead and deep-sea soundings ; how to take steering commands; how to man, lower and pull boats; how to make his own clothes, and a thousand other

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things which are good for all seagoing men to know. Soon the thin wrists broaden, the slender vrows brown and thick, the shoulders on breadth and solidity and the gait loses any shamble or uncertainty it may have had, and having passed from the state of second-class to first-class boy, the impa- tient lad longs for the time when he can vet away to sea. The fittest go first, and if they are counted as they go it will be found that there are many missing from the number of the lot first taken in hand. The vacancies have been made by those who have fallen short in require- ments, mentally, physically or in behavior, and have been discharged or have grown neck take Taw restless and deserted. From boy to man is the change of a minute. boy drawing tenpence a day for average rating, hears an order read and goes below an ordinary seaman in the British navy. In the matter of pay, it is progression It all depends on his rating, depends his ability and conduct; so it is hard to I have seen a man of One comes on deck as a first-class from that time on. and his promotion on atrike an average. “A nd 0 ™~ DIVERS, WITH THEIR PUMP AND OTHER GFAR 7HE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAR. thirty, in fine physical trim, in his four- teenth year in the service but rated only as able seaman and drawing but nineteen dollars a month; and some months ago I the navy-yard in Halifax the chief gunnery instructor of H. M. S. ‘*Retribution.’’ He had just drawn his and showed it to amount it dollars forty-three hundreds such as he in met in pay me; in was sixty-eight cents. There the British navy, and each in his special line is an expert. and are This particular man, so an officer from H. M. 8. ‘*Tribune’’ in- formed me, knows more about gunnery than any other man in the fleet, from Ad- miral Sir Archibald Douglas down to the newest boy. By a careful sifting process, the young men are got into the work for which they fitted. One youth may be best for signal work and so becomes a ‘*bunting- are best tosser,’’ another may be a proper subject for the tender care of ‘‘Chips,’’ as the carpenter is dubbed, while yet another can do best work in the Wherever he is best placed, he ultimately his stokehold. finds his way there and he rises therein in rating. Promotion is not sudden. is never hak, Tae FROM THE NAVY-YARD AT HALIFAX

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THE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAR. VISITORS DAY, WHEN A WAR-SHIP LOOKS ALMOST PEACEABLE, due to any ulterior political influence, and is never undeserved. A man living month in and month out in the same ship cannot long deceive the officers thereof as to his qualifications. If the best place for him is outside the navy, he gets outside, usually by the process of encouraged desertion. It is a matter of regret that a very consider- able portion of these **bad men,*’ as they are called, tind their way to the American TORPEDO-BOAT DESTROYER ‘QUAIL,’ navy. Of course, some of them are refused as suspected British deserters, but the methods of evading the suspicion of naval recruiting-ofticers are well known in every ship of the British navy, for the good pay and greater liberties are a postgraduate ob- jective never lost sight of, no matter on what station British Jack is. Of course, ifaman is a deserter, he cannot show a clean record as a blue-jacket, so he merely ‘*borrows*’ the papers of some mercantile- marine sailor, American-born or natur alized, and enlists under his name. There is a place in Cherry Street in New York where a man can get a new name, and a new record in the shape of ‘‘V. G.’’ dis- charges, for from two to five dol- lars. The name is usually that of a dead man, or some ‘‘hard-up’’ who has parted with his papers for something to drink and eat. When the deserter is duly enlisted, he returns the papers and gets a rebate. One evening while the fleet-—war-ships and transports—of the Santiago expedition was lying in Tampa, I chanced into a hot, noisy wine-shop in a sandy street in Ybor City, and found there thirty-some liberty men who were breaking their leave. There was a flow of many founts, for the Third Ohio had been paid and was patriotically spending its money on the navy. When tongues were loosened, I counted twelve men of that thirty who avowed their British birth, and one was a gun-captain. All were supposedly American citizens. As to their language—no one could have diawn a dividing line. There was a great hubbub some time * ONE OF THE SWIFTEST CRAFT AFLOAT. ST a

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THE MAKING since, in English aa print, over the fact that there seemed to be a period be ‘ eighteen | tween and in which British men { wick. o'-war’s men went much It has been noted they twenty very to the dogs. Raa — BATTLE-SHIP CANOPUS often broke down in their physical training, and in many ways to turn to naught all that had been done to make them efficient. cry that the men were overworked as boys, There was a general that the training-ship was an outdated institution and exactions on the modern man-o*-war too severe. Two or three pointed letters from experienced naval men silenced babel. The that age foolish Jack strange soon this truth is that at shorewise dissipations and It is a critical period for him. begins his in ports, is soon much the worse off therefor He is sure to get a few sound trouncings on shore, and perhaps leave the imprint of his knuckles where it will do good. He will probably spend all his pay and turn a few dishonest tricks to meet deficits. He will learn that all men are not his enemies be- cause he happens to be drunk, and after his officers and the older men are through with him and his wild-oats harvest, it will not be hard to tell whether he is worth any more of the precious ‘‘hand-work** which is meant only for the deserving. If found wanting, he is left to drift, and he may drift along with the others or he may drift away from them, but he never gets a he is OF A BRITISH TAR. 9 Warrant - officer's pension, and some better man’s hand is always over his head. Under suitable con- he a ‘*beachcomber, ** ditions, will become set up housekeeping on a palm fringed shore with a well en oiled lady of color, and the haunt those dens eat what falls from trees, or rONS BUILT IN 150 12,950 of vice and crime in strange ports where men such as he was once will supply all his wants, intentionally or unintention- ally, because he can talk navy-English and join in the ‘‘lower-deck’’ songs. In all of the out-of-the-way corners of this men who are dodging they world one will tind the responsibilities of civilization; may never have been sailors. they may now be planters or missionaries nominally, but they are ‘*beachcombers’* nevertheless. If the best influences prevail and Jack weathers the time of stress. then begins the time of fruition of all the earlier labors. He becomes a petty officer of second class, perhaps first class, and eventually a warrant- officer and—a coveted distinction— he may have a big gun given over to his care. His pay is steadily increased with his rating. and in addition he may have some small business on the side to occupy his spare time, for the higher he is rated the more spare time he has. Out of many groups of officers that I have known rated petty second-class or better, there have been few men who were not married. In due course, after his cruises abroad. Jack comes to home station, and if he has not been writing

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10 THE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAR. LOADING A SIX-POUNDER, ON A GUNBOAT, letters long ere this to some bright-eyed lass in the old home town, he has found one elsewhere and he marries. The time was when ships’ captains performed the ceremonies for their men, but that is one of the many, many quaint things lapsed into the history of the navy. One of the survivals is the procedure in paying off, when Jack always gets his money on his hat. Under no circumstances will he take it from the paymaster’s hands. Being married, his wife and family fol- low him from home station to colonial station and even to foreign station, and it is not at all unusual for the pair to set up a sailors’ lodging-house, a tobacco-shop or some other small business; and in that case, when his time is up, Jack is engulfed in civil life as a small tradesman, with a tidy subsidy from the government in the shape of a pension. He will never escape from the beneficial effects of regular life aboard ship and the systematic exercise and work. He will always be the drilled man, and will shape his life-habits and the habits of all about him thereto. No one not initiated can understand how there can be so much manual labor aboard a small war-ship to engage the attention of two or three hundred men. From ‘‘up hammocks’’ to ‘‘down hammocks’’ there is duty of some sort for the duty-men, and during a large portion of that time for both port and starboard watches. One of the occasional duties, one that is thoroughly detested by both officers and men, is coaling ship. Usually this means putting aboard from docks or lighters the blocks of Cardiff coal used by the navy, and, as Jack says, ‘‘ut’s got a onpleasant way wid ut.’’ A favorite drill is with the old nine- pounders or the new Piel guns, when an officer will take a squad of men and lead them in a rush on some imaginary mob about to overwhelm some imaginary con- sulate. The men drag the heavy gun by hand, and when their wind is all gone the officer finds a nice hot corner in which to unlimber and load and fire, et cetera; but they go back to ship with appetites that the king himself might envy. A battle-ship, if her career be of due length, will, before she ends, have used up her own weight in paint and _ patience. When there is nothing else to be done, there is always an abundance of holysto- ning and painting. All of the small boat gear, from steam-cutter to jolly-boat, is a source of great vexation, and there is a

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saying that the boats make Jack strong. At least, they make great demands on his strength. Pulling them about a harbor in a hot sun, or rowing in from an anchor- age with a nasty jobble running, is not the most fun in the world, but it is like spend- ine money that has been found compared with heaving them en board by hand and stowing them, with the steam-winches fore and aft singing their own sone of idleness. Jack thinks it is strange that an officer should desire him to heave on an eight inch line until he can’t see for perspira tion, when the winches could do the work just as well as not. But it is only a very short-rated boy who ever wonders why oflicers think so differently from what most common-sense people do. Experienced Jack has long since ceased to ponder the matter. Drill is another matter. It is a common affliction shared with marines, and no matter whether it be rapid-fire or big gun, cutlass or landing-party, the fact that it seems to be in line with his prime object, to fight for his country if he gets a chance, is enough for Jack. Ife is extravagantly fond of firing practise, especially if he is a gun-captain or is under a good one who can make a fine score. One can always tell a true British man- o’-war’s man by the way in which he gets out of a hammock. He comes out feet first, in an assured manner that is hard to acquire. The Spanish-American and Anglo MARINES DRILLING ON THE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAk II Indian of the hammock habit usually puts one leg or one hand out first. One day, on board Hl. M.S. ‘*Terrible, *’ I was visiting a mess on the lower deck when dinner was being served. There had been the clatter of vetting the mess- board ready, and the tins and ware out, filled and distributed, and big Esdale had just taken his place with a true, hearty A.B.’s smile’ of anticipation on his face, when his eve fell on the meat and ‘**spuds”’ just set before him. The potatoes had a hard, watery look, and the meat, which doubtless had been a fine piece of fresh beef before it went to the ewalley, appeared boiled dry. It met a fork attack with stubborn, rubbery resistance; then Esdale looked up and said, eravely: ‘*Mate, did you knaw ‘ell ‘ad a_ beck door?’’ TI signified I did not, and asked What made him think so. "Ow else did our cook get out?*’ All the mess agreed that that was where sea-cooks must come from. A fine example of a nation’s conservation of its military resources is found in the British colonial naval reserve. Each year there are taken aboard the ‘*Calypso,’’ or some similar vessel in the ports of New- foundland or other maritime province of Canada, hundreds of raw fishermen from the Newfoundland bankers, the Labrador schooners and coastwise whalers. They are first-class sailors, and all they need to make them good men-o’-war’s men is a

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12 THE MAKING OF A BRITISH TAR. H. M. S. ‘‘ WHITING,” 330 TONS, BUILT IN _ 13896, little drill. They get this aboard the school-ships lying in port. in the idle season, and when they have been given the necessary preparatory instruction they are taken aboard vessels of the North Atlantic fleet and go on the winter cruise in the West Indies. The same thing is going on in all other parts of the world where there are British possessions. The men come back trained blue-jackets, but return to civilian pursuits, peaceable fisher- men and merchant-sailors, yet a great drilled body ready for the nation’s call. One evening, a very few years ago, I was standing on a small causeway above the yacht-club in Kiel, when I noticed two blue-jackets, apparently from some one of the British men-o’-war lying in the harbor, retreating carefully from twenty or more German man-o’-war’s men. Something struck one of the two fugitives. As he staggered on under a light, I saw he was only a fresh-faced boy. His companion dragged him to a house door, opened it, shoved him in and then faced the assailants. Evidently, the ever- prevailing bad feeling between men of the two navies had broken out and the odds were frightfully against the Britisher. It was one against twenty, but one blow was just enough for each one as they came, and as he dealt smashing A TYPICAL BRITISH TORPEDO-BOAT DESTROYER. defense right and left they went down before him like straw men. Not long ago, I was in the Brooklyn Navy Yard and saw the doughty tar again, this time in the uniform of an American able seaman! I was talking with the captain of a British tramp, also a visitor in the yard at the time, and I hastily told him the story and pointed out the hero of it, at work in a detail transferring stores. ‘*And what do you suppose he is doing in the American navy?"’ T asked. ‘‘Why, that is simple. His twelve years up ‘in the British service, he enlists over here like many another, for the sake of getting the high pay and easy times under the stars and stripes. Here, you two men.’’ The handy man with his fists, and one other, were passing us, and stopped at this request. The merchant captain caught them by the hands, pushed up their sleeves and showed on one’s arm a complete British naval ensign in tattoo, and on the other man a lion rampant. But the man with the ensign had the American eagle on his other arm and the British lion was flanked by crossed American flags. ‘**You can trust them,’’ said the cap- tain, as he pointed to the emblems, ‘‘ for they are British im- perial hand-made and hall-marked, by 9 George!

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THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. By Grace ISABEL COLBRON. HE life of the conscientious stage artist is nowhere an easy one, yet it is safe to assert that the German actress who is fairly successful is about the most hard- working creature in existence. And her preparatory studies before entering on a professional engagement are light, she and every one else take that part of it so easily, that vet so very when we meet her again after some years of provincial work we are sur prised—that is, if we are firm believers in the efficacy of dramatic training- schools—at the authority and finish, the reliable versatil- ity, of her acting. German say, ‘‘One can learn to before taking engagement, but that is all that dramatic training- schools can do for the actor; all the rest must be learned on the stage itself.*’ managers speak This would be a dangerous doctrine for the American theater, where three or four years’ work might teach a novice nothing than the lines of one part; but, the German theatrical system being what it is, the German quite right in his assertion. company system, with constantly varying repertoire of all the classic and favorite mod- ern plays, is the only system that will make a reliable actor of amediocre talent. With this system, schools are good, but they are not indispensable; without it, nothing toward raising the average excel lence of the rank and file of the profession. And this last is what makes up the standard more manager is The stock- they can do MARIANNE of not the exceptional brilliancy of a few star players. teliable team-work is what the German achieves, but it by a strain of work on the individual which dramatic art in a country, theatrical system is won is tremendous. of equal professional labors, it is always the woman on whom the strain tells most, for there are so many other duties bent upon her, which the man seems to escape. To understand this strain, the system of things theatric in Germany must made clear to Amer- And where it is a question incum- somehow be ican readers in those points they differ from American stagedom. And this difference extends nearly all along the line. Long runs are very rare, being found only occasion- ally at some minor where house in a_ large city which also number of other theaters. The star travels never with his or her en- semble, and plays as with the company possesses a German alone, ‘*ouest’’ regular WULFF. 1. everywhere. There are one or two leading artists who do not take regular engagement, but spend the entire season going in this way from theater to theater; but as a rule, the ‘‘ouest’’ is the lead of some big city theater who takes a month’s or. six weeks’ leave in the winter to gain a wider fame. Every little town, as well as every large city, has its own theater, built and supported by the town, at which a round of hits gives a regular stock all company the favorite classics and modern

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OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. THE TRAINING TILLI WALDEGG, ANNA VON HOCHENBURGER, every season. The theater is usually the handsomest building in the town, and the board of directors, composed of the city fathers and other leading citizens, chooses the manager among those bidding for the place, and gives him a stated subsidy toward the expenses of the season. The season varies from an all-year enzagement, with four weeks’ summer vacation, in large cities, to a five months’ engagement in the smaller towns. Villages of under ten thousand inhabitants usually share the expense of the theater with the neighboring townlet, the company playing two or three nights a week in each place. The small houses engage their ensemble by the season only; the large centers give from one- to five-year engagements. You are never engaged in Germany for a play, but always for a season, or more, as the case may be. You do not engage for a part, but for a ‘*Fach,’’ a line of parts. The restricted audiences, and the subscription method of ticket-selling, necessitate a constant change of bill. The classical plays are usually given one performance, or at the most two performances, each. Naturally, rehearsals cannot be many or thorough; and yet, as the ensemble in such places is small, every one has to work to the limit of his or her strength and time. The Juliet or the Lady Macbeth of one night may stand in the first line of the chorus for a comic opera the next, or, in cap and apron, bring in a letter for a modern play. You do not engage as lead proper, but as ‘‘Fach’’ lead, more of which anon. After four or five years of this sort of work, it can be readily seen that, if the actress’ health has stood the strain, she is a finished, reliable artist, even if her talent be but small. This provincial experience is about the only systematic training given the great mass of German actresses, and it is the only training that counts. As for the pre- liminary schooling, it rather astonishes one to find that in a country where oppor- tunities for learning of every kind are so highly organized and so generously sup- ported by the authorities, there is not one subsidized institution for dramatic training. Max Grube, the able and energetic stage- manager of the Berlin Royal Theater, has begun in a small way with a_ school which he wishes to model after the Paris ngEneser nee

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Conservatoire. But all the state support he has as yet won for it, is that the pupils are taken on as volunteer figurantes in the Yoyal Theater. The Emanuel Reicher Dramatic School, founded and managed by Reicher himself, who is the best modern speaker on the German stage, is another new and prom- ising Berlin in- stitution, and the only one which gives an occa- sional trial per- formance of the pupils in a city house. One or two other teachers in Ber- lin have won so many pupils by the excellence of their training, that they can almost be said to have founded schools,although the organization is very loose, and all depends upon the personality of the teacher him- self. This ex hausts the list of regular schools, although there are many other good dramatic teachers all over Germany. The best dra- matic teachers in Germany lay most stress on the cultivation of the voice. The aim is to make of the voice an instrument which will follow every shade of expression. That once achieved, the novice is left pretty much to herself and to the results of her provincial experiences. Judging by results, the method is not a bad one. One shining example of what the German style of stage-training can make of a talent which is less than mediocre, is GERALDINE FARRAR. THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. 15 shown by the work of Frau Anna von Hochenburger, who for some years now has played a certain kind of lead in the Royal Theater in Berlin. In her very youthful days, this actress was a member of the ballet school in Meiningen, but became fired with an ambition for the higher forms of the drama. She asked Baron Chronegk, the manager, to try her. He heard her speak what she had learned, then grunted, ‘*Go back to the ballet, child ; you haven't a spark of talent.’’ The story goes fur- ther that the plucky girl an- swered, ‘‘Never mind, your Ex- cellency, I'll get there: I have a classic profile.’’ Which is true. But she had also pluck, determi- nation and the power to profit by just what the German training gives so well, the thorough knowl- edge of one’s handiwork, rou- tine and assur- ance. For sev- eral years now this beautiful woman has been in the height of her career, and with really a very slight modicum of talent, fills her place very acceptably, and never spoils anything. Her charming face, good figure and agreeable voice are all the willing instruments of what she wants to do with them. She gives nothing of her own in the doing of this, but is coached by Manager Grube, who possesses an unusually high order of intelligence,

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16 THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. and superior dramatic ability, hampered in his case by disadvantages of personal ap- pearance. So then. if the student but work hard, she can attain to a good position and really become acceptable with very little talent. The great actress is born, not made, but the German theatrical system makes a lot of very useful **filling’’ material out of a hopeless lack of talent or personal charm. Naturally, the true talent profits in propor- tion. But to re- turn to our student and her prelim- inary work. Let us take the case of a girl who is not of a theatrical family—for naturally one who is of such a family comes into herkingdom very much easier and by different methods from those demanded of outsiders. Our stage- struck maid- en goes, as a rule, to some actress who has made a name and whom she admires, and asks for advice and instruction. Of course, she must at first en- dure a little sermonizing on the awful hard- ships and pitfalls of a stage career—stage people are alike in that respect the world over. Butif she persists and is taken on as a pupil, the teacher, if she knows her work, starts in on business principles at once. The student is first asked what ‘‘Fach’’ she has chosen; and if—which is not MARIE SULNA. likely, however—this expression is new to her, she is asked what parts most appeal to her, and the teacher then names the Fach. This matter of Fach is a very important thing in German theaterdom, and the power it wields is one of the drawbacks of an otherwise excellent system, for too much Fach and Fach-tradition tend to deaden personality altogether. The Fach is the line of parts which must naturally be marked in a stock com- pany, as is any other division of labor appor- tioned in a business house. If you engage as lead in a certain Fach, you have a right toall the big roles in that Fach, but you are also obliged to know them all, to have them letter- perfect, cos- tumed, and ready to play on one re- hearsal if necessary. And,as men- tioned be- fore, even if youare lead, it is only for a certain Fach; you have no right to big réles of another Fach. You may play Mary Stuart and Lady Macbeth, but you must be Lady Capulet to the ‘*sentimental lead‘s’’ Juliet, or Emilia to her Desdemona; and both you and she take a back seat, which means a small part, while the plays are on that give the in- ewénue her innings. S The student's choice of a Fach must be I Ce

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———— largely determined by her appearance, if the latter be in the extreme. The quality of the voice means a great deal, least too, for each Fach has its distinctive in- tonation and manner of speaking. It is quite a favorite exercise for dramatic teachers to have their pupil repeat any one verse in different THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. ing German actress who cannot speak verse effectively. The first thought of a “ood teacher is to place the voice properly there where the vocal cords are relieved of unnecessary strain, and will then stand the wear and tear of hard work. Then all registers are rounded out, while Fach methods :— As the tragic lead ; As the sentimental lead ; As the ingénue; In modern conver- sutional tone. A sharp distine- tion is between modern and made also classical = speaking. where the main split @omes in This is between the two schools of which are German acting, now roughly class- ified as the Viennese or declamatory school, and the North German or modern style. But even such authorita- tive modern speakers as Emanuel Reicher that the old declamatory style of verse-work acknowledge rounds out the voice as nothing else can, and his pupils speak verse for months be- fore they are given a line of The modern aims also at prose to learn. school perfect verse-speak - . . : FRAU ing, but in what is known as the modern style. So that everywhere the German dramatic teacher erounding which, with the experience of acting in gives the student a good in verse-speaking, coustant classic plays, makes the German actress, as a rule, au excellent and reliable verse- speaker. Helene Odilon is one of the very few instances to be found of a lead- the one most neces- sary for the Fach is particularly strengthened. The best teachers do all this before the stu- dent is taught to **speak,’* as declam- atory exercises are of very little use with- out the proper knowledge and con- trol of the voice as an instrument. When this is done, and localisms dialect blemishes eliminated, then come some speaking then parts and exercises and the study of begins—not of all and any parts, but of **Fach patts.’’ For the German training is very businesslike, in that it prepares the student in one or two years at the most for a provincial en- eagement ina certain Fach. In smaller ters, the tragic lead, thea- who is_ practically leading lady, as far as there is one, hbe- SAUER. cause she draws the what are well, largest silaty, has to play known as ‘‘Salondame’’ 16les— as these being the tragic heroine in modern plays, and the superior, well-dressed woman of elegance and fashion who is a figure This Fach is in all German comedies the most arduous, and requires a greater line of costumes, a greater outlay for other. The parts, and than any most

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18 THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS.

MARIE REISENHOFER, important modern part for the tragic lead is Sudermann's Magda, although the old stand-by Camille is played occasionally. The ‘‘sentimental lead’? must such Schiller parts as Louise Miller. Goethe offers her Gretchen in ‘‘Faust,’’ and Clirchen in ‘‘Egmont’’; and of the good Shakespeare parts, Juliet, Desdemona, Ophelia and Viola are exclusively hers. The ingénue gets her innings mainly in the modern repertoire. If the novice playsa trial three times in any theater, asa bid for an en- gagement or after a tentative engagement, know she must appear in some of these distinct- ively Fach parts, as she is to be engaged for And as almost the ready for that particular Fach. entire classical repertoire is instant use in any German theater of stand- ing, even down to the smallest, any of them may be chosen for her experiment. In the summer theaters, at the watering- places, light comedies and operettas are the stand-bys, which give the novice an ex- conversation team- cellent training in modern and the rapid-fire play of farce work. The theaters are considered merely stepping-stones on the and not until a city very smallest histrionic pathway, like Cologne or Bremen is reached does the novice care to remain more than one season. In cities of this size the cast is larger, so that there is not quite so much opportunity for each one, but the entire establishment is of a higher grade, and two or even more seasons there are of great help in the artistic development of the actress. Theaters of this stamp are watched by the metropolitan agents and by the managers of houses in the big cities, and a name gained there is likely to lead to the coveted prize of a metropolitan engage- ment. There is no doubt that one can find a far greater number of striking personalities of greater artistic stature amone the men of the German stage than among the women. This is true of all grades, among the well- known stars and in the rank and file. <A history of the great names and real talents of the German stage would give woman but a second place. The German woman, as a rule, lacks a definite individuality and that magnetism which raises one above the mass. She lacks initiative, and even in the interpretative artist initiative is an im- portant thing. But her good qualities, her submission to discipline and tradition,

HELENE ODILON, 2 Reon

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her power to learn patiently and thoroughly and to do as she is told, make of her, with the excellent training that the German theatrical system gives her, an efficient, reliable actress. Her intelligence and mental equipment have been developed by the kind of plays in which she acts, and she can learn, and does learn, to become the willing, submissive instrument of inter- pretation of the thought of ¢ This is considerable of itself, and in Ger- many, at least, there are many who think great poet. this the highest artistic power that a woman should or can reach. But while it is recognized that the German stage has no women to match with its brightest stars, complaints are heard that the present gen- eration of actresses is far below the standard of the last. Names like Charlotte Wolter, Marie Seebach, Niemann- Raabe, tind no when the last- named, the only one of the great trio still alive, occasionally appears in a charity per- Hedwig successors, and formance, the generation has a chance to see and be told what it lacks. present ILONA SPERR THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. SOPHIE WACHNER But the present is a time of transition for the German stage as for everything else in the art world. Methods and traditions are such an epoch is never talent. some very acceptable talent and charming changing, and productive of great There are personalities among the better-known Ger- man actresses of to-day, and some, per- haps, which a future generation may find worthy of a place among the elect. In smaller towns, one theater has to supply the entire range of dramatic needs, but in a city like Berlin each house can have its specialty. This allows of a greater specializing among the actors, and brings many a talent to the fore in its own particular line, which could noi shine in the Fach limits of the province. The Royal Theater, the haus, lays most stress on its magnificent Schauspiel- classic performances, which thus provide the rdles in which its ensemble is usually seen. Rosa Poppe, the tragic lead, is an actress of long experience, immense fire and temperament, and possesses a rich, full voice. toward lighter modern roles, but her impersona- She has ambitions tions of the big classic parts, Medea, Sap- pho, Judith, still remain the best she does. The Royal Theater possesses in Anna

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20 THE TRAINING OF A GERMAN ACTRESS. Schramm about the best ‘‘funny old woman” that the German stage can show, Sophie and a group of younger actresses Wachner for classic *‘sentimental parts’ and Wilma von Mayburg for modern roles being most notable—are worth considera- tion. The Residenz Theater, which cannot call itself of the first rank, because it gives runs of two months or so, and _ plays translations of the latest French farces, has yet had among its force, past and present, some excel- lent names. It wins consideration through its occa sional matinées_ of ultra-literary plays, and through the per- formance, between farces, of some French play of greater literary merit. Marie Re: senhofer is the lead ing lady there at present. This actress, one of the most beautiful women on the Ger- man stave, was at one time considered a highly promising talent for a certain line of modern parts. She has not kept this promise, but has routine. dash and go, and a certain sense of humor, which, with her ability to wear handsome gowns well, render her eminently acceptable in her present posi- tion. The Deutsches Theater, with its dis- tinctively modern repertoire of Ibsen, Suder- mann, Hauptmann, Schnitzler and Dreyer, brings to the fore the distinctively modern talents, and a new style of actress which belongs to the past decade or two. Rosa Bertens, Louise Dumont and the latest dis- covery, Irene Triesch, as well as the spe- cialist Elsa Lehmann, are some of the more notable names for this list. This style of actress makes a specialty of the modern parts, the Ibsen characters, roughly so called—the ‘*‘new woman,’ as the new writers portray her. A power of repres- sion, fine artistie discretion, and an abso- lute lack of any- thing like declama- tion or rant, are the first essentials for this style of acting. ITelene Odilon, beau- tiful, charming, dashing, gifted— but insincere, say the critics—was for some time a notable figure among German actresses. But this charming woman has been steadily losing ground of late, owing to her predilection for plays with ‘‘star’’ roles, rather than plays of value in themselves, and _ if she recovers from her present illness, she will find it hard to regain the position she once had. _Ter- esina Gessner, the wife of the Berlin favorite Otto Somers- torf, is a sweet and attractive personal- ity, an actress of the older school who holds her own with a large circle of admirers more by force of this personality, and by her reliable artistic discretion, than because of any great genius. As for Vienna, it has the eccentric Adele Sandrock, and the ‘‘Old Guard of the Hof- burg’’—Stella Hohenfels—in the lead, but apart from this Vienna has no great per- sonality to show among present - day actresses. WILMA VON MAYBURG

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ERECTED BY THE EMPEROR ANTONINUS PIUS FRONT VIEW OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER OR THE SUN. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SECOND CENTURY A.D. THE RUINS OF BAALBEK. By DuLany HunrTER. “THE civilization of the Phenicians has perished so utterly that there are only a few stones standing to tell us of their attainments in art and science. Though Tyre, ‘‘Mistress of the Sea,’’ sank into the Mediterranean with her purple wrapped about her, has left us only a royal name to remember, for her treasures were she consumed in the fires which the Greeks lighted to proclaim her abdication of sovereignty. Sidon, too, the mother-city, has bequeathed nothing to posterity save a few archaic cave-tombs long since ten- antless. Carthage has fallen so low that even her ruins are now but memories. And from the Phenician colonies, once scattered so profusely along the sea from the western coast of Asia Minor to the Pillars of Hercules, the influence of the hardy race which planted them has completely disappeared. But in the ruins of Baalbek a cyclopean work yet the greatness to which they bears Witness to enclosing which attained builders—it is the wall of the Acropolis, Romans lone afterward raised one of the temples with which they ever decorated a conquered province. Great indeed is our surprise to find a splendid memorial of Phenician power so to think as upon the erandest far inland, accustomed as we are of this vanished people as living always within hearing of the sea, first on the Per- sian Gulf, then on the Eastern coast of the they sent forth to capture the Mediterranean. whence their of colonists commerce of the world. The world has never seeu such sailors, and no seafaring men have ever had such Upon them end upon the there will of cargoes armies commanders. triremes under their command remain to mankind forever much glamour of the East. Even the that they carried were things which the world still counts its luxuries—precious stones and finely woven tissues from India the

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22 THE RUINS OF BAALBER. and Persia; glassware, enamels and elegant potteries from old Egypt; articles of their own manufacture surpassing the products of those countries both in finish and in artis- tic excellence, though originally borrowed from them; and dyed stuffs of colors which are reckoned to-day suitable only {or princes to wear at their festivals. Such were the commodities they ex- changed with the rude peoples of Europe for gold and silver, tin and amber, which they amassed in such profusion in their cities that their very name became a syn- onym for luxury, so that, one after another, the prophets of Israel rose up in their simple mountain country and denounced them for their vanity. But this sea-loving people who taught the Greeks and Romans the most they ever knew of seamanship, who undertook to sail around the continent of Africa in the interests of a King of Egypt, and who, even after they had lost their complete independence as a nation, furnished a splendid fleet to their suzerain, the King of Persia, to resist the mighty Alexander, had other routes of trade than those which they had traced upon the waters, and these gigantic stones among the ruins of Baalbek marked, perhaps, the last station on their eastern frontier. From here the road lay past the desert kingdom of Pal- myra to India and Persia, but we know not at what epoch they were raised nor the purpose for which they were intended —whether they were the foundations of a citadel or merely hedged in a mountain upon whose bare crest they worshiped the moon and stars by night, and in the day- time Baal—the sun—when he had risen high in the heavens and threw a track of glory down the lurid cliffs along the western side of the Valley of the Litany, so crude and intensely brilliant that they could liken it to no scene that had been vouchsafed to them to witness in all the cosmic beauty of the world. Little do we know of this mighty structure, still called ‘*the enclosing wall’’ —nothing save that its giant monoliths of granite, some more than sixty feet in length by twenty in depth and thickness, once girdled a stronghold of the Phenicians; for the recorded history of Baalbek com- mences only after that hardy race had vanished from the land and seas, when Tyre and Sidon were in ruins, Carthage fallen from her high estate, Greece conquered, PERISTYLE OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER. THE COLUMNS ARE FORTY-FIVE FEET IN HEIGHT. ee ee

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K. a a) N) as al . zx se) ke 9 Y = S N & Ry Ss -™ NS GENERAL VIEW OF THE ACROPOLIS OF BAALBEK, SHOWING THE CYCLOPEAN WALL, THE COLUMNS OF THE GREAT COURT OF THE PANTHEON, AND THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER OR THE SUN,

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24 THE RUINS OF BAALBER. PORTAL OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER, FROM THE INTERIOR. THE FIGURE OF THE MAN AT THE LEFT GIVES AN IDEA OF THE MASSIVE CONSTRUCTION. Rome mistress of the world, and her subjects prosperous and content in the enjoyment of a universal peace. Then Antoninus Pius, the last of the great adopt- ive emperors, commenced upon the lofty hill a great temple; and its stupendous ruins are those which we behold to-day. The builders of Antoninus, like the builders of Solomon. in order to make the approach to his temple the more imposing, raised the portico upon a mighty substruc- ture and threw a splendid sweep of stairs from it to the plain below. But that broad and noble stairway has been entirely de- stroyed, and we now reach the ruined portico through the gloomy passages of the great underbuilding. The twelve columns of the portico have fallen. the rich carvings of its frieze are now defaced, statues are no longer standing in the square chambers of the towerlike buildings at either side where deftly chiseled pilasters and niches are slowly crumbling into dust: but even amid the ruins we can fancy that the entrance to this magnificent temple has seldom been surpassed in majesty. Then we pass into a spacious hexagonal court. Here, too, the hand of the destroyer has fallen so heavily that there is hardly left the shadow of the former beauty of the place, only a few fragments of the lower walls and some lovely shell- shaped niches facing one another sadly across the deserted pave- ment, more than two hundred feet away. Next comes the great entrance-court of the temple, so vast that we are bewildered by its dimensions, and, standing among the fallen stones of a basilica which the Christians erected in the center, we can remark but the splendid outlines of the great pilasters, exadree and niches which enclose it, and it is only upon closer inspec- tion of the details of ornamentation that we realize it was finished in the third century of our era, when Rome had become degenerate and her decadence was marked upon every stone that she set up throughout oo

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s the length and breadth of her crum- bling provinces. Then the majestic form of Antoninus Pius rises before us and we feel that to him and to his architects we owe the splendid conceptions of these noble buildings, while the execution of the details was left to the feeble hands of the unworthy men who came after them. Passing from the Great Court, we find ourselves before yet more majestic ruins. On the right, a glorious bar of six Corin- thian columns, still supporting architrave THE RUINS OF BAALBER. and frieze, towers high above a wilderness of fallen stones which once formed the world-renowned temple built in honor of all the gods of the City of the Sun, and surrounded by a peristyle of fifty columns, besides the noble group yet left for our beholding, and beautiful with the deadly fairness of slowly disintegrating things. They alone are left to tell us of the splendor of the temple before which they stood and toremind us in ghostly fashion that when the lovely gods and goddesses of the Romans A FALLEN COLUMN OF THE PERISTYLE OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER, DISLODGED BY THE EARTHQUAKE Of 1759.

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26 were banished, art went into exile too. A Christian emperor soon decreed the destruction of the glorious Pantheon, but his army of despoilers could only mar and not destroy its beauties. Then, centuries later, one day the earth was taken with convulsions and she shook and trembled so that when the frightened peasants in the vineyards and orchards below the Acropolis looked up, as men will always look up in THE RUINS OF BAALBERK. in silent ruin. Even the portal, which was the chief glory of the temple, with its clusters of tapering columns _bear- ing aloft their high capitals of acanthus- leaves, is sadly damaged also. But the interior, though roofless now, is still well enough preserved for us to fancy how it looked almost two thousand years ago when the workmen left their labor, and the first procession entered with offerings of fruit and flowers to lay times of dan- ger, they be- held upon its pallid brow only the ruins of its former beauty which we see to-day. But the Temple of Jupiter or the Sun, which directly faced the Pantheon, though built upon a slightly lower level of the mountain, was spared the same cruel fate, and in the pro- fusion of ruins at Baalbek it alone is yet possessed of much of its early splendor. Tothenorth, only two or three of the beautiful col- umns of the peristyle have fallen, and we yet pass through the long aisle between them and the cella of the building, beneath a ceiling which still bears the garlands of fruits and flowers the Romans sculptured on it around the lovely heads of gods yet fair with youth- ful beauty and grave emperors whose high office deified them. But to the south and to the east, the eye again meets only desolation. Fallen columns, broken friezes; shattered vaulting—all lie upon the ground together FLUTED COLUMNS OF upon the altar dedicated to the eternal Generator of the blessings of the earth. Shadows play in the deep recesses of the fluted columns half sunken in the lovely walls; images of gods and emperors have alike been hurled from the double row of niches on both sides, while the foli- age traced around these niches has out- lasted both the emperors and the gods, and the sheaves of acanthus-leaves which form the capitals of the columns re- main unbroken by the weight of entablature and frieze. These cold stones have seen some of the most romantic and some of the most tragic figures that have ever crossed the great stage of the world. They saw pass before them the serried armies which Rome sent sometimes to guard, sometimes to extend, her frontier; and they were in their pristine freshness when one of those armies returned victorious, leading in regal THE TEMPLE PORCH.

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ENCLOSING WALL OF THE ACROPOLIS, BUILT BY THE SOME OF THE GIANT MONOLITHS ARE MORE NESS. IN THE DISTANCE ARE SIX GREAT - splendor a captive queen, who from a throne upon the desert had extended her dominion over so many ancient empires that no satire could be directed against her assumption of the proud title of ‘‘Queen of the East,”’ though it was but for the brief space of one brilliant day, as the lifetime of nations is counted, that she used it. Thus Zenobia passed through Baalbek on her way to Rome, to be dragged a captive in the return- ing conqueror’s train; but in the grand procession of the heroines of the world she walks erect and triumphant, second only to one, and follows close upon the shining footprints of Egypt's dauntless queen. Some of these fallen stones were hurled from their high places when the soldiers of Theodosius the Great carried out the edict of that emperor decreeing the destruc- tion of all the images of Baalbek’s gods, and these both before and after the-time of Constan- tine, crowded with surging throngs of pagan slayers and with Christian blood which they spilled; for men had venerated their gods too long to give them up, without fierce struggle, upon the mere cold, deserted pavements were, warm early THE RUINS OF BAALBEK. PHENICIANS CENTURIES BEFORE CORINTHIAN COLUMNS OF THE CHRISTIAN ERA THAN SIXTY FEET IN LENGTH AND TWENTY IN THICK- THE PANTHEON, official deerce of a newly converted em- at the upon the shimmering walls of Baalbek; and Christians going to their altar in the glo- rious temple of the Sun-God in triumph beneath the sculptured form of peror. But last cross was carved passed eagle, mains with outstretched wings above the the great his symbol, which yet re- eastern portal. Many of these fallen stones were stand- ing in their appointed positions after the empire of Rome had crumbled to pieces, and they perhaps remained unshaken until the of Moslems desecrated these temple-churches time the Arab invasion, when the and converted the Acropolis into a citadel whose ruins are now confounded with their sacred stones. From this eminence, Saladin once looked out, no doubt to have his dream of empire quickened by the fair prospect which he beheld. And before these mighty fortifi cations, the Sultans of Egypt contended with the Seljuk Turks in many hard-fought battles. These crumbling stones saw the Crusaders under the of Baldwin, ‘‘The Leper,’’ King of Jerusalem, grim command

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Ny THE RUINS OF BAALBEK. ALCOVE IN THE SQUARE CHAMBER OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER. defeat the Saracens and vo away laden with treasure. They beheld Tamerlane, ‘*the Scourge of God,*’ sweeping from his home in central Asia with vast hosts, halt here at the moment when he had reached the pinnacle of his greatness. Lustful of power in its crudest and most brutal form, he had appeared in the world like a whirlwind bringing only desolation. Asia had been subjected and Europe seemed to be at his mercy, when they saw him lured, as all conquerors are lured sooner or later, to Egypt. They watched the rapa- cious old warrior rush to his strange destiny, meeting the first check in his stormy career from the armies of those romantic kings who from their luxuri- ous palaces at Cairo threw a glamour over the darkness of half the middle ages. They saw, a century later, the Ottoman Turks, whom Tamerlane imagined he had annihilated at Angora, take possession of Baalbek in the name of the conqueror Selim. They saw three centuries of Turkish indifference to monuments of art. Then earthquake. But among the ruins the passage of yet one more commanding form—the last of all—Mohammed Ali, liberator of Egypt, conqueror of Syria. Finally, he was driven back to Cairo. Baalbek itself is part of the grandest and the most pathetic ruin in the world to-day —that of the gilded Eastern empire, whose magnificent foundations contain within themselves all the elements of disintegra- tion. Grand and pathetic, because it furnishes us the spectacie of a_ brilliant race of warriors, whose prowess once com- pelled the admiration of the world, finding themselves unequal to bestow the blessings of peace and prosperity when seated upon athrone. Grand and pathetic, because it embraces rich provinces whose proud his- tories are scarce remembered and whose fertility has become a mockery under misrule. Grand and pathetic, because its capital was intended to be the seat of the most flourishing empire of the world. while we behold it the home of corruption and decay. But grand and pathetic. above all, because it is the ghost of Rome, and tome will always mean Empire to us, and her widely scattered ruins will be precious to mankind as long as they endure.

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By HERBERT GEORGE WELLS. BOOK THREE: THE HARVEST OF THE FOOD. CHAPTER THE SeEcoND.—Tue GIianr Lovers. In *‘ The Food of the Gods ’’ Mr. Wells has produced a story of thrilling incident, while offering philosophic suggestion that will give employment to the most profound mind. Itis ‘‘Gul- liver’s Travels’’ brought up to the twentieth century. The discovery by two English scientists of a food having the effect that every animal which partakes of it grows to enormous size, results in many curious and extraordinary events. The Food is given to children and gradually spreads to different quarters of the globe, and in the course of time the first of a race of giants grow to manhood and womanhood. trammeled by tradition and obsolete custom. pelled to take a stand. No one can tell what the noe it chanced in the days when Cater ham was campaigning against the Boom-children before the general election that was—amidst the most tragic and terri ble circumstances-—to bring him into power, that the giant princess, that Serene High- ness whose early nutrition had played so great a part inthe brilliant career of Doctor Winkles, had come from the kingdom of her father to England, on an occasion that was deemed important. She was affianced for reasons of state to a certain prince— and the wedding was to be made an event of international significance. There had arisen mysterious delays. Rumor and im- collaborated in the many things were said. There were sugges- tions of a recalcitrant prince who declared to like a fool agination story and he would not be made look —at least to this extent. Now it may seem a strange thing. but it is a fact that the giant princess, when she came to England, knew of no other giants whatever. She had lived in a world where tact is almost a passion and reservations are the air of one's life. They had kept the They stand for a future race, the product of modern scientific advancement, un- Against them the mass of mankind finds itself com- result will be. thing from her, they had hedged her about from sight or suspicion of any gigantic form, until her appointed coming to Eng- land was due. Until she met young Red- had no inkling that there was such a thing as another giant in the world. wood. she And now among a people at once so democratic and so vehemently loyal as the English, her freedom was much restricted. People came in brakes, in excursion-trains, in organized multitudes, to see her; they would cycle long distances to stare at her, and it was necessary to rise betimes if she It was still near the dawn that morning when young Redwood would walk in peace. came upon her. The great park near the palace where she lodged stretched for a score of miles west and south of the western palace gates. The chestnut-trees of avenues reached high above her head. Each one as passed it seemed to proffer a more abundant wealth of blossom. For a time she was content with sight and scent, but at last she was won over by these and more its she offers, and set herself so busily to choose and pick that she did not perceive young Redwood until he was close upon her.

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30 THE FOOD OF THE GODS—FICTION. Drawn by Cyrus Cuneo. ONE STUNG ME IN THE LEG.’” THINGS TEARING ; AIR WITH A SOUND LIKE THE BULLETS CAME THROUGH THI ““GUNS JUST AS THEY SHOOT AT THE RATS.

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#.. G: She moved among the chestnut-trees, with the destined lover drawing near to her, unanticipated, unsuspected. She thrust her hands in among the branches, breaking them and gathering them. She was alone in the world. Then—— She looked up, and in that moment she was mated. We must needs put our imaginations to his stature to see the beauty he saw. That unapproachable greatness that prevents our immediate sympathy with her did not exist for him. There she stood, a gracious girl, the first created being that had ever seemed a mate for him, lithe and slender, lightly clad, the fresh breeze of the dawn mold- ing the subtly folding robe upon her against the soft, strong lines of her form, and with e great mass of scented chestnut-branches in her hands. The collar of her robe opened to show the whiteness of her neck and a soft, shadowed roundness that passed out of sight toward her shoulders. She turned upon him with a start, saw him, and for a space they regarded each other. For her, the sight of him was so amazing, so incredible, as to be for some moments, at least, terrible. He came to her with the shock of a supernatural appari- tion. He broke all the established law of her world. He was a youth of one and twenty then, slenderly built, with his father’s darkness and his father’s gravity. He was clad in a sober, soft brown leather, close-fitting, easy garments, and in brown hose that shaped him bravely. His head went uncovered in all weathers. They stood regarding each other—she incredu- lously amazed, and he with his heart beat- ing fast. It was a moment without a pre- lude, the cardinal meeting of their lives. For him there was less surprise. He had been seeking her, and yet his heart beat fast. ‘*You are the princess,’’ he said. ‘*My father has told me. You are the princess who was given the Food of the Gods.”’ ‘‘T am the princess—yes,’’ she said, with eyes of wonder. ‘*‘But—what are you?’’ ‘‘T am the son of the man who made the Food of the Gods.’’ Her face expressed infinite perplexity. ‘*‘What? I don't understand. The Food of the Gods?’’ WELLS—FICTION. ‘*You have not heard?’’ ‘*The Food of the Gods? No!’ She found herself trembling violently. The color left her face. ‘‘I did not know,”*’ she said. ‘‘Do you mean ee He waited for her. ‘*Do you mean there are other—giants?”’ He repeated, ‘‘Did you not know?”’ And she answered, with the growing amazement of realization, ‘‘No! The whole world and all the meaning of the world was changing for her. He caught her amazement. ‘*You know nothing?’’ he cried. ‘*You have never heard of us?) You, whom the Food has made akin to us!"’ There was terror still in the eyes that stared at him. Her hand rose toward her throat and fell again. She whispered, ‘SNe. It seemed to her that she must weep or faint. Then in a moment she had rule over herself, and she was speaking and thinking clearly. ‘‘AlIl this has been kept from me,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s like a dream. I have dreamed—— ___[ have dreamed such things. But waking No. Tell me! Tell me! What are you?) What is this Food of the Gods? Tell me slowly— and clearly. Why have they kept it from me, that I am not alone?”’ II. You must figure them both, flushed and startled in their bearing, getting at each other’s meaning through endless _half- heard, half-spoken phrases, repeating, ma- king perplexing breaks and new departures —a wonderful talk, in which she awa- kened from the ignorance of all her life. And very slowly it became clear to her that she was no exception to the order of mankind, but one of a scattered brother- hood, who had all eaten the Food and grown forever out of the little limits of the folk beneath their feet. Young Red- wood spoke of his father, of Cossar, of the 3rothers scattered throughout the country, of the great dawn of wider meaning that had come at last into the history of the world. ‘‘We are in the beginning of a beginning,’’ he said; ‘‘this world of theirs is only the prelude to the world the Food will make. ‘*My father believes—and I also believe

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nr nN 7HE FOOD OF Drawn by Cyrus Cuneo. “ “YOU VE GOT TO MOVE ON. THE GODS—FICTION. YOU'RE OBSTRUCTING THE TRAFFIC.’”’

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: , ' t —that a time will come when littleness will have passed altogether out of the world of man—when giants shall go freely about the earth, doing continually greater and more splendid things. But that—that is to come.”’ ‘*And of these things,’’ she said, ‘‘I knew nothing!’’ ‘*There are times when it seems to me almost as if we had come too soon. Some one, I suppose, had to come first. But the world was all unprepared for our coming and for the coming of all the lesser great things that drew their greatness from the Food. There have been blunders, there have been conflicts. The little people hate our kind. ‘*They are hard toward us because they are so little, and because our feet are heavy on the things that make their lives. But, at any rate, they hate us now; they will have none of us; only if we could shrink back to the common size of them would they begin to forgive. ‘*Our easy paces are wild flights to them, and all they deem great and wonderful no more than dolls’ pyramids to us. Their pettiness of method and appliance and imagination hampers and defeats our powers. There are no machines to the power of our hands, no helps to fit our needs. They hold our greatness in servi- tude by a thousand invisible bands. ‘*They pen us in, in every way. Even to live, one must cross their boundaries. Even to meet you here to-day, I have passed a limit. All that is reasonable and desir- able in life they make out of bounds for us. We may not go into the towns, we may not cross the bridges, we may not step on their plowed fields or into the harbors of the game they kill. I am cut off now from all our brethren except the three sons of Cossar, and even that way the pas- sage narrows day by day. One could think they sought occasion against us to do some more evil thing.”’ ‘*But we are strong,’’ she said. ‘*We should be strong—yes. We feel, all of us—you too, I know, must feel—that we have power, power to do great things, power insurgent in us. But before we can do anything——’ He flung out a hand that seemed to sweep away a world. H. G. WELLS—FICTION. 33 ‘*Though I thought I was alone in the world,’’ she said, after a pause, ‘‘I have thought of these things. They have taught me always that strength was almost a sin; that it was better to be little than great; that all true religion was to shelter the weak and little, encourage the weak and little, help them to multiply and multiply, until at last they crawled over one another ; to sacrifice all our strength in their cause. 3ut——— Life was in me, and it taught me better. ”’ ‘*This life,’’ he said, ‘*these bodies of ours, are not for dying.” ““Ne.”* ‘‘Nor to live in futility. But if we would not do that, it is already plain to all our brethren a conflict must come. I know not what bitterness of conflict must presently come, before the little folks will suffer us to live as we need to live. All the brethren have thought of that. Cossar, of whom I told you—he, too, has thought of that.”’ ‘*They are very little and weak.’’ ‘‘In their way. But you know all the means of death are in their hands and made for their hands. For hundreds of thousands of years these little people whose world we invade have been learning how to kill one another. They are very able at that. They are able in many ways. And_ besides, they can deceive and change suddenly—— I do not know —— There comes a conflict. You— you perhaps are different from us. For us, assuredly, the conflict comes. The thing they call War. We know it. In a way we prepare for it. But you know—those little people!—we do not know how to kill, at least we do not want to kill ‘*Look,’’ she interrupted, and he heard a yelping horn. He turned at the direction of her eyes, and found a bright-yellow motor car, with dark-goggled driver and fur-clad passen- gers, whooping, throbbing and buzzing resentfully at his heel. He moved his foot, and the mechanism, with three angry snorts, resumed its fussy way toward the town. ‘‘Filling up the roadway !*’ floated up to him. ‘All this,’* she said, ‘tis more amazing that I can tell.*’ ‘‘That they should not have told you 3

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——'"' he said, and left his sentence in- complete. ‘*Until you came upon me, T had lived in a world where | was great—alone, I had made myself a life—for that. IT had thought I was the victim of some strange freak of nature. And now my world has crumbled down, in half an hour, and I see another world, other conditions, wider pos- sibilities —fellowship ‘*Fellowship,*’ he answered. ‘I want you to tell me more yet, and much more,** she said. ‘*You know this passes through my mind like a tale that is told. You even- In a day, per- haps, or after several days, I shall believe inyou. Now—now I am dreaming Listen !*" The first stroke of a clock above the ‘palace offices far away had penetrated to them. Each counted mechanically **seven.’’ ‘*This,’’? she said, ‘‘should be the hour of my return. They will be taking the bowl of my coffee into the hall where I sleep. The little officials and servants— you cannot dream how grave they are— will be stirring about their little duties. ”’ ‘*They will wonder—— But I want to talk to you.”’ She thought. ‘‘But I want to think, too. I want now to think alone, and think out this change in things, think away the old solitude, and think you and _ those others into my world—— [I shall go. I shall go back to-day: and to-morrow, as the dawn comes, I shall come again— here.*” ‘**T shall be here waiting for you.” ‘*All day I shall dream and dream of this new world you have given me. Even now, I can scarcely believe She took a step back and surveyed him from the feet to the face. Their eyes met and locked for a moment; each saw a face bright and flushed with excitement, soft and beautified by emotion. ‘*Yes,’’ she said, with a little laugh that was half a sob, ‘‘you are real. But it is very wonderful! Do you think—in- deed——? Suppose to-morrow I come and find you—a pigmy like the others !—— Yes, I must think. And so for to-day— as the little people do——"’ She held out her hand. and for the first touched each other. Their time they 34 THE FOOD OF THE GODS—FICTION. hands clasped firmly. and their eyes met again. ‘*Good-by,’’ she said, ‘‘for to-day. Good-by! Good-by, Brother Giant !"’ He hesitated with some unspoken thing, and at last he answered her simply, **Good- by!” IIT. These two met altogether fourteen times before the beginning of the end. They met in the great park or on the heights, and among the gorges of the rusty-roaded, heatherly moorland, set with dusky pine- woods, that stretched to the southwest. Twice they met in the great avenue of chestnuts, and five times near the broad ornamental water that the king, her great- grandfather, had made. There was a place where a great trim lawn, set with tall coni- fers, sloped graciously to the water’s edge, and there she would sit, and he would lie at her knees and look up into her face and talk, telling of all the things that had been, and of the work his father had sct before him, and of the great and spacious dream of what the giant people should one day be. Very soon they had passed from the realization that in them and through them a new world of giantry shaped itself in the earth, from the contemplation of the great struggle between big and little in which they were clearly destined to participate, to interests at once more personal and more spacious. Each time they met and talked and looked on each other it crept a little more toward recognition that something more dear and wonderful than friendship was between them, and walked between them, and drew their hands together. And in a little while they came to the word itself, and found themselves lovers, the Adam and Eve of a new order in the world. They set forth side by side into the won- derful valley of love, with its deep and quiet places. The world changed about them with their changing mood, until pres- ently it had become, as it were, a taber- nacular beauty about their meetings, and the stars were no more than flowers of light beneath the feet of their love, and the dawn and sunset the colored hangings by the way. They ceased to be beings of flesh and blood to each other and

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themselves ; they passed into a bodily texture of tenderness and desire. They gave it first whispers and then silence, and drew close and looked into each other’s moonlit and shadowy faces under the infinite arch of the sky. And the still black pine-trees stood about them like sentinels. The beating steps of time were hushed into silence, and it seemed to them the uni- verse hung still. Only their beating hearts were audible. They seemed to be living together in a world where there is no death, and indeed so it was with them then. For time and death are things of the individual life, and love is emancipation from the indi- vidual. It seemed to them that they sounded, and indeed they sounded, such hidden splendors in the very heart of things as none had ever reached before. Even for mean and little souls, love may be the revelation of splendors. And theirs were no puny souls, theirs no petty splendors: they were giant lovers who .had eaten the Food of the Gods. You may imagine the spreading conster- nation in this ordered world when it became known that the princess, who was aftianced to the prince—the princess, her Serene Highness! with royal blood in her veins !— met—frequently met—the hypertrophied offspring of a common professor of chem- istry, a creature of no rank, no position, no wealth, and talked to him as though there were no kings and princes, no order, no reverence—nothing but giauts and pig- mies in the world; talked to him, and, it was only too certain, held him as her lover. ‘‘If those newspaper fellows get hold of it!’’ gasped Sir Arthur Poodle Bootlick. And then: ‘*We are authorized to deny——"' said ‘*Picaroon’’ in ‘‘Gossip.”’ And so the whole trouble came out. IV. ‘‘They say that we must part,’’ the princess said to her lover. ‘“*But why?’’ he cried. ‘‘What new folly have these people got into their heads?’’ ‘“*Tt isn’t ‘right,’ ’’ she said. ‘‘Do you know,’’ she asked, ‘‘that to love me is high treason? [ had _ it H. G. WELLS—FICTION. 35 explained to me to-day—by a specialist in tact.’’ ‘*My dear,’’ he cried; ‘‘but does it matter? What are their right—right without a shadow of reason—and their treason and their loyalty to us?" ‘*You shall hear,’’ she said, and told him of the things that had been told to her. ‘‘It was the queerest little man who came to me,’’ she said, ‘‘with a soft, beautifully modulated voice—a softly mov ing little gentleman who sidled into the room like a cat and put his pretty white hand up so, whenever he had anything sig- nificant to say. He is bald, but not, of course, nakedly bald; and his nose anc face are chubby, rosy little things; and his beard is trimmed to a point in quite the loveliest way. He pretended to have emo- tions several times, and made his eves shine. You know he is quite a friend of the real royal family here, and he called me his dear young.lady and was perfectly sympathetic even from the beginning. ‘My dear young lady,’ he said, ‘you know—you mustn't’, several times; and then, ‘You owe a duty.’ In his silken way he told me serious things.’’ ‘*You don’t think,’’ he said, turning on her abruptly, ‘‘that there’s anything in the sort of thing he said?’’ ‘*There’s something in it.’’ ‘*You mean Q’? ‘*T mean that, without knowing it, we have been trampling on the most sacred conceptions of the little folks. We who are royal are a class apart. We are wor- shiped prisoners, processional toys. We pay for worship by losing our elementary freedom. And I was to have married that prince——— You know nothing of him, though. Well, a pigmy prince. He doesn’t matter. It seems that it would have strengthened the bonds between my country and another. And this country also was to profit. Imagine it !—strength- ening the bonds!"’ ‘*And now?"’ ‘‘They want me to gu on with it—as though there were nothing between us two.’ ‘*Nothing !"" ‘*Yes. But that isn’t all. He said -—— ‘*Your specialist in tact?*’ ‘Ves He said it would be better for

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you—better for all the giants—if we two abstained from conversation. That was how he put it.”’ ‘* But What business is it of these little wretches where we love, how we love! What have they and their world to do with us?’ ‘*They do not think that.’’ ‘‘Of course,’’ he said, ‘‘you disregard all this.’’ ‘*It seems utterly foolish to me.’ ‘That their old laws should fetter us, the children of the new! That we, at the first spring of life, should be tripped by their old engagements, their blind and aimless institutions! Oh! We disregard it.’’ ‘‘T am yours. So far—yes.’ **So far? Isn't that all?’’ ‘*But they—— If they want to part ” ’ us ‘*What can they do?”’ ‘‘T don’t know. What they do?”’ ‘*Who cares what they can do, or what they will do? I am yours and you are mine. What is there more than that? I am yours and you are mine—forever. Do you think I will stop for their little rules, for their little prohibitions, their scarlet boards indeed!—and keep from You! You who are more precious, ten thou- sand times more precious, to me than life.’’ She took that as the simple truth it was. ‘*Yes. But still what can they do?’’ ‘*You mean,’’ he said, ‘‘ what are we to do?”? can you ? °* Yes;?" ‘*We? We can go on.”’ ‘‘And if they seek to prevent us?’’ He clenched his hands. He looked round as if the little people were already coming to prevent them; then turned away from her and looked about the world. ‘*Yes,’? he said; ‘‘your question was the right one. What can they do?"’ ‘*Here in this little land ’’ she said, and stopped. He seemed to survey it all. everywhere. *’ ‘*But we might—— ‘*Whither?’’ ‘*We could seas together. ‘*They are ” go. We could swim the Beyond the seas our ‘*But to get there we must fight way day after day through millions millions of mankind and 36 THE FOOD OF THE GODS—FICTION. ‘*‘It is our only hope, dear lover. In this crowded land there is no fastness, no shelter. What place is there for us in these multitudes? There is no place where we could eat, no place where we could If we fled, night and day they , sleep. would pursue our footsteps. ’ ‘*There is one place,’’ he said, ‘‘even in this island.’’ ‘*Where?’’ ‘*The place our brothers have made over beyond there. They have made great banks about their house, north and south and east and west, they have made deep pits and hidden places. And even now, one came over to me quite recently. He said—I did not altogether heed what he said then. But he spoke of arms. It may be, there we should find shelter ‘*For many days,’’ he said, after a pause, ‘*T have not seen our brothers Dear! I have been dreaming, I have been for- getting! The days have passed and I have done nothing but look to see you again I must go to them and talk to them and tell them of you and of all the things that hang over us. If they will help us. they can help us. Then, indeed, we might hope. I do not know how strong their place is, but certainly Cossar will have made it strong. Before all this— before you came to me, I remember now —there was trouble brewing. There was an election—when all the little people settle things by counting heads. It must be over now. There were threats against all our race—against all our race, that is, but you. I must see our brothers. It is fully time I saw them and told them all that has happened between us.’’ V. He did not come to their next meeting until she had waited some time. They were to meet that day about midday in a great space of park that fitted into a bend of the river, and as she waited, looking ever southward under her hand and grow- ing more anxious with each slow minute, it came to her that the world was very still, that indeed it was broodingly still. And then she perceived that, spite of the lateness of the hour, her customary retinue of voluntary spies had failed her. Left and right, when she came to look, there

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Hi. G. Was no one in sight, and there was never a boat upon the silver curve of the Thames. She tried to find a reason for this strange stillness in the world. Then, a grateful sight for her, she saw young Redwood far away over a gap in the tree masses that bounded her view. Immediately the trees hid him, and presently he was thrusting through them and drawing near. She could see there was something different, and then she saw that he was hurrying unusually and then that he limped. He gestured to her, and she walked toward him. His face became clearer, and she saw with infinite concern that he winced at every stride. He was scant of breath. She was running now toward him, stretching out her hands to him, her mind full of questions and vague fear. He drew near to her and spoke forthwith. ‘*Are we to part?’’ he panted. ‘*No,’’ she answered. ‘‘Why? What is the matter?”’ ‘*But if we do not part——! It is now.*’ ‘*What is the matter?’’ ‘‘I do not want to part,’’ he said. ‘Only a He broke off abruptly to ask, ‘*You will not part from me?”’ **T will not part.’’ She took his hand. ‘‘If this meant death, now, I would not let you go.’’ a ‘Tf it meant death,’’ he said, and she felt his grip upon her fingers. He looked about him as if he feared to see the little people coming as he spoke. And then, ‘‘It may mean death.”’ 9 she said. They tried to stop my coming.’’ ‘*How?”’ ‘*As I came out of my workshop where I make the Food of the Gods for the Cossars to store in their camp, I found a little officer of police—a man in blue with white, clean gloves—who beckoned me to stop. ‘This way is closed!’ I thought little of that. 1 went round my workshop ‘*Now tell me,’ eer to where another road runs west, and there was another officer. he said, closed !’ ’’ ‘*And then?’’ ‘This road is closed !’ and added, ‘All the roads are WELLS—FICTION. Drawn by Cyrus Cuneo. HE... RIPPED UP A DOZEN YARDS OF RAIL WITH A MIGHTY PLUNGE OF HIS Foor.” “‘T argued with him a little. ‘They are public roads!’ I said. ‘** *That’s it,’ said he. for the public.’ ‘**Very well,’ said I, ‘I'll take the fields,’ and then up leaped others from behind a hedge and said, ‘These fields are private.” ‘You spoil them ‘**Curse your public and private,’ I said; ‘I’m going to my princess;’ and I stooped down and picked him up very gently—kicking and shouting—and put him out of my way. Ina minute, all the fields about me seemed alive with running men. I saw one on horseback galloping beside me and reading something as he rode—shouting it. He finished and turned and galloped away fiom me—head down. I couldn’t make it out. And then behind me I heard the crack of guns.’’

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38 THE FOOD OF THE GODS—FICTION. “*Guns!"" ‘*Guns—just as they shoot at the rats. The bullets came through the air with a sound like things tearing; one stung me in the leg.*’ **And you?” ‘**Came on to you here and left them shouting and running and shooting behind me. And now— **Now?”’ ‘It is only the beginning. They mean that we shall part. Even now they are coming after me.”’ ** We will not.’ ‘‘No. But if we will not part— then you must come with me to our brothers. *’ ‘*Which way?*’ she said. ‘*To the east. Yonder is the way my pursuers will be coming. This. the way we must go; along this avenue Let me go first, so that if they ss then, is of trees. are waiting He made a stride, but she had seized his arm. “7, close to cried she. ‘‘I come you, holding you. Perhaps I am royal, perhaps I am sacred. If I hold you—— Would to God we could fly with my arms about you !—it may be, they will not shoot at you She clasped his shoulder, hand as she spoke, and pressed seized his herself nearer to him. ‘‘It may be they will not shoot you, *’ she repeated, and with a sud- den passion of tenderness he took her into his arms and kissed her cheek. For a space he held her. ‘*Even if it is death,”’ She put her hands about his neck and she whispered. lifted her face to his. ‘*Dearest, kiss me once more. *’ He drew her to him. Silently they kissed each other on the lips and for another moment they clung to each other. Then, hand in hand, and she striving always to keep her body near to his, they set forward if haply they might reach the camp of refuge which the sons of Cossar had made, before the pursuit of the little people overtook them. So it was that the purging of greatness from the world began for them. And as they crossed the great spaces of the park behind the castle, there came horsemen galloping out from among the trees, vainly seeking to keep pace with their giant strides. And presently, ahead of them were houses, and men with guns running out of the houses. At the sight of that, though he sought to go on and was even disposed to fight and push through, she made him turn aside toward the south. As they fled, a bullet whipped by them overhead. CHAPTER THE THIRD—YoUuNG CADDLES IN LONDON. And all unaware of the trend in events, unaware of the laws that were closing in upon all of the Brethren, unaware indeed that there lived a brother for him on the earth, young Caddles chose this time to come out of his chalk-pit and see the world. His brooding came at last to that. There Was no answer to all his questions in Cheasing Eyebright, the new vicar was less luminous even than the old, and the riddle of his pointless labor grew at last to the dimensions of exasperation. ‘‘Why should I work in this pit day after day?’’ he asked. ‘‘Why should I walk within bounds and be refused all the wonders of the world beyond there? What have I to be condemned tu this¢ I won't,”’ done he said, and then with great vigor cursed the pit. Then, being an untutored soul, he sought to express his thought in acts. He took a truck half filled with chalk, lifted it and flung it, smash, against another. Then he grasped a whole row of empty trucks and spun them down a bank. He sent a huge boulder of chalk bursting among them, and then ripped up a dozen yards of rail with a mighty plunge of his foot. So Me commenced the conscientious wrecking of the pit. ‘Work in that old pit until I die and What worm did they think Dig chalk Not rot and stink! was living in my giant body? for God knows what foolish purpose! rr The trend of roud and railway, or mere

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fh. Ge, chauce perhaps it was, turned his face to London, thither he over the downs and athwart and came striding, the meadows, through the hot afternoon, to the infinite amazement of the It nothing to him that posters in and white, bearing various names, flapped IIe nothing of the electoral revolution Caterham, ‘‘Jack the It signified nothing world. signified torn red knew that Giant- from every wall and barn. had flung killer,” to him that every police station along his into power. route had what was known as Caterham’s ukase upon its notice-board that afternoon, proclaiming that no giant, no person what ever over eight feet in height, should go more than five miles from his ‘‘ place of It signified nothing to him that in his wake location’? without a special permission. belated police officers, not a little relieved find little warning handbills at his retreating back. He was going to see what the world had to show him, poor incredulous blockhead. People in London had heard something of him but gentle, and wonderfully managed by Lady Wondershoot’s agent and the vicar; how in his dull way he revered these authorities and was grateful to them for their care of him, and so forth. So that when they learned from the newspaper placards that that he also strike, *’ the thing appeared to many of them as a to themselves belated, shook before—how he was _ idiotic afternoon was ‘‘on deliberate, concerted act. The placards of the chief government evening paper were conspicuous with ‘‘Grasping the Nettle.’ Others relied for effect on: ‘*Giant Redwood continues to meet the The ‘*Echo”’ struck a line of its own with: {umored fevolt of Giants Northumberland. ”’ The ‘*Westminster Gazette’’ usual warning note. ‘‘Giants said the *‘ Westminster Gazette, *’ to make a point out of it that might per- haps serve a little toward uniting the Lib- that time greatly torn between seven leaders. The later news- papers dropped into uniformity. ‘‘The Giant in the New Kent Road,’’ they pro- claimed. ; ‘*What I want to know,”*’ young aren’t getting any Princess. *’ in sounded its Beware, ’’ and tried eral party —at said the pale man in the tea-shop, ‘tis why we the news of young WELLS—FICTION. in it think Cossars. You'd be most of all.*’ ‘*They tell me there's another of them the yd said the barmaid, ‘‘T’ve always said young giants got loose,”’ Wiping out a glass. they was dangerous things to ‘ave about, right away from the beginning. It ought to be put a stop to.’ “‘T'd like to ‘ave a look at ’im,** said the young man at the bar, recklessly; and added, ‘‘I seen the princess. ° ‘PD’ you think they'll *urt ‘im?*’ said the barmaid. ‘*May ‘ave to,’’ said the young man. Amidst a hum of ten million such say ings, young Caddles came to London. Pr. I think of young Caddles always as he in the New Kent sunset warm upon his perplexed and star- The thick with its traflic, trams, vans, was seen Road, the ing face. road was varied omnibuses, carts, trolleys, cyclists, motors, and a mar- veling crowd—loafers, women, nursemaids, venturesome shopping women, children, hobbledehoys—gathered behind his gin- gerly moving feet. The hoardings were untidy everywhere with the tattered elec- A babblement of voices surged the customers and shopmen crowding in the doorways of the tion paper. about him. One sees shops, the faces that came and went in the windows, the little street boys running and shouting, stiffly and calmly, the workmen knocking off upon scaffoldings, the seething miscel- lany of the little folks. They shouted to the policemen taking it all quite him vague encouragement, vague insults, the imbecile catchwords of the day, and he stared down at them, at such a multi- tude of living creatures as he had never before imagined in the world. Now that he had fairly entered London, he had had to slacken his pace more and more, the little folks crowded so mightily him. The every step, and at last, at a corner where upon crowd grew denser at two great ways converged, he came to a stop and the multitude flowed about him and closed him in. There he stood, with his feet a little apart, his back to a big corner gin-palace that towered twice his height and ended in a sky sign, staring down at the pigmies

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40 and wondering, trying, I doubt not, to collate it all with the other things of his life—with the valley among the downlands, the- nocturnal lovers, the singing in the church, the chalk he hammered daily, and with instinct and death and the sky— trying to see it all together coherent and significant. His brows were knit. He put up his huge paw to scratch his coarse hair, and groaned aloud. ‘*T don’t see it,’’ he said. His accent was unfamiliar. <A great babblement went across the open space, a babblement amidst which the gongs of the trams, ploughing their obstinate way through the mass, rose like red poppies amidst corn. ‘‘What did he say?’’ ‘‘Said he didn’t see.*’ ‘‘Said, the sea?’’ ‘‘Said, where is a seat??? ‘‘He wants a seat.”’ ‘‘Can’t the brasted fool sit on a ’ouse or somethin’?”’ ‘*What are ye for, ye swarming little people? What are what are ye all for? ‘*What are ye doing up here, ye swarm- ing little people, while I’m a-cuttin’ chalk where is ye all doing, for ye, down in the chalk-pits there?’’ His queer voice, the voice that had been so bad for school discipline at Cheasing Eyebright, smote the multitude to silence while it sounded, and splashed them all to tumult at the end. Some wit was audibly screaming, ‘‘Speech, speech!’’ ‘*What’s he saying?’’ was the burden of the public mind, and an opinion was abroad that he ‘*Hi, hi, hi!’? bawled the omnibus-drivers, threading a dangerous way. A drunken American sailor wan- dered about, tearfully inquiring, ‘* What's he want, anyhow?’’ A _ leathery-faced rag-dealer upon a little pony-drawn cart soared up over the tumult by virtue of his voice. ‘‘Garn ’ome, you brasted giant!’’ he bawled. ‘‘Garn You brasted great dangerous thing! Can't you you’re a-frightenin’ the ‘orses? Go with you{ ’Asn’t any one ’ad the sense to tell you the law?’’ And over all this uproar young Caddles stared, perplexed, expectant, saying no more. Down a side road came a little string of solemn policemen, and threaded itself inge- niously into the traffic. ‘‘Stand back,’’ said the little voices. ‘‘Keep moving, please.*’ Young Caddles became aware of a little was drunk. ‘ome! see ‘ome

THE FOOD OF THE GODS—FICTION. dark-blue figure thumping at his shin. He looked down and perceived two white hands gesticulating. ‘‘What?’’ he said. bending forward. ‘*Can’t stand about here,’’ shouted the inspector. “No! You he repeated. ‘*But where am I to go?’ ‘*Back to your village. Place of loca- tion. Anyhow, now—you’ve got to move on. You're obstructing the traffic.’ ‘* What traffic?’’ ‘* Along the road.’’ ‘*But where is it going? Where does it come from? What does it mean? They’re What do they want?) What are they doin’? I want to understand. tired of cuttin’ chalk and bein’ all alone. What are they doin’ for me while I’m a-cuttin’ chalk? I may just as well understand here and now as anywhere.’’ But we aren’t here to explain I must arst you to can’t stand about here,** ’ all round me. I’m ‘Sorry. things of that sort. move on.’’ ‘*Don’t you know?’’ ‘*T must arst you to move on—if you please. I'd strongly advise you to get off ‘ome. We've ’ad no special instructions Clear

yet—but it’s against the law away there. Clear away.’’ The pavement to his left became invi- tingly bare, and young Caddles went slowly on his way. But now his tongue was loosened. ‘*T don’t understand,’’ he muttered. ‘‘] don’t understand.’? He would appeal brokenly to the changing crowd that ever trailed beside him and behind. ‘‘TI didn’t know there were such places as this. What are all you people doing with yourselves? What’s it allfor? What is it all for, and where do I come in?”’ He had already begotten a new catch- Young men of wit and spirit ad- **Ulio, Eh? word. dressed one another in this manner: ‘Arry O’Cock. Wot’s it all for? Wot’s it all bloomin’ well for 2”? To which there sprang up a competing variety of repartees, for the most part im- polite. The most popular and best adapted for general use appears to have been ‘* Shut it,’’? or, in a voice of scornful detachment, “Garn!” There were others almost equally popular. (To be continued.)

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THE SEA IS HIS ALSO. By Juuia B. Foster. HE steamer plowed steadily through the cool, starlit night. A little soughing sound like the wind through a forest of pines stole from far along the ocean, and the near waves lifted like little lips laden with murmurs. A cheaply clad woman among the crowd from the steerage that pushed around the door of the second cabin, suddenly turned away from the lights and took a long look over the still waters. Her breath came heavily once or twice, and then, as one accustomed to effort, she recovered her control. She hastily drew up her shawl from her shoulders and gathered it about her head and face. If her neighbors noticed the action. they might easily remember that the night was chill, or idly suppose that any woman might wish to conceal, in the bright light streaming from the cabin door, a scar that, like this one, pulled the ‘ lower lip out of shape. A company of actors with an American reputation had, it seemed, listened to the fascinating tinkle of European shekels and had shipped for England to find the sub stance of that echoing tinkle. The best on the ship was theirs, and, as always and everywhere, the actors were regarded as surrounded with a filmy glory. Thus of old a hamadryad might have looked with wondering, envying eyes at a human being as at an angel-creature that could walk about on two feet and was therefore possessed of godlike powers. The actor-company had to-night volunteered an entertainment, and they conde- scended to the second cabin as middle ground that on one side bordered the first cabin, and from the other might safely patronize the steerage. A one-act ‘‘curtain-raiser’’ that was possible without accessories was given first, and then the hero pulled his hair over his forehead, turned up his coat collar and gave a ‘‘tramp’’ recitation. At the close, he tossed back his hair and smiled. His eyes were dark and handsome, his teeth white and his smile a transformation. ‘‘Lordy, missis, ain’t he good-lookin’!’’ exclaimed one of the women from the steerage, nudging her nearest neighbor.

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12 (HE SEA IS FILS he latter adjusted more closely the shawl about her head, and it was only at a second nudge that she answered dully, ‘Wot?’ There was no opportunity for further remark, for immediate announcement was made that Miss Mame McFeeley, the cele brated song-and-dance artist, would favor the assembly. Miss McFeeley, sitting on a red velvet sofa, had all along been a cynosure. It was understood that it was she whose fame had preceded to Europe her person. People from one end of the ship to the other had whispered the fact. The dull, every-day people that were like the envying hamadryads, looked ex pectantly at Miss Mame McFeeley as she rose like a preening bird. There was about her an atmosphere of something unusual—a_ diaphanous, indefinable, fin ished attractiveness. She was a strong magnet, and her audience, like many bits of steél filing, turned toward her. It was dazzlingly impossible to pierce through her brilliancy and note the jaded lines crossing the corners of her eyes, the pecu liarity of the mouth that was sguirrel- shaped, and the nose that seemed to spring from thé center of her forehead. It proved that she had no singing voice, that one or two swinging steps caught in cadence comprised the dance, but—she was ‘*fetch- ine?” ‘‘Extremely chic!** murmured, through its applause, the first cabin. **Lordy, ain't she stunnin*®!*’ exclaimed the woman from the steerage, again nudg- ing with the point of her elbow. ‘*Wot?*’ replied her neighbor, still hold- ing with one hand her shawl under her chin. The hand was work-hardened and coarse, but at the knuckles it was white. as if the fingers gripped into the palm. The two women kept for a moment side by side as they walked away. ‘‘How can anny wan do that—anny- wan, leastways, that was wance a baby, an’ then a little girl, an’ then a big girl, in’ then—my God!—a woman?’ the first one continued, readily mingling disparage- ment with admiration. ‘‘Them as can, can: them as cawn’‘t, cawn’t—like you an’ me. Hin the begin- : : nin’ ye cawn't guess ‘ow things ‘ll go acouically returned the other. 1..SO—FICTION. This last chance remark was carly exem plified. Some hours later, when the night Was paling into day and the whispering pines seemed calling, calling, and amidst the gentle surging of the peaceful waves, the ship recoiled at a shock, trembled, plunged, then gradually, as some animal composing itself on a grassy plain, she lay over on her side among the swirling waters. In that instant the distinction of cabins disappeared and in the ghastly dawn the people mingled as one. Thus it was that a woman from the steerage seemed not out of place as she ran about on the upper deck hunting among the staterooms. If plunder was her object, no one cared even to laugh at her for a fool. In this extremity, what were diamonds worth, and what was the value of tinkling coin? The crowd jammed the way to the boats, and one by one these last put away from the whirlpool of which the ship was the center. <A raft or two were hastily joined and pushed off. It was a fearful, shud- dering time. Death had come to life. One's very existence, when one may lose it, becomes a threat. Suddenly, one mo- ment, one imagines that it might be better to give up life than thus at great expense of suffering and terror to keep it. And then, as suddenly, something human grips the heart, and—no, no; life, life, at any cost ! The woman with the shawl now pinned stragglingly about her neck, finally made her way to the ship's side, pushing before her the dazed, despairing, half-conscious, limply stepping actress. The two were as- sisted to the last slippery, precarious, loosely constructed raft. They were the only women left, and two men were their companions. Miss McFeeley was dressed in a nightgown and a skirt, and her collar was torn to the shoulder, revealing a thin neck an startling collar-bone. A diamond neck lace had concealed these defects when the footlights might have rendered them con- spicuous. The women sat close, hand in hand, while the two men, each with an oar, put distance between the raft and the ship. ‘‘It seems to me, mother, that I'm ina dream,’’ feebly said the younger woman. She was deathly pale and leaned against

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JULIA B Drawn by George Gibbs. “THE TWO STRUGGLING MEN WERE BEATEN ON THE HEAD, SAVAGELY THRUST IN THE BREAST, . FOSTER FICTION 43 - AND THE RAFT, BEARING THE TWO LONE WOMEN, SEEMED TO FLOAT AWAY AND AWAY UP ONE OF THE SHINING RIVERS.’ the other. Blood slowly trickled down her temple, and, as if she might have stumbled and fallen, there was a wound upon her forehead. She continued, closing her eyes: ‘‘I'm glad to dream when the dream brings me back to you. How has it happened that you’re here, dear mother—dear, dear mother?** The older woman put her arm round the slender shoulders and drew down upon her bosom the young head with its loosened dark hair. ‘*Why, Mary, yer fawther died at last, an’ Hi was longin’ for the hold country. Hi most clemmed [starved], but Hi saved bit by sit, an’ Hi sold the drawer- chist an’ the wardrobe an’ the other bit sticks o’ furnishing, an’ coom to the ship. Hi saw ye las’ night before Hi suspicioned ye was anywhere by, an’ Hi said God was good. Now ‘E lets me ‘old ye in my har- rums again an’ Hi ain’t another blessin’ to ask of "Im. The ‘appiest days that ever Hi seen was when Hi give ve milk from this breast. Now yer ‘ead’s in its hold place.” Another silence fell between the two, and the bright sun rose in the east and With pale gold flooded the waters. The baby waves put to the edge of the raft their cooing lips, and the men smote with their oars the waves. One of the men

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44 THE SEA IS HIS ALSO—FICTION. rose and, with one hand shading his eyes, looked long and earnestly about. ‘““The ship's gone!’ he announced. ‘Yes, the boats are still in sight. God, if we could reach one! This raft won't hold long.”* He pointed to the water seeping up between the cracks, and sitting down he resumed his oar. ‘*Mother, I'd like to tell you———"’ said Mary, in a trembling voice. ‘‘Many a time I've thought it all out. The trouble was at first father’s beatings. I never forgot the blow that gave you that scar on the mouth. When I thought of the scar, I was afraid. I found the street pleasanter than home. The people took to calling me * Mamie,’ and by and by a street preacher taught me to sing a gospel song. After I had sung it with him a few times on the street corners, I went into a hall and sung the same song—that and others like it. And oh!** she sighed, ‘*‘when IT went away I didn’t think I was striking you a heavier blow than father’s hand ever gave!"’ She opened her eyes and shuddered, yet nestled her head as if she found upon her mother’s breast a certain content. Mrs. McFeeley’s hand tenderly patted the thin shoulder. ‘*Hi’ve stuthied it hall out,’’ she replied, ‘tan’ Hi'm = sure hit was hall along o° yer cuteness. Ye built yer ecarakter on bein* cute. Good carakters ain’t built that way, darlin’. She straightened with the air of the con- sciously virtuous woman as she added: ‘*No wan iver said annythin’ again me, but it was workin’ an’ clemmin’ an’ self- denyin’ that Hi kep* my reppytation on. Hi cudden't fail when them was my foundation-stones. Fawther Sullivan said so, an’ the fawther was wise. When Hi married Tim McFeeley, Hi ‘ad liberty to remain in the Church of Hengland, but Hi always ‘ad respect to my ‘usband’s religion. Fawther Sullivan took ver first confession, Mary; also ‘e often counseled me in the matter of ver fawther at ‘ome.”’ By and by upon the raft the sun grew warm. dried the wet clothing of the four and drew the chill out of their bones. On the water there seemed to be paths like white rivers leading away to safety. It was the sunshine glancing upon the smooth surface extending everywhere. The whole world seemed hushed. It is very still upon the ocean when there are only baby waves sucking like little lips upon the under side of a raft. The women slightly changed their posi- tion, but clung together as if one could keep the other upon their frail float. Nothing but boards between them and the bottom of the ocean—*‘tthe deep unfathomed caves,’ ‘‘I'm afraid of the things in the water underneath,’ said Mary, trembling, and she pressed still closer to her mother. ‘*Hit’s not us as is goin’ down; we're goin’ hup, deary—think o° that,’’ Mrs. McFeeley returned, as if she were tri- umphing over a long-fought enemy. “This raft’s too heavy - loaded, any- how, ’’ one of the men remarked, pointedly, and the other glanced meaningly at the two women as though they were the extra load. ‘‘T remember Father Sullivan’s favorite story about the thief on the cross,’’ said Mary, turning to memory as people in ex- tremity will turn. ‘‘He told me never to forget that even at the last moment I could repent, and if I truly repented, be forgiven. I repented long ago; if this is my last day, may I now be forgiven? Couldn't I con- fess to you, mother? I haven't been to confession in a long time. You see, I was so busy !"’ She put up her hand and weakly at- tempted to smooth the hair that had drifted on her cheek, and her tingers caught and stayed in its heavy tangles. It was quite evident that managers in London would never deal with Miss McFeeley. There was an anxious, pitying, hopeful hush before the mother suggested eagerly, yet half timidly, and with her face in deli- cacy turned away: ‘‘ Yer fawther was niver sober, an’ ‘e niver paid the rent nor fur- nished the sup, but “e married me accord- in’ to the law an’ accordin’ to ’is church. ‘E made me respectable, Mary.”’ Mary, if it were possible, grew a shade paler, and it cost her an effort to reply stammeringly. ‘*I—I—-we—Heaven have mercy! God knows I regretted the life I lived,’’ she breathed, pleadingly. ‘‘I’m sure the repentant thief must have felt the pangs of conscience before ever he came on the cross to realize the truth. And at the last, when T was in deadly peril, Jack $ &

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forgot me, and left me on the ship to be remembered by the old mother that once I forgot! Mother, in the day that you come into your reward don't forget your little girl, will you?”’ ‘It’s a fond [silly, question ye’re askin’; sure, But look to Some One besides another poor sin- useless | darlin’, niver. ner to save ye.”” The older woman Was in spirit like a rock for strength—tirmly founded, indom She could wreck the frail spirit but, itable. craft depending upon her, with infinite and skilful love, she anchored it instead. *‘*Look to Some One else besides another poor sinner! she said again, smoothing her rough hand over the long hair that now swept like a cloak around her daughter’s form. ‘*Lord, tremulously, and a long silence fell between the two. Silence is praying-ground. The _ stillness ‘*Tawm !"’ exclaimed one of the men, point- remember me!’* prayed Mary, was broken roughly. ing into the gleaming horizon. ‘*By the mark, Snooky, but it’s one o’ the ship’s boats; p’r’aps she'll see us,’ excitedly returned Tom. It became clear that the boat had them. From a floating spot she grew into a dark shape, then a moving thing, Finally, she was an object with plying oars and filled with people whose faces gradually seen resolved into more or less of familiarity. Fear-stamped women and men were hud- dled in the boat. They were partially clad, for the wreck had Many were tear-stained, but the most had already realized the inefficiency of tears. The dark hair and eyes of a man leaning eagerly over the side of the laden boat were accentuated by the whiteness of his collar- been sudden. less shirt. ‘*Mame!’’ he called, when within hearing distance. ‘*Mother!** Mary replied, fixing her imploring gaze firmly upon the strong face above her and clutching convulsively at Mrs. McFeeley’s enclosing arms. ‘‘There’s room in this boat for more, Mame,*’ continued Jack, hurriedly. ‘*I’ve begged the place for you, and at the risk of Be quick—these their minds any minute. Jump into the water and we'll take you in—come, dear.’ one our lives we've come back. people change may ’ JULIA B. FOSTER—FICTION. 45 Miss McFeeley swallowed with difficulty and straightened to a sitting posture, push- from her mother’s arms. ‘*Not room for two?*’ she called, jn a loud ing away her voice. ‘I’m sorry—we're all sorry—but we're like to the can explained Jack, crowded in cattle — loaded edge, as you see !"’ with impatient pleading. The woman's face in gaunt outline—its of blood, teeth, its nose springing too soon from the trickle its prominent squirrel forehead—repulsed the man. There were no more piquancy, no cuteness, no ‘‘fetch- ing’’ air, now to blind the observer. Yet Jack did not flinch. Though in one desperate moment he had forgotten her, he was loyal to their past, let their future be what it would. ‘*Come, Mame,”’ called, reaching forth hishands. *‘‘I’ve had hard work to get this shipwrecked crew to come up to you. Come on; slip easy off the raft so as not to upset it, and we’ll pick you up.’’ ‘‘Young woman, you don’t know this crew !’? called a Strange voice, impatiently. ‘If you're coming with us, don’t you he stop for any more parleying.’ It was a strong test to repentance, but a weak and fearful woman was equal to the ‘‘Jack, this is my mother,’’ said Mary McFeeley, in that one exalted moment atoning for years of desertion and neglect. ‘‘By accident she tock passage in the ship with us. We'll take chances Good-by, Jack; I'll stay with my mother.’’ ‘‘Don't throw this chance away! Your mother may be picked up by some one test. together. else. Oh, Mame, come!’’ Jack urged. Danger and fear had, after reflection, accentuated mentally and physically the man’s good points, and if ever he had been kind, he was kinder now; if he had been good-looking, now he was not worse- but better-looking. Then mutiny arose in the boat. a tragedy of the sea. A The already began despairing crew would wait no longer. The ready oars dipped and the water swished dangerously near to the boat’s rim. The raft suddenly tipped and the women clung with their finger-nails to the rough boards. They were alone upon the raft. The two sailors had leaped into the sea,

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46 THE HOROSCOPE. each meaning to get for himself that one place in the boat. They swam a few lengths side by side. At least one must be left. «Which one—Tom with the red hair, or Snooky with the black beard spreading Esau-like upon his bared chest? With oars they were pushed away, and the women in the boat began to scream. The two struggling men were beaten on the head, savagely thrust in the breast, struck even under the water. Finally Snooky came up with blood upon his black beard, and Tom choked while endeavoring to shout a last word. They grasped at each other—whether in anger and jealousy or as drowning men grasp at a straw, no one of the onlookers knew or cared. These thought of their own safety. Jack sat with his shoulders up and his head down. His face was in his hands and his frame shook with sobs. The boat went off upon the wide plain of the sea, and the raft, bearing the two lone women, seemed to float away and away up one of the shining rivers flowing between green bank? of sea. It is a sure and a safe voyage, the voyage to paradise! That night there were clouds and the next day a storm, and —! But, in eter- nity, what cared the repentant thief for the dangers and sufferings of his human life? THE HOROSCOPE. By Esa BARKER. O RADIANT angel of my ruling star! Read me the story of the horoscope That sent Love to me, for I darkly grope Before the secret of the calendar That ushers in to-morrow. Is it far— The day that wears my diadem of hope, When I shall know Love’s plenitude and scope, And all its hidden wonders as they are ? How blinded are we mortals by our birth !— As impotent in rapture as in sorrow The capital of Destiny to borrow, Whatever wealth our future may be worth. And though I gave the glory of the earth, I could not buy one whisper of to-morrow !

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Drawn by V. A. Svoboda. THE DELIGHTS OF AERIAL NAVIGATION. By Pau. Nocguet. A BALLOON! The word recalls to the minds of most people a dangerous, even fatal contrivance, costing the life of him who makes of Moloch devouring all who are bold enough to trust themselves in his clutches. Anerror! An error like everything else that is judged in ignorance. Aerostation is, of course, a science, especially when regarded from the viewpoint of its devel- opment, but taken from the side that appeals purely to the sensations it becomes an in- exhaustible source of the purest and most suave delight, of the most agreeable emo- tions it has ever been given a human being to experience. In the first place, the very fact of quit- ting the earth, where so much hatred and so many homicidal struggles have brought use it—a_ veritable shame on human nature, is an essential point. Then, the finding of oneself alone, in the immensity of limitless space, annihilates within one any feeling of vain- glory and the unhappy memories of terrible hours passed the of the ground, that terrestrial crust which supports so much misery. Above it we experience the calm, the paradisaical quiet, the feeling of immensity, the ecstatic sensation of celestial things -in short, the delight of being where God upon surface intended only his winged creatures to live. The appearance of the earth as seen from a great height has a decided moral effect on the aerial voyager’s soul. He perceives how small a place man occupies on the earth, which appears as a wonderful com- mingling of towns, woods, lakes and sil- ver streams, the whole spectacle filtered through a clear, effulgent medium, the incomprehensible, marvelous purity of the atmosphere. Then there are the pleasant, captivating surprises of the journey. Sometimes one passes through sheets of clouds which give an Columns and the sensation of being in immense cathedral built of snow. porticos of vapor are worked into the fabric in forms of architecture truly divine. The rays of the sun transfuse them at times, whereupon they become iridescent with the brilliant The im- pression produced is all the more intense because of the state of solitude in which We are alone—overwhelm- ingly alone—in the great joy of an unpar- alleled quiet, far from all sordid contact with humanity. If one travels at night, by moonlight, the spectacle is one of even heightened grandeur. I remember once on a nocturnal balloon trip to have beheld the most mag- nificent. sight it were possible to imagine. Amid a the colors of the rainbow. Wwe receive it. sepulchral silence air-ship

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48 proceeded slowly toward a milky shell which cast upon the sleeping earth a shadow of strange form. Soon my com- panion and I entered this cloud. Scarcely were we within, when we saw what re- sembled a great snow grotto. Immense sta- lactites hung here and there, equally large stalagmites emerged from the flaky floor, and the moonbeams played among _ these fantom shapes, casting weird shadows on the moving walls of this awe-inspiring cave. Not a sound but our regular breathing— and pure ecstasy filled our souls, making us feel that we were in God's own domain and within a temple erected by himself to his own glory. When we had _ passed through this cloud, so fruitful of emotions, we experienced a real regret because we might not live and die within it, and we both looked sorrowfully back at the fleecy mass hung suspended amid the shadows of the night. The most lively emotions for an aeronaut, after the hours passed in the air, are those of the descent. An experienced aeronaut can always descend where he will, because he will take the proper precautions. He will choose his locality in the direction in which the wind is driving him; he will avoid a difficult landing for the sake of his passengers as well as for himself; and if, in spite of every precautian, a treacherous breeze is suddenly encountered close to the earth to make the operation a critical one, he will, with one pull of the escape-valve cord, cause the monster gently to stretch its whole length upon the ground, without the passengers feeling the least shock. Then quickly come running all the in- habitants of the locality in which you have descended, and you are embarrassed in your choice of charitable offers of hos- pitality from those who have watched your descent. The excitement of seeing an air-ship drop among them from the sky takes away any sordid spirit of gain, and it is with remarkable effusion that they thank you for the pleasure of having witnessed such a spectacle. Many people are averse to aerial navi- gation, because they believe it to be very perilous, and one cannot restrain a pitying smile when one sees these same people riding at prodigious speed in an automo- bile. It is more dangerous to travel by THE DELIGHTS OF AERIAL NAVIGATION. automobile than by balloon. A good aero- naut will never set out unless the weather is propitious; and again, he will always guard against any act of temerity which might endanger his passengers. There is also the fear of vertigo that prevents many people from indulging in this sport, which is the most intense known for its multiform sensations, and also the most useful for the development of thought. Vertigo is not experienced in a balloon, for the feeling of dizziness is caused chiefly by the unpleasant sensation of seeing the per- spective of any tall building or monument on which we may be standing diminish toward the ground. In a balloon one is always at the center of a circle which con- stantly enlarges as the altitudeincreases ; and as the horizon always appears above the horizontal line of sight, the higher one ascends the more strongly the curious illu- sion of a concave earth is produced. We seem to be suspended in the center of an enormous bowl. On the day when lovers of the Beauti- ful in the broadest sense, those who enjoy the exquisitely disturbing sensations afforded by contemplation of the splendors of nature, will take the trouble to try ah aeronautic ascent—on that day aerostation aill have taken a great stride toward the future, for every neophyte will become a new adept devoted to these journeys, and every time he comes back to earth he cannot fail to repeat that it is less dangerous to take aerial trips than to thread one’s way, by foot, cab, automobile or car, through cities like New York, London or Paris; and thus he, in his turn, will aid others to enjoy these matchless emotions. In Paris, aerostation has made enormous progress. From the aerodrome of the Aero Club of France we make nearly a thousand trips a year, in good season and bad. And ladies, too, are not the most timid on these expeditions. We take many with us, and they have not words enough to express the pleasure these extraordinarily beautiful journeys give them. Montaigne has said, ‘‘To philosophize is to learn how to die.’’ We may say without hesitation that had he been permitted to experience the sensation of an aerial journey he would have added, ‘‘And to float in the air is to learn how to philosophize.’’ oe

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oe 4 E HUMPBACK WHALE HAULED OUT ON A SLIP, THE MAN'S HAND IS ON THE BALEEN, THE * WHALE- BONE" OF COMMERCE WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. By ‘fT. UNDREDS of whales are now being killed annually in the Newfoundland seas, and a most lucrative pursuit it is found. Although the industry was set on foot only in 1898, and but four small steamers are now employed, yet within a year or two, when more ships are added, a kill of one thousand annually will be achieved. These whales, larger than the sperm or arctic species, are the largest living objects that inhabit the ocean. The Newfoundland plan is to operate a small steamer from the coast, which, after killing its prey, tows it back to land, where a ‘‘factory’’ or refinery converts the blubber into oil and the flesh and bones into guano. The Norwegians originated this enterprise, and on their coast it has attained surprising dimensions in thirty years. In 1885 no less than one thousand two hundred and ninety-eight whales were killed, but through the gradual extermina- tion they have become more rare, so that in 1900 only four hundred and _ ninety- eight were taken. Still, the business is so economically conducted (and Iceland is now providing a whaling-ground) that a McGRATH. fleet of thirty steamers is employed, and a kill of twenty-five fish is a paying one for any of these. To the average landsman a whale is a whale, and nothing more. All whales look alike to him, and are only bigger fish than others. While this paper is not a scientific treatise, the presentation of a few facts revardine these creatures will enable the reader to follow it more intelligently. First, then, a whale is not a fish, but a marine mammal, probably descended from hoofed animals, which, ages ago, took to HARPOON-GUN MOUNTED ON THE BOW OF A STEAM WHALER. 4

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50 WONDERFUL aquatic life—at first in fresh water and afterward in the open sea. The fishlike form of these gigantic creatures is entirely due to the conditions under which they live, and is in no sense indicative of relationship. Their fins are merely remnants of the pedal extremities formerly used, and they suckle their young as do cows. In the second place, whales naturally fall into two great groups—those with teeth, and those which none, but have the upper jaws with baleen, the of The first group comprises the possess fringed commerce. cachalots, or sperm-whales, immense crea- tures whose enormous caselike heads are furnished formidable jaws armed with colossal teeth. Their pursuit forms an industry distinct altogether from that whalebone with WHALE- HER PRIZE TO PORT. HUNTING BY STEAM. tive feet long and they were very difficult to kill by the old-time methods, the chase of them was not taken up until the fail- ing of the arctic ‘‘fishery’’ compelled the hunters to look abroad for other quarry. No marine enterprise has attracted such world-wide attention, or has been accom panied with such dramatic and hazardous incidents, as whale-hunting in its various forms. The chase of the rorquals off Newfoundland introduces new aspects and changed conditions, exciting enthusiasm and providing adventure without involving the hazards attending the old-time pursuits. Then a whaling-cruise meant a two or three years’ voyage in a lumbering, bluff- bowed ship, cut off from the world and subjected to every discomfort. Now a man se PARTICULAR SHIP IS NINETY THE -EIGHT FEET LONG, AND THE WHALE NINETY-TWO FEET, THE LARGEST EVER KILLED. treated here. The second group is divided into Greenland whales, or bowheads, and finners or rorquals, the latter comprising bluebacks, or sulphur - bottoms, finbacks and humpbacks. These three, grouped together under the generic name of ror- quals, are the ones found and hunted in Newfoundland waters. The Greenland, arctic, black, or ‘‘right’’ whales (to distinguish them from their less valuable kindred) are restricted to the circumpolar seas. They supply the best whalebone, or baleen, which is usually ten and occasionally fifteen feet long, the arched formation of their heads admitting of these extreme lengths. The rorquals are widely dispersed over the waters of the globe, but as their baleen is but three to can start at daybreak, have all the sport of the hunt and return at nightfall with one or two, and sometimes four or five, dead ‘‘fish’’ in tow. These are the spoils of a venture that in keenness of interest, vim and dash cannot be exceeded by any encounter with whales in other seas, save that the element of personal danger, the spice of peril which arises in attacking such ocean leviathans from small boats, is lacking. Rorqual-hunting typifies the tri- umph of modern businesslike methods over antiquated standards. Excitement, variety, sport, adventure—these are secondary con- siderations, the essential factor being the speedy and certain kill of the creature and the ultimate conversion into marketable products of every item of its anatomy.

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(Me WHALE CARCASSES STRIPPED OF THEIR BLUBBER, BUT WITH THE FLESH STILL ON. Science has superseded the crude methods of former days. The pitiful stone lance and skin boat of the Eskimo, the rude weapons and frail skiffs of the Basques, the cumbrous appliances and heavy craft of the Dutch and Muscovites, the hand- harpoon and rowboat of the deep-sea whalemen of later years, all have served their turn and must now give place to more perfect devices of chase and destruc- tion. Indeed, they would not suffice for the hunting of the rorquals at all, for these are the fiercest of all the whale tribe. The arctic whale is timid and inoffensive to a degree, so that a bird alighting on its back is oftentimes suflicient to send it off in alarm. It is aroused only by its maternal instinct, and will defend its young with the greatest boldness. But the rorqual is fearless and inquisi- tive, and has not yet learned to fear its greatest enemy. On the Grand Banks these giant creatures are to be seen in hundreds, right among the fish- ing-schooners, indifferent to the presence of vessels or skiffs, and in their pranks ocea- sionally overturning the bank- men’s dories, or, getting en- tangled in their trawls, towing boats, lines and moorings for miles, until the fishermen cut the rope and allow the whale “FrLeNsinc” to make off with their gear. WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. 51 The rorqual-hunter is a swift, stanch, specially built little steamer of one hundred tons, making twelve knots on a daily coal consumption of three tons. She costs twenty- five thousand dollars when ready for sea; and two impor- tant items in her equipment are her harpoon-gun and her whaling-line. A truly formida- ble weapon is this gun. It is the invention of an expert Norwegian whaler named Foyn. The gun is a short muzzle-loading cannon, fixed on the bow of the ship. It works horizontally in a semi- circle, and can also be raised or depressed at will, giving an effective command of the waters dominated by the approaching ship. Into this gun the harpoon is fixed, upon the cartridge of gunpowder which expels it. The har- poon is a massive bolt some six feet long, consisting of a head, body and tail. The head is a conical projectile, filled with explosive, imbedded in which is a time- fuse that fires the shell two seconds after it strikes the whale. The body consists of four stout arms or barbs, fixed at right angles to one another but fastened together like a bundle of sticks. The tail is a shaft extending rearward, and to this the line is fastened—a piece of pliant, five- inch manila, light but strong, specially woven and subjected to powerful tests be- fore being used. oS THE CARCASS. THE OUTER PORTION OF BLUBBER IS STRIPPED OFF WITH A LONG KNIFE, AND SENT TO A STEAM-TANK, WHICH EXTRACTS THE OIL.

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WONDERFUL The range of the harpoon is ninety feet, and the ship must approach within that distance of the fish to make an effective shot. The gun is fired with a trigger contrivance, and with a flash, a boom and a thud the bolt is sent with unerring aim to its mark. As the pointed head of the harpoon bores its way into the whale’s body, the shock of the impact sets in mo- tion the time-fuse, and two seconds later the shell explodes. It also breaks the spun-yarn, and the arms, or crossbars, fly apart, getting imbedded in the whale’s flesh and making it impossible to withdraw the harpoon, no matter what plunges the o-oo A WHALE ON THE SLIP, victim may attempt, so that he is firmly ‘*fast’’ unless the rope breaks, which rarely happens. The rope runs over a steam- winch with a powerful break or clutch, by means of which the whale is played till exhausted, as the angler ‘‘plays’’ his fish. It is then lanced, to make death certain. When the whale is dead it floats a little while, but would soon sink onty that a hole is bored into its interior, into which a pipe is fixed from the engine and the body is filled with air to give it buoyancy. The hole is then plugged and the creature attached by chains to the ship to be towed home. If whales are plentiful and there. is a chance BEING DRAWN UP BY MEANS OF WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. of killing others, the first is cast adrift, a man in a boat being put out with it to establish ownership, while the ship goes on her hunt again, picking it up on her return. The ‘‘Viking’’ took five daily for three consecutive days this season, and the ‘‘Humber’’ got forty-one in two weeks. The sulphur-bottom is most keenly pur- sued, being often as valuable as three of the others. One which was killed recently measured eighty-seven feet, had a covering of fat seven inches thick and filled sixty barrels of oil. The aggregate value of this ‘*fish’’ in oil, baleen and guano was one thousand five hundred dollars. Specimens LOGGING-CHAINS AND WINCH. nearly, if not fully, as large are taken by the other factories, and there is keen com- petition between them for the honor of killing the biggest whale. When the harbor is reached, the victim is dragged up a slanting wharf, by means of logging-chains and an immense winch. Then the carcass is ‘‘flensed’’—i. e., stripped of its outer coating of blubber— by men armed with long-handled knives, the blades of which resemble cutlasses. Great strips or blankets of fat are torn off, which are cut into smaller pieces, tossed into the buckets of an elevator and on reaching the top of the factory dumped

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into a mincer, whence the mass falls into the steam-tanks which extract the The meat and skeleton are similarly treated, and when all the oil has been obtained the oil. bones remaining material is ground up and makes an excellent guano. Every particle of the whale is converted to use; the baleen from the mouth and the flexible fins being removed, to be cleansed, dried and baled for export as whalebone. Each factory is able to dispose com- pletely of four large whales daily, and ‘‘wash down’? at nightfall with every process finished. are employed in each station, each ship; and it is noteworthy that whale- oil, like cod-oil, is a substantial antidote to pulmonary disease. Men with incipient tuberculosis have been employed at these after laboring for a few About eighty men and ten in factories, and weeks over the fumes of the immense oil- vats, have thrown off the symptoms of the disease. It takes a quick eye, firm nerve, nimble mind and shrewd judgment for whale- hunting. Norway having followed it for thirty years and Newfoundlanders being only in training, the ships are crewed with Norwegians for the first three years. The skipper is usually the gunner also, and sleepless and untiring is his vigilance, for he gets stated sums for every whale he kills THE HEAD OF A HARPOON, THE PROJECTILE WHICH, CHARGED WITH EXPLOSIVE AND A TIME-FUSE, IS FIRED FROM THE HARPOON-GUN, WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING THE MARKINGS ON A WHALE’'S BODY BY STEAM. AS THEY APPEAR AFTER THE OPERATION OF ‘“* FLENSING.”’ and in a good year will make two thousand five hundred dollars. The cetaceans have not yet boat need not put out till near daylight, when a twenty-mile dash to sea will place her the crow’s-nest at her topmast-head is a look- out, and when the dawn breaks the prey been scared off the coast, so the on their feeding-grounds. In are soon sighted. The ship steams slowly toward the mighty creatures gamboling in the waves. They will sometimes, in their ungainly pastime, project themselves half out of water and drop back again with a resounding crash. Or they may be jour- neying by in quest of food, and the whaler approaches them diagonally. The of the timid bowheads in this way would chase be impossible, as they would take alarm at the bold and inquisitive rorquals disregard the ship. the advance of the steamer, but So she steals close to the one chosen, and then the harpoon is fired. As if to an electric shock the whale responds to the blow, diving downward at terrific speed with a flurry of the sea that sets the whaler rocking wildly. The smoking out through the hawsepipe and a deckhand sluices it with Down the monster goes, one, two, three hundred fathoms, till he bottem. Then the line slackens the surface again. The water quivers before him as he head-first and with body athrob, launching himself clear out of the brine, while he furiously with rage and agony. As he falls back on the harpoon-line flies water. reaches and he comes to rises bellows

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54 WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. surface of the sea, he spouts a fan-shaped jet of blood and vapor, blazing red as the flames of a tar-barrel bonfire. His tail thrashes the water like a ponderous engine, his flukes beat a resounding rat-a-tat, his struggles disturb the ocean for acres; with deafening roars he darts and dives and twists and plunges, and then starts off at express speed, towing his one-hundred-ton drag of ship and lading behind him in the vain hope to escape from this unknown peril, to rid himself of the fearsome object that has torn into his vitals. When he steams away, the steamer’s engines are reversed to the full, but yet he forges ahead at a twenty-knot clip, a crim- son wake alone showing that he is hit, until the loss of his life-current weakens him to exhaustion. If the shot reaches a vital part, death is very speedy—sometimes almost without suffering. But if he is hit elsewhere, he will probably prolong the struggle for hours. A more thrilling spectacle it is difficult to imagine than a whaler ‘‘fast to a fish,’’ to use the technical phrase. For three hours Jast summer, a colonial cruiser with a distinguished party aboard watched such a struggle in Placentia Bay. The whale was an eighty-foot blueback, full of pluck and vitality. He tore about the ocean at his best pace, diving at intervals, while awesome roars testified to his rage. He doubled and twisted, dived and leaped, rolled over and over, and thrashed the water into foam, in his efforts to get rid of the harpoon, and at the last he stiffened out and died after one expiring flurry in which he reddened the sea for half a mile around him, and sent a column of bloody spray full twenty feet in the air. In the spring of 1903, a big bull sul- phur-bottom which had been harpooned near the tail, towed the whaler ‘‘Puma’’ about Placentia Bay for twenty-six hours, covering one hundred and eighteen miles in its extraordinary journey. It raced from Merasheen to the shoals near Mique- lon, then turned and crossed toward Cape St. Mary’s, and rounding there raced back into the bay, being killed eventually not many miles from its starting-point. Such amazing vitality did the furious leviathan display, that the crew were worn out from anxiety, all keeping constant watch lest he should double round and attack the ship. He did make several rushes, but his move- ments were detected and the ship avoided them. Then he would dive straight down, hoping to drag the boat under water, so that a man would have to stand by the line for some minutes with an ax, ready to cut it if the craft should be drawn below the safety-point. Again, he would maneuver about half a mile in advance of the ship, scaring away the trawlers on the cod-banks, and causing schooners in the offing, warned of danger by the red flag at the whaler’s peak, to give a wide berth to the crazy monster and his unwilling tow. Ulti- mately, the second forenoon, he was so spent and helpless that he was despatched with a second harpoon. Instances like this are rare, but near Dundee, Scotland, in January, 1849, a fifty-foot rorqual which entered the river Tay and was attacked there, towed two boats, a steam-launch and a steam-tug, seaward for twenty hours, and eventually broke clear from them, though they had fired into him a hand-harpoon, two gun-harpoons and several rockets. He was found dead two days later, entangled in a fisherman’s nets, and was sold for eleven hundred dollars. The gunners rarely miss altogether, though sometimes a second shot is neces- sary before a struggling whale is killed. It is not so easy a matter as may be thought to hit whales, big as they are, at thirty yards. For only a small portion of the back is exposed as they come up to breathe or lie at rest, and they are both rapid and tricky in their movements, diving just as the gun is trained on them. But for their curiosity, which is intense, they would not be taken half so easily. By nature they are bold, fierce and restless. When angered, they show violent temper. If wounded, their rush is terrific and sustained, and no creature makes so determined a fight for life or protracts it so tirelessly. One has but to see it to realize the force and truth of the assertion of the whalemen, that never could these rorquals be hunted successfully by rowboats and hand-harpoons. No boat would withstand them, no weapon less mighty than the present slay them. An exciting adventure befell a whaler quite recently. She had approached a school of some thirty finbacks and

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singled out one over eighty - seven feet long, the biggest in the herd, which lay lazily floating at ease. The prize chosen was a cow, near which its calf was gam- boling. The mother evidently suspected danger to her offspring rather than to her- self, and watched the ship threateningly as it stole up. The harpooner therefore got a capital aim, and the bolt took her square in the side. With a roar that made the hills resound, the enraged creature sent her glittering steel-blue length through the water for half a mile in a spasm of fright, then turned like a torpedo-boat, straight for the little steamer. Furiously roaring and with jaws agape, throwing a wake behind her as an ocean liner in full career, she WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. §5 the trough of sea she had raised. She was taken in tow, and the other whales poked their noses up and curiously fol- lowed the bleeding body for a little dis- tance, as is their custom; but the calf was in anguish over the mother’s indifference to it, and as it was big enough to injure the ship if it turned ‘‘ugly,’’ it given a harpoon. The range was so short and the immature flesh so soft, that the projectile went right through its body, the line holding it in tow, and it had vital- ity enough in it to drag both the ship and its dead mother seaward until a boat was put out and it was speared. Occasionally a whale is cut down and killed by a steamer. ~The ‘‘Sierra,’’ in was also > Enver = - = = = — =, = Ri ie a a See A NEWFOUNDLAND WHALER WITH THREE PRIZES IN TOW sped along. But to cope with crises like these is not the least part of a whaling- skipper’s duty, and with a turn of the wheel and a twist of the screw, the ship was sent out of her path. But almost in an instant she was jerked around again by the line as the whale went by, with such force that her lee rail was awash and it was feared she would sink. But righted again, and was towed for a mile or more behind her angry prey. Then the great dripping body flew up into mid-air, the creature circled round again and headed for the ship a second time. Once more was she avoided, and now with a final effort she sprang aloft again, and tumbling back with a frightful bellow, expired in she December, 1902, on her way from Melbourne to San Francisco, cut into a large whale while going at full speed, holding the tor- tured creature on her stem until she backed astern and so got rid of him. Sometimes, too, the when a whale charged and stove in the bark ‘‘Kathleen,’’ which her crew being adrift for days before being reverse occurs, as @ year ago, soon sank, picked up, subsisting part of the time on whale-meat. This is by no means unpalatable. the contrary, it is much relished by the hunters. A steak cut from behind the eye of a young finback is as juicy and palata- On ble as a piece of tenderloin or venison. It is well known that the Biscayans in the

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56 WONDERFUL WHALE-HUNTING BY STEAM. fifteenth century subsisted largely on whale- meat. Even to-day, in Norway there is an establishment for tinning whale-meat, and it is said to make excellent food. In other portions of Norway the poorer classes consume it, and farmers grind it and mix it with mashes for cattle, finding that it adds greatly to the richness of the milk. The Japanese are also very fond of whale- meat, and the steamer ‘*Windward,’’ which carried Peary to the arctic, was recently taken from Newfound- land to be used in whaling in the Japan seas. The first year a factory was started in Newfoundland, the cod-fishery failed in the neighborhood of the station, and scores of coastfolk for miles around came and took away boatloads of the meat, to help them face the long, hard winter. Such was the fame of this Newfoundland whale factory, that the National Museum of Washington despatched a party of scientists there in June, 1903, to secure a complete plaster mold of a sulphur-bot- tom at least seventy-five feet long, from which to make a papier-miché model for exhibit at the St. Louis Exposition this summer in the Natural History pavilion. The expedition was eminently successful, a bull whale seventy-eight feet long being taken at Balena factory, where the scientists established themselves. From this they made their cast, and after the flesh had been subsequently stripped from the car- cass, they purchased the skeleton, to be exhibited alongside the paper duplicate. The latter has been made at Washington, being put together in sections, to admit of the transport by rail to St. Louis, as no railway-car could accommodate it complete. For the same reason, the skeleton had to be disjointed, except the head, which was taken whole, it making a package nineteen by nine and a half feet, and weighing five tons. They brought away pieces of the whale’s skin, preserved in formalin, so as to reproduce the markings and colorations of the body; and they aim to model it in perfect anatomical proportions. The cost of the undertaking has been about seven thousand dollars. The profits of this whaling enterprise are almost incredible. Some Norwegian com- panies have paid as high as three hundred per cent., and the Newfoundland ones are already paying forty to fifty. The baleen is worth eight hundred dollars a ton, the oil one hundred dollars a ton and the guano thirty dollars a ton. These prices amply compensate for the expenses and hazards of the hunt. The baleenis used in making whips, saddlery, corsets, dress materials and other goods. The fin-bores are con- verted into artificial feathers. The oil goes to soak jute for manufacturing pur- poses, or becomes an ingredient in high- class soaps. The guano is in great demand as a fertilizer. The utilization of all these constituents is what makes the industry so successful; in old-time whaling, the carcass was abandoned once the blanket of blubber was stripped off. Of course, it is impossible to suppose that the present enormous catches can be maintained for many years. The gradual extermination of the herds is inevitable, and the killing out of the rorquals as of the northern whales will surely be the outcome. A WHALE, MOORED TO A BUOY, AWAITING ITS TURN TO BE CUT UP.

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EMPEROR WILLIAM II. INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. By WoLr von SCHIERBRAND. HAT might be called the distinctive trait of German science, literature, art and scholarship of to-day is its realism, and in many cases, one might say, its ma- terialism. Time was, and not so long ago, when it sounded almost like a reproach to charge German science, and all other forms of German intellectual effort, with ideal- ism, because it was a drug in the German To-day, in branch of German except those grown up-before the war of 1870— 71, do not exhibit that fault, if fault it be. While in this country, largely under the influence of former German teaching at the universities, idealism in higher education has wonderfully grown, in Germany development has been in the opposite direction. university and college professor was the butt of the papers, due to his disregard of etiquette, his proudly worn poverty, and other old - fashioned traits. Now, the German professor looks as if he had stepped out of a_ fashion - plate— smooth, matter-of-fact, sleek, muscular, fond of sport, of a fine Havana and of a He is in the enjoyment of a market. knowledge, every its adepts, Formerly, the German comic fine dinner. good, and in many cases of a large, income. His college and lecture dues often exceed the salary of a German secretary of state, and he is frequently quite commercial in his tastes and aspirations. Many German pro- fessional men, inventors, physicians, et cetera, hundred earn from fifty thousand to two per thousand marks annum. Lenbach, the great portraitist, makes his half and year, and his palatial home in Munich, as well as that of art, Stuck, the town, so picturesque and fine it is. million more a his confrére in is a sight of It used to be said that it was ‘‘the Prus- sian schoolmaster who won Sadowa and Sedan,*’ and thus raised up the poverty- stricken Prussia of those days to the well- proud country of to-day. If the saying be true, then Prussia has discharged to-do, a debt of honor, of gratitude, in a very shabby manner. the teachers in common and middle schools are insufficient to support them and their families in anything like modest comfort. The average salaries paid Prussia used to be in the lead in Germany in the matter of public education. Now, she is away behind the smaller German states, and in many respects even behind France; and German pedagogues of note have called attention to these facts of late years, and ‘urnished abundant proof for their statements. A great fight has been on for ten years past to reform the gymnasiums (preparatory colleges for the universities) and the ‘‘real- especially in their curriculums and in the scope of their studies. The emperor has several times taken up the subject, believing that much Latin and Greek, Hebrew and ancient geography and history is taught, to the neglect of languages, especially English, and of modern litera- ture and natural sciences, composition, et schools’’ or ‘‘real-gymnasiums, ’’ too modern

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GERHARDT HAUPTMANN, cetera. But though in one place, at least, in Frankfort-on-Main, an attempt has been successfully made in establishing so-called ‘* reform gymnasiums,’’ it has not been imitated elsewhere, notwithstanding the emperor once more took up the fight over three years ago. Old-fogyism has _practi- cally triumphed so far, and in the German gymnasium, the highest grade of prepar- atory school, English, the ‘‘world-lan- guage,’’ remains not even on a par with ancient Hebrew. The latter must be taught from ‘‘Secunda’’ up (when the average pupil is about eighteen), if one’s course of studies is in a certain direction. But Eng- lish is an elective study, and may not be taken up at all. French is compulsory, however, from a low class upw rd. German science is still the strongest in the world, I believe, and in almost every domain of the vast field she claims as her own names which stand out conspicuously, and a score of them which tower above all in their chosen field. But there again we meet a strange phenomenon, viz., these men great in knowledge are old, and achieved reputations before, or soon after, the Franco-Prussian war, and few have arisen during the last twenty years to take the place of the giants of intellect, such as Mommsen and Virchow. And whole 58 INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. fields of science are now more or less neglected, obviously because there is little or no money in them. Philosophy and psychology and astronomy, for example, which used to be particular fields of Ger- man research, are neglected by the German university man of to-day. True, Schopen- hauer and Nietzsche, and to some extent, too, Von Hartmann (of the ‘‘ Philosophie des Unbewussten’’), are still read, and Nietzsche at least has powerfully influenced the rising generation. But no new philos opher is heard of, no system is newly evolved. Among the princes of German science, there are still men like Harnack, willing to go to the stake for his opinion, and Dilthey, with his Luther-like courage. There was Von Treitschke, recently dead, a man on whose words his auditors hung, a born inspirer and teacher of youth, and a historian whose works read like mighty epics. And Erich Schmidt and Hermann Grimm were men of similar caliber, men to whom their science was everything, wealth and reputation nothing. Then there are Prof. von Schiemann, the great Russian historian, and Prof. von Richthofen, the ROBERT KOCH,

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great geographer, whose book on China is by far the best and most reliable even to- day. There Prof. Ernst Haeckel, of Jena, the great author of ‘*Force and Mat- ter.’’ is Then there is Professor Delbrueck, university professor and editor of the best political monthly in Germany, the ‘‘ Preuss- (‘Prussian Annals’’), and who was not afraid of committing lése- ische Jahrbuecher’’ majesté when the cause of good government seemed to demand it. But you will also find men who have not There are Roentgen, who traded off his invention, of an accident, to all the world for what it would fetch, who became a merchant monopolized ware; Bismarck’s physician, now owner of a_ high-priced Berlin), Dr. Robert bacillus fame—all three been untainted with commercialism. born own dealing in his Doctor Schweninger (once sanitarium and Koch, of strongly And there is Dr. Ernst von Halle, a clever gentleman who, from time to time, makes trips to this country, and on his return prints another book about the sociological, the political and economic, peculiarities of the United States, written in a vein he near cholera commercialism. tinctured with ERICH SCHMIDT. INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. MAXIMILIAN HARDEN. knows will please his German readers, i. e., full of sarcasm, abuse, and predictions of the downfall of the republic. I might go on and mention a great many more of these scientists between the ages of thirty and forty, the kind that seems to be in the ascendent now all over Germany, and for whom the name of ‘‘Streber’’—i. e., am- bitious, unscrupulous worldlings—has been invented in the of their birth. But I wish merely to give an idea of the stuff these German scientists of the younger type are made of, not to describe them in full. The vast field of literature, which in its entirety is probably the most correct barom- eter of the controlling thought and propel- ling sentiment of a nation, is in a curious state in Germany. It is evidently in a tran- sition state, and it is interesting matter of conjecture what it will finally amount to. There are, of course, still many men and women of the old the arena, whom foreign readers of German literature would be likely to call typically German writers. There are Paul Heyse, recently out with a charmingly written auto- biography, replete with anecdotes of a by- gone age; Ernst Wichert, Wilbrandt and Ludwig Habicht, dramatists of good repute, and still working after old models. Wichert country school in

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60 INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. was a criminal judge for many years, yet his dramas are full of the daintiest senti- mentality, and Wilbrandt is the author of one of the most powerful modern tragedies (‘‘Die Tochter des Fabricius’’) and recently wrote another fine play, ‘‘Der Weise von Palmyra.’’ But the German press, and likewise the public, condemned it, be- cause it is too ‘‘bookish’’ for them. Ernst von Wildenbruch, whose descent is the same as the Ger- man emperor’s, but on the il- legitimate side, and who earns his bread by diplomatic of- fice- holding, but in his lei- sure and for his amusement writes very good books, patriotic Ho- henzollern dra- mas, and now and then a fine poem, also be- longs in the main to the old school. Blu- menthal, whose ‘* Probepfeil ”’ was many times performed in English in this country, and who wrote a number of clever society satires and bril- liant comedies, and Lindau, who is also almost as well known here as in Germany, are classed there with the old school. So is Arthur Fitger, of Bremen, whose somber ‘‘ Die Hexe’’ (‘‘ The Witch’’) had quite a run here years ago. There came a spirit of unrest, of disgust with the old hackneyed plots of stories and plays, and with the old forms of poetry, over the literary world in Germany, or at least the young generation. This

HERMANN SUDERMANN, feeling was largely influenced and fostered by the ‘‘Jeune France,’’ also by Walt Whitman, whose style found many admirers in Germany, and the young talent began to grope in the dark for other mediums to give their ideas and moods new expression, for new topics and for new sensations. This found first sound in the dramatic matter offered, and Sudermann was almost simultaneous with Hauptmann in this. Both were un- known and friendless young men at the time—some ten or fifteen years ago. But Hauptmann with his ‘‘ Vor Sonnenauf- gang’’ and Su- dermann with ‘*Die Ehre”’ not only made a sensation, but these two plays and those that quickly fol- lowed were like an entering wedge into the literary life of ooerma ny. Hauptmann has by far the great- er poetic power, and the most original one, and ‘‘Hannele’’ and ‘‘Die We- wer’ (¢°"Ehe Weavers’’) are masterpieces in their way. These men had their imita- tors, and some of them, like Paul Hirsch- feld, Max Dreyer and Max Halbe, have a good deal of genius of their own. Halbe’s ‘*‘Jugend,’’ strongly savoring of the Ger- man soil out of which it grew, is a pathetic and strong drama, and so is Hirschfeld’s ‘‘Die Muetter,’’ and likewise Dreyer’s ‘‘Der Probecandidat.’’ <A place by himself is occupied by Ludwig Fulda,

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a wealthy young banker, but also a very original poet and dramatist. Although death has of late thinned the ranks of German novelists of the older era considerably, removing some of the best ones, the crop of them remaining is, in truth, still large enough. As the watchword of the ‘‘new dramatists’’ is ‘‘naturalism,’’ so it is, too, with the young poets and novelists and all other writers. The new influence told even upon literary scientists, like Professor Haeckel and Wilhelm Boelsche. The latter, for example, wrote a book, ‘‘Liebesleben in der Natur, ’’ which is a perfect marvel of treating strictly zoological subjects in a fascinating, liter- ary style—realism made charming. Of the well-known Ger- man novelists, there is still Spielhagen, productive as ever, and always entertain- ing; Rabe, with his weirdly sympathetic stories of bygone days; Julius Roden- berg, charming when in a reminiscent mood ; Hans Hopfen; Felix Dahn, still chewing the cud of his historical novels taken from the early medieval period of Teutonism, especially the time between A. D. 200 and 600. Then we have Peter Rosegger, in a way Berthold Auerbach’s successor, and excel- ling him in genuine naiveté of sentiment. Then there is Gustav Frensen, author of the very popular ‘‘Jorn Uhl.’’ Baroness Malt- zahn, who writes under a nom de plume, and Natalie von Eschstruth are the heiresses, both in style and in popularity, of Marlitt and Muehlbach, and in that sense are the most successful of women writers in Germany; while the Baroness Ebner-Eschenbach is fully appreciated only by the intellectually PROFESSOR DILTHEY. INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF 70-DAY. 61 in than Ossip Schubin advanced. She resembles, more one respect, George Eliot. also the women writers of Germany with the old school, while among the women who have thrown in their lot with the young generation of litterateurs may be mentioned Frau Meyer Foerster, who is dainty and spirituelle; Ada Christen, who is original and weird; Dora Duncker, Ida Boy-Ed, E. Vely, Ilse belongs to classed Frapan, and others. Theodor Fontane occupies a place of his own. His style as a poet of no mean pretensions is grace- ful, picturesque and pathetic. As a novelist, though, he is altogether sui gen- eris, his plots being usually of the thin- nest, but his manner of treating his sub- ject being delightful —humor, pathos, racy charming dialogue, and inal apercus, varying in a manner seldom reached by a Ger- man writer, and for part of which doubt- less his French Huguenot blood is responsible. The new school of German poets and novelists can be only touched upon here, although the subject is interesting enough to deserve other treatment. They represent different currents of thought and literary taste, and the extremists among them, influenced by Verlaine, Strindberg, Ibsen, Tolstoy, Gorky, and others, now and then give the impression of ‘‘inspired idiots, ’’ as a leading German critic expressed it. Nevertheless, there is, even among the major part of these ultra prophets of a new literary ideal, a more or less strong under- current of talent and, in several cases, of genius. Standing in the front rank, among the poets, are Richard Dehmel, Arno and orig-

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62 INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. Holz, Prince Schénaich-Carolath, Heinrich Siedel, Martin Groeif, Rudolf Baumbach and Johanna Ambrosius. Rudolf Baumbach’s tramp songs opened a new vein in con temporaneous German literature, and were wonderful in their way—rollicking, melan- choly; and in every mood they are as if drawn from the pure spring of folk-song. Among the prose writers who deserve special mention are Hans von Wolzogen, Otto Erich Hartleben, Von Ompteda, Baron Detlev von Liliencron, Conrad Telmann, Kretzer, Tovote, Von der Planitz, Johannes Trojan, Dagobert von Gerhardt (‘‘Amyntor’’), Heinrich Lee, Arthur Zapp, Johannes Cotta, Adalbert Meinhardt, and a score of others. Wolzogen is one of the most extra- ordinary personages, both as a man and as a writer. Some of his work ranks very high, while much of it is marred by the most serious defects. Arthur Zapp, who graduated from this country, is one of the most productive as well as varied writers of the new school, and he made a specialty for atime in combating, with some success, the ultra-military spirit of the nation. Heinrich Lee is one of the most successful and amiable feuilleton writers and of racy, charming novels. A former Saxon cavalry officer, Von Ompteda is now con- sidered a shining light in the field of Ger- = ane — — re | | ADOLPH MENZEL. REINHOLD BEGAS man light literature, while an ex-comrade of his, W. von Polenz, has written some remarkably strong books of strictly natural- istic tendencies. His domain is especially German peasant life, ‘‘Der Buettnerbauer”’ being probably his best work. Baron Liliencron is a poet of the first order, though much of his verse would not fur- nish reading adapted for young ladies’ seminaries. So much is his eminence recognized all over Germany that his ad- mirers, the poet being in financial straits, had no trouble in collecting a fund for him—a most unusual thing in Germany. Another strong writer is Ottomar Enking, whose ‘‘Die Ikariden*’ seemed to promise much for the future. Richard Dehmel is the head of a poetic school of its own— mystic, impressionist; and the ablest of his pupils, Arno Holz, has written some remarkable things, notably for the ‘‘Freie Buehne,’’ of Berlin. It must not be for- gotten that there are also, among this new literary blood of Germany, a number of excellent humorous writers. I will name such men as Julius Stinde, Julius Stet- tenheim, Sigmar Mehring, R. Schmidt- Cabanis, Alexander Moszkowski and Otto Julius Bierbaum. Stinde wrote a number of books which moved all Germany to laughter and tears, and which in their way are Classics. Hartleben, again, on account of his eccentricities and his somewhat naughty escanades often styled in literary

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CONRAD ROENTGEN,. noire of the Lately he ‘*the béte is an erratic genius. circles of Berlin Muses, ”’ spent some time in a private insane-asylum, alter the fact that his tosenmontag,’’ proved yet that does not military drama, the strongest attraction of a recent theat- rical season. He is a thorough bohemian, and when in funds spends lavishly. Kret zer, a Berlin man, who like Hauptmann married wealth and therefore can aiford to write when and what it pleases him, made a great literary hit, a couple of years ago, with his ‘‘ Das Gesicht Christi’? (*‘The Face of Christ’’), one of the most daring things in modern literature in this particular semireligious vein. The same spirit of unrest, the same reaching out after new methods, ideas and technique, which characterizes the German literature of the hour, and with the same uncertain grasp, is strongly noticeable in Varying currents are per- To the new men, whose frequently disordered fancy and odd methods inspire the German emperor with a distinct dislike, just as their brethren of the pen do, the emperor German art. ceptible, warring with one another. and the Prussian government have shown It will be remembered that the emperor, against the verdict of the literary committee year after year withheld the Schiller prize— the highest bestowed annually on the most eminent work in dramatic literature—from Gerhardt Hauptmann, for his ‘‘ Versunkene Glocke,’’ and finally awarded the prize to no favor. chosen by all Germany, INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. 63 Wildenbruch, for one of his Hohenzollern dramas; and the same treatment was by the school in art, the ‘+ Secessionists.’’ All the favor of court and government has been showered him accorded new so-called upon the representatives of the past—men like Anton von Werner, the portraitist and war painter; upon Menzel, whose favorite subject, Frederick the Great and his court and generals, endeared him especially to the Hohenzollern monarch; to a number of sculptors carrying out imperial orders to the letter. Menzel, who really is a won- derful genius, and in some ways the best painter produced in Germany for genera- tions, not only was invested with a title of nobility and the highest Prussian decora- tion, but was honored also in every other possible way. About the antics and the erratic flights of the Secessionists, the em- peror seldom loses an opportunity of ex- pressing his displeasure. Yet, while the high- est talent in Germany undoubtedly belongs to the old is, side by side with painters and sculptors school in most essentials, there who belong to the wildest impressionism or so-called realism and symbolism, a deal of “*young ones, pe vreat talent to be seen among the and their wares are now finding ready takers there. Men like Von Uhde, Stuck, Walter Leistikow, Cor- inth, Kunert, Count Harrach, Gabriel Max, Marr, Hans Guenther and Hellgrewe may well stand side by side with their confréres PROFESSOR EBERLEIN,

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64 INTELLECTUAL GERMANY OF TO-DAY. of older ideas and methods. Hans Bohrdat, the marine and historical painter; Schweit- zer, the painter of snowy landscapes and big game, and Von Kossak, are, besides the above, the favorites of the emperor. Lenbach, whom I consider the greatest of living portraitists, fell into disgrace with the emperor many years ago, on account of his democratic views and because of his intense admiration of Bismarck, an admira- tion which he wore on his sleeve. Kunert and Hellgrewe are the best ‘‘colonial painters’’—i. e., of scenes taken from the German colonies—just as the best ** colonial writer’’ is Gustav Meinecke, editor of the ‘*Coloniale Zeitschrift." A very good marine painter among the young ones is Alquist, of Hamburg. is a painter who attains wonderful effects Professor Vogel with casein pigments, notably in his histor- ical and fresco work. Kalkreuth is one of the best naturalists of the Carlsruhe school, and Corinth scored a decided success with his ‘‘Herodias,’’? a year ago. Slevogt, of Munich, is deemed by his admirers another Besnard. The plein-air style of painting, which for some years was all the rage in Germany, as it was in France, is now beginning to subside. The Secessionist school in Germany has, as in France, greatly altered not only the general style of painting, both in conception and execution, but also artistic public opinion. German sculpture, never of a very high order, has sadly deteriorated during the last thirty years, and more _ particularly during the reign of the present emperor. In one sense, it is true, this branch of art has flourished as never before—viz., the sculptors have been overwhelmed with orders, and have made money. There has been a constantly growing demand for stone, brass, marble and cast-iron images commemorating in some way the German victory over France in 1870-71 and those who had anything to do with bringing it Such jobs have been done by the But it has been precisely this about. thousand. plethora of them which has gradually brought them down to the level of a low mediocrity. This leveling-down process has debased the standard of quality enormously, and it may be seen even in the works of Germany’s most renowned sculptors to-day —Begas, Schaper, Eberlein, Uphues, Her- ter—even where no cheap contract rates bounded the ambition of the sculptor. The stage in Germany just now is ina very fair condition, due in large measure to the enormous impetus given dramatic production, as well as intelligent public opinion, by the writers of the new school. All over the empire you will find good theaters, well patronized, with good or even excellent stock companies. The old romantic style of acting, whereof Haase was the last remaining great representative, is now out of the race. The men of talent that have come to the front of late all belong to the realistic school. The greatest change during the empire has probably been wrought in the matter of architecture and interior decoration. That has visibly come with the growth of wealth. Architecture, in the higher sense of the word, had had a poor home in Germany before the war, owing to the lack of great fortunes in private life, and to the slender public purse in nearly every part of the country, Munich and Dresden being about the only exceptions to this rule. For two decades, however, there has been an enormous improvement as to both private and public architecture. Wallot and Semper are the names which stand out most prominently when speaking of the new school of German architecture. A new taste and a revival of the best medieval patterns have sprung up. Scores of able and talented architects, too, came to the surface, now that the fetters of rigid econ- omy that had bound the craft for centu- ries had been burst. No greater contrast can be imagined than between the shabby, cheap buildings, devoid of every kind of embellishment, that formed the Berlin of fifty years, even thirty years, ago, and the majestic structures of to-day, which are doing much, every day they stand, to revive again that sense of beauty which Germany, next to the Italian municipal republics the wealthiest country then, possessed during the middle ages and up to the Thirty Years’ War. E :

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Drawn by Frederic Dorr Steele, THE LAST SERPENT. By SeEumaAs A* often as there’s fingers and toes on us, we hear every year that there’s neither trace nor track of a sarpint in Ire- lan’, because Saint Pathrick dhrove the last of them out. But them that tells this yarn doesn’t know what they’re talking about, for the last of them is still with us. On wan day—an’ that a Pathrick’s Day, too—in every seven years it’s thrue to say Irelan’s free of sarpints; but for the re- mainder of the seven years it’s as false as Phil Rorty’s poun’ weight that turned the scale at thirteen ounces. An’ this is the tale of the last sarpint: When Pathrick was gatherin’ off the sar- pints with him, an’ emptyin’ them intil the four says, the good people of the county of Cavan sent word till him that there was wan very scoundhrily fella, the knowin’est sarpint an’ worst rascal in Irelan’, harborin’ an’ hidin’ in their midst, mainin’ for to get left behind, and have a fine time when Pathrick would have done away with the remainder. They sent word a Drawn by Frederic Dorr Steele. “STHRETCHED HIS NECK OVER THE EDGE OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.”’ 5 MacManus. to Pathrick that for years they had been in terror of their lives with this fella, who moroded an’ destroyed all afore him, aist, waist an’ centher, wheresomever he took the notion; an’ they begged for God’s sake an’ their sakes that he’d come an’ hoist this lad off with him, an’ put him where a Christian would never see his tuil wag more. Good Saint Pathrick, who never turned a deaf ear to a request from wan of his people—though he was at this time at Ballinasloe, where he was centherin’ all the sarpints of Connaught afore headin’ them off, all together like Brown’s cows, for the say—lost little time till he spit on his staff an’ started for Cavan. When he come there, he l’arnt that the sarpint in question, bein’ so outrageously knowin’ entirely, had given him the slip, jooky- pakyin’ among the scrubs, an’ waltzin’ round the glens out of his sight, at the time he’d been gatherin’ the Cavan sar- pints with him, an’ that he was at that

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66 THE LAST SERPENT—FICTION. present instant takin’ the air, an’ his aise, on the top of Cuileagh mountain, keepin’ himself quiet an’ well-behaved till Pathrick would cease from sarpint-dbrivin’. ‘*Niver mind,’’ says the saint, says he; “Ill soon make him march without music,’’ says he; ‘‘and, by my faith, if I don’t help him along with this staff ye can call me Cormac. I'll give him,’’ says he, ‘‘what Teddy gave the dhrum thon yon! time—the father an’ mother of a 9 good sound ludherin’. And off for Cuileagh Pathrick he then set, and when he come to the foot of the mountain he blew on his sarpint-whistle to atthract the lad’s attention. The lad, when he heerd it, sthretched his neck over the edge of the mountain-top to find what was the matther; and when he seen it was Saint Pathrick himself was in it, he dhrew back as quick as he could, out of sight, an’ he in the divil’s own bad temper, an’ rowled himself up in as small a bulk as he could. “‘Tf Pathrick wants me,’’ says he, ‘‘he’ll come every cos [foot] of the road for me, bad manners till him.’’ Of course, he didn’t exactly say ‘‘bad manners till him”? ; but that is the nearest I can go in daicency to the language he used. Pathrick he whistled again and again, an’ got sorra an answer. He was grown oul’ and stiff and weighty now, an’ climbin’ & mountain wasn't at all like lickin’ candy- sticks to him. But he had to do it, an’ heavin’ a heavy sigh, he got a hold of his skirts an’ started. An’ sorely winded the poor saint was when he got to the top; but, faith, it was worth all the trouble when he begun layin’ on the lad above with his good staff. The yells, an’ the roars, an’ the screeches of that animal was heerd that day on the banks of Lough Neagh in the north, an’ at Macroom in the County Cork. And when Pathrick had operated on the scoundhril to his complete satisfaction, he headed him off for the jour- ney. But if Pathrick, like the rest of his counthrymen, was a bit quick in the temper an’ aisily riz, he was just as quick to cool down again. An’ afore he let the sarpint off the top of the mountain, he put his hand on the achin’ spots, an’ the sarpint was as aisy as ever he’d been in his born days afore. Then the saint an’ he jogged down the mountain tors’t the south, fairly companionable enough, for the sarpint (the knowin’ rascal!) was willin’ an’ anxious enough to be friends with the saint if he’d only let him. At the fut of Cuilcagh mountain there was a very deep hole called the Wild Baste’s Hole, which the people of Glengav- lin had dug for the purpose of catchin’ - an’ thrappin’ wolves and foxes and toads and sarpints an’ wildcats, an’ every other sort of obnoxious varmints that used in them days to swarm over the face of the counthry. This hole was very deep and it was narrow at the mouth an’ wide at the bottom, so that anything ever went intil it couldn’t come out livin’ again. Over this hole there grew a pear-tree that give a partic’lar sweet pear, the only wan of its kind in the counthry. And, now, when Pathrick and the sarpint come this far, the sarpint he halted, an’ says he: ‘‘The pears given be that tree has always been a delight to me. There’s just wan little bunch of three pears remainin’ on thon outmost branch. If your saintship only lets me climb the bush and take them three pears with me, I'll laive Irelan’ con- tented and happy.”’ Pathrick he was nowise bad-hearted, nor never was; so says he, ‘‘Make haste, ye villain ye, and get them, and come along.’ Up the tree the sarpint started without delay, twistin’ an’ windin’ himself, an’ swingin’ from branch to branch till he got hold of the outmost limb that the three pears was on; an’ he made this limb shake at an oncommon rate, but still all as wan as pretendin’ that he couldn't help it, till at length afore he could reach them the three pears dhropped off with the shakin’ an’ fell into the hole below. ‘*Bad manners to me,’’ says he, ‘‘but they're gone.”’ And ‘‘Bad manners to ye,’’ says the saint, ‘‘but they are. And we’ll be goin’, too—come along with ye,’’ says he. ‘“‘Aisy, aisy, Pathrick,’’ says the sarpint. ‘‘Sure it isn’t grudgin’ me the small re- quist of havin’ a favorite pear with me, an’ I laivin’ Irelan’, ye are?’’ ‘I’m grudgin’ ye nothing,’’ says Pathrick; ‘‘but sure ye've lost it, an’ what's the good of waitin’ here?”’ ‘‘Oh, all isn’t lost that’s in danger, ; : : Q :

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ca enone ir nama MO 99 saint,’’ says the sarpint. ‘‘I can get them pears yet—with your kind and gracious help,’’ says he, in a deludherin’ fashion. ‘*How can I help you?’’ says ‘Pathrick. ‘*Ye can,’’ says the sarpint, ‘‘catch a good stout grip of yer staff be the wrong end, and catch the cleek of the staff in the swirl I’ll put on me tail. See!’’ says he, puttin’ a curlycue in his tail. ‘‘Ye can fix the cleek of it in there. Then I'll fetch meself forward slowly, backwise, to the edge of the pit, and let you down gradially till I let ye to the bottom—for atween my len’th, an’ the len’th of yer 28 eS o< cK Drawn by Frederic Dorr Steele SEUMAS MAC MANUS—FICTION.

67 ‘*T am over-anxious,’’ says the sarpint. ‘*Ye’ll make me very, very happy indeed; and I’ll not aisy forget it to ye, the good turn ye do me.’’ ‘*Resarve your thanks,’’ says the saint, ‘*till I have more time an’ inclination to listen to them. Put the cleek in yer tail at wanst.’’ ‘*Sir,’’ says the sarpint, puttin’ the cleek intil his tail, an’ slewin’ himself round with his back-end to the hole ‘‘sir,’’ says he, ‘‘ye’re a jintleman and a scholar.”’ -athrick, fixin’ the cleek of his staff in ’

yoo AMANO wane ‘**TF YOUR SAINTSHIP ONLY LETS ME CLIMB THE BUSH AND TAKE THEM THREE PEARS WITH ME, I'LL LAIVE IRELAN’ CONTENTED AND HAPPY.’ ” staff, an’ yer own len’th, we'll make the bottom of it, don’t fear—and then you'll pick up the pears, an’ come up the same way ye went down. It’s all as aisy,’’ says he, ‘‘as kiss yer han’.”’ Poor Saint Pathrick was, as I sayed afore, nowise ill-hearted; the heart of him was as soft as a chile’s, an’ divil a morsel cuter nor more knowin’—a baby at the breast could a’most bamboozle him. ‘*Why,’’ says he, ‘‘if ye’re so over-anxious about a couple of scranny pears, I suppose I'll have to put myself about to oblige ye.”’

the cleek of the sarpint’s tail, took a firm grip of it be the other end, an’ went down over the edge, the sarpint lowerin’ him gradially, and with great circumspection entirely, an’ cryin’ out till him now an’ again to know if all was goin’ well, till he lowered him till the bottom. Pathrick then pocketed the pears, an’ sung out to the lad to hoist away. But, behold ye! when the lad buckled to, and thried for to hoist, the sorra inch could he move the saint off the ground—if it was thrue for him! <Afther he made three or four attempts, with great puffin’ and peichin’,

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6% THE LAST SERPENT—FICTION. says he, ‘‘Be this and be that, Saint Pathrick, but I’m afeerd you’re in a hob- ble this time.’ ‘Be the tare o’ war!"’ says Pathrick, who wouldn’t on no account give a worse curse nor that—‘‘be the tare o° war!’’ says he, ‘‘but if ye don’t make haste an’ hoist me out on dhry land again, soon and sudden, I’ll start the circulation of blood in yer tail with me stick.’’ ‘* Aisy, aisy, Pathrick,’’ says the villain. ‘*Ye’re at the wrong end of the hole—the bottom—to talk so independent-like about usin’ sticks.”’ ‘*Faith,’’ says Pathrick then, to himself, as he wiped the cowl sweat off his fore- head, ‘‘and soT am.’’ So then he talked to the sarpint in a mighty ginteel way, an’ asked him plaise to do his best to lift him out. And the sarpint, the knave, sayed he would put all his body an’ soul intil wan pull and thry if he couldn’t pull him out of the hobble. ‘‘Get a good grip, saint,’’ says he; ‘‘I’ll make a spoon or spoil a horn this time. Now for a long pull and a sthrong pull and a pull alto- gether—yo-ho!’’ says he, and he lifted Pathrick up till he got him about a fad- dom off the ground, and then he let the curl out of his tail (all as wan as the weight was too much on it), an’ down, souse! goes Pathrick on the broad of his back to the bottom. “Och, och!’’ says the sarpint then, ‘*but that tuk the tarrible wrinch out o° me! Are ye kilt?’’ says he, lookin’ down. ‘*Och, ye scoundhril ye!’’ says the saint. ‘fAn’ if I arn't kilt it isn’t your fault, ye low-lifed scoundhril!’’ bekase Pathrick all at wanst had his eyes opened to the knavery of the lad, an’ seen the purty fix he had him landed in. ‘*Saint Pathrick,’’ says the sarpint back to him, ‘‘if it was possible at all at all to make a step-ladder out of bad names and foul language, I think your saintship could get out of that hole faster than any other jintleman of my acquaintance. But, as that is onpossible, I think ye’d better be more sparin’ on the ill language, an’ save yer wind to cool your stirabout. Ye see I’ve thried me best to get ye out, an’ failed. Still-an*-ever, it sthrikes me that if ye could promise to let me go me own gait, an’ not dhrive me out of Irelan’, I might manage, be puttin’ a great sthrain entirely on meself, to lift ye onto dhry land again.”’ Says Pathrick, and him as mad as five hatters, ‘‘I’d see ye in—Callyforny first, ve desaivin’ vagabone ye!"’ The sarpint laughed sarcastic back at him. And, ‘‘Well,’’ says he, ‘‘I’m sure I'm mighty thankful for the good wish —and (not to be behindhand with the compliments) it would give meself pleasure to see you double as far. I wish you a very good night,’’ says he, ‘‘and pleasant dhraims,’’ makin’ to go off. ‘*Hilloa! Hilloa!’’ says the saint; ‘‘ye aren’t surely goin’ to laive me all alone down in this hole?’’ ‘*Oh, not at all, not at all—not be no means,’’ says the sarpint. ‘‘Now that night is fallin’, ye’ll soon have the wolves an’ wildcats wandherin’ this way, an’ fallin’ into the thrap. I'll move round meself and hurry them up, too. Oh, no, saint, ye’ll not be long, I'll gallantee, till ye have company enough. -atchy Kelly’s lodgin’-house, of a night he’d have the tinkers, ’ll be nothin’ to the lively company ye’ll soon have.’’ ‘*Och-och-anee-o!’? says Pathrick, says he, br’akin’ down, ‘‘but this is the purty pickle I’m landed in! Plaise, sarpint,’’ says he, ‘‘plaise give me a hand out of here, an’ I'll not forget ye.’’ ‘‘Give ye a tail out, I suppose ye mane,’’ says the sarpint. ‘‘Well, give me your promise not to dhrive me out of Irelan’, and then you'll get out. That’s plain speakin’, Pathrick, for there’s no use wasting good breath over it.”’ ‘‘That’s onpossible,’’ says Pathrick. ‘‘I couldn’t do it.’’ ‘‘And why couldn’t ye?’’ says the sar- pint. ‘*Bekase,’’ says the saint to the sar- pint, ‘‘I am under conthract to clear all of yer thribe out of Irelan’.”’ ‘*Ye can get round that,’’ says the sar- pint. ‘‘I’ll consint to laive Irelan’ an’ go into the say for twinty-four hours, so that you’!l complete the conthract, ’’ says he. The saint he sat down in the bottom of the hole, and meditated for some time; and then, ‘‘Agreed !’’ says he. ‘‘Upon yer honor as a saint, ye'll allow me to live in Irelan’?’’ says the sarpint.

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Drawn by Frederic Dorr Steele. SEUMAS MAC MANUS—FICTION. “ARE YE KILT?’ SAYS HE, LOOKIN’ DOWN.” ‘*Upon me honor as a saint,’? says Pathrick. And on the instant, the sarpint gets his fore paws on the brink of the hole, lets down his tail, an’ takin’ a twist of it round Pathrick’s middle, hoists him up on dhry land while ye’d be sayin’ Knife! And the minute Pathrick found his fut on dhry land again, ‘*Now,’’ says he, ‘‘it’s my turn. By my vartue as a saint and exterminator of sarpints, I now ordher you intil that hole.’’ Then he touched the sarpint with his staff, and, willy-nilly, the vagabone had to ‘do what he was bid. Nixt, Pathrick sthruck the hole with his staff, and a tarrible great spring of clear water burst up in it, and in a very few minutes overflowed the hole, and went sweepin’, a mortial great river entirely, southwards to the say. ‘‘I ordher ye,”’ says Pathrick to the sarpint within, ‘‘to remain as prisoner there, at the bottom of that hole, till the end of time, barrin’ Ty rye Vi é Mi i MW /,. Pees OM UMC Ty et Drawn by Frederic Dorr Steele. *** OCH, YE SCOUNDHRIL YE!’ SAYS THE SAINT. aes Wee Wanst in seven years, When ye’re to jour- ney down that river to the say, spend twinty-four hours there, an’ then come back again to your prison, for seven years more. ‘To be ‘as cunnin’ as a sarpint,’ ”’ says Pathrick, with a chuckle, ‘‘is, no doubts, mighty good. But to be ‘as cun- nin’ as a saint’ is, ye obsarve, wan bet- ther. ”’ That big hole is still to be seen at the foot of Cuilcagh in Glengavlin, and it’s called the Shannon Pot—bekase the Shannon is the name given to the river, the biggest in the Three Kingdoms, that runs out of it. An’ to this day the sarpint is coiled up at the bottom of the Pot, barrin’, as I sayed, at wan time in every seven years, when he must thrudge off on his penance journey to the say—and then thrudge back to prison for another seven years. And in throth it’s his rich desarvin’, for the thratement he give poor Saint Pathrick. eon ‘AN’ IF I ARN'T KILT IT ISN'T YOUR FAULT.'”

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“LEST WE FORGET.” THE MERIT SYSTEM IN GOVERNMENT APPOINTMENTS. By THEODORE ROOSEVELT. [Reprinted from ‘*The Cosmopolitan” for May, 1892.| ROFESSOR LOUNSBURY, in his de- lightful Life of Cooper, speaks feel- ingly of the ‘‘infinite capacity of the human mind to withstand the introduc- tion of knowledge.’’ I doubt whether even a college professor becomes more sadly and profoundly impressed with the truth of this statement than does a civil-service commissioner. The spoils system of ma- king appointments to and removals from office is so wholly and unmixedly evil, is so emphatically un-American and un- democratic, and is so potent a force for degradation in our public life, that it is difficult to believe that any intelligent man of ordinary decency who has looked into the subject can be its advocate. On the other hand, the merit system, which we are striving to put in its place, has been proved by actual trial to work so well that it is difficult to understand how there can be any serious opposition thereto, or, in- deed, how it can fail to receive the zealous support of every citizen who has sense enough to see what is best for the country, and patriotism enough to wish to see that best adopted. The two systems are now working side by side in our government service. About a fourth of the offices under the federal government are administered in accordance with the provisions of the civil-service law. The remaining three-fourths are adminis- tered as they all were until within the last nine years—that is, in accordance with that most pernicious maxim, To the victor belong the spoils. Ina nutshell, the spoils or patronage theory is that public office is primarily designed for partizan plunder, and that the victorious party is entitled to loot the departments at Washington, the navy yards, the post-offices, the custom houses, and the like, on precisely the same grounds that entitled Tilly’s veterans to the loot of Magdeburg. Politicians hold- ing this view act on the principle, first, that adherence to the opposite party, or to no party, is of itself a disqualification for office, no matter what the incumbent's efficiency may be, and that therefore a clean sweep of all subordinate offices should be made after a change of administration; and second, that the first question in ma- king a new appointment should be as to the services the appointee has rendered, or can render, to some big party chief or organization of the victorious faction, with, as a secondary matter, an inquiry into the man’s fitness to hold the position he seeks. The better class of politicians, who are in the majority, usually insist that the ap- pointee shall not only be an influential party worker, but also a fairly capable public servant; and deviate from this rule only when the man’s partizan, factional or personal services have been very great in- deed. The more disreputable politicians —such as are to be found swarming in many of the lower wards of New York, for instance—consider this attitude of mind an unworthy concession to business princi- ples, and pay heed solely to questions of po- litical expediency (even of criminal political expediency) in making their appointments. A New York congressman once recom- mended to a friend of mine, who was then an assistant secretary of the Treasury, the appointment to the secret service of the Treasury of a noted local heeler. An investi- gation showed that among the other inci- dents of the aforesaid heeler’s varied career he had been indicted for murder, and had got off on a technicality; but when this was pointed out the congressman declined to recognize it as a matter that even called for explanation, waving it aside with the remark, ‘‘Oh, that was several years ago; I tell you, sir, Mick is one of the most inflooential men in the deestrick to-day.’ Now the merit theory, on the other hand, is that a man appointed to office should be appointed not with the idea of benefiting the fortunes of any political chief or faction, but with the idea of performing the work, for the whole public, which the whole publie is taxed to pay for, and that ceed Bia a

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ee er ono he should be appointed because he has shown in common-sense tests, in open, fair competition, that he is of all the candidates who have come forward the one who is presumably best fitted to perform the duties of the place sought. This method is the one now actually followed in deal- ing with over thirty thousand places under the federal government, and its workings have been tested in these places during several years. As might reasonably have been expected, the grade of public servants obtained under the new system is decidedly superior to that obtained under the old. But this improvement in the government service is not the chief thing at which civil- service reformers aim. Our chief aim is to better the conditions of public life. We believe that the thorough and radical in- troduction of the reformed or merit system of making appointments will measurably improve the public service; but, above all, that it will immeasurably raise the tone of politics. It may be doubted if any other one cause is so potent as is the spoils system among the forces that work for the degradation of our political life. The spoils system in politics has as distinct a tendency to drive the best men from public life as a debased and dis- honest currency has to drive the most honest men out of financial life. It ‘puts a premium upon the arts of the party trickster and factional manipulator; and it is doubly dangerous because it lends itself especially to the work of caucuses, pri- maries and nominating conventions, and thus accomplishes its most rapid work of degradation within the party itself. The offices, or rather the expectation and hope of receiving them, have a certain weight in the election itself; but their chief im- portance comes in connection with pulling the wires for the nominations and for party control. As the result of ten years’ careful study of and active participation in parti- zan politics, I unhesitatingly state my belief that the main use to which the offices are put is the gaining of factional or personal supremacy within the party, not the overthrow of the opposite party. The most bitter factional fights which have ever come to my knowledge in which public officers participated were those between two wings of the same party, and as often a strong statement. I make it deliberately, “LEST WE FORGET.” 71 as not for the control of a delegation from a state where that party was in an abso- lutely hopeless minority, and where, in con- sequence, the ‘‘patronage’’ formed the only object which the contestants had in view at all. A typical spoils politician is fond of loudly asserting that he is a genuine party man of the straitest sect; whereas, as a matter of fact, he is not, properly speak- ing, a party man at all, and is of little or no use in a fight for the whole party as such, though a real and very noxious power in the factional battles which d ‘ermine its leadership and control. He does not intend to use the patronage, save second- arily, against the opposite party. What he seeks to do with it is to whip his fac- tional rivals. To abolish the spoils system is to take a long step toward breaking the power of that most harmful body, the bread-and- butter brigade of professional politicians. To do this each party by minimizing in its councils the weight of those particularly sordid and unlovely beings who tread the lowest and most devious political paths as a means of livelihood. When once it was done, a congressman, for instance, would be chosen because of his views on such public ques- tions as protection and free trade, the free coinage of silver, the policy of building an would immeasurably benefit efficient navy, et cetera; and not because he had the low and unscrupulous cunning necessary to enable him to manipulate the fourth-class post-offices of his district in his own interest. As a matter of fact, the arguments in against the spoils system are not only convincing, but favor of the merit system and they are absolutely unanswerable. The present civil-service commission has now been in office for three years. During that time it has been no small part of our duty to do battle with the opponents of the system in every possible way, and it has been necessary for us to read and meet every argument they have advanced. It is the simple truth that during the entire three years I have never known a single argument advanced against the system by any one of its foes which was so much as entitled to respectful consideration by a This is fair-minded and intelligent man.

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72 as the result of three years’ experience at Washington. There are, of course, defects and short- comings in the merit system. We do not for a moment pretend that it is perfect. We only assert that it is a great improve- ment upon the old spoils system, and that as a matter of fact in every instance where it has been tried in good faith it has worked well. We are ourselves constantly endeav- oring to discover and correct any defects that may exist; yet it is noteworthy that not one of our opponents in congress or in the public press during the last three years has succeeded in touching a single weak point in the system. They have lacked even the capacity to find out the few actual shortcomings. Almost without exception the attacks of these opponents come under three heads. First, some of them impugn the honesty and good faith of those administering the law. This method is resorted to, of course, only by men of the baser sort; their diatribes represent merely their way of expressing dissatisfaction, exactly “as a pickpocket vents his chagrin by becoming abusive when arrested by a policeman. The second method is to attack the details of the administration of the law, and, notably, to insist that we ask improper or ridicu- lous questions. All of the attacks of this kind agree on one point: that is, the alleged statements of fact upon which they are based are simply untrue. Sometimes these statements are made by persons in high official position or by papers of stand- ing. In such acase we always write to the individual or paper making the accusations, stating that they are absolutely false and challenging their substantiation. In no single instance has any individual even attempted to substantiate his accusations, for the very good reason that in no single instance have they possessed or could they possess even the slightest and most unsub- stantial basis in fact. The third and most ordinary method of assault is for the speaker or writer to avoid specific state- ments and go into involved declamation, composed in equal parts of loose rhetoric and stale misrepresentation. This is the favorite method of our ordinary assailants, because of the trivial mental labor it involves. In the departmental service at Washing- “LEST WE FORGET.” ton the great bulk of the employees come under the provisions of the civil-service act, and inasmuch as these positions are under the direct supervision of the com- mission itself, it is here that the law works best and that its workings can be most satisfactorily observed. There are some ten thoucind of these places at Washing- ton. so satisfactorily does the law work that almost without exception every cabinet officer, even though he may take oftice opposed to it, becomes its ardent advocate long before the close of his term. Under the o.d system a very large portion of the time of every cabinet officer was taken up by considering the claims of individuals for appointment or retention in the service. Be it understood that the claims thus con- sidered were not the claims for particular efficiency in doing the work. What the cabinet officer was obliged to weigh was the amount of political backing and influ- ence each candidate could command. The Jate lamented Secretary Windom, who occupied the position of secretary of the Treasury both before and after the law came into effect, and was therefore pecu- liarly competent to pass judgment upon its merits, gave it on all occasions the most hearty support. He told me that one of the most painful portions of his public life was that succeeding his first appointment to the Treasury. For three months after he took office, every day that he came down to the department he found his antechamber crowded by a ner- vous host of unfortunates, mainly women, who either feared that they were going to be turned out, or else desired an appoint- ment; and he mentioned as a curious fact that all of the people who did not come to him aided by powerful ‘*influence’’ invari- ably urged their appointment or retention on the grounds of merey and charity, hardly ever alluding to their own efficiency or capacity to do the governmental work in the best manner. Under the old system, if a man wished a government clerkship at Washington, his first duty was to obtain the support of such of the more prominent politicians of his locality as were influential with the administration. To do this it was gener- ally requisite, directly or indirectly, to bring pressure to bear upon them. They i i | ; | SecA Tat

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in their turn brought pressure to bear upon the appointing power in Washington. One of the silly fictions of the spoils advo- cates is that under the old system the appointing officers themselves made the appointments. They did nothing of the sort. The appointments were made for them by outside politicians, often of a very disreputable kind; and they did not dare to resist the demands of these out- siders. In the railway mail service, for instance, the appointments were divided among the different congressmen and sena- tors of the dominant party according to a perfectly definite and fixed ratio; the nom- inal appointing officers had little to do save to see that the division was fair. The senator or representative who finally agreed to obtain or try to obtain a place for the would-be government clerk always found himself in competition with others. Each congressman, of course, had many more applications made to him for places than he had any hope of obtaining. He had to exercise some choice among these men themselves; and often the would-be appointees came to Washington to press their own claims. The congressman would, of course, try to put off the least influential or least determined of the applicants with nothing but fair words; and to get places for any he was obliged to tse every possible means to bring pressure upon the heads of the de- parcments. It was by no means necessary that he should always be in sympathy with the party in power. It was enough if he could make the appointing officers either afraid of him or desirous of placating him. The chairman of the appropriations com mittee of the house, for instance, who had the power of the purse-strings over the departments, was always able to get a great number of appointments under the old system, if he so desired, no matter what party was in power. After the candidates had thus been them- selves weeded out by the congressmen or local politicians, who threw out all but those having the strongest ‘‘pull,’’ they were still further weeded out by the ap- pointing officer, who, in his turn, threw out all those who were not presented by politicians whom it was to his interest to please. If vacancies existed, well and “LEST WE FORGET.” 73 good; if not, they could be created. Of course, each officer in creating a vacancy preferred to turn out an incompetent man ; but he could not afford to pay heed to this preference if the incompetent man had political influence. In consequence, every clerk was kept always in a state of anxious uncertainty, and was obliged to keep up relations with some powerful politician, under penalty of having his jeopardized. In short, under the old system, a man position who desired a place at Washington had first to convince some local party leader that he could himself be of service in ad- vancing that leader’s fortunes. He then had to give up several weeks or several months to pushing and supervising the intrigues by means of which he finally got a place in the departments. He often had to stay in Washington two or three months before he could accomplish his purpose, and in too many cases he only did accom- plish it finally at the expense of some poor fellow who was already in the departments, but who no longer had influence sufficient to insure his retention. The scramble for office was very keen, and this, of course, meant that nine-tenths of the people that sought it did not get it at all. They abandoned their work that they might come on to Washington; they spent their money and became thoroughly demoralized and unsettled, only to go back finally with a bitter sense of shame at having failed to gain the coveted prize. The career of the average political office-seeker is no less pitiful than it is shameful. In Bret Harte’s striking story of ‘‘The Office Seeker’’ a vivid picture will be found of the degra- dation and heartbreak which are almost necessary attendants upon the old system of a greedy, selfish scramble for plunder. Thanks to the adoption of the merit sys- tem, all this has been completely changed. The business of obtaining government em ployment in Washington has been put upon the same clean, healthy basis that marks the business of getting employment in any big private enterprise. If a man wishes to try for a government position now, all he has to do is to write to the commission for information. He then enters some examination which is held near the place where he lives, and is therein AE a RR ae om en eee 2 ERO Ss Sse neice

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74 “LEST WE FORGET.” tested fairly and in a perfectly common- sense way as to his capacities for perform- ing the peculiar duties incident to the position sought. If he does not pass well, then he fails to get the position, for he does not deserve it. If he does pass well com- pared to the others in the examination, and if it is a position for which there is any demand, he is almost certain to get it. He does not have to bother himself about any outside influence whatsoever; it will be entirely useless to him. All he does is to stay at home and go about his work without any disturbance, and to wait until he receives a notification from Washington of his appointment. Once in, he has not the slightest fear of having his place declared vacant in order that some outsider with political backing may be put into it. If he does his duty he is protected, and he knows it. He can look at a change of administration with absolute indifference. In the old days, on the contrary, the work in each department was diminished in efficiency to the extent often of a third prior to a change of administration, conse- quent purely upon the nervousness and anxiety of the unfortunate clerks about their future prospects. No class of employees or of applicants for office has been so greatly benefited by the change as the class of respectable women. It is degradation enough even for a man to be obliged to seek office as a favor from some politician to whom he is expected to render favors in return, and to pass hours of his time every day for weeks at a stretch in that most irksome and galling of occu- pations, dancing attendance in the ante- chambers of the temporarily great; but the degradation is threefold greater in the case of women. The old system put a premium on such qualities as brazen impor- tunity and total lack of delicacy and refine- ment, for it was only the persistent and pushing who could force their claims upon the reluctant attention of overworked ap- pointing officers. In other words, it bet- tered a woman’s chances very much in an inverse ratio to her real desirability. She had to implore outside help to get into office, and appeal for sympathy and sup- port to every influential personage to keep her in once she got it. It is hardly neces- sary to point out the field for abuse this development of the old spoils system opened. Now, on the contrary, a woman who is in office is in no danger whatsoever of being turned out unless she fails in the performance of her official work; and a woman who is seeking employment has absolutely nothing to do save to show that she is well qualified for the position she seeks. There is a very keen competition for the positions usually filled by women in the government departments, a far keener competition than among men. In consequence, only a small percentage of the women that take the examinations get places; but the very severity of this com- petition insures the selection of the fittest and totally eliminates all personal and political considerations from the choice. The civil-service law has worked unex- pected benefits in more than one way. For instance, it has proved a real boon to the better-educated colored people. Under the spoils system the negro never got his share of the appointments, and too often the loudest-mouthed among his political friends showed themselves almost as re- luctant to give him office as were his po- litical foes. The civil-service law, how- ever, guarantees him just and impartial treatment. He has to show his capacity in comparison with other men of his own race and of the white race alike. If he does better than they, he gets the ap- pointment, and that is all there is about it. During the last three years the colored people of the country have received very nearly their share of the classified offices in Washington. Those most apt to be successful are, naturally, the graduates of the higher colored academies and other institutions of learning. As every one knows, the careers open to educated people of the colored race are lamentably few in number, and it is a source of real pleasure to be able to say that the civil-service law has added another to the list of those in which an educated colored man can look for honorable advancement if his work deserves it. The particularly gratifying feature of the working of the law at Washington during the last three years has been the fact that we have really almost attained our ideal as regards non-partizanship. Practi- cally all political considerations have been ES ASSLT TE NR ones

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£2 ASA pee eliminated from the questions of making appointments to and removals from office in the classified departmental service. It always takes time to instil into the mind of the average citizen confidence that the law is being honestly observed and that politics really have nothing to do with it; but this happy result has been nearly reached as regards the departmental force at Washington. This has been shown by what has taken place in the Southern states during the last three years. Several hun- dred appointments have been made from these states through the commission during this period. About a quarter of these were colored men. The remaining three- fourths were, in the great majority of cases, native-born Southern whites; and from information which has reached the commis- sion through various channels since their appointment, almost in every case, espe- cially from the South Atlantic and Gulf states, these whites have belonged politic- ally to the party opposed to the admin- istration at Washington. Doubtless this has been the case with many of the men appointed from the North also, but it has happened that less definite information has been furnished the commission on this point. Every state and every section of the country has had exact and impartial justice meted out to it in the matter of appointments; and indeed, owing to the fact that three years ago most of the Southern states were behindhand in their quotas compared to the Northern ones, the people of the former have, relatively to their total number, stood a better chance for getting appointments in Washington during the past three years than the people of the latter, and this wholly without regard to their political affiliations. Of course, every conceivable variety of individual drifts into the examinations. Many ward heelers come in, it being par- ticularly difficult to convince these gentry that their political influence really will not avail them anything. They usually pass low or fail, and in consequence see the ap- pointments given to men without political backing; and they naturally go away and rail at the ‘‘schoolastic’’ and ‘‘improper’’ nature of the questions asked, their com- plaints being taken up and repeated by the spoils newspapers and spoils politicians, “LEST WE FORGET.” sometimes in sheer ignorance, more often from malevolence. Often, however, the men and women who fail in the examinations are really good, worthy people, cursed with the desire to get into a service for which they are not fitted. It is perfectly astounding to see the people who gravely come forward and offer themselves as clerks and copyists. Each batch of examinations yields a few candidates whose papers look like specimen extracts from Artemus Ward’s writings. There was one particularly delicious let- ter which we received from a man whom I have ever since sincerely wished to meet. He had evidently regarded the formal notice of the place where he could be examined as a personal invitation, and when he was unable to keep the appoint- ment thought that politeness required him to explain his absence. His letter runs as follows: ‘*oCtober 6, 1890. ‘*To the comischer of ‘*Sivel Sirves ‘*My Dear Brother. Iam very sory that I could not Meet you on the day you said but gentlemen, i am glad of the cause that Kept me way. let me tell you Mrcomischer, i hav Bin mard 5 years, an tel The Other Day, me an my Wife hav bin the onley mbrs en ow Famle. well Sir on the Da before youre Exammenashun, My Wife Had a kupple ov tuins gest Think of it Mr Comischer, and of corse I couddent go off and leve Her an them. ‘*] Just stade home an we had a sellabra- tion—an I Invited all my frends to diner i wish you had bin thare. i Hope I can be thare next time Mr. Comischer ‘*Very trly yores’’ Now, I have not the least doubt that that man is a good citizen, husband and parent. I am very much pleased with his happiness and I wish I could have been present at the ‘‘sellabration.’’ My only regret is that his large way of looking at the technicalities of chirography and orthog- raphy seems to indicate that he is too strongly tinged with the spirit of extreme individualism to be fitted for so narrowly conventional an employment as that of government clerk. 2 Uae was ee ee

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PANAMA AND THE KNIGHTS-ERRANT OF COLONIZATION. By Cyrus TOWNSEND BRADY. SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALMENT.—Few portions of the globe have been the scene of such romantic and daring adventure as that part of Spanish America which, in contradis- tinction to the great islands of the Caribbean, was known as the ‘‘Spanish main.’’ In 1509 its history begins, for at that date Ferdinand the Catholic, in order to circumvent the colonizing designs of the English upon the Isthmus of Panama, sent out expeditions under two extraordinary knights- errant of the sea, Alonzo de Ojeda and Diego de Nicuesa. They started separately in November —Ojeda ten days before Nicuesa, who was detained at Hispaniola for debt. Ojeda, who had left a partner in his enterprise, Encisco, behind to follow, landed at Cartagena and seized some natives, whose friends retaliated with volleys of poisoned arrows. The Spaniards’ predicament became extreme. Nearly all were killed or wounded. Finally Nicuesa appeared, and in spite of former differences joined forces with Ojeda, defeating the natives and obtaining much booty. Then the adventurers separated—Nicuesa for Veragua, which is the name Columbus had given to the Isthmian coast below Honduras, and Ojeda to plant a colony at San Sebastian. Here the band was terribly reduced by the attacks of the Indians. _It was finally rescued by one Talavera, a rascally soldier of fortune, with whom Ojeda, after shipwreck and other misfortunes, returned to Santo Domingo, leaving Francisco Pizarro in charge at San Sebastian. Ojeda found that his partner En- cisco had gone in search of him; and, penniless and discredited, he died in a monastery. IV. ENTER ONE VASCO NUNEZ DE BALBOA. NCISCO, coasting along the shore with a large ship carrying reenforcements and loaded with provisions for the party, easily followed the course of Ojeda’s wanderings, and finally ran across the remnant of his expedition in the harbor of Cartagena. The remnant was crowded into a single small, unseaworthy brigan tine, under the command of Francisco Pizarro. Pizarro had scrupulously kept faith with Ojeda. He had done more. He had waited fifty days, and then, finding that the two brigantines left to him were not large enough to contain his whole party, by mutual agreement the survivors clung to the death-laden spot until a sufficient number had been killed or had died to enable them to get away in the two ships. They did not have to wait long, for death was busy, and a few weeks after the expiration of the appointed time they were all on board. There is something terrific to the imagi- nation in the thought of that body of men sitting down and grimly waiting until enough of them should die to enable the rest to get away! What must have been the emotions that filled their breasts as the days dragged on? No one ‘knew whether the result of the delay would enable him to leave, or cause his bones to roton the shore. Cruel, fierce, implacable

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0 RNA NNN ATTA as were these Spaniards, there is some thing Homeric about them in such crises as these. That was not the end of their misfor- tunes, for one of the two brigantines was capsized. The old chroniclers say the boat was struck by a great fish. That is a fish-story which, like most fish-stories, it is difficult to credit. At any rate, sink it did, with all on board, and Pizarro and about thirty men were all that were left out of the gallant three hundred who had followed the doughty Ojeda in the first attempt to colonize South America. Encisco was for hanging them at once, believing they had murdered and deserted Ojeda, but they were able at last to con vince him of the strict legality of their proceedings. Taking command of the expedition himself, as being next in rank to Ojeda, the Bachelor led them back to San Sebastian. Unfortunately, before the unloading of his ship could be begun, she struck a rock and was lost; and the last state of the men, therefore, was as bad as the first. Among the men who had come with Encisco was a certain Vasco Nujiez, com- monly called Balboa. He had been with 3astidas and La Cosa on their voyage to the Isthmus nine years before. The voy- age had been a profitable one and Balboa had made money out of it. He had lost all his money, however, and had eked out a scanty living on a farm at Hispaniola, which he had been unable to leave because he was in debt to everybody. The author- ities were very strict in searching every vessel that cleared from Santo Domingo, for absconders. The search was usually con- ducted after the vessel had got to sea, too! Balboa caused himself to be conveyed aboard this vessel in a provision cask. No one suspected anything, and when the officers of the boat had withdrawn from the ship and Hispaniola was well down astern, he came forth. Encisco, who was a pettifogger of the most pronounced type, would have dealt harshly with him, but there was nothing to do after all. Balboa could not be sent back, and besides, he was considered a valuable reenforcement from his known experience and courage. It was he who now came to the rescue of the wretched colonists at San Sebastian by PANAMA AND THE KNIGHTS-ERRANT OF COLONIZATION telling them that across the Gulf of Darien there was an Indian tribe with many vil- lages and much gold. Furthermore, these Indians, unfortunately for them, were not acquainted with the use of poisoned arrows. Balboa urged them to go there. His sug- gestion was received with cheers. The brigantines, and such other vessels as they could construct hastily, were got ready and the whole party took advantage of the favorable season to cross the Gulf of Darien to the other side, to the present territory of Panama which has been so prominent in the public eye of late. This was Ni- cuesa’s domain, but nobody considered that at the time. They found the Indian villages that Balboa had mentioned, fought a desperate battle with Cacique Cemaco, captured the place, and discovered quantities of gold to the value of ten thousand gold casteilanos (upward of twenty-five thousand dollars). They built a fort, and laid out a town called Santa Maria de la Antigua del Darien -the name being almost bigger than the town! Balboa was in high favor by this time, and when Encisco got into trouble by decreeing various oppressive regulations and vexatious restrictions, attending to things in general with a high hand, they calmly deposed him on the ground that he had no authority to act, since they were on the territory of Nicuesa. To this logic, which was irrefutable, poor Encisco could make no reply. Pending the arrival of Nicuesa, they elected Balboa and one Zamudio, a Biscayan, to take charge of affairs. The time was passed in hunting and gathering treasure not unprofitably, and, as they had plenty to eat, not unpleasantly. Ve THE DESPERATE STRAITS OF NICUESA. Now let us return to Nicuesa. Making a landfall, Nicuesa, with a small caravel attended by the two brigantines, coasted along the shore seeking a favorable point for settlement. The large ships, by his orders, kept well out to sea. During a storm, Nicuesa put out to sea himself, im agining that the brigantines under the charge of Lope de Olano, second in com- mand, would follow him. When morning | | | |

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78 THE DRAMATIC HISTORY OF SOUTH AMERICA. broke and the storm dissipated, there were no signs of ships or brigantines. Nicuesa ran along the shore to search for them, got himself embayed in the mouth of a small river swollen by recent rains, and upon the sudden subsidence of the water coincident with the ebb of the tide, his ship took ground, fell over on her bilge and was completely wrecked. The men on board barely escaped with their lives to the shore. They had saved nothing except what they wore, the few arms they carried and one small boat. Putting Diego de Ribero and three sail- ors in the boat and directing them to coast along the shore and keep in touch with him, Nicuesa with the rest struggled west- ward in search of the two brigantines and the other three ships. They toiled through interminable forests and morasses for sev- eral days, living on what they could pick up in the way of roots and grasses, with- out discovering any signs of the missing ships. Coming to an arm of the sea, sup- posed to be Chiriqui Lagoon off Costa Rica, in the course of their journeyings, they decided to cross it in a small boat rather than make the long détour necessary to get to what they believed to be the other side. They were ferricd over to the opposite shore in the boat, sad to their dismay discovered that they were upon an almost desert island. It was too late, and iney were too tired, to go farther upon that night, so they resolved to pass it on the island. In the morning they were appalled to find that the little boat, with Ribero and the three sailors, was gone. They were marooned on a desolate island with practically noth- ing to eat, and nothing but brackish swamp-water to drink. The sailors they believed to have abandoned them. They gave way to transports of despair. Some in their grief threw themselves down and died forthwith. Others sought to prolong life by eating herbs, roots, and the like. They were reduced to the cordition of wild beasts, when a sail whitened the horizon, and presently the two brigantines dropped anchor near the island. Ribero was no recreant. He had been convinced that Nicuesa was going farther and farther from the ships with every step he took, and, unable to persuade him of that fact, he deliberately took matters into his own hands and retraced his course. The event justified his decision, for he soon found the brigantines and the other ships. Olano does not seem to have bestirred himself very vigorously to seek for Nicuesa,’ per- haps because he hoped to command himself; but when Ribero made his report he at once set sail for the island, which he reached just in time to save the miserable remnant from dying from starvation. As soon as he could command himself, Nicuesa, whose easy temper and generous disposition had left him under the hard- ships and misfortunes he had sustained, sentenced Olano to death. By the pleas of his comrades, the sentence was miti- gated, and the wretched man was bound in chains and forced to grind corn for the rest of the party—when there was any to grind. To follow Nicuesa’s further career would be simply to chronicle the story of increasing disaster. He lost ship after ship and man after man. Finally reduced in number to one hundred men, one of the sailors who had been with Columbus remembered the location of Porto Bello as being a haven where they might establish themselves in a fertile and _ beautiful country, well watered, and so on. OCo- lumbus had left an anchor under a tree to mark the place, and when they reached it they found that the anchor had remained undisturbed all the years. They were attacked by Indians there, and after losing twenty killed were forced to put to sea in two small brigantines and a caravel, which they had made from the wrecks of their ships. Coasting along the shore, they came at last to an open roadstead where they could debark. ‘‘In the name of God,’’ said the dis- heartened Nicuesa, ‘‘let us stop here.”’ There they landed, calling the place, after their commander’s exclamation, Nombre de Dios. The caravel, with a crew of the strongest, was despatched for succor, aud was never heard of again. One day, the colonists at Antigua were surprised by the sound of a cannon-shot. They fired their own weapons in reply, and soon two ships carrying a reenforce- ment for Nicuesa, under Rodrigo de Colme- nares, dropped anchor in front of the town.

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Drawn by Seymour M. Stone. ‘“THEY WERE FERRIED OVER TO THE OPPOSITE SHORE, ... AND TO THEIR DISMAY DISCOVERED THAT THEY WERE UPON AN ALMOST DESERT ISLAND.”’

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5so By this time the colonists had divided into factions, some favoring the existing régime, others inclining toward the still busy Encisco, others desirous of putting themselves under the command of Nicuesa, whose generosity and sunny disposition were still affectionately remembered. The arrival of Colmenares and h's warty gave the Nicuesa faction a decided preponder and, taking things in their hands, they determined to despatch one of the ships, with two representatives of ance ; own the colony, up the coast in search of the This expedition found Nicuesa Again the rescu- time. Ina few body of governor, without much difficulty. ing ship arrived just in days more, the miserable men, reduced now to less than sixty, would have perished of starvation. Nicuesa’s spirit had not been chastened IIe only accepted the proffered command of by his unparalleled misfortunes. noc the colony—which was no more than his right, since it was established on his terri- tory—but he did more. When he heard the colonists had amassed a great amount of gold by trading and thieving, he harshly declared that, as they had no legitimate right there, he would take their portion for himself; that he would stop further enterprises on their part—in short, he boastfully and rashly stated his intention of carrying things with a high hand ina way well calculated to infuriate his volun- tary subjects. So arrogant was his bearing aud so tactless and injudicious his talk, tha. the envoys from Antigua fled in the night with one of the ships and reported the situation to the colony. Olano, still in chains, found means to with friends in the other Naturally, he painted the probable conduct of the governor in anything but flattering communicate expedition. colors. All this was most impolitic in Nicuesa. He seemed to have forgot that profound political principle which suggests that a firm seat in the saddle should be acquired before any attempt should be made to lead The fable of King Stork and the frogs was applicable to the situa- the procession. tion of the colonists. In this contingency, they did not quite do. It came to their rescue again. Balboa who He sugeested know what to was THE DRAMATIC HISTORY OF SOUTH AMERICA. that, although they had invited him, they need not permit Nicuesa to land. Accord ingly, when Nicuesa hove in sight in the other ship, full of determination to carry things in his own way, they prevented him from coming on shore. Greatly astonished, he modified his tone somewhat, but to no avail. It was finally decided among the colonists to allow him to come ashore in order to seize his per- son. Arrangements were mad» accord- ingly, and the unsuspicious Nicuesa de- barked from his ship the day after his arrival. He was immediately surrounded by a crowd of excited soldiers menacing and threatening him. It was impossible for him to make head against them. He turned and fled. Among his other gubernatorial accomplishments was a re- markable fleetness of foot. The poor little governor scampered over the sands at a great pace. He distanced his fierce pur suers at last and escaped to the temporary shelter of the woods. Jalboa, a gentleman by birth and by in- clination as well—who had, according to some accounts, endeavored to compose the Nicuesa and the col- touched and mortified a cavalier reduced to such an undignified and desperate extrem- ity. He secretly Nicuesa_ that night and proffered him his services. Then he strove valiantly to bring about an ad- justment of differeuces between the fugi- tive and the brutal .oldiery, but in vain. Nicuesa, abandoning all his pretensions, at last begged them to receive him, if not as a governor, as least asa companion-in-arms, But nothing, neither the in- fluence of Balboa nor the Nicuesa, could mitigate the anger of the colonists. They would not have the little governor with them on any terms. They would have killed him then and there, but Balboa, by resorting to harsh measures, even causing one man to be flogged for his differences between onists—was greatly at seeing so brave sought a volunteer. entreaties of insolence, at last changed that purpose into another—which, to be sure, was scarcely less hazardous for Nicuesa. He was to be given a ship and sent away forever from the Isthmus. Seventeen ad- herents offered manfully to share his fate. Protesting against the legality of the trans- action, appealing to them to give hima 5

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PANAMA AND THE KNIGHTS-ERRANT OF COLONIZATION. 81 Drawn by Seymour M. Stone ‘““THE POOR LITTLE GOVERNOR . . . DISTANCED HIS FIERCE PURSUERS AT LAST AND ESCAPED TO THE TEMPORARY SHELTER OF THE WOODS,”

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chance for humanity's sake, poor Nicuesa was hurried aboard a small, crazy bark, the weakest of the wretched brigantines in the harbor. This was a boat so care- lessly constructed that the calking of the seams had been done with a blunt iron. With little or no provisions, Nicuesa and his faithful seventeen were immediately forced to put to sea amid the jeers and mockery of those on shore. The date was March 1, 1511. According to the chron- iclers, the last words that those left on the island heard Nicuesa say were, ‘*Show thy face, O Lord, and we shall be saved.’** A pathetic and noble departure! Into the misty deep then vanished poor Nicuesa and his faithful followers on that bright sunny) spring morning. And none of them ever came back to tell the tale of what became of them. Did they die of starvation in their crazy brigantine, drifting on and on while they rotted in the blazing sun, until her seams opened Did they founder in one of the sudden and fierce storms which sometimes swept that coast? Did the deadly teredo bore the ship's timbers full and she sank? S82 FAME. of holes, until she went down with all on board? Were they cast on shore to become the prey of Indians whose enmity they had provoked by their own conduct? No one ever knew. It was reported that years afterward on the coast of Veragua some wandering ad- venturers found this legend, almost unde- cipherable, cut in the bark of a tree: ‘Aqui anduvé perdido el desdichado Diego de Nicuesa,’? which may be trans- lated, *‘ Here was lost the unfortunate Diego de Nicuesa.’’ But the statement is not credited. The fate of the gallant little gentleman is one of the mysteries of the sea. Of the original eleven hundred men who sailed with the two governors, there remained perhaps thirty of Ojeda’s and forty of Nicuesa’s at Antigua with En- cisco’s command. This was the net result of the first two years of effort at the begin- ning of government in South America on the Isthmus of Panama, with its ocean on the other side still undreamed of. What these men did there, and how Balboa rose to further prominence, his great exploits, and finally how unkind fate overtook him, will form the subject of the next paper. *Evidently he was quoting the exquisite measures of the Eightieth Psalm, one of the most touching appeals of David the Poet-King, in which he says over and over again, ‘‘’urn us again, O God, and cause thy face to shine, and we shall be saved.”’ FAME. By THOMAS BICKET. A MIGHTY sea, surging and roaring past, Where towering billows leap On the open deep, On, to an unknown coast. A tiny drop, that rides a seething crest, Up from the wild sea thrown A moment high, alone, Then, in the vortex—lost.

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An SWISS ATHLETES GATHERING ON THE CAMPUS AT ZURICH THEIR ANNUAL REVIEW. FOR THE MOST ATHLETIC NATION IN THE WORLD. By HyatmAaR HyorTH BOoYESEN, 2D. ITH all the recent international athletic contests and the American victories at the Olympian games, we are as a race comfortably sure of our physical superi- ority over any other stock in the world. And we view army statistics and those of college teams with pride, and join the British in repeating the old saying that the battle of Waterloo was won on Eng- land’s cricket-fields. We Americans are not as a whole an athletic nation. This is not due to physical weakness, but to the fact that our system is based on a radically wrong idea. In every school and college, the main object of athletic training is to discover a few champions. And as the season for each sport approaches, the rank and file, those who are not among the few who excel their fellows, are relegated to the grand- stand to encourage the champions with their cheers. We have come to regard education on a grand scale as a legitimate and necessary tield for government expenditure, but the encouragement of athletics among all the people has scarcely yet. been attempted. The only nation which has up to date per- fected such a system is Switzerland. Out of a total population of about three mil- lions, fifty thousand men of all ages are enrolled in athletic organizations and take an active part in their exercises. From the day the Swiss baby begins to toddle about without assistance, to the time when old age has materially sapped the man’s strength, he takes an active interest in some form of athletics. In all the schools, gymnastic classes are organized, and are a part of the curriculum from which none but the physically unfit are excused. And the backward ones are given special atten- tion to bring them to a condition in which they may eventually join the great athletic organizations, fostered by the government under the supervision of the United Federal Gymnastic Association of Switzerland. In every town and village of any size are Note.—In April, 1897, the editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN called attention to the delinquency of Harvard University in this respect, in the following paragraph: “TI spent half an hour [with President Ehot] in admiring the system and the facilities for training {in the Harvard gymnasium]. But the young men present numbered but a few hundred, and nine-tenths of them were athletes of sp!endid physical proportions and already developed muscles. As we walked back to the president's offices we met dozens of young men hurrying back to their rooms, who were not well developed and who looked pale and sickly. ‘These were the men who should have been in the gvmnasium.”’

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84 THE MOST ATHLETIC NATION IN THE WORLD. MEMBERS OF THE NATIONAL ORGANIZATION, local organizations to membership in which every Swiss lad of sixteen is eligible. These village clubs are represented in cantonal unions which in turn compose the national association, under whose auspices the great athletic f@tes are held. Seventy years ago. the first national athletic festival in which the different cantons took part was held at Zurich and seventy contestants appeared. Last July, the meet held in the same city included seven thousand competitors. Different ities are selected in turn for these national gatherings, and between the dates of the national events many joint exhibits are arranged between local clubs or among the cantonal unions, and these serve to keep the members constantly in condition. The people of every nation enjoy a pag- eant in which trumpets flare and bunting flies. In the days of ancient Rome the gladiatorial contests in the bloody, saw- dust-strewn amphitheaters satisfied a people not far removed in time or tastes from frank barbarism. To-day in England a coronation caters to this same popular desire for a magnificent spectacle. In Switzerland, the people’s festival is as far WITH THEIR BANNER, ENTERING ZURICH ahead of England's, from a civilized view- point, as that nation’s is an advance over ancient Rome's. The central idea of the Swiss national festival is to involve as many of the people as possible among the active participants, and for those who cannot take actual part the pageant is a source of entertainment. The richly embroidered banner of the national organization is left with the city which has held the last exhibition. On the opening day of the next féte, it is transferred by the local organization which is holding it, to the city where the coming contest is to take place. Great processions of athletes march behind the club bearing the banner, and soon fill the narrow streets of the city. All the munic- ipal officials are assembled on the gaily decked platform and receive the banner with great ceremony. The streets and windows are thronged with sight-seers. In alphabetical order, the representatives of each local club pour into the town can- ton by canton, with their bands and _ local banners. The evening of their reception is given up to fraternizing and renewing old acquaintanceships, but the town goes to BIA theta.

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WORLD. CN a a NATION IN THE 0 ~ nN q) n) ~ a Ss z ’ N ~D o~ ~ 4 5 " THE THOUSAND ATHLETES AT EXERCISI

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86 THE MOST ATHLETIC NATION IN THE WORLD. sleep, at a fairly early hour, for on the second day occurs the most striking feature of the meet. The athletes assemble, each in the quarters of his union, and march to the open field where the meet is to be held. When they are massed in a hollow square, one of the local clergymen steps into the center and offers up a prayer. Then begins a mass drill of the seven thousand contestants. The effect of so vast a number of men, each clad in a close- fitting suit of white and a broad belt of darker stuff, all moving as if one mind controlled every movement, is indescribable. Not a single order is given; a great band plays the airs with which the athletes are familiar, and they are guided solely by the music. After a half hour of these exercises, the contestants separate, to participate in the different individual events. Weight-throwing, wrestling, and‘‘schwin- gen,’’ which is a form of wrestling, jump- ing, the ‘horizontal bar, the parallel bar, the horse, rope-climbing, obstacle- and foot-races, fencing and swimming, are in- cluded in the list of contests. In addition is a competition of particular interest to the foreigner, since it is seen only in Swit- OFFICIAL REVIEWING STANDS; CROWDS ON zerland—‘‘gewerfen,’’ or spear-casting. On the last day of the meet another mass drill of all the contestants and members takes place, followed by the award of the prizes to the victorious local unions and to the individual victors. As this event is to end the meet, it is made an impressive pageant. The most beautiful young women of the city are grouped about the municipal officials on a large platform, and the winners of prizes march up one by one and receive laurel and oak crowns upon their brows. Where the winner is a club, instead of an individual, the wreath is placed on the staff of the local banner, and these wreaths are preserved in cases on the walls of their home gymnasiums. When the meet closes, the athletes march from the field in the order in which they entered it, still wearing or carrying on their banners the wreaths they have won. From all the gates and roads of the city they file, each organization in the direction of its home, or to the railway station. Many of the unions prolong the pleasure of the event by walking to their homes ina body, and on the day following, all the visitors have left the city and it resumes its accustomed quict. THE HOUSETOPS WATCHING THE EXERCISES, ATP “4

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INTERESTING PERSONALITIES IN THE BUSINESS WORLD. NORMAN BRUCE REAM. By Epwin ORMAN BRUCE REAM is more than a multimillionaire. He is even more ‘*character.’’ He is a philosopher. Nature him a_ powerful From his ancestors he inherited calmness of thought, tenacity of purpose, integrity. From whom his wonderful tact came, there is no telling. The combination made mil- lions of money for him. And more: it made him the only greatly successful man in the United States who has no enemies. To me, this is the most remarkable thing than a gave physique. about the man’s career. Any one who knows Ream well understands how this has come to be. What is difficult is to make the reason plain to those who have never had dealings with him. LEFEVRE. Norman B. Ream is a big man—big of body, of brain, of heart. He has worked much, he has thought clearly, he has lived cleanly and he has made many and devoted friends. It isinteresting to speculateon what he would have lived to be had he been born in Scotland or Germany, and worked there. In this country, the greatest of our capi- talists, the half-dozen men aggre- gate fortune exceeds a billion of dollars, value Mr. Ream’s judgment very highly. whose Mr. Ream has shown how striking is his power to read conditions clearly, to weigh the various factors of a situation accurately, and above all, dispassionately. He knows so many men—his passion is to see how men reason—he has lived strenuous a so

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88 INTERESTING PERSONALITIES. business life, has engaged in so many and so varied enterprises, that there are few men in this country who know this coun- try or their countrymen so well as _ he. He has no illusions and permits himself no prejudices. But in his heart he is an optimist, and he has worked the hardest always on the constructive side. ‘*My dear young man,’*’ he once said to a pessi- mist, who had been talking ‘* bear market"’ brilliantly, ‘‘I myself have buried eleven men who bet against the United States.’’ His training has fitted him for every- thing. He has worked in the stockyards of Chicago, tramping about in the slush and the mud, weighing hogs with a glance of his eves, meeting all manner of rough people; he has ‘‘kept store’? in a country town, meeting none but farmers: he has stood in the pit, on the Board of Trade; and besides this, he has fought and bled for his country, serving in the army of the Union until invalided by wounds; he has run a half-score of different business en- terprises at once—lumber, brickmaking, street-railways, ranching, speculating in grain and live-stock; and to-day he sits in the offices of great bankers and railway **strategists’’ and he smokes his cigar and listens, until he begins to talk, when they listen. One of his family told me once, years ago, that when the census man asked his occupation, Mr. Ream _ answered, ‘*Farmer!*’ because he did own a farm and his only other business at the time was He himself denies that At all events, he is that of speculator. he ever ‘‘plunged.’’ one of the most careful, most conservative business men in this country, which makes him welcome in the directorates of a score of corporations large and small, but mostly large. He has been an upbuilder, a de- veloping force, not only with his own means, but with the fortunes of men like the late George M. Pullman or the vast one of Mr. Marshall Field. the richest man in America after Mr. John D. Rockefeller. These men have gone into whatever Mr. team has advised them to go into, or together they have agreed upon various plans. Norman Bruce Ream was born on a farm in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, November 5. 1844. On his father’s side he is of German extraction. From his German blood comes the deliberateness that is characteristic of him. On his mother's side he is Scotch and English, but chiefly Scotch. It is a good mixture. He grew up as farmers’ boys did in those days, only he was ambitious to be more than a farmer. He aspired to keep a country store. When he was fourteen he taught —or, as they called it then, **kept’’— school. At sixteen, he was six feet one inch tall, and was conscious of it—a shy, rather earnest, rather slow country lad. At seventeen, he enlisted. He thinks the greatest education he received was in the army. He met men, young men like him- self and old men, who came from Indiana, from Iowa, from Illinois-—states which had been merely geographical expressions to him. They told him about the bound- less West, which had seemed so far away from Somerset County! He drank their words, fascinated by their narratives, probably perceiving clearly even then the marvelous possibilities of that undeveloped country and its resources. In 1864, he was sent back home, a lieutenant and an _ invalid—shot clean through the body, and through the thigh in two places. At Washington they placed him on the pension list, and he surprised the bureau clerks inexpressibly by never drawing his pension. He was for a time in too delicate health to farm or to go West, so he realized the dreams of his childhood and opened a little store near his home. There he stayed two years. sold out, and with all his fortune in his pocket—he wasn’t exactly bowed down by the weight of it, but it was creditable enough for a boy to have earned and saved —he settled in Princeton, Illinois, in 1866. There he opened a general store. It was not more than a year or two be- fore he realized that he was not meant to be a successful country storekeeper. He made a failure of it, in his own estimation, and went to Iowa, where he bought and sold hogs, provisions, live-stock and agri- cultural supplies generally. He obtained credit for hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of farm implements, and sold them to farmers on time. There was a period of adversity, and the farmers were unable to pay Ream, who in turn was unable to pay the manufacturers. He would have made 6 pK

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AG ETO an assignment, but his creditors did not want that. They work and pay them off in the course of time, which he did. It was no fault of his own that hard times came, that farm extortionate in- preferred to let him ers, unable to pay the terest on their mortgages, moved farther west, leaving the farms, the implements and the debts behind. It did not dis- courage him. From 1871 to 1875 he worked hard, very hard, to pay the four hundred thousand dollars he owed, with interest at that would considered usurious. But he succeeded. He worked in Chicago in those years, in rates to-day be the stockyards, buying and selling hogs— long hours in all sorts of weather, building trade which afterward was of use to him. In 1875, when he had settled his debts, he Trade. At first he did a commission business in divers products. But’ he would work for anybody but himself, not even as up a commission joined the Board of never a farmer’s boy, and a commission business means working for one’s customers. He gave it up and ‘‘traded’’—it is the tech- nicism for speculating—for himself ex- clusively. He did this for years. He formed one of the ‘‘ Big Four’’ in the Board of Trade—the brains of the four, said those who knew him and the three other fearless operators. Their first picturesque exploit, measuring its importance and picturesqueness by the amount of news- paper space it was worth, was when the ‘*Big Four’’ fought Peter McGeogh, the Scotchman trom Milwaukee, who was a wily and sapient specialist in provisions. McGeogh cornered lard, ran his corner sev- eral months and finally failed—the most disastrous failure in the history of the Board of Trade, according to those who should know. The Big Four fought the corner from the start. The friends of Ream say that had the corner lasted another day the Big Four would have gone under. This may be doubted. But it ought, for story- telling purposes, to be true, since the four ’ cleared a million apiece, or more. The phrase, ‘‘investment-selling,’’ was coined by Ream in the late seventies. It came about in this way: Ream, who was one of the best-posted men on wheat and wheat matters in the world, saw how other NORMAN B RUCE REAM. countries, must for example, Argentina soon be reckoned with as wheat-producers, and in our own country, how each new section whichattracted an agricultural popu- lation would become also a wheat-producer, since wheat was the best—easiest and most Ream and his readily marketable—crop to grow. studied it all then he short. In out, and friends began to sell wheat those days, if wheat sold below one dollar «a bushel it was considered a crime against one’s family not to go ‘‘long’’ of it—to buy it. While Norman B. Ream scribed by a fellow townsman of his as a has been de- constructive speculator, he can go short as easily as he can buy. There used also to be charges amounting to about two cents a bushel a month for interest, insurance and elevator charges, for the wheat had to be **carried’’ on borrowed money (whence the interest) in an elevator, and it had to Ream sold the wheat short— his two be insured. ‘*for investment’’—and collected cents a month on each bushel. He says it was not gambling, because it was a sure thing, perfectly obvious to all—after he had shown them how. He used to talk about his being a pocket bank, a pocket elevator and a pocket insurance company, collecting the charges on about ten million bushels continuously. In the course of time this as the farmer became better off and able himself to carry his own wheat without the assistance of the bank. The end of it, as far as Mr. Ream was con- cerned, was in 1888. In his speculations on the Board of Trade, Mr. Ream amassed millions in a few years. His mind was made for analyzing conditions, for reading them clearly, and there are few men in the world who have so strongly the courage of their. convictions as he. He is so certain that he reasons logically that facts are correct, he cannot admit that his deductions from those facts can be faulty. In Chicago, in the early days, they used to call him a plunger. They said he took desperate chances, speculated *‘on a shoe- string’’—an exceedingly slim margin. I asked him point-blank once whether this was true, and he said he nuever speculated in his life beyond his means and could always protect himself abundantly. ended, once he is convinced his

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go People—friends of old, intimates, whilom cronies in the pit—don't understand how the the conservative can now be That is they don’t know and never did know the erstwhile ‘* plunger’? capitalist because He is a logical thinker, a clear reasoner, slow rather than beauti kind of speculator he is. quick, but accurate; his mind is a ful reasoning-machine, adjusted to make Do this and imagine that he is sordid or that money money. not misunderstand making is the chief end of his existence. He is not depressed when he loses money ; Ile other makes it. has the deal: he has achieved something. That is everything. He has made a million by it; that is an incident; it was to be expected. He the money, not to lose it. He has none of the showy qualities, but he often thinks inepigrams. Thus, to tell that he'd as lief sell short as buy, he said not he is not elated when he used his brain in this or went into deal to make trade on conditions, on prejudices.’’ And he added, reflectively, **T don’t have them.”’ Here are some of his extemporaneous to me, ‘'I aphorisms, uttered in the course of a casual conversation, and remembered easily be- cause of their phrasing: “If I find a g against me, I close it out at once. I deal going am in business to make money, not to lose it.’’ ‘If I buy, I never think of the price. It is the first thing I forget. A man who remembers the price he paid is bound to think of the make. That warps his judgment. I know it will all show in the ledger at the end of the year.’’ ‘*The time to retreat is before you com- I first make sure of my to the end, not loss he may mence to advance. ground. Then I go checked by discouragement nor frightened I am right, I first make on by adverse developments. If Therefore out. I must win sure I am right.”’ ‘I never obstacle overcame an insurmountable in my life. I always saw the ten- and I butt it down with my head.”’ His life, he says, after he paid the last of his debts in 1875, has been easy sailing. Ream enter- foot stone-W ill did not ce has ‘‘gone into’’ numerous prises as a capitalist and has helped to make them successful. He has invested INTERESTING PERSONALITIES. in mines; in the street-railways of Toledo, which he built up; he took an active part in the reconstruction of the American Bis He is a director in a half- His trips to New York cuit Company. dozen railways. became increasingly frequent, until he now has his own home there. Mr. Ream says he studies, first the men who are conducting an enterprise, their policy, the possibility of development. He does not try to master the details—he hires men who do that—and invests his money if he He also advises as to a general policy. In that way he has been in dozens of boards of directorate. He often risks a few thousands in the schemes of enthusiasts, because sometimes they are thinks best. right. In such cases he gives, say, ten thousand dollars. But on his books he appears as having invested one dollar! He deliberately loses nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars at the outset, that he may have no illusions, I suppose. Why has he no enemies? Through his sense of logic and the control he has over himself. ‘‘I did not come into the world to make enemies,’’ he explained to me, one day, when I asked him if he should be loved for the enemies he did not make. ‘'I am as impulsive as anybody; I get angry as easily as the best man. Don’t you sup- pose I ever lose my temper? Yes. But the first thing I do when I am angry is to fight myself and conquer myself. My business is to make money, not foes. When I am cool, I tell the truth to the people who made me angry. Nobody zets mad at the truth, if the truth is told without temper. And as for men, I never try to change them. God made them as they are. I take them as they come; and that’s the way I leave them. If the Lord made them bad, I am sure I can’t make them good.”’ Think, if you please, of this philosoph- ical attitude in a man whose experience and early life make it easy for him to get facts and know men, whose mind makes him reason logically and dispassionately, who is robust, persevering, of indomitable will without the faintest trace of stubbornness, and then you will not wonder that he has been successful. He is to-day probably the greatest peace-maker among the great financiers.

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en THE DOOR OF UNREST. By O. HEnrY. | SAT, an hour by sun, in the editor's room of the Montopolis ‘‘Weekly 3ugle.’’ I was the editor. The saffron rays of the declining sun- light filtered through the cornstalks in Micajah Widdup’s garden-patch, and cast an amber glory upon my paste-pot. I sat at the editorial desk in my non-rotary re- volving chair, and prepared my editorial against the oligarchies. The room, with its one window, was already a prey to the twilight. One by one, with my trenchant sentences, I lopped off the heads of the political hydra, while I listened, full of kindly peace, to the home-coming cow-bells and wondered what Mrs. Flanagan was going to have for supper. Then in from the dusky, quiet street there drifted and perched himself upon a corner of my desk old Father Time’s younger brother. His face was beardless and as gnarled as an English walnut. I never saw clothes such as he wore. They would have reduced Joseph’s coat to a monochrome. But the colors were not the dyer’s. Stains and patches and the work of sun and rust were responsible for the diversity. - On his coarse shoes was the dust, conceivably, of a thousand leagues. I can describe him no further except to say that he was little and weird and old, old—I began to estimate in centuries when I saw him. Yes; and I remember that there was an odor, a faint odor like aloes, or possibly like myrrh or leather; and I thought of museums. And then I reached for a pad and pencil, for business is business, and visits of the oldest inhabitants are sacred and honorable, requiring to be chronicled. ‘‘T am glad to see you, sir,’’ I said. “‘T would offer you a chair, but—you see, sir,’’ I went on, ‘‘I have lived in Montop- olis only three weeks, and I have not met many of our citizens.’’ I turned a doubt- ful eye upon his dust-stained shoes, and concluded with a newspaper phrase, ‘‘I suppose that you reside in our midst?’’ My visitor fumbled in his raiment, drew forth a soiled card and handed it to me. Upon it was written, in plain but unstead- ily formed characters, the name ‘‘Michob Ader.”’ ‘*T am glad you called, Mr. Ader,’’ I said. ‘‘As one of our older citizens, you must view with pride the recent growth and enterprise of Montopolis. Among other improvements, I think I can promise that the town will now be provided with a live, enterprising newspa——’’ ‘*Do ye know the name on that card?’ asked my caller, interrupting me. ‘*It is not a familiar one to me,’’ I said. Again he visited the depths of his ancient vestments. This time he brought out a torn leaf of some book or journal, brown and flimsy with age. The heading of the page was ‘‘The Turkish Spy,’’ in old-style type; the printing upon it was this: ‘*There is a man come to Paris in this year 1643 who pretends to have lived these sixteen hundred years. He says of himself that he was a shoemaker in Jeru- salem at the time of the Crucifixion; that his name is Michob Ader; and that when Jesus, the Christian Messias, was con- demned by Pontius Pilate, the Roman presi- dent, he paused to rest while bearing his cross to the place of crucifixion before the door of Michob Ader. The shoemaker struck Jesus with his fist, saying: ‘Go; why tarriest thou?’ The Messias answered him: ‘I indeed am going; but thou shalt tarry until I come’; thereby condemning him to live until the day of judgment. He lives forever, but at the end of every hun- dred years he falls into a fit or trance, on recovering from which he finds himself in the same state of youth in which he was when Jesus suffered, being then about thirty years of age. ‘*Such is the story of the Wandering Jew, as told by Michob Ader, who relates ——’’ Here the printing ended. I must have muttered aloud something to myself about the Wandering Jew, for the old man spake up, bitterly and loudly. eo said he, ‘‘like nine-tenths ‘Tis a Gentile I Tis a lie,’’ of what ye call history. am, and no Jew. I am after footing it out of Jerusalem, my son; but if that

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92 THE DOOR OF UNRES7—FICTION. makes me a Jew, then everything that comes out of a bottle is babies’ milk. Ye have my name on the card ye hold; and ye have read the bit of paper they call ‘The Turkish Spy’ that printed the news when I stepped into their office on the 12th day of June in the year 1643, just as I have called upon ye to-day.”’ I laid down my pencil and pad. Clearly it would not do. Here was an item for the local column of the ‘‘Bugle’’ that but it would not do. Still, fragments of the impossible *‘personal’’ began to flit through my _ conventionalized _ brain. ‘*Uncle Michob is as spry on his legs as a young chap of only a thousand or so.”’ ‘‘Our venerable caller relates with pride that George Wash—no, Ptolemy the Great —once dandled him on his knee at his father’s house.’’ ‘‘Uncle Michob says that our wet spring was nothing in comparison with the dampness that ruined the crops around Mount Ararat when he was a boy——"’_ But no, no—it would not do. I was trying to think of some conver- sational subject with which to interest my visitor,and was hesitating between walking- matches and the Pliocene age, when the old man suddenly began to weep poignantly and distressfully. **Cheer up, Mr. Ader,*’ I said, a little awkwardly; ‘‘this matter may biow over in a few hundred years more. There has already been a decided reaction in favor of Judas Iscariot and Colonel Burr and the celebrated violinist, Signor Nero. This is the age of whitewash. You must not allow yourself to become downhearted.*’ Unknowingly, I had struck a chord. The old man blinked belligerently through his senile tears. ‘**Tis time,’’ he said, ‘‘that the liars be doin® justice to somebody. Yer historians are no more than a pack of old women gabblin’ at a wake. A finer man than the Imperor Nero niver wore sandals. Man, I was at the burnin’ of Rome. I knowed the imperor well, for in thim days I was a well-known char-racter. In thim days they had rayspect for a man that lived forever But ‘twas of the Imperor Nero JT was goin’ to tell ve ] struck into Rome up the Appian Way, on the night of July the 16th, the year 64 I had just stepped down by way of Siberia and Afghanistan ; and one foot of me had a frostbite, and the other a blister burned by the sand of the desert; and I was feelin’ a bit blue from doin’ patrol duty from the north pole down to the Last Chance corner in Pata- gonia, and bein’ miscalled a Jew in the bargain. Well, I’m tellin’ ye I was pass- in’ the Circus Maximus, and it was dark as pitch over that way, and then I heard somebody sing out, ‘Is that you, Michob?’ ‘*Over ag’inst the wall, hid out amongst a pile of barrels and old dry-goods boxes, was the Imperor Nero wid his togy wrapped around his toes, smokin’ a long, black segar. ‘* ‘Have one, Michob?’ says he. ‘* ‘None of the weed for me,’ says I— ‘nayther pipe nor segar. What's the use,’ says I, ‘of smokin’ when ye'’ve not got the ghost of a chance of killin’ yeself by doin’ it?’ ‘**True for ye, Michob Ader, my per- petual Jew.’ says the imperor; ‘ye’re not always wandering. Sure, ‘tis danger gives the spice to our pleasures—next to their bein’ forbidden.’ ‘* *And for what,’ says I, ‘do ye smoke be night in dark places widout even a cinturion in plain clothes to attend ye?’ ‘**Have ye ever heard, Michob,’ says the imperor, ‘of predestinarianism ?’ ‘**T’ve had the cousin of it,’ says I. ‘I've been on the trot with pedestrianism for many a year, and more to come, as ye well know.’ . ‘“*The longer word,’ says me friend Nero, ‘is the tachin’ of this new sect of people they call the Christians. ‘Tis them that’s raysponsible for me smokin’ be night in holes and corners of the dark.’ ‘‘And then I sets down and takes off a shoe and rubs me foot that is frosted, and the imperor tells me about it. It seems that since I passed that way before, the imperor had mandamused the impress wid a divorce suit, and Missis Poppa, a cili- brated lady, was ingaged, widout rifer- ences, as housekeeper at the palace. ‘All in one day,’ says the imperor, ‘she puts up new lace windy-curtains in the palace and joins the anti-tobacco society, and whin I feels the need-of a smoke I must be after sneakin’ out to these piles of lumber in the dark." So there in the dark mes

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PA NRT RRR, ete SOE RRR NEE SN O. HENRY and the imperor sat, and I told him of me And when they say the imperor *Twas that travels. was an incindiary, they lie. night the fire started that burnt the city. ‘Tis my opinion that it began from a stump of segar that he threw down among the boxes. And ‘tis a lie that he fiddled. He did all he could for six days to stop it, sir.’? And now I detected a new flavor to Mr. Michob Ader. It had not been myrrh or balm or hyssop that I had smelled. The emanation was the odor of bad whisky and, worse still, of low comedy—the sort that small humorists manufacture by cloth- ing the grave and reverend things of legend and history in the vulgar, topical frippery that passes for a certain kind of wit Michob Ader as an impostor, claiming nine teen hundred years, and playing his part with the decency of respectable lunacy, I could endure; but as a tedious wag, cheapening his egregious story with song- book levity, his importance as an enter- tainer grew less. And then, as if he suspected my thoughts, he suddenly shifted his key. ‘*You’ll excuse me, sir,’’ he whined, ‘*but sometimes [ get a little mixed in my head. I am avery old man; and it is hard to remember everything.’ I knew that he was right, and that I should not try-to reconcile him with Ro- man history; so I asked for news concern- ing other ancients with whom he had walked familiar. Above my desk hung an engraving of Raphael’s cherubs. You could yet make out their forms, though the dusk blurred their outlines strangely. ‘* Ye calls them ‘cher-rubs,’’’ cackled the old man. ‘‘Babes, ye fancy they are, with wings. And there’s one wid legs and a bow and arrow that ye call Cupid—I know where they was found. The great-great ereat-grandfather of thim all was a billy- goat. Bein’ an editor, sir, do ye happen to know where Solomon’s Temple stood?’’ I fancied that it was in—in—Persia? Well, I did not know. ‘¢ *Tis not in history nor in the Bible where it was. But I saw it, meself. The first pictures of cher-rubs and cupids was sculptured upon thim walls and _ pillars. Two of the biggest, sir, stood in the ady- FICTION. 93 tum to form the baldachin over the Ark. Sut the wings of thim sculptures was in tindid for horns. And the faces was the faces of goats. Ten thousand goats there was in and about the temple. And your cher-rubs was billy-goats in the ‘days of King Solomon, but the painters miscon- strued the horns into wings. ‘‘And I knew Tamerlane, the lame Timur, sir, very well. I saw him at Keghut and at Zaranj. He was a little man, no larger than veself, with hair the color of an amber pipe-stem. They buried him at Samarkand. I[ was at the wake, sir. Oh, he was a fine-built man in his coffin, six feet long, with black whiskers to his face. And [ see ’em throw turnips at the Imperor Vispacian, in Africa. All over the world [ have tramped, sir, with- out the body of me findin’ any rest. *Twas so commanded. I saw Jerusalem destroyed, and Pompeii go up in the fire- works; and I was at the coronation of Charlemagne and the lynchin’ of Joan of Arc. And everywhere I go there comes storms and revolutions and plagues and fires. ‘Twas so commanded. Ye have heard of the Wandering Jew. Tis all so, except that divil a bitamI a Jew. But history lies, as I have told ye. Are ye quite sure, sir, that ye haven't a drop of whisky convenient? Ye well know that I have many miles of walkin’ before me.’’ ‘‘T have none,’’ said I, ‘‘and, if you please, I am about to leave for my supper. ’’ I pushed my chair back creakingly. This ancient landlubber was becoming as great an affliction as any crossbowed mar- iner. He shook a musty effluvium from his piebald clothes, overturned my inkstand and went on with his insufferable nonsense. ‘I wouldn’t mind it so much,’’ he complained, ‘‘if it wasn’t for the work I must do on Good Fridays. Ye know about Pontius Pilate, sir, of course. His body, whin he killed himself, was pitched into a lake on the Alps mountains. Now, listen to the job that ’tis mine to perform on the night of ivery Good Friday. The ould divil goes down in the pool and drags up Pontius, and the water is bilin’ and spewin’ like a wash-pot. And the ould divil sets the body on top of a throne on the rocks; and thin comes me share of the job. Oh, sir, ye would pity me thin

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—ye would pray for the poor Wandering Jew that niver was a Jew if ye could see the horror of the thing that I must do. ’Tis I that must fetch a bowl of water and kneel down before it till it washes its hands. I declare to ye that Pontius Pilate, a man dead two thousand years, dragged up with the lake slime coverin’ him and fishes wrigglin’ inside of him widout eyes, and in the discomposition of the body, sits there, sir, and washes his hands in the bowl I hold for him on Good Fridays. Twas so commanded.”’ Clearly, the matter had progressed far beyond the scope of the ‘‘Bugle’s’’ local column. ment here for the alienist or for those who circulate the pledge; but I had had enough of it. Igotup, and repeated that I must go. At this he seized my coat, groveled upon my desk and burst again into distress- Whatever it was about, I There might have been employ- ful weeping. said to myself that his grief was genuine. ‘*Come, now, Mr. Ader,’’ I said, sooth- ingly; ‘‘what is the matter?’’ The answer came brokenly through his racking sobs: ‘‘Because I would not . . . let the poor Christ . . . rest upon my step.’’ His hallucination seemed beyond all reasonable answer; yet the effect of it upon him = scarcely merited disrespect. But I knew nothing that might assuage it; and I told him once more that both of us should be leaving the office at once. Obedient at last, he raised himself from my disheveled desk, and permitted me to half lift him to the floor. The gale of his grief had blown away his words; his freshet of tears had soaked away the crust of his grief. Reminiscence died in him —at least, the coherent part of it. ‘Twas me that did it,’’ he muttered, as I led him toward the door—‘‘me, the shoemaker of Jerusalem.”’ I got him to the sidewalk, and in the augmented light I saw that his face was seared and lined and warped by a sad- ness almost incredibly the product of a single lifetime. And then high up in the firmamental darkness we heard the clamant cries of some great, passing birds. My Wandering Jew lifted his hand, with side-tilted head. 94 THE DOOR OF UNRES7T—FICTION. ‘‘The Seven Whistlers!’’ he said, as one introduces well-known friends. **Wild geese,’’ said I; ‘‘but I confess that their number is beyond me.”’ ‘:They follow me everywhere,’’ he said. ‘“’Twas so commanded. What ye hear is the souls of the seven Jews that helped with the Crucifixion. Sometimes they’re plovers, and sometimes geese, but ye'll find them always flyin’ where I go.”’ I stood, uncertain how to take my leave. I looked down the street, shuffled my feet, looked back again—and felt my hair rise. The old man had disappeared. And then my capillaries relaxed, for I dimly saw him footing it away through the darkness. But he walked so_ swiftly and silently, and contrary to the gait promised by his age, that my composure was not ali restored, though I knew not why. That night I was foolish enough to take down some dust-covered volumes from my modest shelves. I searched ‘‘Hermippus Redivivus’’ and ‘‘Salathiel’’ and the ‘‘ Pepys Collection’’ in vain. And then in a book called ‘‘The Citizen of the World,’’ and in one two centuries old, I came upon what I desired. Michob Ader had indeed come to Paris in the year 1643, and re- lated to ‘‘The Turkish Spy’’ an extraordi- nary story. He claimed to be the Wander- ing Jew, and that But here I fell asleep, for my editorial duties had not been light that day. Judge Hoover was the ‘‘Bugle’s’’ can- didate for congress. Having to confer with him, I sought his home early the next morning; and we walked together down-town through a little street with which I was unfamiliar. ‘‘Did you ever hear of Michob Ader?”’ I asked him, smiling. ‘Why, yes,’’ said the judge. ‘‘And that reminds me of my shoes he has for mending. Here is his shop now.”’ Judge Hoover stepped into a dingy, small shop. I looked up at the sign, and saw ‘*Mike O’Bader, Boot and Shoe Maker,’’ on it. Some wild geese passed above, honking clearly. I scratched my ear and frowned, and then trailed into the shop. There sat my Wandering Jew on his shoemaker’s bench, trimming a _half-sole. He was drabbled with dew, grass-stained, SS ST RDEEEREUMOO »

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unkempt and miserable; and on his face was still the unexplained wretchedness, the problematic sorrow, the esoteric wo, that had been written there by nothing less, it seemed, than the stylus of the cen- turies. Judge Hoover inquired kindly concern- ing his shoes. The old shoemaker looked up, and spoke sanely enough. He had been ill, he said, for a few days. The next day the shoes would be ready. He looked at me, and I could see that I had no place in his memory. So out we went, and on our way. ‘‘Old Mike,’’ remarked the candidate, ‘‘has been on one of his sprees. He gets erezy-drunk regularly once a month. But he’s a good shoemaker.”’ ‘‘What is his history???’ I inquired. ‘‘Whisky,’’ epitomized Judge Hoover. ‘*That explains him.’’ I was silent, but I did not accept the explanation. Andso, when I had the chance, ITasked old man Sellers, who browsed daily on my exchanges. ‘*Mike O’Bader,’’ said he, ‘‘ was makin’ shoes in Montopolis when I come here goin’ on fifteen year ago. I guess whisky’s his trouble. Once a month he gets off the track, and stays so a week. He’s got a rigmarole somethin’ about his bein’ a Jew pedler that he tells ev’rybody. Nobody won't listen to him any more. When he’s sober he ain’t sich a fool—he’s got a sight of books in the back room of his shop that he reads. I guess you can lay all his trouble to whisky.”’ But again I would not. Not yet was my Wandering Jew rightly construed for me. I trust that women may not be allowed a title to all the curiosity in the world. So when Montopolis’ oldest inhabitant (some ninety score years younger than Michob Ader) dropped in to acquire pro- mulgationin print, I siphoned his perpetual trickle of reminiscence in the direction of the uninterpreted maker of shoes. Uncle Abner was the Complete History of Montopolis, bound in butternut. ‘*O’Bader,’’ he quavered, ‘‘come here in °69. He was the first shoemaker in the place. Folks generally considers him crazy at times now. But he don’t harm nobody. Is’pose drinkin’ upsot his mind —yes, drinkin’ very likely done it. It’s a

O. HENR Y—FICTION. 95 powerful bad thing, drinkin’. I’m an old, old man, sir, and I never yet see no good in drinkin’ I felt disappointment. I was willing to admit drink in the case of my shoemaker, but I preferred it as a recourse instead of Why had he pitched upon his perpetual, strange note of the Wandering a cause. Jew? Why his unutterable grief during his aberration? I could not yet accept whisky—as an explanation. ‘‘Did Mike O’ Bader ever have a great loss or trouble of any kind?’’ I asked. ‘‘Lemme see! About thirty year ago there was somethin’ of the kind, I recol- lect. Montopolis, sir, in them days used to be a mighty strict place. ‘*Well, Mike O’Bader had a daughter then—a right pretty girl. She was too gay a sort for Montopolis; so one day she slips off to another town and runs away with a circus. comes back, all fixed up in fine clothes and rings and jewelry, to see Mike. He wouldn't have nothin’ to do with her, so It was two years before she she stays around town awhile, anyway. I reckon the menfolks wouldn't have raised no objections, but the women egged ‘em But she had plenty of spunk, and told *em to mind on to order her to leave town. their own business. ‘So, one night they decided to run her away. <A crowd of men and women drove her out of her house, and chased her with She run to her father’s Mike opens it, and sticks and stones. door, callin’ for help. when he sees who it is he hits her with his fist and knocks her down and shuts the door. ‘*And then the crowd kept on chunkin’ her till she run clear out of town. And then next day they finds her drowned dead in Hunter’s millpond. I mind it all now. That was thirty year ago.”’ I leaned back in my non-rotary revolv ing chair, and nodded gently, like a man darin, at my paste-pot. ‘*When old Mike has a spell,’’ Uncle Abner, tepidly thinks he’s the Wanderin’ Jew.”’ ‘*He is,”’ And Uncle Abner cackled insinuatingly at the editor’s remark, for he was expect- ing at least a ‘‘stickful’’ in the ‘‘ Personal Notes’’ of the ‘‘ Bugle.”’ went on garrulous, ‘‘he said I, nodding away.

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THE DIARY OF KING EDWARD VIII.* EDITED BY i the month following the dinner at Oxford, I gave much time to the get- ting together of a commission which should take in hand the work of reorganizing the school systems of Great Britain. My most difficult task was with Parliament. The men in public life were largely the product of the -English universities, and naturally each felt warmly toward his alma mater. I began with my closest friends and gradu- ally brought in men who, although natur- ally inimical because of my position as sov- ereign, would be disposed to favor my wishes. Meanwhile the press had been very busy. Endless rumors regarding myself were circulated. In nine cases out of ten motives were misrepresented. The who had been using the empire for their private vantage-ground seemed to be fully roused to the danger of a king whose in- fluence was at be exerted against predatory statesmen. As the months went by, their talk grew bolder, their journals were filled my men with accounts of royal expenditures and the incubus that a royal family was upon the British people. The animus of these attacks had been increased by a discovery which I had made, that the people were being systematically robbed through a clique which extended its range of operations all the way from offices for favored adherents to war supplies. I was able, without attracting public atten- tion, to have appointed an official com- mission of investigation. The announce- ment of the commission was made in a way to attract as little attention as possible to its real object. Later on, however, those most interested began to have an inkling as to the u.timate ends to be attained, and the personal attacks became more violent. It was at this time that, with Captain Heath's assistance, I organized an elaborate bureau of private secretaries. Captain Heath was authorized to make twelve ap- pointments at salaries ranging from one to Nore BY THE Eprror.—Apropos of the Oxford dinner, it may be mentioned that in March there came to this country Dr. George R. Parkin, who brought with him the examination papers to be used by American students competing for the Rhodes scholarships at Oxford. was interviewed by the New York ‘* World.’’ “America needs men of world-wide knowledge. will enable him to stand among the great statesmen of the world. turned out literary statesmen for England as regularly is young men of power and brains, a good type of American manliness.’ To this we venture to reply: Upon landing from the ‘‘Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse,’ * he He said, in explanation of his coming: At Oxford the student gets that knowledge which Oxford, during three centuries, has as clockwork. What the Rhodes commission wants ’ Seen through American eyes, Oxford has not turned out two great statesmen of high integrity, broad conceptions and personal courage to each of these three centuries. Tuk Cosmopo.tran offers a prize of one hundred dollars to the first who shall name such two to each century, if such there be. But Oxford annually puts forth a crop of parliamentary mediocrities, of literary prigs, of political makeshifts, of legislative dilettanti, of conservatives, of opportunists, of men who sweep with the tide and never put forth a fearless effort in behalf of improved government. Has she produced in the last century a Benjamin Franklin, a Thomas Jefferson, an Andrew Jackson or an Abraham Lincoln? Iler statesmen follow in a gentlemanly way along the channels of personal advantage, of social success, of universal respectability ; and to-day London has twenty-two thousand homeless ones in her streets. Has Oxford sent out within fifty years a single great figure, who can be spoken of as having a splendid courage, a high integrity, a clear intelligence, a comprehensive grasp of improved governmental methods, and, at heart, solely the interests of his fellow-men? Class favoritism. social kotowing, cowardice in opposing popular measures, disciples of the has-been and the commonplace—these are her graduates. Cecil Rhodes did not propose to send American youths to Oxford to be educated, but American youth to educate Oxford in the ways of & yreat republic, * Begun in the January COSMOPOLITAN.

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two thousand pounds per annum each. The whole cost of the bureau was some thing like twenty thousand pounds a year. The salaries themselves were fairly liberal ; but not for the class of men I hoped to bring in my service. I was able, how ever, to secure talents entirely dispropor tionate to the amounts paid. I felt sure that service of this character offered advan tages, in addition to the salary, which would be eagerly availed of. Great care was taken in picking these men. Two of them were found in the army among men whom Captain Heath had watched carefully; two were obtained from the ministry; three were young engineers already springing into note; three were business men who left responsible positions in order to come with me, and two were college professors. The work of this bureau of secretaries was divided under numerous heads. One committee was appointed to investigate and inform me of all important legisla- tion; a second would consider questions concerning the development of Africa; one to keep watch ovef our friendly relations with foreign states; the largest, most im- portant, was that on Education; and still another had in charge matters pertaining to the industrial development of Great Britain ; and another was on Commerce. These committees were not organized on any cut-and-dried lines. Their sole in- struction was that they were appointed to benefit the British empire, and that every- thing that pertained to its benefit should come properly under their consideration. Meanwhile, my unpopularity had been steadily Amongst the favored classes, which had formerly been most effusive and demonstra- tive in their loyalty to the king when he was a mere figurehead, there was now a bitterness which expressed itself in misrep- resentation, in criticism, in jesting at my expense and in constant denunciation. The reason of this was not far to seek. I had managed to place myself in the way of a hundred schemes of spoliation. Incorm- petent men had been prevented from reach ing positions where they could do harm. Civil service, under the impetus I had managed to give it, was attracting persons of brains without political or social ‘*‘ pull.’’ growing more _ pronounced. THE DIARY OF KING EDWARD VIT/1. 97 In the army and navy the same influence had been started to select men who were really mastering their professions and exhibiting capacity to improve the service. While in society my name was being greeted with contempt, because I was try- ing to disturb the equanimity of those established methods which had resulted in military rottenness in the Transvaal and putting in London twenty-two thousand homeless people, I was raising up for my- self friends amongst the liberal-minded and those who believed in good government. 3ut, unfortunately, these were composed largely of men who believed in republican institutions—who knew that while one king might be high of purpose and earnest for the right, it was not unlikely that a successor might be a weakling, unable to see or incapable of resisting the influence of such strong personalities as were always endeavoring to convert the state to their own private purposes. As the months passed by, the men who had formerly been using the empire began to get together in closer bonds. They saw ina king intent upon performing his duties and throwing his influence against every evil, a power sufficiently mighty to counter- act the most important of their schemes. I began to hear reports of republican meetings. These, small at first, took on a more open form as time went by. All sorts of influences began to unite both the best and the worst elements against me. The church was up in arms over my plan of education—political interests over my exer tions against schemes of personal aggran- dizement. Certain manufacturers were dis- satisfied with suggestions I had made regard- ing the improvment of the condition of labor. In Lombard Street I had come to be spoken of as an ‘‘unsafe man,*’ ‘‘a dangerous reformer. ’’ I thought I was aware of what was going on; but my was incomplete in one direction. No pro- vision had been made for keeping me in- formed as to secret plots. Nor did I wish for any form of espionage, preferring to secretaries’ organization work entirely in the open. Political ambitions were now exerting influences in many directions. Samuel Posenard, whose popularity, strange to say, had grown in proportion to

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98 THE DIARY OF KING EDWARD VI/IJ1. the development of his unscrupulous plans, seemed to have won the hearts of the entire British public. He had organized the most ingenious press association ever brought under a single management. There were at this time in England two young men possessing wonderful powers for constructive business. They had under their control a great number of periodicals and a chain of daily newspapers. With these as a nucleus, combinations had been made with a number of other papers, giving to each some advantage in return for support. To the public this combi- nation was not in evidence. In many ways these newspapers were antagonistic to one another, but on certain subjects they received promptings from but one hand. It was surprising to note the variety of the ways in which I was attacked. There was an ingenuity exercised in showing me up as an incompetent and making me ridic- ulous, which bore fair evidence of the great number of brains engaged in seeking to destroy my influence. But the remark- able fact was that the attacks were never direct. My actions never received a frank discussion. The breaking-down process was always by indirection. The death of the queen through the tragic accident in the streets of London, with which the public is familiar, came as agreat shock. Fora long time, I was borne down with my loss. Then I gave myself up to harder work in behalf of the public interests. For a while, public sympathy with my sorrow gave me back a portion of my former popularity. But in the course of time, the terrible accident to the queen became merely a memory, and my oppo- nents were urged to renew their activities. Twice had I been able to bring my per- sonal influence to bear in preventing war. I found relief from pressing cares in run- uing off to the Continent, studying the institutions of other countries and at the same time establishing relations of a more friendly character with their governments. The report of my Commission of Educa- tion was given out at the time when preju- dice had already been excited in the strongest wav. Those who held degrees from Oxford. from Cambridge, or who had been part of the great public schools, were incensed at the propositions made to change those methods of education under which they had been, as they believed, so successfully reared. Almost simultane- ously, and evidently in response to the instructions of an organized body, meetings were held throughout the kingdom express- ing the strongest dissatisfaction. At the same hour, the attacks in the newspapers became markedly more vituperative. Early in May, I had been invited to visit a country house in Guernsey. Oppressed by the cares gathering around me, and wishing to secure a few days of uninter- rupted study of certain plans, I went off in my yacht. On a bright afternoon in May, I had ridden with Captain Heath along one of the delightful lanes of Guern- sey overlooking the sea. We were ten miles from my host’s beautiful home and slowly cantering along a particularly lonely part of the coast, when suddenly, at a turn of the road, half a dozen horsemen pre- sented themselves with cocked revolvers. ‘* Your Majesty is a pris——’ But before the sentence could be con- cluded, a shot from Captain Heath's re- volver—I had not suspected him of carry- ing a Wweapon—struck the speaker between the eyes and the sentence was never finished. The next moment, Heath’s pistol arm was struck by a bullet and his revolver fell to the earth. The party closed in around us and, almost in a second, both Heath and I were dragged from our horses. ‘*If your Majesty and Captain Heath will give your parole not to attempt escape, we will not bind your arms; otherwise we must ’ secure ourselves against your attempts.’ We consented to accompany them, as there was no possibility of doing otherwise. Then we were hurried down a path along the cliff. A handsome yacht, which had been cruising off the shore, obeyed a signal from one of the party and sent off a gaso- line launch. Within fifteen minutes from the beginning of the attack we were on board and the yacht was steaming off rap- idly to the open sea. Four hours later, in London, a meeting of one hundred conspirators was held at the War Office. Other meetings had been called at twenty different halls throughout the city. In these were gathered men in close interest and obeying the call of the chiefs of the conspiracy, but kept in |

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3 : i : : 3 ignorance of the reasons for coming together. Each meeting was briefly addressed with the news that important changes in gov ernment were pending, and the hope ex- pressed that those present would give their fullest support to the men in whom they had long had confidence. Then they adjourned to march to the War Office en masse. At nine o'clock the Committee of One Hundred appeared before the vast throng of their friends assembled in Pall Mall. Great bonfires lit up the assemblage. Baron Westerley stepped to the front and raised his hand for silence, then began to read from a paper: ‘*The king is on the sea in flight to a foreign country.’’ The multitude was filled with surprise so profound that the silence remained un- broken. He continued: ‘*A Committee of One Hundred, repre- senting the people, the church, the army, the navy, the nobility and the press, viewing with alarm the usurpations of Edward VIII., so dangerous to the conserv- ative interests of Great Britain, declare, in view of the kine’s flight, the throne to be forfeited, and proclaim a republic. ‘*Acting for the people, we have vested all authority temporarily in the hands of the existing ministry, who will immediately order an election of three hundred mem- bers to sit in Parliament for the purpose of adopting a constitution. One hundred peers selected by their order, and two hun- dred members elected by the people, will meet at Westminster on the Ist day of July.”’ The proclamation was received with a prolonged roar of applause. Above those assembled stood their leaders. Scattered through the crowd were the handy men who could be depended upon to carry out any suggestion originating with those from whom they derived advantage. Messengers had been sent off post-haste to the leaders of the workingmen of Lon- don, and the streets quickly began to fill with a shouting crowd. Orders had been at the War Office in advance, and were now hurriedly sent off, instructing the sev- eral regiments to remain in their barracks. But few troops, indeed, were in England. Upon one pretense or another, they had been despatched to foreign stations. Those that remained, mostly Irish, had been put THE DIARY OF KING EDWARD V11/1. 99 in charge of officers who could be depended upon by thecabal. The navy had been scat- tered as far as possible to foreign stations. Never had a revolution been so systemat- ically organized or so quietly conducted. It was all like clockwork. On a spring day, when there had been no suspicion that a conspiracy was on foot, there had been a revolution. This while the king had presumably at his disposal a powerful army and navy—even in the streets of London itself, a police foree so numerous as to constitute a small army. Every movement had been made with celerity and precision, and apparently witha certain knowledge of the human factors. The procession, so to speak, had started at the ap- pointed hour, with every man in his place. Perhaps it was all not so very surprising in view of the fact that for nearly a century England had been ruled by a king in name only. The nation’s true governors had been an oligarchy composed of a mixture of vested interests——of men of the nobility, of society and of finance who used the government for their own ends. When, then, because of the ambition of some, the dissatisfaction of others and the danger to a few, it seemed desirable to make a change, no obstacles stood in the way that could not be overcome by careful planning. Especially was it made easy by the alacrity to accept such a change upon the part of the only section of voters which had the interests of the country unselfishly at heart. However, the republic which the plotters had at heart was not the ideal of a Bryce. It was to be a republic as the kingdom had been—in name only. Its leaders had in mind an oligarchy, using the govern ment for their own ends, deceiving the people with false representations, and using a small percentage of their stealings to corrupt the voters at the polls. Meanwhile, the yacht aboard which I had been placed—a very large one, and specially coaled for the trip—was steaming rapidly away toward the Azores. I had been conducted tothe large main cabin, and two of my captors remained with me, the meals being brought to an outer cabin by the third. Doubtless a sharp lookout was being

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100 kept on the deck for British cruisers, but there were few boats in the English navy which could overtake the ‘‘Sapphire IV.’’ Yet the conspirators could not feel assured that they might not fall into the hands of an English naval captain, and it seemed probable to me that rescue would certainly come. Arriving one night fall off Horta, I was informed that during the day the ‘Sapphire’? had communicated with a wireless station established for this special purpose on the shore. The despatches received told them that the revolution in London had been complete, that the new government was in full control, and that they were free to put me ashore without danger to themselves. Nevertheless, they did not care to take the risk of visiting a town for this purpose, lest there should be there a British cruiser, and I was landed with Captain Heath at some distance from the port. It is history that the ‘‘Sapphire’’ hur- ried off to Rio Janeiro, and as she was entering port, fell in with a British captain, who, remaining loyal to his king, cap- tured the ‘‘Sapphire’’ and hanged Lord de Garth, young Chamberlain and Captain Weston, who had been of the abducting party. Within a few days after reaching Fayal, I received communications from the English government pro tem., asking that I should remain there for the present. I was notified that my private fortune would be placed to my credit in the Bank of England, and that I should be free to draw upon it for any purpose except an attempt to restore myself to the throne. Captain Heath’s wounded arm had healed rapidly. He was able to look up for me a comfortable villa and find the necessary outfit. A week later, half a dozen of my servants arrived from England, and nine of the secretaries, who had been requested to leave London, likewise joined me. In the quiet which followed all these events, I had an opportunity to reflect upon the curious punishments the world had from time to time administered to its would-be reformers. Here had been a king in full popularity, with his life given up to a round of useless pleasure, and worse than valueless to his people. A sudden recogni- THE DIARY OF KING EDWARD V1. tion of what it all meant had inspired him to attempt to make valuable that which had theretofore been useless. He had thrown himself with tremendous energy— at least, such was my flattering estimate— into his new tasks. Night and day he had given his most vital energies to helping his people. And here he was at the end of twenty months, a king out of a berth—sent away from his kingdom almost without a single protest from those whom he had tried to aid. At least, if there were any protestants, they had found it wise to pro- test very mildly, and he smiled to himself as he thought of this strange fate. Should I make an attempt to recover my throne? No. TI felt that I had done my full duty. With joy I welcomed the thought that hereafter I could, with a free conscience, be a free man. A month or so after my arrival, I wrote inviting Lord Ashton and his daughter Lady Mary to visit me. Half a dozen other friends who were persone non grate to the new government were also asked to join me in my exile. Life here is one of ease and reflection. We frequently make up parties for long walks over the island. Captain Heath and Lord Ashton, Lady Mary and myself, most often compose the party. I find great pleasure in my talks with the woman who first aroused me to a sense of my kingly duties. She jokingly refers to herself as the instigator of my downfall. I sometimes reflect with pleasure that a dethroned king is not bound by any legalities to make a royal marriage. I am quite content that England should have chosen to become a republic. It is evident that there is a sentiment being rap- idly awakened among all classes to the duties of the citizen under this new form of government. Notwithstanding my de- parture, my plans for education have been making headway. And I feel satis- fied that when these are fully understood and fully installed, England will have a ‘‘material greatness and a moral grandeur’’ infinitely beyond that of her past; and there will no longer be twenty thousand homeless ones in the streets of London. (THE END.) 7 : §

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HALF a My Dearest DARLING: You are always my dearest, but to-day is such a particularly felicitous day that I must give you an extra hug—with the pen, as you are too far distant to allow of any other medium. To-day—oh, Betty!—I come out. It was decided only last month, and I have been shivering and shaking ever since lest my dear mama should change her mind again and I go back to the the schoolroom. She was doubtful whether not young. She said that I must be properly dressed if I came out, and that being properly dressed very expensive. She added that it was impossible to let down these skirts with the slinked-in backs behind, and that I should always want new clothes, as I was still growing, et cetera. She was saying all this to Aunt Madge after lunch, when I interrupted and prom- ised and promised that I wouldn’t grow another quarter of an inch if only she would let me come out. But all I got was, ‘‘Faustine, go and practise, a? ‘*She-who-must-be-obeyed’’ voice. evidently had not noticed me when began. I was reading in a great big arm chair in the corner, and I was dreadfully afraid she would, for I was engrossed in ‘An Englishwoman’s Love-Letters, ’’ which I have been forbidden to touch. In my excitement at overhearing this conversa tion, I forgot seclusion of as to seventeen Wwas too was her She she possible consequences I I don't in the but I think adore the ‘* Love-Letters. *’ least know what it all means, ie: | DOZEN aie book. I would never, If I wrote love- never trust beautiful it a letters like that, them to the post—but perhaps she regis- tered them. Eton cousin, ‘*the poor devil’’ Jim, my conceited hates them. He says (that’s the lover) must have cursed Rowland Hill. It seems he had something to do with the and that I am a silly juggins because I didn’t know it—to quote Jim, ‘* with and mistresses and coming all day long.’’ Asif I had masters coming to teach me the the penny post! I learn bridge, cooking ‘and Ger- mother to talk to Aunt after lunch. It meant her voice so loud, for Madge always goes to sleep at that t time. She says it is her but I think it is having two helps of everything. She lives like a dowaver and eats like a school- Fatal combination. So Sir James Harton called it. He is Aunt Madge’s last doctor and charges two Visit, besides being fearfully rude—so he must be tremendously clever. Aunt Madge Says has penny post masters going and mistresses rudiments of Italian, It was stupid Madge directly raising violin, man. Aunt digestion, boy. guineas a simply worships him. She he such eyes—she pronounces ‘compelling’’ But he doesn’t seem able to compel her to compelling in inverted commas. have only one helping. But I was telling you about my hearing that I might possibly come ‘‘out.*’ ‘*Out —out—out’’—oh, lovely word! That plank-faced woman T met at your house a man's get should leference t who wore her finished in up down to where waist have heen. and the county council

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102 HALF A DOZEN LETTERS—FICTION. with a hygienic skirt, desired emancipa- tion—whatever that may mean. I want to get—out. Well, just as I was about to close the door—I had to do it softly because the ‘*Letters’’ was hali-way up my sleeve—I heard Aunt Madge say in a somnolent after-lunch drawl: ‘‘My dear, exotic beauty doesn’t last; and besides, she is so dark and excitable—the type never wears. Better let her come out.’’? Then I heard a sort of heave and the creaky sound of strained silk, which I knew was Aunt Madge turning over for her after-lunch snooze. I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t shut the door quickly because the ‘‘Englishwoman’’ was so dreadfully in the way; besides, I was simply paralyzed with anxiety. Mother, you know, thinks a lot of Aunt Madge’s opinion because she married four plain daughters to four rich men—although one hadn’t got a roof to his mouth—the man, I mean. Then mother said, in her reflective voice: ‘‘There’s something in that, and Faustine is certainly dreadfully excitable. Oh! that French blood! And when I think *? She bit the next word off short between her teeth and sighed a deep, deep sigh that seemed to start from the soles of her shoes and wandered and fluttered about in her frills and furbelows before it came out of her mouth. Mother never can forgive pere for having a French mother—she seems to illustrate a curse hanging over our family. It may be only because mother in the most extreme sense of is ‘‘county”’ that expressive word and always, even on the Continent, refers to foreigners — and yet I sometimes fancy my grandmother must have committed a crime of sorts— dropped her h’s, shall we say? But they wouldn’t notice that in French. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. To return to the situation. ‘‘Soon she will look worn,’’ snored Aunt Madge, ‘‘and lined.’’ Mother moved uneasily; I heard her bugles * mumbled jingle. ‘‘They wear so badly,’ Aunt Madge again into her cushion (‘*they”’ is I), ‘‘but they’re uncommonly pretty while they last;’’ and then she fell asleep, with courageous indifference to Sir James Harton’s opinion that she must not sleep within two hours of lunch. ‘‘Madge, you really think it is for the best?’’? beseeched mother, but she was answered only by my aunt’s soft breathing. I heard the angry rustle of mother’s frock as she rose impatiently, and I fled with the ‘‘Englishwoman’’ under my arm. That evening, after my milk and sponge- cakes (I am not allowed tea because of my complexion), mother received me in the drawing-room, with the expression that, I have learned, presages great tidings. She is always brief, and on this occasion she was briefer than usual. ‘‘You are coming out next month on your birthday,’’ she announced. ‘‘I hope——’’ ‘‘Darling mother,’’? I gasped, and for once I longed to kiss her, but she backed half a yard, so I kissed Aunt Madge in- stead, who was sound asleep and dreaming happily of an entrée and Sir James’s compelling eyes. Darling, write and congratulate me. No one knows what coming out is except people who have been kept in. Thank whatever gods there be, as your Swinburne has it, that I am dark. ‘‘Fair women wear so much better,’’ says Aunt Madge, at least three times aday. She is like a big, pink, flax-headed doll herself. ‘‘It is much better for you to come out and see what you can do,’’ she invariably termi- nates when we have been discussing the great subject. What am I expected todo? It is a little frightening, but I am fed up with culture —Italian, music, bridge, et cetera—and I am just dying to be—Out. Your loving FAUsTINE. : Il. DARLING: Last night I came out at my ball. If mother does a thing at all, there’s no denying she does it very handsomely. It was simply a splendid ball, and I looked, Antoinette said, magnifique. Antoinette is mother’s French maid, and is always supposed to say the last word about everybody’s appearance. Mine up till now she has simply ignored, but she came up to the scratch when she realized that I was about to burst upon the world, and began to dress me at five. The ball opened at ten, and we had a dinner-party first, so I wanted to begin at four. But Antoinette was quite firm.

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eee ‘*‘Mademoiselle est si vite fatiguée. II faut qu'elle se repose jusqu’a cing heures. Alors ncus commencerons, et mademoiselle verra ce qu'elle verra.’? Well, I didn’t grumble, because if it wasn’t that I am so vite fatiguée and don’t wear well, I should still be in. I had a new dress for the dinner as well as the ball. My hair I wore a la vierge, and—ahem, things that made me look quite a new figure—no waist, but tremendously graceful. My dress was palest primrose, all shimmery, and I wore great bunches of dark violets. I looked ador- able; even Antoinette said, ‘‘Pas mal.’’ My ball-dress was (I had better get over the sartorial business at one go) white— different shades of white—pearls, satin, lace, roses—all different yet all alike. Who was it said in a sermon that beauty is unity and diversity in one? It sounds too clever to have come out of a _pul- pit, but I know that it did. Mother was averse till she saw me. She held the idea that a débutante (how I hate that word) should wear pure white and lilies if pos- sible. But my appearance converted her. There won't be time to tell you about the dinner and the ball in this letter, and as [ know you want to hear every- thing, I'll tell you about the dinner. There’s no denying it was a little tedious, and so long. How people can eat when they are going to a ball, passes my com- prehension; but Aunt Madge went stolidly through the whole menu and even managed to cope successfully with two helps of ice- pudding—just as if there were no compell- ing eyes in the world. They were a stuffy lot, I thought—just the usual tip-top county. Oh, so dull! If I can ever choose, I will never speak to any one who has lived more than a year in one place. Yes, one clod living on another till you can’t tell which is which—that exactly defines an English county family. Aunt Madge just before dinner told me I looked ‘‘nice’’ (horrid word—I felt like something to eat) and in the same breath informed me that Sir Harold Greyle was coming to dinner. ‘‘See what you can do,’’ was written in her eye. When I met him, I didn’t feel that I wanted to do anything. I tried to remem- ber that he was rich, and heir to an old ” FLORENCE STEWART—FICTION. 103 baronetey. But I couldn't help noting that he took off his hat every time he spoke of himself, and that he was very keen on snubbing people who instead of being heirs to a baronetcy were heirs to other people's poverty. Not that he snubbed Faustine. He simply made for me—if you can apply that term to his stately progression toward this goal. : But I am poor, or why should mother be so upset at the idea of my coming out in skirts that won’t let down? We are certainly poor; if we are not poor, what did that dreadful Miss Smithers mean, who ran away With the riding-master, by saying at the dancing-class in a penetrating whis- per, ‘‘The only things the Martyns pay ready money for are cabs’*?; Mother can't sell this old barracks because of the entail, and we can’t let it because we can’t afford to pay for repairs, so we have to con- sole ourselves with the reflection that it was one of the finest places in the county and that it .is a magnificent address, and not mind being hungry sometimes. When Aunt Madge is staying with us, she pays mother something toward ex- penses; that, I believe, is why she is so particular about the cooking and always has two helps of everything, whether she wants them or not. Sir Harold was to have brought a young cousin of his, a Mr. Thornton, who is just going out to the war, but he said, ‘*The young beggar had been hunting all day and said he couldn’t do both dinner and ball, so he chose the bail.’’ ‘*Naturally,’’ I said. And then he paid me a tremendous old-fashioned compliment, and mother looked so pleased. She told me last night that she did hope I should marry well and not waste my youth, be- cause dark girls—et cetera. I was afraid to say I had been listen- ing and had to look as if it was all new. Oh, I am so tired of hearing that I don’t wear well! It sounds like not wash- ing well. Mother looked awfully beamy when she heard Sir Harold going on, and called me ‘‘darling’’ directly afterward, which is sure proof that the domestic barometer is set fair. She is not a woman of pet names and foolish diminutives; she generally calls me Faustine, with a super- fluity of accent on the last syllable. It is

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104 HALF A DOZEN LETTERS—FICTION. horrible to think that one wears badly, instead of being of durable quality, as the drapers say. Mr. Maddox was the only lively one of the party. He is an old- young man who lives with his mother, and six months ago, when I confided to him that life was unendurable, he asked me to marry him. He made such a dreadfully rude remark about an entrée. I was terrified lest mother should hear. She asks Mr. Maddox only because pére is so fond of him. She hates him herself. She says that he is one of those dreadful people who think themselves clever. You should hear her say ‘*think’’! To return to the entrée. Mr. Maddox was sitting next Aunt Madge, and she was awfully ex- cited about the entrée. It turned out to be pounded chicken (white) and there was a sweet little truffle sticking straight out of the middle, and I must admit that it did look a little like Attention! Aunt Madge (staring at Mr. Maddox’ plate with raised lorgnette): ** What is it?’’ He: ‘‘Night-light. Last hours.”’ I simply couldn’t help a giggle, and Sir Harold was telling me about some old fossil in the War-Office—a great friend of his—who was heartbroken because the ‘*Times’’ was saying rude things about him, and he had read the ‘‘Times’’ all his life and couldn’t do without it, and the ‘‘Times’’ at present was unreadable, and what was he to do? ** Write to the ‘Times,’ *’ I said—because I had to say something. I was rather frightened when I had said it, for mother fixed me with the eye that vou read in ‘*Travelers’ Tales’? has power to quell the tiger—and I don’t wonder. Then Mr. Maddox, like the dear he is, interposed. If I could marry a man I couldn’t love, I should marry Mr. Maddox —he is simply an angel. ‘‘Lady Martyn,’’ he interposed, ‘‘have you heard of our last domestic catastrophe? The parlor-maid had hysterics outside the dining-room door because the dear, dear queen was dead and the king had come to the throne and he would make them all Papists. Her aunt had told her that he had once paid a visit to the pope. She you eight is an Irish Protestant—a most virulent variety, as you may imagine.”’ Mother regarded him with a bored eye, and said ‘‘Indeed!’’ in a voice that held a yawn, and poor Mr. Maddox retired discomftited, but Mrs. Wilcox! Perhaps you have forgotten her. She is the rector’s wife and very deaf and Evangelical. She wears the silk that is supposed to stand alone, and has a Roman nose, and always contradicts people flat. Well, she leaned right across the table and said—in the voice that always makes her husband come when she wants him, whatever he is doing —''If I discern Papistical leanings in any of my servants, I immediately give them Fox’s ‘Book of Martyrs’—illustrated,’’ she added with an awful emphasis. Wasn’t it killing? Mr. Maddox had fifty fits all in a row, like the man in the ‘*Bab Ballads.’’ But how I waste time when I want to tell you all about the ball! But I simply can’t this time. To-morrow. Yours forever and forever, FAUSTINE. III. DEAREST: There doesn’t seem anything in partic- ular to say about the ball except that it was perfect enjoyment and that Sir Harold was an appalling nuisance. He introduced his cousin. Mother is furious because I danced with him more than I did with Sir Harold. Sir Harold is old enough to be my father. Mr. Thornton has just called. Mother, who was evidently expecting this most ordinary civility, has said, ‘*‘ Not at home.”’ I hate—hate—hate Sir Harold. Always yours, FAUSTINE. IV. DEAREST: Charlie Thornton has called again, and as it is not so easy to be consistently rude to an inoffensive man, he has gained ad- mittance, and he has gone on gaining admittance—and there have been other dances, and again ructions have been rife because I danced too often with him—and I hate Sir Harold worse than ever. So far as he is concerned, ‘‘¢a marche,’’ as An- toinette would say. Life has resolved into a tug-of-war—mother and Sir Harold 7 ,

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oR ue TR versus Charlie and me. As I am the stakes, I don’t feel that I ought to be in the fighting ranks, but here I am, and pulling all I know. By now you will have got there by the aid of these sketchy phrases and anticipate my news. It has all hap- pened so quickly that I can hardly realize it my- self. It is like an old- fashioned re- mance, is it not? — angry parent; love- ly, impecuni- ous damsel (I mayn’t wear, but I am a bit of the best while I last); the affluent suitor who is prepared to relieve the family estate of debt and daughter; the lover and the war in which he is about to engage. The synopsis is quite com- plete, even to the faded rose. He be- gan by saying that he was so fond of white roses —and the rest fol- lowed. Though I am writing all this nonsense, I am really very unhappy, for I don’t know what has happened to mother. She has a way of matching her troubles with an adequate sympathy that seems to render all other compassion super- fluous, but I cannot help being a little sorry for her at present. She seems wor- Drawn by C. M. Relyea. FAUSTINE. FLORENCE STE WART7—FICTION. 105 ried out of her life about money difficul- ties—or is it just tactics? I note that Sir Harold’s advantages—title, money, et cetera—are invariably enumerated after one of these outbursts. It all worries me dreadfully. Mother does say such very unkind things! Dar- ling, now that you know, will you too turn against me and talk about ruina- tion of a career —of hashed mut- ton, and one sitting room? Above all, will you talk to me of faded looks (every half hour I hear that I sha’n’t wear) driving aman to seek con- solation else where? Other people have got along— why not Charlie and I? At all events, we mean to try. At pres- ent, things are rather at a dead-lock, as mother re- fuses to sanc- tion our en- gagementand Sir Harold declines to believe that at seventeen a girl should know her own mind. I believe that, deeply rooted in his Early Victorian brain, lies a conviction that a wife could be molded—if caught young— into a worthy mate for his august self. Mother might be less unkind. Charlie sails to-day fortnight—and who knows 8

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106 HALF A DOZEN LETTERS—FICTION. ? what lies on the knees of the gods? I am trying to make the most of these few days. Iam trying not to remember the dreadful date. I am trying—trying —trying. Mother will not have him here, but she knows I meet him elsewhere. We had a terrible scene to-day after lunch. She says she washes her hands of me. [ wish I could believe the ablution final. She has never loved me. How she would laugh if she heard that Charlie Thornton was dead or crippled! She has an appall- ing tongue. She told me yesterday that if he lost the use of his limbs it would at least insure his fidelity. ‘‘Cripples above all people want money,’’ she sneered, ‘‘to enjoy themselves. ’’ She may sneer and sneer, but never will I give him up. If only an old uncle, whom he has never seen, would take pity. It is terrible waiting for dead men’s shoes, but he cannot take the money with him, and Charlie’s father and he were as David and Jonathan till they quarreled over a woman. He has no one else to leave it to —and the difference it would make to us! But there! only let Charlie come home again, and for the rest—who cares? Yours always, FAUSTINE. V. DEAREST: You want to know how affairs stand. I can’t write of how affairs stand, for one half of my heart and soul is consumed by one hideous thought, ‘Suppose something happens,’ and the other half is striving to stifle the nightmare. I was determined to let nothing mar our last week and I broke down only twice, but now—but now Day and night, night and day, this ter- ror is at my shoulder, shadowing my days and agonizing my nights. Fight as I may, I cannot forget. And yet many come home. Crippled, indeed, but still they come. God give him me ashewill. Only send him back. I know myself for selfish- ness incarnate as I write this, for what is life shorn of all that makes life worth liv- ing? But God is good—at least, so say the priests, and if they do not know, who does? Since he went away I am so miserable, so miserable! I can’t stand it—I can’t—I can’t! Things cut both ways. In face of this agony, mother’s eternal wail-cum-sneer has little power to wound. Yet sometimes I wish——__[ will give you some of her words and you shall judge: ‘‘I foresee your future. You will live off hope in the summer and despair in the winter.’’ And then she puts into words the dreadful dim terror that is always in my mind, and laughs, ‘‘If you marry the wreck of aman, it will at least insure his fidelity.”’ Terrible words. I cannot rewrite this letter, and yet I feel that it is not fit to send. One purpose it has served—I take back that mad prayer, ‘‘Only seud him back, and for the rest—who cures?”’ I remember the words I heard on his own mouth: ‘‘Life—-what is life shorn of all that makes life worth living?”’ Poverty we two could fight together. Of that I am unafraid, but the other This is the maddest of all mad letters. Put it in the fire and forget it. Write to me that he may yet come home with an unshorn life before him. Write to me that the old uncle may yet play the part of good fairy—relent and die. Oh, wicked me! Am I the same girl who wrote about pretty frocks and different shades of white only two months ago? Truly, ‘‘to have geliebt is to have gelebt.’’ Yours always, FAUSTINE. VI. DEAREST: I enclose you two pieces of paper, be- cause I know that without keeping these two pieces of paper before you, you will not be able to understand. I find it so difficult myself, and yet since I received the one I have thought of nothing else— until I received the other. I can’t re- member when I received either, but it seems recently, for since I received them I have not lived at all. The first letter is from Sir Harold, who says that he wants to be the first to wish me good luck. To cut it short, the uncle has relented and he has wired to Charlie, ‘‘Come and be happy.’’ He is made of good stuff, Sir Harold, or perhaps he doesn’t mind. Why should he mind? What does anything matter? The other enclosure is a cutting from the next morning’s paper. His name is one of five, and there is ‘‘ Killed in Action’’ torsese

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108 HALF A DOZEN LETTERS—FICTION. above the list. There is nothing more to say. I did not want the wreck of a man. At least, I prayed so for his sake, and God—if God there be—has taken me at my word—I have nothing. It is curious he should have come into his money the very day he was shot, was it not?) If he had not been shot, we would have been mar- ried when he came home. I believe we would have been married anyway, whether the money had been left him or not. But it does not matter now. Mother cries dreadfully, and says, ‘‘ Poor young fellow !"’ at intervals all day long. It is curious, for she never liked him. I can’t cry at all, and I—— It reads foolish, but I have left off feeling anything except repetition of the wild delight when I heard of the money which meant an obstacle removed, and a renewal of the numb feeling when I read ‘*Killed in Action’’ and the list below. Sometimes I am quite happy. I imagine him coming home, and the money insuring roses and sunshine. Mother is quite satis- fied, and allows me to go and meet him. It seems impossible that he is dead. Yet mother cries all day—but she never liked him, and I, who loved him, cannot ery at all. It is quite funny. Send me back the piece of paper with ‘‘Killed in Action’’ on the top and the list below, or I shall forget that he is dead. How foolish I am! How can I forget, when mother cries all day? I wish she wouldn't. I want to play at going to meet him when he comes home, and it is so difficult with her dull sobbing sounding and sounding in my ears. She is so persuaded that I must be feel- ing as overcome as she is, that she has pro- vided me with a doctor and nurse. She always realized sympathy clumsily. I know that her intentions are excellent, but the result is somewhat absurd, for I feel quite “is? GES y teres Be well. I wish they would all go away and leave me alone. Send me back ‘‘Killed in Action’’ and the list below, or I shall forget. I am go- ing on with this letter, but, do you know, I was just going to put on my hat to go and meet him. Perhaps, after all, there is some mistake. Be sure and send me back ‘‘Killed in Action’’ with the list of names underneath. You might underline his name—I can’t—I can’t—remember. Why does mother cry all day? She never liked him, and I—I loved him, and I am not unhappy. On second thoughts, keep the list with ‘*Killed in Action’? on the top as long as you like, for while you keep it I can play at his coming home all day long. But I ought to remember, and indeed be glad, for I did not want the wreck of a man. ‘*Life shorn of all that makes life worth living’’—distinctly I remember his say- ing it. The nurse objects to my writing any longer. It doesn’t seem worth while ma- king a fuss, for I can play at meeting him just as well in my head. Why does mother sob so dreadfully? She is worrying about the money. NowI understand. I will explain again about the uncle. But I find myself continually explaining. I began to explain, but she has run out of the room and is sobbing on the stairs. It is too absurd. She never liked him, because he was poor and I was going to marry him. Now I can’i marry him and he is rich. What more does she want? I must teach her to play at things in her head. I have played so long and so well that I can see Charlie coming across the room to meet me. You won’t mind my leaving off? Always yours, FAUSTINE. (mane

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sore A GROUP OF PELOTA-PLAYERS. SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. By Hetmet Stac ARCHER. LMOST every country has a national sport which engages the popular attention, but in no country are so many different sports represented as in the United States. Perhaps it is more our constant desire for novelty than any natural profi- ciency as athletes that makes the intro- duction of new sports easier here than elsewhere. Then, too, the facilities of advertising, greater and better understood in America than in Europe, make a brief popularity possible even for sports not adapted to our tastes. At any rate, each year sees several new games imported to rival the older favorites, and often they fail to interest after an expensive trial of their merits. This is due chiefly to @ failure to analyze the American love of sport. Americans above all like a contest. They are trained to it from youth up. As boys they are graded in the schools. In business, brain com- petes with brain in the keenest rivalry, and in sports, physical prowess and _ skill demand a competitor close at hand. We want to exercise our muscles, but we want, perhaps more, to give stroke for stroke swiftly to a quick conclusion. Thus it is that tennis has a more lasting popularity than golf. We do not care to wait for the scores to be added up, and sit on a club veranda until the last competitor has put away his sticks, before knowing the result. We must score point by point and see the effect of every move. In the leisure of our school and college days, it is possible to compete in football and baseball teams, and crews, but as we enter business we separate and must have games which can be arranged with little notice among a few competitors. Almost all our familiar games have these qualities

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110 SPORTS WITH WHICH A LEAP OF A HUNDRED FEET ON SKEES. CUMBERLAND WRESTLERS. —the possibility of bringing them to a quick conclu- sion, the fascina- tion of relying solely on one’s own skill, and the excitement of be ing face to face with a keen oppo- nent. Americans are often said not to be good losers, but this is not always a reproach. A good loser man- ages, as a rule, to lose more often than he wins. Then, too, we have not the lei- sure of the Briton to form crews and cricket teams, where a loss can- not often be laid to the fault of a single individual. The defeat of a WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. team is easier to bear than that of one man alone. There is a great field in this country for the introduction of new games, but it is probable that those which really gain a lasting foothold will have the elements just mentioned. Among the curious and interesting foreign games, many owe thei: popularity to local conditions or traditions. With our conglomeration of races, the Swiss spear-casting, for instance, origina- ting in the defense of mountain strong- holds, will never be popular. Archery, too, fails to entertain, except as a diversion for a lady's lawn-party. The curious boat-race known in England as ‘‘bumping’’ grew out of the fact that many of the rivers are too narrow and winding for two crews to row abreast. Bumping is in reality a pursuit race on water, the object being for the rear boat to bump with its bow the stern of the one in the lead. This is the way in which the Oxford crews train for a great part of the year, and the scene, while lacking the effect of the annual Poughkeepsie regattas where six crews row abreast, still has its picturesqueness. The coaches and substi- tutes run along the shore or splash through the shallow water, while hundreds of THE SHORT MAN IN THE CENTER OF THE GROUP IS THE CHAMPION. yh SS A SEN A PEs

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SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. HOUND-TRAILING IN WESTMORELAND, ENGLAND—THE START, spectators sit on the banks or ride bicycles The northern districts of Great Britain or drive rapidly to keep up with the con- for years have been partial to outdoor sports testants, the observation-train being aninsti- which have not been introduced to any tution not yet imported into Great Britain. extent elsewhere. An open-air wrestling ial OT EST) A FAVORITE SPORT IN OPEN-AIR WRESTLING rHE NORTH OF

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II2 SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. SKEE-RACING WITH HORSES IN SWEDEN, tournament, for instance, in which a dozen or more champions compete, never fails to draw a large and enthusiastic crowd. Through the year the contestants keep in trim by means of competitions among the local athletic rare thing for a man well over fifty to appear at one of the great meets as a claimant to first clubs, and it is no honors. POPULAR Al THE MILITARY POSTS. Another sport peculiar to the north of England is hound-trailing. Whippet- racing for short distances over smooth tracks has, to be sure, been occasionally seen elsewhere, but the length of the course over rough boulders and ascents makes a stronger type of animal necessary Big dogs they steep in these Westmoreland races. are, trained for speed and endurance, and A GAME OF PELOTA IN HAVANA.

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under of every the best of them do a mile three minutes, and course seven miles, full of of kind, is covered in thirty-three minutes. Of all the foreign games, none has been recently more commented on than pelota or jai alai, as it is called in Cuba. And the fact that several senators put on the gloved rackets and batted the ball around the senate chamber in an effort to show the innocence of the game, might have made it next season’s fad were it not for the cost of constructing the necessary courts. It was introduced into the South American republics and Cuba from the northern prov- inces of Spain. A concha, or built of concrete, open at the top and sides, two hundred feet long and sixty-five feet wide. The play is against the front and rear walls. On the front wall and floor are iron strips painted red, to show the boundaries within which the ball strike to avoid being scored a fault. can the entire difficulties court, is must The game is not unlike court-tennis on a much larger scale, except that the ball is made of hard rubber bound with- yarn and covered with sheepskin, and instead of a racket a cesta, or light wickerwork basket arrange- ment, is attached to the hand by means of a glove. Four players are the usual con- testants, but the game can be played with six or eight, divided evenly. Pelota many advantages. It is exciting both to the player and to the spectator. It is splendid exercise and develops speed, muscle and skill. But it has the drawback of being expensive and is not likely to become popular among us outside of athletic and country clubs. Its vogue even among the poorer classes in Cuba is accounted for largely by the fact that it is a recognized form of licensed gambling, and to own a pelota- court is exceedingly profitable, even at a moderate charge for play or for admission, players and spectators alike making wagers on the result of a point or a game. Squash- and court-tennis have been to some extent introduced in our larger cities and they are becoming popular, particularly as a means of getting thorough has SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. TRAINING exercise of all the muscles in a short period of time. Squash particularly is so violent and rapid a game, a tennis-ball being played from all four hardwood walls of the court, that only very vigorous men can take part in it. To those who do not care for quite so strenuous a pastime, badminton presents a pleasant means of exercise. It may be played either indoors or in the open air, but its devotees in this country make it an indoor winter game exclusively, and it is usually followed by a tea or other social function. Mere strength counts for little in badminton, and a woman can attain almost as much proficiency at it as a man. A floor space of forty by twenty feet is marked out into four divisions, much like a tennis-court. A net five and a half feet high is stretched across the middle, and the game proceeds much like a game of lawn-tennis, except that a battledore or very light racket is used, and a shuttlecock, five inches high, weighing only an ounce, takes the place of a ball. It must be struck always on the fly, for if it should fall within the which has failed to return it loses a point. ‘*Mixed doubles’’—a man and a woman constitu- ting a side—is its usual form, although bounds side singles and men’s and women’s doubles are also played. Strangely enough, among the northern peoples indoor sports are scarcely known. Perhaps the climate makes them hardier than others. Then, too, the fact that the chief source of opportunity lies in marketing the natural resources of land and sea, tends to make them immune to the bitterness of cold and wind and snow, FOR A SKEE-AND-HORSE RACE,

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114 SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. AT THE BADMINTON COURTS, LONDON, Throughout Denmark, Norway and Sweden, skeeing is the sport which attracts more people than does any other pastime. In America, too, skeeing has its devotees, and while there is little opportunity for it on the Atlantic or Pacific seaboard, the Scandinavian colonies in Wisconsin, Michi- gan, Minnesota, and other Middle-West states, have brought with them and handed down to their children the love of this sport. There are many different kinds of skee-races—straight-away distance races, cross-country courses, hill-climbing, and events in which four men are mounted on two pairs of skees 3ut the most popular —and incidentally the most spectacular— is leaping for distance. The skeeman starts at the crest of a steep hill, gathering im- petus as he descends, until he reaches a platform, from which he hurls himself into the air. Far out over the slope he skims, landing upright, sometimes a hundred feet from the take-off. On one occasion, a leap of a hundred and twenty feet was cleared, but the contestant fell and his record could not be counted. In Russia, an exciting variation of ordi- nary skeeing has become popular. Horses driven by men on skees are raced over the ice, sometimes by single drivers, but often with two or even three men on skees to each horse and an additional man in the saddle. On the speed of the animal and the skill of the skeemen depends the victory VIGRO—A COMBINATION OF TENNIS AND CRICKET,

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SPORTS W/7H WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. o- an) Se cou ‘ ah v ay Mg ; Way 4 ry y tt oS

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— 116 SPORTS WITH WHICH WE ARE UNFAMILIAR. A GAME When there are three drivers, the slightest swerving of a single skee results in a dangerous fall for all three men. These horse-and-skee races are more popular at the Russian military posts than anywhere else, and officers and men turn out in a body to cheer on their favorites. Among the few countries which cannot properly be said to have any national sport is Germany. One exception may be made to this universal rule, provided Die Mensur, the German form of dueling, can be termed @ sport. Fighting-clubs exist in all the great German universities. Membership OF VIGRO. in these organizations is as much sought after as is election to American college fraternities. A particular cap with the colors of the club takes the place of the fraternity badge. The foremost of these organizations is the Borussia, at Bonn, for all the Hohenzollern princes have been members of it. Subject to limitations of climate, there is a great field for the introduction of new sports into America, provided they involve keen competition and vigorous exercise, and do not demand too great expense in their installation. A BUMPING RACE AT OXFORD.

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JOHN W. aooxwacren| Among the men talked or vice- presidential ** timber, ’’ whose names will receive their quota of support at the great party conventions of the coming sum- mer, none other has had so unusual a career as John W. Bookwalter. At the age of twenty without a dollar, at thirty a millionaire; at twenty-five the possessor of not even a common-school education, at thirty-five art critic, author and economist, Mr. Book- walter has furnished an example in self- about as presidential making and self-training which perhaps has hardly been equaled before even in a country where the log cabin has more than pointed direction White once the to the House. The rapid accu mulation of riches would not have been so notable had it come as the result of for- tuitous specu- lation or of discovery. But in Mr. Book- walter’s case, the wealth which he gained represented only profits on the tireless industry and fertile supplemented by unusual inventiveness, MR. BOOKWALTER AT brains, SUPPER WITH A RUSSIAN which he work that applied to every To-day he has not only manufacturing interests in the East and in the Central states, but large agri- cultural enterprises in the West, and his the occupied his energies. business associations extend across continent. One incident of Mr. Bookwalter’s career is so strikingly illustrative of his character that it is worth giving at some length. It one of concerns the making of a telescope- the largest, probably, at that time actually made in the United States, the handiwork of a had never seen a locomotive. young man seventeen years old who To the little village on the Wabash River, in Fountain County, Indi- ana, where his father, a man of German stock, had a small farm, there came, one day in 1856, an itin- erant lecturer who was ad- vertised to talk in the PEASANT FAMILY. town on the wonders of the heavens. The price of admission was only five cents, but the elder Bookwalter, chiding his son

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118 for the levity which would gaze at stars when there was so much to be done under- foot, refused to purchase a ticket. When the lecturer had passed to the next town, the stories which young Book- walter’s companions told him of the wonders they had seen filled him with the determi- nation to construct a telescope and view them himself. He an old text- book on astronomy, and from it learned how a telescope is constructed. With a five-cent piece, which in some unexplained borrowed way he had become possessor of, he bought a large round-bottomed glass tumbler, and cut out the lower portion. With this, after weeks of toil performed after the regular hours of labor on the farm, and by using iron dust in place of emery, which he had not money to buy, he formed a lens of a diameter larger than any other then in use in any telescope made in the United States. He made the tube out of pasteboard. Although this instrument was excellent for its kind, Mr. Bookwalter soon dis- covered the limitations of a refracting telescope with a chromatic lens. So he determined to construct a reflector. Night after night he walked to a_ brick-kiln, five miles away, for bricks to build a fur- nace. Some miles distant, a distillery had been burnt down; he secured a portion of its copper still, and began work in the furnace on his reflector. It required eight months to perfect the telescope. Five years later, in collaboration with his brother Frank, he constructed a tele- scope twenty-three feet long which attracted the attention of scientists and was noticed in publications in England. He also made microscopes, barometers, Eolian harps and some kinds of electrical machines. At the age of twenty, young Bookwalter never had seen a railway-train. He was twenty-two when he first heard the music of a piano. Until his twenty-first year, the aggregate of all the money which had ever been in his possession was not twenty dol- lars. When he left home, at twenty years of age, in search of opportunities which life on the Wabash did not seem to afford, he traveled afoot for lack of money to pay his fare. When he came to Fort Wayne, he was without a cent, and fearing arrest three miles out of as a vagrant, walked town and slept in a barn. MEN, WOMEN AND EVENTS. But opportunity did not need to wait upon young Bookwalter: he forced its attendance. In 1863, he set up a turbine water-wheel and transferred the power by cable. The feat attracted the attention of James Leffel, the veteran water-wheel manu- facturer of Springfield, Ohio, and Book- walter was invited to enter his service. After Leffel’s death, Mr. Bookwalter assumed entire charge of the plant, and soon was earning profits of over two hun- dred thousand dollars a year. He made a number of improvements in the manufac- ture of water-wheels, invented a new type of upright engine and made designs for the manufacture of plastic steel. In all, fifty patents have been issued to Mr. Book- walter for his inventions. Until the illness of his wife led Mr. Book- walter to travel, in the hope of restoring her health, he continued to live at Spring- field. At present he makes his home chiefly in New York city, and from there directs his many interests. These comprise, besides the water-wheel plant in Ohio, a steel- casting plant in Delaware, an agricultural implement manufactory and farm-lands and real-estate interests in Illinois, Indiana, Kan- sas and Nebraska. He is an enthusiast on the possibilities of the flying-machine, and has devoted not a little time in efforts at a practical solution of the problem of flight. Mr. Bookwalter has traveled around the world several times, and one of the famous art collections in America, the fruits of his tours, he has presented to the city of Cin- cinnati. His entry into politics followed the death of his wife, and he has partici- pated in Democratic national conventions and contested Ohio as Democratic candidate for governor. Mr. Bookwalter is one of a group of extraordinary men in America who, having acquired great wealth themselves, are dis- satisfied that the condition of so many other human beings should be so unsatisfactory. He believes that there are governmental solutions to the problem. This group believe with that Englishman of rank, Sir John Byles, who wrote: ‘*A system of political economy will yet dawn which will perform as well as promise; which will rain the riches of nature into the laps of the starving poor.’’ WILLIAM R. SreWwART.

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MEN, ELEANOR ROBSON. Five years: after her graduation from a con vent school on Staten Island, Eleanor Robson was being starred in a Broadway Her in the which she had chosen had been phenomenal, production. rise profession and yet to the general public the personality of this young girl who had compelled suc- in such a short time was almost alto- It new spapers cess gether unknown. remains so to this The willing to ex- to the story of her daily life and give her views the of lor the day. may have been ploit her, tell on ambitions the girl bache- and influence of the thought, new but Eleanor Rob- has to exploited. The fact which is generally known to the theater-g oing public is that she is the daughter of a clever actress, Mrs. Madge Carr Cook, who is at pres- ent starring in son de- clined be ‘‘Mrs. Wiggs of the Cab- bage-Patch.’’ It may be that some of her SLESEOM talent is inherited, but even inherited talent does not suffice to explain the evolution of a schoolgirl into a Broadway star within the space of five years. Nor would inherited talent alone have survived that original plunge into stardom, for of all the plays guaranteed to nip ambition in the bud, surely ‘‘Audrey’’ was the one particular play which emphasized the guarantee at every fall of the curtain. WOMEN AND EVENTS. 11g And yet, from the wreckage of ‘* Audrey,’ Eleanor Robson emerged triumphant. Those critics who had been most severe in their denunciations of that most atrocious of book-plays, were loudest in their praise of the delicate artistry and simple charm shown in the work of the star. William Winter, who scored the dramatization as it deserved to be scored, declared that she had so far overcome the puerile situations and the flux of chatter which went to make **the fabric remotely and very dimly up resembling a play’? as to make a dis- aus- per- tinct and picious sonal But a much distinct success. more and emphatic success had already been scored by this young actress. During the run of *‘ Arizona, ’*’ in which Bonita was one of the hits of the play, she had been engaged by Liebler & Co. to appear with Otis Skinner and Mrs. Le Moyne in a her special per- formance of “Tn a Bal - cony’’ to be ROBSON, given at Wal- Theater. The test was unusually The presentation of the Browning poem-play was an experiment, the success of which was more than problematical. Miss Robson was called upon to appear in a piece which provided parts for only three persons. Of the remaining two, one, as a professional elocutionist, had studied the lines and recited many of them during several years; the other was a romantic actor who had lack’s severe.

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an ee ees re t } , I y f 120 MEN, WOMEN won recognition as a leader in that class of work, and an especially illuminating ‘*reader’’ of difficult parts. Those who attended the matinée will not need to be told how Eleanor Robson as Constance sustained her share of the work and met the test. The result was a tour of all the principal cities of the United States, and cordial commendation by the critics of the interpretation of Constance. That ‘‘Merely Mary Ann”’ is, is due to Miss Robson. The star discovered Mary Ann in ‘‘ The Grey Wig,’’ dragged her from her surroundings and in- sisted that her creator, Israel Zangwill, should give her a_ separate setting ina play. Mr. Zangwill demurred. The memory of ‘‘Chil- dren of the Ghetto’’ and ‘*The Moment of Death’’ had not yet mellowed. But Miss Robson was in- sistent. She saw the play and she meant to have it. Mr. Zangwill, in a moment of weakness, which was fortunate for himself and for the long- suffering public which patronizes the theater in New York, sat down to argue. That was before he was married, and he knew no better. He wrote ‘‘ Merely Mary Ann.”’ Of the deftness with which the quaint com- edy, the simple pathos —in a word, the de- lightful naturalness of the part—are in- terpreted by the woman who discovered its possibilities, little need be said at the time when the play has passed its one-hundredth performance. Miss Robson has simply fulfilled the promise which was recognized in her earlier work, the promise which shone bright and clear even in the murky atmosphere of ‘‘ Audrey.’’ And the secret of it all? In the first place, of course, temperament; an ability to feel and to express feeling. Added to this, AND EVENTS. training in technique both at home and in the stock company of which she was a member before she came to New York as Bonita in ‘‘Arizona.’’ But perhaps as important as either—a serious recognition of her vocation, a recognition involving continuous study and affectionate applica- tion. Finally, the inheritance of two generations, the education of a gentle- woman, and a love for literature which has supplemented her sympathy for life in all its phases. ErNEst F. BoppincTon. * * * WINNING HIS SPURS. He had risen from printer's devil in a country newspaper office to the local editorship, and, being a hustler, he had a yearn to get away from the woods and sharpen his wits on the gigantic grindstone that whirls in the great city to put an edge on what is hard enough to resist it, or to grind out of existence what is not. In pursuance of this de- sire, he had written to all the metropolitan city editors, and in each in- stance had received a reply in the negative. In all probability, he would not have heard even thus much had he not enclosed S> a stamped envel- Soope fully ad- —, dressed. : To some men that would have been a crusher, but it so happened that this one wasn’t that kind. One day he put on his best clothes and went to the city to see what he could do in person. At three places he was turned down with a dull thud—politely enough, but thudded just the same. Then he sat down to think. He was already feeling the bite of the great grindstone. An hour later, he was in another office in the pres- ence of the city editor. But he was not asking for a job on the paper.

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he said; ‘‘T beg your pardon,”’ ‘*my name is Jackson’’ (which it wasn’t), ‘‘and I am writing for my home paper, the ‘ Hustler,’ of Hoosierville, Indiana, the center of the literary maelstrom, a series of articles on the great city editors of this country.’’ The editor blushed and bowed—once upon a time he had written an article for a magazine. ‘*Anything I can do for you,’’ he said, waving his hand in sign of absolute sub- mission. ‘*Well,’’ said the young man, with a reportorial rush, ‘‘I want to ask a few questions, as I want to make my story natural and lifelike—newspapery, you un- derstand, rather than magaziney. The ‘Hustler’ is a weekly—one dollar per year in advance—now is the time to subscribe. What is your full name, when and where were you born and what were your parents’ names?”’ The editor supplied the needed informa- tion. ‘*Thanks, ”’ making a note with a stub of a lead pencil on a vest-pocket pad. ‘‘ Married or single, what’s your wife’s name, got any children, if so how many, boys or girls or both, any twins, if so how many?”’ The editor staggered a little, but an- swered. ‘*Good enough,’’ and the interviewer made some more notes. ‘‘ What political party do you belong to, what church if any, what clubs are you a member of, what secret societies, do you own a yacht, auto- mobile, horse or bicycle?’’ responded the interviewer, MEN, WOMEN AND EVENTS. This time the editor backed away, but tilled and came up with his answers. ‘*T wouldn't ‘a’ thought it,’’ said the young man, making further notes. ‘‘Now, if you will kindly tell me how much salary you get, who is your tailor, do you live in a flat or a house, who is your barber, where do you get your drinks—when you pay for them yourself—what cigars do you smoke other than O P’s, do you play golf, poker, tennis, tiddledewinks, are your teeth filled with gold or amalgam, got any ailment or fads, who is your favorite author, what is your favorite breakfast- food, do you bet on the races, if so how often do you walk home, do you expect to become a millionaire, got any pull with trust magnates, do you wear a silk hat to church, ever been run down by a street-car or an automobile, ever been arrested, do you believe in reform, if so who ought to get it, who’s your choice for president, do you an For ages, it seemed to him, the editor was trying to stop the interviewer, but he successful until he had made a superhuman effort. ‘‘For heaven's sake, man, claimed at ‘‘hold up! thunder do you mean, anyhow?”’ ‘*What do I mean what?’’ replied the interviewer, gazing innocently and with surprise at the editor. ‘* Asking me all those questions?’’ gasped the editor, getting his wind once more. ‘‘Why, my dear sir,’’ explained the visitor, in a hurt tone, ‘‘that isn’t very was not ” he ex- last, What in

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122 MEN, WOMEN many, is it?) I am not half through with you yet. You don’t suppose I can get the career of a lifetime in half a dozen ques tions, do you? Now, if you will just let The editor held up his hand warningly. ‘Have you a permanent job with your me goon. Are you———? Indiana newspaper?’ he inquired. ‘*No, but I shall have when I have landed this series of interviews. They will be corkers and no mistake.* ‘“*No doubt of that at all,’’ smiled the editor. ‘‘How would you like to havea place on this paper?’’ The young man’s heart began to beat like a trip-hammer. ‘*Oh, I don’t know,*’ he said, airily. ‘*T come pretty high, you know.”’ ‘*How would twenty a week strike you, with a raise after sixty days, if you prove your mettle?** **You couldn't boost those figures to twenty-five, could you? It costs money to keep up with New York, you know,*’ and he had never had more than nine dollars a week in his whole journalistic experience. ‘‘T’ll agree to make it twenty-five at the end of sixty days if you are the goods,”’ said the editor. ‘*When do you want me to begin?"’ **Right now.”’ The new reporter stood up. ‘*Thanks,** he said. ‘‘May I go across the street and kill a friend who is waiting for me there?’’ ‘*What do you mean?’ ‘‘Just what I say. He said he’d drop dead if I got a job, and I’m going to tell him.*’ He disappeared, and when he came back smiling, the city editor was torn by conflicting doubts, but he put him to work and he got the ‘‘raise’’ at the end of sixty days. W. J. LAMpron. x x A CHURCH WITH A | A church that will be ROOF-GARDEN. ° as attractive as a thea- ter is the object of the efforts of a Chicago evangelist, the Rev. Charles Reign Sco- ville. The church is the Metropolitan Church of Christ. During the coming summer, a large roof-garden on top of the structure will be open nightly, part of the time for services and part of the time for concerts. In the main auditorium, in- ‘ doors, there is a theater stage, with a AND EVENTS. capacity of one hundred and _ sixteen singers, where concerts also will be given. The roof-garden is explained to be an attempt to solve the problem of attracting young people to church and of holding the older members during the summer months. Besides a chorus choir and a Sunday-school orchestra, the church has a Metropolitan male chorus, a Metropolitan brass band, and a glee-club, called the Winona, which travels for a lyceum bureau under the direction of the musical director of the church. All these musical bodies will give sacred concerts on the roof-garden on certain nights during the week. The church roof-garden will be made as attractive as its secular prototype, plants, ferns and palms being used in profusion. Above the garden will be a steel roof, sup- ported by posts, which will be so arranged that the whole can be enclosed by heavy wire screens to protect the audience from insects that the lights might attract. The church is in a good residence dis- trict, on Oakley Boulevard and Van Buren Street, in a quarter of Chicago which is said to have the largest percentage of na- tive Americans in that city. On one side of the church building there are locations for six retail stores, with a wide arcade leading to the side of the auditorium. The church is institutional, and the rent from the stores will be applied to its funds. In the basement, below the auditorium, there are, besides a kitchen, dining-room, et cetera, a fully equipped gymnasium, which will be open for the use of young men and young women on alternate nights, and a free library and reading-room. The latter two are open to the public, whether members of the church or not. The Metropolitan Church of Christ in Chicago was organized two years ago, with one hundred and seven charter members. The People’s Theater building was leased by it for Sunday services, and when that structure was burnt, in May, 1903, a large tent was purchased, and used throughout the summer. Last fall, the property on which the present church is erected was bought. The cost of the structure has been about one hundred thousand dollars. The idea of the roof-garden originated with the Rev. Mr. Scoville, but was en- dorsed unanimously by the church board and trustees. WALTER WILLIS.

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. OUR 31 YEARS’ EXPERIENCE and continued success guarantee you good quality and fair dealing. WE HAVE NO AGENTS anywhere, but sell direct to you,thus saving you the agent’s and dealer’s profit. Weare the largest man- ufacturers of vehicles and harness in the world selling on this plan exclusively. We ship for examination, guaranteeing safe delivery. You are out nothing if not satisfied. We make over 200 styles of vehicles and 65 styles of harness. Our prices on both vehicles .and harness represent the actual cost of ma- terial and making plus one profit. Our large illustrated catalog is free. Send for it. | SE \ cate ae No. T@8—Bike Wagon. Has spindle seat with leather arm fenders. 1-inch Kelly Cashion Tires. Price com- plete @67.590. Millions of Dollars Worth of Time is daily measured by the ELGIN§| | Watch | Over eleven million Elgin Watches have been made for people whose time is precious. The aggregate value of the time measured daily by all these watches is many millions of dollars. Send for ‘‘ Timemakers and Timekeepers,’’ an illustrated joint history of the locomo- tive and the watch. Sent free. ELGIN NATIONAL WATCH CO., Elgin, Ill. As good as sells for $25.00 more. ‘ No. 62944—Combination Top Buggy and spindle seat Driving Wagon with bike gear and %-inech Kelly Rubber Tires. Price complete with extra spindle seat, #69.50. As good as sells for $25.0) more. ~~ : ~ plete $156.00. As good ax sells for $50.0 more. No, 416—Fine Victoria Top aplaee. Price com- No. 808—Fine Canopy Top Surrey. _ Price com- plete @127.00. As good as sells for $35.00 more. A postal will bring our Large Catalog Free. ELKHART CARRIAGE & HARNESS MFG. CO, ELKHART, IND. When you write, please mention ** The Cosmopolitan.”

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GREAT EVENTS: HUMOR AND SATIRE. ; J swig 4 est *. : 8 BWA, _THE Pustic: “ Everything that's go- COCK OF THE WALK. ONE CAN'T LOOP THIS SORT OF GAP. ing hits me!’ From the Cleveland Ledger. From the New Vork Globe. From the Detrott News-Tribune. | Fasc ; MONEY AND THE MARRIAGE QUESTION. “rrp, ~ | From the New York Amertcan and Journal. Copyright, 1904, by American-Journal-Examier. ; i DROPPING THE PILOT (after Tenniel). = ENDING LIKE OTHER ‘“‘ INVESTI- The Morgan steamship trust passes THE DECIDING FACTOR. GATIONS.”’ to British stockholders From the Pittsburg Ledger. From the Philadelphia Record. From the Minneapolts Tribune.

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GREAT EVENTS: HUMOR AND SATIRE. THE LATEST HISTORICAL APHORISM. ‘The Prussian achieves most when hungry.” From Lustige Blatter, of Berlin. MOCRATIC A GOOD CARPENTER BADLY NEEDED. From the Cincinnati Post. CHARITY BEGINS ABROAD. From the Denver Daily News. WORKING OFF HIS OWN SUBSTITUTE, BRYAN THE Boom-BOTTLER: ‘‘ No, miss, we don't keep the Harmony brand any more, and it will not be safe to open any of these others till after Convention time; but here is something of my own corcoction which is better.”’ From the Philadelphia Inquirer. LITTLE NICHOLAS REPAINTS HIS PEACE STATUE AGAINST HIS WILL. From Der Wahre Jacob, of Stutigart.

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GREAT EVENTS: HUMOR AND SATIRE. A HIT AT EVERY THROW. Russia: ‘ They’ve got too good an aim for this show. I'll have to give up the game.”’ From the Philadelphia Inqutrer. BRACE OF SOCIAL REFORMERS IN THE GERMAN REICHSTAG. From Der Wahre Jacob, of Stutigart. AN INTERRUPTED FUNERAL. } From the Minneapolis Journal. ““’LL PUT 'EM OFF AT THE NEXT STATION.” From the Philadelphia Record. STIRRING UP A HORNETS’ NEST. : BE CAREFUL, TEDDY ! : From the Birmingham (Ala.) Ledger. From the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

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GREAT EVENTS: HUMOR AND SATIRE, THE TRIUMPH. From the Philadelphia North American. HOW IT WILL END. From Der Wahre Jacob, of Stuttgart. A BAD PLACE TO NIBBLE. From the Ohio State Journal. BOILING 'EM OUT. From the Denver Post. “LID'S OFF—COME ON, BOYS!" THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL. fiom the New York Wor, From the Philadelphia North American.

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